the holly and the guldaudi

Winter came coldly to Ithilien, leaving Emyn Arnen buried in deep snow, and the Anduin treacherous with floes of ice that kept even the more experienced boatmen huddled on their separate shores. All of Gondor seemed to shudder and lay still, no one willing to brave the bitter grey sky for any distance greater than the fire to their furs.

"It was a good year," Zinat told Boromir, when he asked about their stores. "As long as the roads thaw by the end of Nénimë, we should have enough to feed ourselves and the household. It might even stretch to Súlìmë, if we are careful, and learn to like the taste of salted fish and lembas."

Boromir clasped her hand, pronouncing her the best and cleverest of wives; Faramir, who had come from Minas Tirith just ahead of the storm, commended her for her foresight. But even as the conversation shifted to wood supplies and feed stores, Zinat could not help noticing how Eowyn stood, pale and silent at the window—her look distant, and colder than the ice on the pane.

(Had she been one of Zinat’s sisters, a woman of the zenana, Zinat would have gone to her, laid a hand on her crossed arms and asked what grieved her heart so. But it was not Zinat’s place to ask Eowyn, daughter of Rohan, what could steal the joy from her so suddenly—so she said nothing, and left the Rohirric princess to the company of her own thoughts.)

.

"Has Faramir said anything to you of what weighs on the lady Eowyn’s mind?" Zinat asked Boromir several weeks later, when the cold misery had yet to leave Eowyn's bearing. She brought it with her as she drifted through Emyn Arnen, like a winter draft slipping under the door.

Boromir did not look up from the shatranj board, his brow furrowed. “Faramir has not confided such a thing to me. Why, did Eowyn share some grievance with you?”

"No, but does she not seem discontented? I thought her only restless, since the snow keeps us so confined, but she spent all yesterday in the stables and returned unchanged."

"Perhaps the weather does not suit her," Boromir said, moving his ruhk forward a few spaces. "You have told me before how the northern winters wear on you and your Haradi ladies."

"She did not seem to mind it last year, or the year before," Zinat answered, using her asb to capture his wazir. He groaned, and she allowed herself a smile. "That first winter in Emyn Arnen, she would be up at dawn, to ride when the snow was still fresh."

"I do not know what ails her, then," Boromir said, his attention focused on the shatranj board again. "Perhaps you might ask Eowyn herself."

"It is not my place."

"You are her sister."

"No, I am the wife of her husband’s brother. It is not the same. I would like the lady Eowyn, I will not pry into her affairs."

"But you might have me interrogate Faramir about them,” Boromir sighed, grudgingly moving his sarbaz. “I am not certain I like your terms, wife.”

She reached forward, moving her pil forward and capturing his shah with a victorious smirk. He scowled at her, but she only smiled serenely. “Husband,” she said, “what gave you the impression this was a negotiation?”

.

"Do you miss Harad in the winter?"

Zinat startled, dropping her toasting fork into the fire. “Eowyn,” she breathed, a hand pressed to where her heart pounded against her breast. “You frightened me, I did not hear you enter.”

"I am sorry," Eowyn said, bending to retrieve Zinat’s toasting fork from where it had fallen. "My uncle used to say I had all the grace of a newly-shod colt, and only a deaf man could miss my coming. I suppose I never got accustomed to announcing my presence, when my feet did it for me."

Zinat accepted the toasting fork, scraping the bit of cheese—thoroughly ruined by its disastrous tumble—into the fire. Carefully, she leaned the fork against the grating, sat back. “Is there something you needed, Eowyn?” she asked graciously.

She was surprised when Eowyn lowered herself to sit beside Zinat’s chair. “Do you miss Harad, when it is cold like this?” she asked. “I know you do not have winters like we do here.”

"I miss Harad always. The cold is merely…not to my taste."

Eowyn laughed at Zinat’s arch tone, holding out her hands to the fire. “I always miss Rohan, when there is snow,” she said quietly. “It is colder there than Ithilien, and we have winters like this near every year. Have you ever skated on ice?”

“‘Skated’?” Zinat shook her head. “That must be a Rohirric word, I do not know it.”

"You lash horse bones to your shoes and use them to glide across a frozen lake."

Zinat stared incredulously at Eowyn. “And you do this for sport?”

"Since I was a child."

"They let children do this?”

"It is hardly dangerous," Eowyn said with a laugh. "By Geohhol, the ice is thick, there is little chance of falling through."

Zinat blinked. “Oh. That is…falling through ice. Through to the water. What a thought.” She pulled the fur blanket more tightly around her shoulders, shivering.

"Oh, and children in Harad do nothing so dangerous?"

"As playing on a thin pane of ice over a deep lake into which one could fall? I cannot say that we do. Though I have heard some of the peoples of Far Harad wantonly toss their children into the dens of lions, that sounds about the same—"

"You are mocking me now," Eowyn chastised, but there was genuine amusement in her eyes.

"Perhaps a little," Zinat admitted with a fleeting smile.

They lapsed into companionable silence. “What did you mean, ‘geohhol’?” Zinat asked, tracking back through the conversation. “Is it a month of the Rohirric calendar?”

Eowyn’s face suddenly transformed, the winter melting away to sunlight; it was the first time Zinat had seen her absent of misery for many long weeks. “No, a festival. A celebration of mid-winter. Three days of feasting and music and drinking, all the great stories are told, and sacrifices made to the Vanir—the Powers. It is what I miss most. I love to spend the winters here with Faramir, and I am trying to think of Ithilien as my home, but…I miss Geohhol-tide.”

