Author's note: Thanks again for all the awesome reviews, you guys! And many warm welcomes to those of you who have followed, favorited, or put this story on your story alert list. I'm so glad you're enjoying it!
Getting into this chapter, we delve a bit deeper into Rohan's customs. Since it's pretty much common knowledge that Rohan is a kind of pre-Roman Celtic hybrid, I've borrowed a few traditions from a number of Celtic cultures-per my dear friend's advice and help, as she and her family are from Ireland and have been for centuries-but I am sure I'm not quite historically accurate. This is in no way meant to offend anyone, and if anyone has any advice or suggestions to make Rohan's culture more true-to-life, I welcome PMs and comments! I'll explain more in the post-chapter author's notes, as I don't want to spoil anyone ahead of time :)
And now, forward! We're meeting a few more characters in this chapter who will become more important as time goes on, Lothiriel gets a bit of a culture shock, and Eomer is officially crowned as Rohan's king.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Edoras is packed to the gills with people, but Lothiriel cannot help but like the city, its great hall, and its people. Minas Tirith is grander, to be sure, but so cold, so...distant. Edoras, by contrast, is young and small, but so filled with life that it's a wonder that the buildings themselves don't move.
It reminds her of home, though Dol Amroth does not resemble Rohan's capital in the slightest. Edoras is far from the sea, its buildings made of wood and thatched roofs, the Mark's love of horses etched into every beam, every stone. Dol Amroth is much like Minas Tirith in looks, but not in attitude; in that, Edoras and her home city are the same. Welcoming, warm, alive!
Eowyn looks relieved when she says as much. "I had worried you would think it lacking," she admits, picking at her gown, "for Rohan is much less grand than Gondor-"
"Rohan is much younger than Gondor," Lothiriel interrupts, pulling Eowyn's hands away from the loose thread. "And I like it just the way it is."
Eowyn has taken the mantle of Meduseld's leading lady well, divvying up the rooms so that all of the guests have somewhere to sleep, ensuring those who cannot speak Rohirric are within arm's length of someone to translate for them, even bullying the advisers to give Eomer some peace until after Theoden is buried.
"Damned nosy men," Eowyn huffs, bustling about the hall, "the funeral is tomorrow and still they pester my brother about finding himself a queen! As if there are not more pressing matters to attend to!"
"Has he someone in mind?" Lothiriel asks. She would not have thought so, but if his advisors are pressing him, perhaps there had been someone before the War…
Eowyn stops abruptly, offering Lothiriel a strange, sly smile over her shoulder. "No. Not yet, anyways."
Lothiriel does not have time to ponder her friend's strange response for very long. Life for royalty is much more active in Edoras than even Dol Amroth, and princess or not, every available hand is needed. She hardly minds the activity; being idle has never sat well with her, even if the work is unfamiliar. She's certainly never been asked to help beat the dust out of a particularly sturdy tapestry in Dol Amroth, but she almost regrets that, for all the fun she has while doing it.
There are a good number of widowed women and orphaned girls living at Edoras in the wake of the War, so she is not short on company or chatter. One of the younger widows-Lisswyn, Eothain's sister-has declared herself Lothiriel's keeper when Eowyn is otherwise occupied.
"My brother is very fond of you, my lady," she says, a shy smile playing about her lips. "Were he not already wed, I would not have been surprised if he tried to chase you himself."
Lothiriel cannot help but laugh at that; Eothain was a fine man, and one of the fastest friends she'd ever acquired. He was also utterly smitten with his wife of seven years, who was expecting their second child. "I am flattered. Between you and Eowyn, I think I shall find myself with more Rohirric swains than I know what to do with."
"There are only a few options of what to do with one's swain," Cwenhild, Gamling's wife, chuckles. "I wouldn't think things were so different in Gondor as all that."
Blushing as the other women laugh, Lothiriel thinks she understand where Eowyn's frank manner comes from. She knows part of it is the blush of newness, part of it the relief to see the end of the fighting, but she suspects she could come to love this place-and its people-almost as much as her own.
