"Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it"
Fiontann is the best friend anyone could wish for.
Fiontann's qualities as a man, Lieutenant, friend and swordsman were endless. Neyaa walked on swollen feet towards where he sat in the Prancing Pony Inn, clutching her boots. She knew from the expression on his face that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Opposite him sat a man, she had never seen before, but was to learn later, that his name was Notvar.
Neyaa sat down heavily beside him and placed her hand on Fiontann's arm "What is it my friend?" she asked, her eyes fixed upon him in an attempt to read his thoughts. "Not now Neyaa" he forced his words, choked with emotion, but Neyaa pressed him gently "Please, my friend, tell me what ails you".
"Deorgast is dead!" His words were like a hammer to her chest, her heart stopped a moment then shook violently within her, her entire form benumb with shock. Silhouettes shifted around and about her, a mirage of colours and contours, but Neyaa's world was simply black. A minstrel strummed upon a lute, but the music sounded distant and most foul as if it accompanied the words ringing in her ears "Deorgast is dead, Deorgast is dead".
"What happened Fiontann?" she finally managed to stammer. "Not now, Neyaa" he answered quietly. He patted her shoulder and left her sat, stunned, crushed and fragmented, whilst he bought ale to toast the memory of their dear friend. Neyaa watched Fiontann return and felt the bench move as he sat down beside her. Inevitably her tears finally tumbled and emptied her eyes. Fiontann gathered her up in a comforting embrace, but this time they were comforting one another, because Fiontann was hurting probably even more than she was, Deorgast was as dear a friend to him as he was to her.
Amidst the absurdity of it all, she heard Hardoleth's voice. She looked up at him, stood there with Gerfor, one of the company, and he began to speak to Fiontann of The Bloody Dawn's latest contract. Hardoleth looked at her, the worst type of crying is not the kind everyone can see, the wailing, tearing at the heart. The worst kind is when your soul weeps and no matter what you do there is no way to comfort it. She would not disgrace her Captain with an exhibition of grief. Forcing her legs to carry her she stumbled barefoot from the common room and wandered the passageways until she found a store room to hide in.
Neyaa sank slowly to the floor, hugging her knees to her chin as best her large swollen belly would allow, she rocked back and forth, swallowed by grief...
Deorgast
