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Old 07-29-2008, 09:05 PM   #190
Feanor of the Peredhil
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Feanor of the Peredhil is a guest of Elrond in Rivendell.Feanor of the Peredhil is a guest of Elrond in Rivendell.Feanor of the Peredhil is a guest of Elrond in Rivendell.
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Degas

The mind of Degas of the Folde was tumultuous, a maelstrom of duties, of desires. With Farahil's approval of his intentions had come Farlen's, yet between the marriage of Degas and Linduial still stood his status: the exiled younger son, the poet and musician who supported himself as a traveling artist. Lord though he may be, Degas lacked the lands and the purse to wed the niece of Imrahil, the only daughter of distant sons of Mithrellas.

He clenched his fist, letting his mare pick her way across the long road of lands she had never trod. Rohan. His home. Glèowyn, a gift from Farlen, a pretty horse, tall and brown with dark mane and stockings, stepped lightly over the wheel ruts and small washouts of the road. It had obviously rained heavily not so long ago. With Feo safely in the keeping of Adragril – or rather, under the thumb of Adragil’s wife - Degas found he could travel twice as quickly, riding faster and longer, but he had discovered barely out of Dol Amroth that he missed the gap-toothed boy's quick wit and endless questions while traveling.

The trip had taken much longer than before, for then he had ridden in the company of Linduial's brother, and quiet though Farahil was, he was as good a horseman as he was the captain of his fleet, and when they made and broke camp, it was quickly, with competency and with quiet understanding. Degas had remembered quickly Lin's stories of her adventurous older brothers' travels not only to Rohan, but to as far north as Erebor, where they rendezvoused with not only with descendants of Bard the great bowman of Dale, but with Dwarves from both the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills. Adragil and Farahil had traveled to Far Harad, returning sun burnished and tattooed with the fierce symbolic narratives of the farthest South. Adragil wore his history proudly, his arms stained with the story - to those who could read it - of his defeat of the merciless Na'man Sufyan, his survival - horseless and without water - of the burning sands, and his stroll into camp with the head of his enemy held by its hair, wrinkled by heat and sun, stinking of blood and rot. He had won the allegiance of at least one tribe that day, delivering them from the terror of Na'man, who had forced obedience through indiscriminate impalement.

Farahil, however, wore loose shirts in which he could conceal many knives, and which had long flowing sleeves, fastened at his wrists, which kept his history from view, and while Adragil was prone to loudly recounting his tales for riveted listeners, Farahil sat quietly in the shadows, listening, and gathered others' stories to himself.

After months of companionship, Farahil and Degas had become as brothers, and Adragil, at Farlen's bequest, had requested - though as a request, the statement lacked the opportunity for negative response - that Degas accompany him on a short fishing trip: a week or two at sea, for Adragil to judge Degas's potential as a seaman.

When they returned, Adragil dark brown and glowing with virility, Degas burned and exhausted, Adragil had announced to Farlen and the silently watching Farahil that Degas "would do."

With no way to support Linduial, the lords of Gondor had chosen to find Degas a respectable way of deepening his purse and building his popularity amongst the people. The folk of Farlen's lands adored their lady, and it was a matter of diplomacy to prove to them that Linduial's northern friend was worthy of her hand.

So it was that when Wulf, an honest farmer of the Folde, had arrived at Dol Amroth with a broken arm carefully set, but healing poorly out of use, with the news that Saeryn had been gravely injured and could not be found, that the fields had burned and much of the town had been destroyed, and that Fenrir was dead, Degas had not been at home. For home, to him, was now Dol Amroth and Farlen's holdings as much as Rohan, for Degas had lived and traveled more in Gondor in his adult life than he had in his native fields.

He smiled bitterly as Glèowyn trotted toward Scarburg from Edoras. News of great import to the world of Men traveled swift as eagles flew, yet the news that Eodwine's household had moved had escaped Degas in his exile to Gondor. Nobody knew where the lady Saeryn was, or if she was alive?

Eodwine would have word, if he did not have Saeryn herself. Degas knew his sister, though they had seen so little of each other in recent years... But with Fenrir dead? Degas would be forced to move home, to care for his people, to be the benevolent Lord his father had been, and Fenrir had failed to be. The younger son, fulfilling his doom. If the news were true - and Wulf was a true hearted man, a true man of Rohan who spoke no lies, and rarely spoke uncertainly - then Degas now held enough lands, enough coin, that even Adragil, heir to Farlen, could not argue his position as a provider to Linduial.

Yet... If it was true, and the lands were burned? A summer's harvest destroyed? Though perhaps it would not be so bad, with early vegetables, and some hayings complete... Yet if the barns had burned as well? If the stock and surplus was ruined? Degas would beggar himself to feed his people and their horses this winter, yet how could Farlen let his child marry the poor Lord of a destroyed set of lands any more than he could let her marry a wandering orphan with impotent nobility?

But then... could he marry Linduial and use her dowry to purchase materials for his people? He loved her, and they were to be wed. Would it be so bad to use what money she would bring to him for such a noble purpose? Would she believe his intentions? Or would she see him grasping for ways to pay?

Degas struggled with himself until Glèowyn pranced jerkily, and he settled. He wished to marry Linduial now. His longing grew, a fire which raced through his blood. He wanted Linduial as his wife, his equal, the mother of his children. He envisioned straw haired toddlers, learning to run; boys he could train as Riders of the Rohirrim, girls who could ride and shoot as well as them, but who could also manage a household. Degas had always been astonished by the unfathomable depths of his mother, his sisters. While he had developed his skills as a Rider, as a Man of Rohan, they had learned all he knew as well as how to weave, how to raise children; they had mastered the art of haggling, something which still left him with what felt like an empty purse and a far smaller purchase than anything with which Saeryn could walk away.

Saeryn. Why had she left Lotheriel? Why had she gone back to Fenrir?

And for all that made sense in the world, what had happened upon her return?

With the Mead Hall of Scarburg in view - but it was tents and raw lumber; what had happened here? - Degas let Glèowyn open her stride. Eodwine would have news of Saeryn. Degas needed his sister. He had skirted his lands on his ride home, needing to know what to expect. Needing to know if his beloved twin was safe... if she was alive.

He dismounted, delighted, even in his dismal mood, to see familiar faces. Under other circumstances, this would be for him somewhat of a homecoming. Yet now, he desired only to see the lord of the hall.

But surely he could not stride in, a familiar face to some but a stranger to most, demanding immediate audience with a man only just eating breakfast. Thornden would greet him, would find Eodwine for him, but would these others who were unknown to Degas? And if they did, would his brusque manner offend them?

He closed his eyes for a moment, blinking back tears of frustration, of anger, of terror. His sister-- but he durst not think of it.

He hitched Glèowyn for now to a post driven deep and near fresh grass, and strode toward the tent from which most voices seemed to emanate. Blinking the early sun from his eyes, he felt glances fall upon him.

Seeing Náin close to him, Degas crossed swiftly to him, barely noticing the Dwarf's hand upon his hammer.

"Master Náin," he began. He stopped, collecting himself. "Who now..."

Again Degas paused. Dignity, he told himself. Dignity, humility, confidence, politeness. "I must speak with Eodwine, as soon as may be. Can you help me?"

Last edited by Feanor of the Peredhil; 08-02-2008 at 07:48 AM.
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