The funeral was as horrible as Eomer expected it to be.
Oh, it goes well, by everyone's standards. Theoden King is properly mourned-sincerely mourned-and Eowyn's hard work to ensure the ceremony is as grand as it should be pays off. So many people have come to see their former King buried that there is scarcely any room for them to carry the bier down the winding path.
His uncle's grave is beside Theodred's.
Eomer hadn't seen his cousin buried. He should have been there, to help carry his brother and dearest friend to the mounds, should have been there to protect Eowyn from Wormtongue's lingering gaze, to comfort his uncle-
"Oh, helle," comes a familiar voice. "I thought I might find you here."
Blearily, Eomer looks up from the flagon of ale to find Eothain's concerned face. "Leave me be," he manages to grumble out before taking another long draught.
"My King is in distress and asks me to leave him," Eothain says instead, settling down beside him in Firefoot's stall. "What kind of captain would I be if I obeyed?"
"A good one," Eomer growls; he had come here to be alone, away from even those he loves most. They're too much of a reminder of how he has failed, how he could fail again-
"Perhaps," murmurs Eothain, "but I would become a terrible friend in the process. King or not, you have always been my friend first, Eomer, son of Eomund."
They sit in silence for a while, until the flagon is finished. Eothain helps him to his feet and when it becomes apparent that Eomer can no longer walk on his own, throwing an arm around his shoulders like they used to do when they were green boys on their first tavern runs.
"Not th' main hall," Eomer manages to slur. Eowyn would scold him, and rightly so, and Imrahil would likely think him the Northern barbarian his countrymen have made him out to be, Gimli would laugh, and the princess-
"The princess is more understanding than you think," Eothain says, something like amusement in his voice. Eomer had forgotten, how often thoughts turn to words after a good flagon of Rohirric ale.
His captain manages to get him inside without further interruption, though Eowyn is unsurprisingly waiting for him at the door to his rooms, a pained expression on her face.
"Was he where you thought he'd be?" She asks, opening the door for them.
"Paying Firefoot a visit, of course," is Eothain's response.
"And completely neglecting his guests in the process," Eowyn grumbles. "If you weren't so drunk, I would hit you over the head for frightening me like that, but I think your hangover tomorrow will be punishment enough."
"Sweostor," Eomer groans.
She softens a little at that, coming to sit beside him where Eothain has rather unceremoniously dumped him on his bed. She strokes his hair back from his face. "I know you are hurting, you great lug, but it is not your pain to be carried alone. It is mine, too. And our people's. Shutting yourself away from those who would grieve with you does nobody any good."
"When did you get so wise?" Brave, she has always been, and strong, but wise is something he would have been hard pressed to call his brash, beautiful little sister.
She smiles, soft, almost secretive. "Someone once gave me very similar advice."
Her Steward, he thinks, certain of it.
"Sleep now, déorest," Eowyn murmurs. "You have to return to proper kingly behavior tomorrow."
The coronation. The mearcung gescrif…
Groaning, he buries his face in his pillow, and wills the outside world away.
She is still awake when Eowyn returns, looking considerably less tense than she has in the hours following Theoden King's burial. They are sharing a room, for both practical and pleasant reasons; practical, because Edoras does not have enough rooms for every visitor to be given their own, and pleasant, because Lothiriel has always wanted a sister, and Eowyn is nearly as dear to her now as sweet Alycia.
"Did Eothain find him?" She asks, setting aside her book.
Eowyn nods. "Him, and the flagon of ale he managed to steal from the kitchen. I am going to have to have a word with Merthwyn. She's doted on him since he was a boy, and he can sweet-talk her into nearly anything, especially concerning food and drink. He is the king now, he can hardly afford to vanish into the stables every time something upsets him."
"I think this is something of an exception," Lothiriel says. "And I think you would have liked nothing better than to join him, instead of having to play hostess."
Eowyn sighs. "You are right. But he should have considered that-I am not a queen, just the king's sister, and I will not always be here for him to rely on."
