Work Text:
Day 4: The Barrow-downs & the Old Forest | cold be hand and heart and bone | mists and mires “Cold be hand and heart and bone’
Éowyn’s seventh year counted many hardships. Chief among them was the death of her mother and father, and they were joined in the ranks by the loss of her best pebble, and the discovery that in the forests of Ithilien, there was rumoured to lurk a giant spider of monstrous size, which Éowyn was forbidden to seek out and claim as a pet.
With such bitter blows delivered upon her, it was no strange thing that the year should close for her in hardship and strife.
The trouble started with a kindly smile, and her uncle’s hand on her shoulder, for he and Théodred had been telling Éomer and Éowyn of the fine festivities that Edoras would hold at the year’s end, boasting of the food and frolics laid on for the city. No doubt it had come to the children’s uncle and cousin that this, the dawn of a new year without mother or father, would be a discomforting time for them, and so pressed upon them the wonders that awaited in a bid to lift their spirits.
Éomer and Éowyn were much taken in, and were eager and curious to celebrate Mettarë in the king’s city, and when Theodn finished telling them of all the games and and sports and ceremonies taking place, he gave Éowyn a special smile, and told her that as Lady of the Mark, that Mettarë she was to take on the role of the Tattooed Princess.
There was no such equal role for Éomer, and Éowyn; perhaps often slighted, though unthinkingly, by her kin and countrymen, always a little in Éomer’s shadow, the younger and the girl, did not see the necessity in sparing her brother’s ego, nor refrain from boasting.
‘You don’t even know what the tattooed princess is!’ Éomer snapped at last, after a good ten minutes of Éowyn’s taunting.
Éowyn stuck her chin up. ‘I know it’s important, and that everyone will be looking at me, and no one will be looking at you.’
Éomer was so chastened, but it came to Éowyn that if she (and not Éomer) was to be looked at by everyone, it would be fitting that she learned what it was to be a tattooed princess. Théodred would tell her, or her uncle, but she fancied it would be rather fine attending the celebration simply knowing.
She made for the small schoolroom, where Éomer and Éowyn had their lessons. Books there were on the history and customs of Rohan, but few, and in many of them the words were small and densely packed, for all were written by Gondorians, with the Gondorian propensity for long words and lots of them. Éowyn began her search by choosing the books shortest in length, and this proved well, for the shortest book boasted the title “On the Beastly and Barbarous Customs of the Northmen” writ by Damros of Umbar, in the year 2532, T.A.
Éowyn knew not what “barbarous” meant, but hoped it meant “man”, or referred to man, for to read of customs regarding the beasts of Rohan was not to her purpose. She leafed through the pages, and to her contentment, there was a passage on the tattooed princess, and it was brief.
The brevity of the passage proved the only pleasing thing to it.
“Of all the customs most queer and indicative of the peculiarities of the Northmen and their perverse fascination in the flesh, is the custom of the tattooed princess. This custom does harken back to the days of the savage Kings of Rohvanion, namely King Vidugavia, whose daughter was that same Vidumavi who through witchery ensnared a prince of Gondor and so bespoiled his line. King Vidugavia, in gross ignorance and pride, had the customs and blood drenched histories of his people etched upon the skin of his youngest daughter, Viduarbi, with hammer and chisel, and this done, the princess was then flayed, and her skin taken to the mountains to be enshrined. Vidugavia’s line continued the tradition, selecting a maid of the royal house of each generation to take on the title of the ‘tattooed princess’, and this so in turn was practised by the Éothéod, and is still practised to this day by the Kings of Rohan, the chosen princess consigned to her fate at the death of the old year. During this rite, the Northmen beat their drums and chant ‘Cold be hand and heart and bone’, as the tattooed princess takes on the history of her people.”
Éowyn was a daughter of kings. At the wise age of seven, she knew this was no small thing. From her birth, duty and sacrifice had been pressed upon herself and Éomer. Éomer’s sacrifice was to fight and ride and mayhap die in defence of his land. It seemed Éowyn’s hardship was this. To have the history of her land tattooed upon her skin, and a great deal of history there was too, and then, and this was the very nasty bit, to have her skin cut off.
