[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas glared at Crabbanan and Harreld as though daring them to move, though he knew this encounter deserved as few witnesses as he could manage. Still, it infuriated him to think of these two men discussing his personal quarrel with his mad sister at the breakfast table. Who would they tell first? How long would it be before the entire population of Eodwine's household stood in an arc around them, betting on who would be the victor?

He growled.

"Home?" he asked, his voice low, but still even, "Still home, even after our sister died, and you spent - how long, a year? Two? Silent!

"Home, which you left without saying goodbye to seek for our dead parents? Men of Rohan rarely lie, twin," he spat, "Did you disbelieve the messenger who came to bear us news of their death? You must have, or you were seeking an excuse to leave. I had no obligation at home, except perhaps to develop intimate alliances, which I have done! The lords of Gondor know me. Imrahil shall be my uncle. My uncle! You? If you had done your duty and married, there would be an heir besides me! But instead you ran away to become a servant in the house of a stranger! A position which did not at first exist because-" he spat, "-at first the place you stayed was an Inn! And the man you served with doting eyes--"

Degas fell silent, guiltily, eying Eodwine with sudden apology. He took fast breaths, trying to calm his speeding heart, trying to disperse his rage. He saw the expressions on the faces around him, and knew that he had taken one step too far. But was it too late to step back? His heart raced as he tried to remember lessons of diplomacy -- and failed.