The guilt in her friend's voice is overwhelming. "Oh, Eowyn," Lothiriel says, realization dawning on her. "He would not want that, surely. I do not know your brother as well as some, but I know him well enough to know he would never want to deny you your happiness, even if that happiness will take you far away."
Eowyn has turned away from her, but Lothiriel suspects she hears a distinct sniffle.
"Bema, I have never been one for tears," she hisses, confirming Lothiriel's suspicions. "But I think of him, alone, after everyone has gone and I have become a lady of Gondor, and I...I worry."
"Worrying is not always an ill thing," Lothiriel soothes, stepping over to drape a blanket around Eowyn's shoulders. "It is usually an unfortunate side effect of loving someone well."
Eowyn manages a laugh at that. "I suppose you have had much experience with it."
"At least you have just the one brother," Lothiriel agrees, teasing, "I have the three, and a far too noble cousin on top of that."
A more wistful expression crosses Eowyn's face. "Faramir is the best of men."
"I have always thought so," Lothiriel agrees. "And I am glad you do, too."
Eowyn shakes herself, smiling slightly. "Tears and love-struck declarations in the span of minutes. I scarcely recognize myself."
"You are Eowyn, daughter of Theodwyn, sister to a currently intoxicated king, the famed slayer of the Witch King of Angmar, and my very dearest cousin's beloved," Lothiriel says with surety. "And what are friends for, if not to know our true selves?"
"You are more than a mere friend," Eowyn says, pinching her arm lightly. "Kin, you will soon be."
"Cousins," Lothiriel agrees happily. "Though I must admit, sister feels like the more appropriate term."
Eowyn smiles again, that strange, sly smile from a few days ago. "In time, perhaps."
And Lothiriel intends to ask what she could mean by that, but Eowyn makes noises about needing rest for tomorrow-there is a sacred ritual that must occur before the coronation, and she'll be needed to help prepare the mead and bread for the actual ceremony-and so she allows herself to be shepherded into bed.
He has no one to thank but himself for the pounding hangover that greets him in the morning. What had he been thinking, leaving Eowyn to run the hall, ignoring his guests and friends, hiding in the stables like an overgrown child?
"Not your brightest moment, Eomer King," Eothain says, sounding far too chipper. "But I think everyone can be persuaded to forgive you after the mearcung gescrif. Especially once the ale is opened."
"Don't speak to me of ale," Eomer groans.
"Mead, then," his captain chirps. "Don't forget, you have to down the whole goblet before they can put the crown on that straw head of yours."
Groaning again, he contemplates dunking his head in the wash bowl to help alleviate the headache. There is a knock at the door before he can do so; the sages have come, to escort him to the héafodstede.
He will receive his king's marks today, something he never expected. Bema knew just getting the mark of a marshal of the Mark had hurt enough; a king's marks were doubly intricate. They bind the man to the Mark from the day he becomes king and into the afterlife. He'd seen his uncle's markings as a small child and marveled at them, and secretly not envied Theodred for the curling marks that would eventually be on his back, his torso.
But he is gone now, unmarked as king, a voice in his head whispers. That title now belongs to you.
The héafodstede is on the back side of Edoras, facing towards the mountains. It was placed there because of the view; a king must know what he is agreeing to protect, after all. This is not a public ceremony, like the coronation. The sun has scarcely risen and the majority of the city still sleeps. Even the sages do not come into the low stone building; only kings and the men who give them their marks. His oræfta is called Cenric, son of Baldric. A green boy, by all accounts, but one of the most talented in his craft in an age.
"Eomer King," he greets, bowing low. "Would you like to approve of the design before I begin?"
He nods and the boy spreads a scroll across the table.
There will be so much ink, is the first thought that comes into his head, but the second is less of a thought and more of a general feeling of appreciation. Cenric truly was talented. Every king's marks were different, with a few basic elements-Medulsed dwelled between the shoulder blades, a reminder of the weight of the kingship, Bema's horn on the shoulder of one's sword arm, to keep the god's guidance in matters of battle. As a marshal, Eomer already has the traditional stallion around his navel, though he notes a few new lines Cenric has proposed, connecting the horse-a symbol of strength-to the marking that will go above his heart.