It did not seem an equal sacrifice. Not in the least that Éomer loved to ride and fight and spoke eagerly of the day when he would join their cousin in battle. But it was a sacrifice, and the sacrifice called upon Éowyn, and as the last of her generation of the princesses of her house, there could be none other.
She thought, she prayed, that this sacrifice would be adequate to see her in the Halls of her Fathers, and maybe that would not be such an ill thing. Her father and mother were there, after all, and she had always wanted to beat Éomer at something. To be first to be toasted in by the hands of the great warriors of old would really put Éomer in a snit, and that was something.
Happy as this thought was, Éowyn now counted down the days of the new year celebrations with apprehension. As well as facing the prospect of a lot of very sharp knives, there was the matter of her pebbles, and her wooden soldiers, and the carved stone mereas Father had given her last Yule , and Mother’s brooch which pinned her best shawl. All these would have to be disposed of. Then there was her pony, Boldstep, someone would have to look after him. And Éomer. Éomer would be alone after she was gone. Not alone-alone, Edoras had lots of people and Éomer was not short of friends, but he would miss Éowyn, and he had no other brothers or sisters. Éowyn was the only other person who remembered their days in Aldburg with Mother and Father.
It was all very worrying, and a great burden to put upon young shoulders. Háma at the door now teased Éowyn and asked what mischief she was in, to make her look so glum. Théodred would put his arm around her shoulder and squeeze her cheeks, asking where her smile had gone. The women of the hall fussed and tried to press cakes and treats upon Éowyn, declaring she needed “feeding up”. Éowyn took the cakes, thinking it would be better if she got a bit fatter, so there would be more room for the tattoos.
King Théoden even asked Éowyn what it was that had her look so very severe, when the sun had broken through the clouds and the snow was dazzling and gold, and all other children were making their sport.
‘I am thinking on my duties as tattooed princess, my lord,’ Éowyn said somberly, and to this Théoden laughed and called her a ‘funny mite’, which Éowyn thought rather unfair.
Mettarë came, and Éowyn was taken from her bed early by her nurse, for the celebrations began at dawn, and Éowyn would have to be ready for the procession before the sun broke. Éowyn wondered if she would have her tattoos after the procession, or before, and when they would be cutting the tattoos off. She liked the Mettarë procession, with all the singing and torches and everyone walking together, step falling in step.
Théodred and Théoden were waiting for her both, and Éowyn could not see any knives, nor old Guldra, who Éowyn knew did all the riders’ tattoos.
‘Well here’s our tattooed princess,’ Théoden boomed, clasping Éowyn’s hand with his shoulder. ‘Are you ready, little one?’
Éowyn’s chin wobbled, but she clenched her fists, stood proud and lifted her head. ‘I am prepared, my lord.’
‘Théodred, have you the robe?’
‘It’s here, Father, and mighty long now, someone will have to carry her.’
Théodred opened a large cedar chest, and from it brought a very handsome, if rather funny looking mantle. It was very long, like Théodred said, and longer still because all at the bottom strips and strips of more cloth had been added on, so that even on Théodred it would have dragged, and it was dense with embroidery, some of it newer and some of it older, but all exquisite.
Théoden took the mantle, knelt before Éowyn, and draped it upon her shoulders. It was heavy, but it was thick and warm, and Éowyn had been shivering quite a lot, for the night was cold, and it occurred to Éowyn that she would feel very cold without even her skin.
‘There, little one,’ Théoden said, closing the mantle at her throat with a clasp wrought in gold of a sunburst. ‘Can you stand?’
Éowyn was already feeling a little wobbly, and the weight of the mantle did not help, but she was a daughter of kings, so she nodded. ‘I can stand Uncle. And I don’t need to be carried, I can walk in the procession.’ It would be hard, but soon she wouldn’t be walking or standing, or jumping or riding or playing, ever again. She would like to walk on her own legs one last time.
Théodred swept her up in his arms and held her steady. ‘No lytling, it is too heavy for you, and someone is bound to trip over that fine old mantle, which would be a shame.’
Théodred’s grip was strong and gentle, and Éowyn let herself cling to him for a little bit. ‘As you will, cousin,’ she said, and then, wishing dearly to know, asked ‘Will I get my tattoos at the end of the procession then?’
Théodred and Théoden looked at each other, then at Éowyn.
‘What means you, niece?’ Théoden asked.
