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‘Wyn, little Wyn, what is all this?’
Éomer crept into Éowyn’s room. He wasn’t surprised to see his little sister awake, and had come into her room half expecting to find her twitching and fretting, counting the seconds in tortured delight for morning to come, only to discover instead a solid lump under his sister’s covers, which seemed to be doing a great deal of sobbing.
‘Come now sister,’ Éomer said, lifting the covers, ‘why all the tears? Tomorrow’s a happy day.’
This was perhaps too simply said, for tomorrow was not without its grievances. Éowyn would be turning twelve, and thus coming into womanhood. Oh, the Rohirrim were not fools. They knew a girl of twelve was not fit for mothering or wifedom. She needed to time to pack meat onto her hips first. And the shift was not so a severe one for lasses. Boys taken out to war had a bigger jump, but girls had a steadier climb. They grew overfast in Rohan when their villages were sacked, or their brothers slaughtered in battle, or their kin lost to plague, not when a ball was taken from their hands and replaced with a broom. Rohirric children knew the value of work just as their men and women grown knew the value of play. Man, woman and child laboured and laughed, if there was laughter to be had.
That said, twelve meant the beginning of the end of childhood, and that was a worrying thing for any lass, whoever she be. And for those who loved her, it came with a grief of its own. Éomer would have happily kept Éowyn eight or nine for the rest of her life, and he knew that their uncle and cousin were not of too dissimilar minds. It would make everything so much simpler if she could remain forever the little scamp under foot, whose great ambition was to sneak apple tarts from the kitchen, and to stand on her head.
Still, that was Éomer’s regret. Éowyn had so far greeted the plans for her twelfth birthday with great satisfaction, for there would be a feast, and music, and mummers sent over by Théodred’s friend from Gondor, Lord Boromir, and her first earrings. Éowyn hadn’t seen her earrings yet, but Éomer had, and they were fine things indeed, picked out from the treasury itself. Gold discs with sunburst of yellow sapphire, from the days of Helm Hammerhand so it said, made for the coming of age of his own daughter.
‘Is it the earrings?’ Éomer asked, gently stroking Éowyn’s hair. ‘Are you worried that they will hurt going in? I’m sure Uncle will be very gentle.’
‘Of course not!’ Éowyn said, scorn and insult putting a stopper in her tears for the moment.
Éomer paused. It was Théoden who would be piercing Éowyn’s ear tomorrow. Rightfully, it would be their mother, or if not her, another woman of their family. But none was to be had, and the duty fell upon the head of their family, a duty Théoden was pleased and happy to do, and much honour it was to Éowyn, yet still, it was a sorry thing that Théodwyn would not be there to do it.
Éomund wouldn’t be there either.
‘Is it Moder and Fader?’ Éomer asked. ‘Are you sorrying that they won’t be there?’
‘No,’ Éowyn hiccuped. ‘Or, I am, but I’m always sorrying for them a little.’ A fresh batch of tears burst forth, and she wailed ‘Oh Éomer, it’s my sword!’
‘Your sword?’
‘Yes, Wooden Fury,’ she sobbed. ‘I will miss her so!’
Pulling back the sheets a little more, Éomer now saw that Éowyn was clutching to her chest her wooden training sword.
Éomer held back a smirk.
‘Come now little sister,’ he said, ‘it is only a training sword.’
‘But she is mine, and tomorrow Uncle will take her from me.’
‘You can’t go running around with a wooden sword forever,’ Éomer said. ‘Not now you’re coming into womanhood.’
Éowyn scowled, and held “Wooden Fury” all the tighter. ‘I don’t want to give her up.’
‘Well, you will have to,’ Éomer said simply. ‘It’s all part of the ceremony. You have to give it up before you get your ears pierced, and then Uncle will exchange it-’
‘For my earrings, I know!’ Éowyn howled. ‘It’s so monstrous unfair, to give my sword for some stupid, sparkly things to stick in my ears.’
Éomer paused. ‘What?’
‘That’s what Théodred said,’ Éowyn said. ‘He told me that Uncle would pierce my ears and give me earrings, but only after he took my sword to switch over-’
‘With another sword,’ Éomer said slowly. ‘Éowyn, the earrings aren’t granted you in exchange of your sword. The earrings are gifted you to honour your courage in the piercings of your ears. Your wooden sword is handed over for one of steel.’
Now it was Éowyn’s turn to ask ‘What?’
Éomer laughed. He tugged Éowyn’s foot, sticking out from under her bedsheets. ‘Tomorrow you will be gifted your first steel sword,’ Éomer said. ‘I went with Théodred down to the smithy when he was giving instructions for its make.’
‘A sword?’ Éowyn sat up. ‘A real, proper sword of steel?’
He bid me not tell you so you would be surprised with the look of it.’
‘For truth?’
‘For truth.’ Éomer nodded. ‘How else are you to become a shieldmaiden?’
Éowyn’s red eyes now glittered, and she threw her arms around Éomer’s neck. In her delight, she forgot to put aside Wooden Fury, and poor Éomer was struck on the back of his head.
‘Mind that thing!’ Éomer said, rubbing his head. ‘Béma’s balls,’ he muttered. ‘That thing may be wood, but it can still land a wallop. Maybe it’s a good thing it’s being retired on the morrow.’