The symbol the boy has chosen for that distinction surprises him. "The sun?" He asks, incredulous.
The boy flushes, scrubbing a hand behind his neck. "Yes, sire. I thought it fitting."
"How so?"
"You are the start of a new line of Eorl; a beginning, like the sunrise. You arrived at Helm's Deep with the sun. Some of the common-folk have even started to call you Eomer Éadig, and what better blessing is there than years of sunshine and prosperity?"
He stares at Cenric, eyes wide. He has been king in name, if not in ceremony, for scarcely a few months. Surely he cannot have amassed that level of devotion in such a time? He has done nothing to warrant such praises.
"Sire," comes the boy's voice again, something like sympathy in his eyes. "Our people have a long memory, and you have been fighting for them-for our land-for many years. Is it so surprising that they love you for it?"
"Yes," he admits, the word tumbling out of his mouth unbidden. "But I will try to be the king they deserve."
And with that, he pulls his shirt over his head and lies down on the long wooden table.
The mearcung gescrif has begun.
"Ceremonial tattoos?" Lothiriel asks in a low murmur. The entirety of the city has been assembled in front of Medulsed for nearly an hour now, waiting for their new king to emerge. The reason for his delay-and day-long absence-and been briefly mentioned by a frazzled looking Lisswyn, whose usually calm two year old was fussy and ill-tempered in the late afternoon heat.
"An old tradition of the Mark, practiced since the time of Eorl King," Legolas confirms.
"We have something similar, under the Mountain," Gimli adds. "Though we aren't so squeamish about marking our faces as well."
Rather a blessing, that, Lothiriel thinks. Marking one's skin sounds painful enough, but to put needles into one's face sounds positively horrific.
Gimli's sudden chuckles remind her how very open her face is and she flushes.
"Now, now, my lady," he teases, "I think you'll find our young horse master will remain as handsome as ever. No ink to mar that face of his, at least, not in the Mark."
"I was only thinking of how painful it all sounds," she says, trying not to will the blush Gimli's implications had brought away. Of course the king of Rohan was handsome; she had thought him irritable for the majority of their acquaintance, but she was far from blind. But it was a vague sort of appreciation, to be sure. She thought many men of Rohan handsome, as they likely found her dark looks intriguing, being so different from their own.
"How painful what sounds?" Ask Erchirion, appearing suddenly at her side.
She opens her mouth to answer-certainly before Gimli can, and embarrass her again-when the sudden blow of a horn stops her, as well as much of the other noise of the crowd.
"Eomer Cynnig becymeþ!"
The doors swing open, revealing the king.
A tiny eep of surprise forces its way passed Lothiriel's lips; no one had mentioned-!
The king is shirtless, the new markings of his rule etched into his skin in green and red. There is a horse on his stomach-vaguely, Lothiriel recalls Eowyn mentioning its placement as a symbol of strength-and a large sun over his heart. People crane to make out the markings on his back as well. She would have thought that it was the armor that made him look so large, but no, his shoulders truly are that broad. There are appreciative murmurs as he continues his walk down the stairs to where Eowyn stands, waiting to offer him the mead, representing the lifeblood of the country, of its people.
"Thuio, mellon," Legolas whispers suddenly and Lothiriel starts, releasing a breath she hadn't even realized she was holding in.
The king seems largely unaffected by it all, his face composed, his walk steady. Surely, it must have hurt, to have your skin poked and dyed, but looking at Eomer's face, one would never know.
He looks every inch the king, she thinks suddenly. Today, even Aragorn would look diminished beside him.
"Westu hal, Eomer Cynnig," comes Eowyn's voice. Her hands do not shake as she offers him the goblet, though the whole city seems to hold its breath.
Eomer accepts the cup, pausing to turn to face the crowd. Somehow, he downs the goblet in one fluid motion. The crowd roars, not unlike at Aragorn's coronation, and Gandalf settles the golden circlet on Eomer's head.
"Eomer Eadig!" Someone yells, and the cheer carries.
