Middwinter

Éowyn carried the pitcher of ale through the hall without spilling a drop, though it was full to the brim and the hall packed with drunken Rohirrim.  Finally reaching her destination she sat primly beside Éomer.  As his friends passed the jug around she surveyed them through lowered lashes.  None were as tall or as broad as her brother and from what she heard none were as fine warriors either.   But Poldon, Poldon was special.  He had a laugh that spread to all around him.  Éowyn loved Poldon; he was so kind to everyone.

Meduseld was full and golden, the walls upright and strong against the whistling winds outside.  Éowyn shivered deliciously as she thought of the monsters that sometimes came to haunt happy halls like Meduseld – foul creatures all of them.  There was nothing to fear though, for her Uncle would defeat every one of them – except the wyrd, and Éowyn couldn’t imagine that a wyrd would have any use for her.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder – she was not going to be scared by folk-stories.  Éomer caught the movement, and clapped an arm around her shoulders, “So Éowyn, which of these fine men will you dance with?”  Éowyn scowled at him – she hated it when he teased her.  Still when she looked around none of them were laughing – one or two even looked eager.  Éowyn smiled to herself and extended a hand to Poldon.

Their dance was wonderful.  He spun her round faster than she could blink and sheaves of her hair flew in his face.  She was dizzy with joy when the dance was done.  Théodred claimed her next, and then she danced with Hama, and Elfhelm, and finally Grima asked for the honour.  His fingers were cold against hers.  He had given her a book of tales from Gondor as a Middwinter gift to improve her Westron.  She had thanked him, but she didn’t know what to think.  Grima had a way of looking at her sometimes – as though he could see inside her – and she didn’t like it.

Éowyn was talking with Elfara, who sat quiet in a dark corner of the hall, and telling her all about the dance with Poldon, when Théodred came to fetch her.  He and Elfara were strangely stiff with each other, and he said, “Father wants to speak with you before you go to bed Éowyn.”  He didn’t follow her as she left, and when Éowyn turned to look back she saw Elfara raising her glass ironically to him.  Théodred caught her hand and stared her down for what seemed like hours.  Éowyn walked to her Uncle, feeling unbalanced by the strange connection they shared.

Théoden patted a chair beside him, and handed her a mug of ale when she sat down.  They were quiet for a few moments, watching the merry-making, until Éowyn had a thought, “Uncle?”

“Yes”

“Can you tell me the story of Steelsheen?”

Théoden sighed, shifting in his chair, “All right.”  He took a deep draught of ale and spoke, “It was long ago Éowyn, when I was only a small lad, younger than you when you first came here, and when the thaw came Thengel rode out with his éored to survey the land anew.  Only the greybeards, the lads and the young-wives were left when the orcs attacked.  They were desperate from hunger for none dared wander the plains in the wolf-winter, but strong for all that.  Morwen gathered all the people round and gave hem blades and the courage to fight.  She herself locked all the children in Meduseld and stood in front of its doors with a sword in hand.  Not a single orc could pass her, and she did not once falter that day.”

“How long did she stand there?”

“All day long.  Thorongil arrived in the last hour before nightfall and it was he who tended her wounds.”

“She was wounded?”

“Aye Éowyn she was wounded.  I held her hand as Thorongil staunched the wounds.  She smiled at me through it all.”

“What was she like?”, Éowyn said, reaching for her Uncle’s hands.

“She was the most beautiful thing on two feet Éowyn – all red-gold and steel and lightning.  She had hair like the setting sun and her gaze was like a sword’s point though her eyes were deep with shadows.  She had a backbone of steel…How do you like your ale?”

Éowyn jumped at the change of topic – her Uncle’s words had bespelled her.  She stammered, “I like it Uncle, it was a good year…but I’d prefer mead.”

He ruffled her hair saying, “Not till you’re full grown Éowyn.”

“Do you like the blanket?”

“Aye child.  It is very warm.”

She had spent months weaving the blasted thing and then unravelling her mistakes and then redoing all her work.  Many times she’d been tempted to kick the loom to pieces, but her Uncle needed the blanket.  He felt the cold more lately, and he would never ask for another blanket to keep the cold from his bed.  He sighed and Éowyn said, “I’m going to bed Uncle.  Do you want me to tell Aegyth to light the fire in your room?”

He nodded tiredly, “You are right Éowyn.  I’m too old for a night of carousing – I shall leave it too Théodred and Éomer.”

Éowyn smiled and kissed him on the cheek.  She looked for Éomer as she walked from the hall, and let him know that she was retiring.  He smiled at her.  As she walked she tried to stand tall – she would have a backbone of steel too.  Éowyn sank to her knees when she reached her room, blessing Aegyth.  A fire crackled in her hearth and a mug of milk, a luxury in winter, awaited her.  She drank it down with delight, and sat for a few minutes before she banked the fire and got into bed.

Author’s Note

Several explanations are in order here. 

1)      Éowyn describing the monsters that haunt halls is actually a reference to Beowulf.  Since Tolkien used large amounts of Beowulf in a rather liberal manner (one doesn’t like to say the word plagarism) when creating the Rohirrim, I thought it would be interesting if Éowyn knew of the story – except obviously based in Middle-Earth.

2)      Middwinter is an old english word for midwinter – not a misspelling

3)      Wyrd is an old English word meaning fate – however I was rather caught by Seamus Heaney’s description of the dragon in Beowulf as half wyrm, half wyrd.  Wyrd for the Anglo-Saxons was never positive – it meant a violent death to which one was fated – and I thought that it would be interesting to see wyrd as a kind of monster itself, a strange mingling of fate and the dragon.

4)      Finally the story of Steelsheen does not come from canon but I wanted to give her something that would earn the name Steelsheen, and I like the idea of including some storytelling, as the Rohirrim are primarily an oral culture.

If anyone is really interested in these areas (and doesn’t feel like slogging through the original) I really recommend the Seamus Heaney translation of Beowulf.  It’s an amazing piece of work.