Scarburg Meadhall

[Firefoot]

He was back, come full circle, to the place where he had thought he was never to return. Scyld, traitor to his master, semi-repentant traitor to the crown, homeless, friendless, and without clear purpose, had returned after several months’ wandering to the lands of Sorn.

Except they no longer belonged to Sorn. Sorn was dead, his property mysteriously destroyed by looters and by fire, and his lands gone to the new Eorl. The first two conditions, he rejoiced in. The third, he wished not to accept. Let this unhappy corner of the world remain so, squabbled over by nearby villagers, or simply left as a smoking ruin. The land should fall with the master. To make it a seat of power was hardly to be borne.

But the pull to this place was deeper still. The new Eorl and his household were the friends of which Linduial had spoken so fondly, and in some part of him he wanted to observe these people and discover who they were. He had made his way to Edoras, finally, where he had found the information he desired free for the hearing. Linduial had found her way safely back to Dol Amroth, and it was rumored that she was to become some sort of ambassador to Edoras. He had also learned much about the Eorl, though much of what he heard about the man’s character puzzled him, and had heard the alarming news of the pending move to Sorn’s lands – Scarburg, now they were calling it. A fitting name.

Not, of course, that he had been so foolish to dance into Edoras proclaiming his name and business. He did not fear his face would be recognized, but what of his name? Would Linduial have told that to anyone? He did not trust that she had kept silent on that point, since she seemed to think that he would gain pardon, nor did he trust that he would receive pardon if any discovered his true identity. So he had styled himself as a jack of all trades from the West Emnet seeking honest work closer to the heart of the country, calling himself Nydfara – fugitive, exile. He was both. A presumed fugitive from the law with none to whom he would entrust his own safety, and a self-proclaimed exile from the community surrounding Sorn’s holdings. He was neither loved nor trusted there, as one far too close to Sorn’s interests; people in that community had always kept their heads down and their business amongst themselves whenever possible, fearing Sorn’s retribution. The new Eorl, he thought, would not find them a very tractable group. Wary of authority, whether of Sorn’s meld specifically or the powers higher up who let him run free, they fended for themselves and protected their own. No, Scyld did not wish to return to these people who knew his name and connection to Sorn.

And yet, here he was, encamped in the same stony ridge where Sorn had died while Linduial and he had parted. He did not yet know his purpose, only that he felt a sense of unfinished business, and that with these people and in this place that he might find closure. Whatever that meant.