"What does that mean?" Lothiriel wonders aloud.
"The blessed," Legolas answers. "And I believe he shall be."
Lothiriel finds herself back in her and Eowyn's shared room, feeling strangely unsettled. The blue dress she had brought for the feast seems suddenly too childish, too foreign. She already stands out so much amongst the fair-skinned and blonde-haired Rohirric women, and suddenly, she finds that she does not want to.
Eowyn appears, in a flurry of activity. "Oh, good, Lothiriel, you are here."
Shaking off her strange melancholy, Lothiriel offers her friend a smile. "You did wonderfully today, Eowyn."
Eowyn flaps her hands at the compliment. "I did nothing, merely my duty. Eomer deserves all of the praise, and perhaps Cenric. I have never seen designs so intricate!"
Lothiriel can only nod in mute agreement; she has never seen any sort of mark before, but even her untrained eye had thought the tattoos to be beautiful.
Not unlike the man who bears them, a little voice whispers, sounding not wholly unlike Alycia. A ridiculous thought, but then she has not eaten since the noon meal. She is just hungry; that must be it.
"-and I would not ask, but everyone is so busy getting ready-Lothiriel?"
Startled, Lothiriel meets her friend's gaze. "I am sorry, Eowyn, I was lost in thought. What do you need?"
"Will you help me lace my gown and unbind my hair?" The other woman asks. "I would not usually ask, but-"
"I would be happy to, if you will help me do the same," Lothiriel offers.
Eowyn happily agrees and they hurry about the room. Eowyn's gown is the white one she so favors, that compliments her so well. Her hair is lovely, out of its intricate ceremonial braid, and Lothiriel brushes it until it shines, like a waterfall of gold in the firelight.
"There," she says, feeling proud. "You shall certainly be the loveliest lady in the entire hall."
"Oh, I would not be so sure," Eowyn says, something mischievous in her tone. "Lothiriel, would you consider wearing your hair down for the evening?"
Lothiriel blinks, surprised at the request. In Gondor, it is not considered seemly for ladies of high birth to wear their hair unbound. Maidens, like herself, tended towards braids or buns, allowing the hair to be seen but not inviting touch. Naneth, like many other married ladies, usually wore hers in an intricate design of braids that encircled her head like a crown.
But with Arwen as their new Queen, it was likely that the fashion was soon to change. After all, Elvish women did not bind their hair in any way. And with Eowyn soon to be the second lady in Minas Tirith's court, loose hair would become more acceptable, if not the norm.
And we are not in Gondor, the voice whispers again. Surely Ada would not mind her following their host country's customs?
"Do you think I should?" She asks instead.
Eowyn considers for a moment. "I have always thought the style would become you," she admits. "Not that your braids do not, but this will be a change of pace."
So Lothiriel finds herself agreeing to unplait her hair. It feels nice, to have it hanging free. Truth be told, the braid gives her a headache sometimes, when she is too rushed to bind it properly.
"What dress were you planning on?" Eowyn asks suddenly.
Frowning, Lothiriel nods at her blue gown. It had been one of her favorites for so long, but now it feels...tired. Worn. Childish.
"It is lovely," Eowyn says slowly, "but something in your face is telling me you do not truly wish to wear it."
Cursing her glass face, Lothiriel shrugs. "I have always like it well enough before now, but tonight…"
Eowyn squeezes her hand. "I have just the thing."
She goes to her chest, gently pulling out a gown of emerald green. The style is certainly more Rohirric than Gondorian, with wider sleeves and a tighter fitting bodice. "Oh, it's lovely," she says. "But surely it is too fine for me to wear."
"You are a princess of Dol Amroth and one of my dearest friends," Eowyn insists, holding the gown out to her. "I think my mother would have been happy for you to wear it."
Lothiriel's mouth falls open in shock. "Eowyn! I cannot wear your mother's gown!"
"Why not, I have worn it before," is the frank response. "She was only a little taller than you, and I have not been able to wear it since I was six and ten."
"I-are you certain?" Lothiriel asks, still hesitant.
