The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Saeryn clung to Degas as she caught her breath, watching helplessly as the brigand fell to the floor. She stifled a cry when he reached up but breathed a sigh of relief when the old woman's words proved true. As Eodwine and the newcomer moved Rand's nearly stationary form out of the way, none too carefully, she observed, she calmed.

Degas held his sister close, marvelling that she should not know his face. He looked into eyes matching his own and kept her within his grasp as the fight died before them. His bandaged hands trembled as his rage grew at his own inability to protect the woman-folk. When all was safe, or as safe as could be, he led his twin to an empty seat and sat her down, kneeling before her.

"My lady," he said patiently, "do you know my face?" She shook her head, clutching her aching ribs. In all the fuss, her bandages had come loose. They would need rebinding before she turned in for the night. "Lady Saeryn, I am your brother, Degas of the Folde. Our brother Fenrir rules the land. Our sister..." he stopped, looking around helplessly. Saeryn looked at him in complete disbelief.

"Sir, I do not know what tale you tell, but it is certainly not one of mine. I am no more a lady of the Mark than I am a dancing bear."

Degas' eyes grew wet as he looked around for aid. Most of the group tried valiantly to pretend they could not hear the painful exchange. None knew if the lady would ever regain her memory, but certainly right now she could not be pressed. It would never do for her to deny her history as it was obvious she would.