‘My tattoos,’ Éowyn said, swallowing. ‘Will I get my tattoos at the end of the procession? And can I go to the feast before you take my skin?’
Théodred and Théoden were silent, and Théoden’s face went all sorts of funny colours.
‘Take your skin? Béma child, where did you-’
‘Damros,’ Théodred said, closing his eyes and taking a breath. ‘You’ve been reading Damros, haven’t you cousin?’
Théoden frowned. ‘That fool from Umbar?’
‘Aye, Father. I had a copy of his works sent over, for I thought it wise the children’s tutor teach them on how some twist our history. Oh Éowyn, if you knew not what your role was, I do wish you asked one of us, or else, read any other book but that.’
Théodred sat down, for Éowyn was a solid bundle in her robe, and Théoden sat also, and Théoden, his face now mostly its normal colour, reached out and stroked Éowyn’s hair.
‘Let us put matters straight,’ Théoden said. ‘Éowyn, your role here today is to do no more than walk, or be carried, in the procession, wearing the robes of the tattooed princess. It is the robe, child, that has the history of our people, not your skin.’
‘But the book-’
‘Was written by Damros of Umbar, who is of the line of Castamir, he who turned traitor and usurped Eldacar of his throne in the kin-strife,’ Théodred said. Seeing that Éowyn knew not what he meant, he told her of the kin-strife, of the daughter of the King of Rohvanion who had wed the heir to the throne of Gondor, and delivered to him a son whose claim was contested by those who would only be ruled by a king of pure Númenor descent. Castamir took the throne, but was cast down, and his sons fled to Umbar, where his descendants dwelled in perpetual enmity to Gondor.
‘Castamir’s treason was borne out of hatred for all races but his own,’ Théodred explained. ‘We are descended from the Rohvanion, just as Damros was descended from Castamir. He wrote those wicked things of our people and our customs to white wash the crimes of his kin.’
This was a lot for Éowyn to understand, but the core of Théodred’s story was now clear. The book had been a lie, Éowyn wasn’t going to get tattooed, and she wasn’t going to be skinned.
‘So who was the tattooed princess?’
‘She was as the book says, a daughter of the King of Rhovanion,’ Théoden now said. ‘And she was a proud maid, and much devoted to the preservation of her people’s history. It is so, that with her father’s blessing, her skin bore the legends and deeds of her people. She received these tattoos at her own will, and they were the work of a lifetime, a tapestry many years in the making. And she was flayed, but only at her wish, after her death, for she lived many years, and desired her skin, her life’s work to be preserved. So when she died, a very old lady, her skin was taken from her and enshrined in the mountains, where the cold air has preserved it. The robe you wear now, niece, was made to honour her, the embroidery thought to resemble the patterns on the princess’s skin, and now in memory of her, the robe is worn in the Mettarë procession, a pledge that even as we step into the future, we continue to honour the past.’
‘There was a chant,’ Éowyn said, ‘a scary one, about bones.’
‘A song, cousin,’ Théodred said. ‘Cold be hand and heart and bone, when legend is lost and story unknown.’
‘Oh,’ Éowyn said. ‘The book didn’t mention the second bit.’
‘No,’ Théodred said. ‘I have read the book, and cunningly writ it is. It’s not a lie there was a princess whose skin was tattooed with the history of her people, nor that her skin was flayed and preserved, yet you see lytling, how through careful omission, great falsehoods emerge?’
Éowyn did, and she now also saw why the longer history books were in some ways better.
Théoden ran a hand over his face, and cursed, then laughed. ‘Oh niece, you truly mean to say all this last week, you have been readying yourself for the blade?’
‘Yes Uncle,’ Éowyn said, ‘but I’m glad the book was just lying. I didn’t really want to be flayed, I was worried it might sting a bit.’
‘Sting a bit,’ Théoden repeated. ‘Oh niece, when we return, I shall have the weavers and seamstresses add another strip to that mantle, so that it might bear the legend of the king’s niece who, when not yet eight, readied herself to be flayed at her king’s will, and feared only that it “might sting a bit”.’
‘It would be a worthy addition to be sure,’ Théodred said, now laughing, stroking Éowyn’s back. ‘But I would not have the seamstresses stitch on our Éowyn’s legend just yet, Father, for my heart tells me there is more of it to come.’