"It deserves to see a King's Feast again," Eowyn insists, a stubborn set to her jaw. "And I would trust no one else with it."
"If...if it fits," Lothiriel concedes, nerves biting at her.
It does, indeed, fit. In fact, it may be one of the best fitting gowns Lothiriel has ever worn.
"The color is lovely on you," Eowyn assures her. "You could almost be one of the Rohirrim."
Lothiriel cannot help but laugh at that. "I am far too dark of hair and skin to ever be mistaken for one of your people."
Eowyn's jaw goes mullish again and there is a spark of something almost angry in her eyes. "It is not how you look, it is who and what you are that makes you one of the Eorlingas. Grima Wormtongue was born here, raised here, taught here, but no one in all of Edoras would claim him as kin. I would claim you as my kin were you Gimli's height and had an extra ear growing out of your face."
"...oh," Lothiriel murmurs, chastened. And touched, very, very touched. "Eowyn. That means the world to me."
"As your friendship does to me," the other woman says, lacing her arm through Lothiriel's. "Come now, Thiri, let us bless the hall with our presence."
Eomer is grateful for the thinness of the shirt he is wearing; the new marks still ache terribly, though he expects the mead will dull that pain after one or two more mugs.
Aragorn sits beside him, a well of quiet calm in the otherwise boisterous attitude of the hall.
"You did well today, my friend," he says, careful to pat the unmarked skin of Eomer's forearm. "Rohan could not ask for a better king."
"Neither can Gondor," answers Eomer. "Between the two of us, let us hope we can bring our people some peace."
They toast to that, clinking their mugs together. It is hard not to be happy; the ceremony is over, his people are being fed, his friends are all around him. Imrahil and Erchirion have been waylaid by Eothain, and are absorbed in a lively-looking conversation. The hobbits have commandeered an entire cask of ale to themselves, and even Frodo, so often withdrawn, looks full of mirth. Gandalf, Gimli, and Legolas are down the table, Arwen to their right, her hand on her husband's arm as she laughs at something the Dwarf is telling her.
Only Eowyn is missing and he frowns at her absence.
"Bema, how long does it take a woman to get dressed?" He asks. "She has never been so slow at the task before-"
"She has many responsibilities, Eomer," Aragorn says soothingly. "I am sure whatever delays her will be worth the wait."
As if on cue, the doors from the royal apartments open, revealing his sister. She is in her preferred white gown, looking to all the world like the princess she shall soon be, when she marries her Steward.
And beside her-
Words are suddenly beyond him. Thought, even, is something he is suddenly incapable of.
"Bema," one of his guards murmurs, "Eomer King has been hit by lígetsliht."
"I believe you were correct, husband," comes Arwen's musical voice. "Eowyn's delay was not without merit."
Eomer shakes himself, feeling like little more than a stripling. He has seen beautiful women before, he has seen the princess before, and yet-
It must be her hair. Her hair, usually tightly bound in a braid, flows now like a mare's mane in a thick cascade of brown waves. It softens her, and calls attention to the wideness of her eyes, the gentle curve of her lips. And the dress-it is the green of Rohan, and shows her shoulders in a way that no truly stuffy daughter of Gondor would allow. It is familiar, somehow, as if he has seen the dress before, long ago-
Eowyn catches his eye, something like triumph in her face.
Forcing his eyes back to his mug, Eomer takes a long swig. The alcohol must be stronger than he thought. Imrahil's daughter is not some bar wench to lust after for an evening.
"Brother," comes Eowyn's voice, dancing dangerously near smug, "I apologize for the delay."
"It was my fault," the princess says, loyal to the last, "I was unsure if my original dress was appropriate-"
"Lothiriel?" Imrahil has noticed his daughter's appearance as well. "What are you wearing? And your hair-"
"I loaned her a dress, my lord," Eowyn interjects smoothly. "And this is a Rohirric feast. Lothiriel was kind enough to indulge my theory that her hair would look lovely in the style of the Mark."
"It does," Imrahil says, voice faint. "I-when did you become a woman, little flower?"
"Some time while you were away," is her response, and she reaches out to grasp her father's hand. "I hope you do not mind, for I do not know a way to undo it."
"I would not ask you to," Imrahil says fiercely. "You look beautiful, my Thiri."
She flushes pink as a few men-Legolas and Gimli included-raise their glasses in agreement. Eomer nearly joins them, but is far too aware of the curious look Aragorn is shooting him out of the corner of his eye.
Eowyn comes to sit beside him, still too smug.
"Drink your ale," he tells her, sliding a mug towards her. "And be glad I do not spit in it."
"So cross, déorest" she says. "Whatever could be bothering you?"
"You know exactly what," he hisses in a low murmur. "Parading the princess around like that; half of the men in the Hall are going to be pursuing her before the night is over-"
"I doubt that very much," is her much too benign response. "All they need do is look at your face should they dare try. It would frighten off even the most foolhardy, I think."
"Eowyn-"
"Tell me you do not think her beautiful, and I shall let the matter rest," Eowyn interrupts.
Eomer cannot answer; to say he does not would be a lie, and to say that he does would make his sister insufferable.
Her tone is gentler the next time she speaks, and she rests her hand in the crook of his elbow. "I would see you happy."
"Throwing your friend at me is not the way to guarantee that," he mutters in a low tone.
Eowyn rolls her eyes. "That was not my intention. But I know you, Eomer, and you have a tendency to ignore things that are right before your eyes."
He chooses to ignore that particular comment as well, choosing instead to rise and join the hobbits at their cask. There, at least, he is guaranteed harmless fun.
Author's note: Alriiiiight, there's a lot of stuff to unpack from in this chapter, so let's start at the beginning!
As previously noted, I'm pulling a lot of Rohirric culture from the pre-Roman Celts, who I realize are not homogeneous, and were spread out across Northern England, Wales, Ireland, and Scotland. Traditonal Celtic tattoos were usually done in ink made from the woad plant, which resulted in a beautiful blue color that the style has become famous for. However, since this is 1) fiction and 2) Rohan, blue tattoos seem out of place in a country where everything is basically one of three colors: green, red, and gold. So let's assume for the sake of this story, Rohan uses primarily green and red ink for its markings. Also, these tattoos, like real Celtic tattoos, follow a Celtic knot pattern (Google for a good visual) and are not gender-specific. The ladies have tattoos too, y'all, and we'll delve more into that in later chapters. And it's not just kings who receive marks-warriors, craftsmen, midwives, and more all can choose tattoos that mark their profession. Marital status is also defined by a mark, but again, that's for a later chapter.
Gondor, of course, as a sort of France/Spain hybrid, has a whole different set of traditions, none of which include ceremonial or identifying tattoos, hence Lothiriel's confusion.
ANYWAYS, ON THE ROMANCE FRONT: oh ho ho, looks like neither of them are as unaffected by the other as they'd like to believe! At this point, the rest of the cast of characters is probably on the verge of bursting into "Something There" (can you tell Beauty and the Beast is my favorite Disney movie?), but I digress. Little seeds eventually become mighty trees, my friends, and this is just the beginning. And ok ok, so I kiiiinda had to cut this chapter in half because it was getting too long. There's more about the feast in the beginning of the next chapter as well!
Hoo, boy, bunch of terms in this chapter:
helle: Hell, but also a general curse
sweostor: sister
déorest: dearest, beloved one
mearcung gescrif: translates roughly to 'marking ceremony' (though it should be noted that I am not a student of Old English, so if there is a better way to phrase this, please let me know!)
héafodstede: a chief place, which in this context I've twisted a little to mean "the king's place". Only the kings of Rohan and those associated with the marking ceremony are permitted to see the inside of this building.
oræfta: an artist, craftsman
Eomer Éadig: Eomer the blessed, per canon
Eomer Cynnig becymeþ: Eomer King enters!
Thuio, mellon: Sindarian for "breathe, friend"
lígetsliht: a flash of lightning (many, many kudos to those of you can guess which famous movie I borrowed this idea from)