Zinat’s heart ached, as Eowyn described the festival, the sacrifices offered—blood, to bring good harvests, and toasts, to the king and to the departed souls of their kinsmen. The hunt for the great winter boar, whose entrails told the future and on whose hide the Rohirrim swore oaths of fealty. (Or, as the night wore on and the casks grew emptier, made outrageous boasts about the feats of courage they would undergo.)

"They do not celebrate Geohhol in Gondor," Eowyn said, after a long moment of silence. "And with the roads and coastline made so dangerous, I have no hope of returning for it."

“That, I understand. We have a similar feast-day in Harad—in late spring, a break of the fasting from the month before. On the eve of Shawwal, my unwed sisters and I would all gather in the zenana, and paint ourselves like brides, then go down into the streets of Umbar, to wait for the new moon that would begin the feast-day…Gondor does not have many such days set aside for joy,” Zinat added quietly.

"Loende, I suppose."

Zinat shook her head, smiling faintly. “Boromir does love his bonfires and caudle. It is different when they are yours, I suppose.”

"Yes," Eowyn said, suddenly grief-stricken again. "Yes, that is exactly it. They are different when they are yours."

Zinat stared into the fire, seeking some phrase, some comfort she could speak that would melt the ice from Eowyn, but all the comfort she knew was away in Harad, where the stars were not strange and only the mountains knew what snow was.

"But I should—I should take my leave of you," Eowyn said suddenly, shattering their amicable silence as she took to her feet. "I am sure you have some more important business to attend to…"

"Eowyn?" Zinat asked, turning in her seat to gaze. Eowyn paused in the door, one hand splayed on its post.

"Yes?"

"Was Boromir at all subtle in asking after what upset you?"

Eowyn blushed faintly, and ducked her head. “You have guessed it,” she admitted. “I do not think artfulness runs any truer in the house of Eorl than it does in the house of Hurin. You and Faramir may lay your clever plans, but…you ought to find less impatient and guileless agents for it.”

Zinat laughed at that. “If there is anything you would ask of me, Eowyn—I know something of your longing. I would be glad to ease it.”

"I will remember that," Eowyn said. She turned to leave, but turned back a moment later. "You have my thanks. For—noticing my heart was heavy. You have my thanks."

A moment later, she had gone, and Zinat was alone once more.

.

This time, Zinat did hear Eowyn’s coming, heralded as it was by the sudden flurry of footsteps, and Indrani’s cry of “Lady Eowyn!” (as well as a few muttered Haradi phrases about horse-daughters that Zinat graciously chose to ignore.)

"We could have Geohhol here," Eowyn said in lieu of greeting.

"We could what?" Zinat repeated blankly, as Eowyn cross the room to her side. With a nod, Zinat dismissed Indrani, leaving them alone in the room.

"We could hold Geohhol here, in Emyn Arnen," Eowyn repeated. There was a flush high in her cheeks, and Zinat wondered if she had run all the way. "Perhaps not on the scale that Edoras does, and we should be mindful of the stores, of course, but—there is no reason we in Gondor cannot celebrate a Rohirric holy-day."

Something must have shown in Zinat’s expression, for Eowyn trailed uncertainly into silence. “You disapprove.”

"No," Zinat was quick to protest. "No, I think a feast would be welcome in Emyn Arnen; it has been too long since there was cause to celebrate among us. And I am glad to help you to honor the day as you did in Rohan. Only…" She paused a moment, seeking a kind way to say, "Only, by the way you described it to me, it seems a great deal of…bloodletting."

Eowyn blinked. “No more than the preparations for such a feast would take.”

"Perhaps, but we do not usually smear it on the walls, or anoint ourselves with it," Zinat pointed out, trying to keep her voice gentle.

"It will wash easily enough--"

"That is not my point."

"Then what is your point?" Eowyn demanded, irritation edging into her voice. "I do not understand why you are so against this."

"Blood is--unclean, in the sight of the One," Zinat retorted, uncertain if that was the Westron word she wanted, but she pushed forward even as Eowyn opened her mouth to speak. "To touch it is to pollute yourself, and there is a ritual of cleansing--but if we were to hold such a bloody rite here, for gods not the One...we could wash every dark corner seven times over and never be clean of it. I cannot allow my home to be thus polluted, Eowyn. I am happy to help you in planning for a feast, and I will say whatever holy words are appropriate--"

"But it is not Geohhol without the hlaut," Eowyn protested. "Surely, for one day..."

"Eowyn, think," Zinat said. "I am not the only Haradrim in Emyn Arnen, would you ask them to participate in a ritual that would make them unclean? That would make their place of work and worship and living unclean?"

"They need not be party to it!"

"So you will have feasting and celebration for only some of our people? Eowyn--"

"We can come to some compromise, something that will please both of us! There must be some compromise."

Zinat's fingernails were biting into her palms, even as she kept her voice even, cool. "There is little middle ground between 'do' and 'do not'."

Eowyn exhaled, and Zinat watched as she forced herself to be still, to fold her trembling hands together. When she spoke again, her voice was pleading. "Zinat, I will wash the blood away myself if it means I will have a Geohhol this year. Please. There must be some...You said you knew something of my longing, that you would be glad to ease it. Will you take back your words now? Leave me to my grief? It is different, when it is yours," she added quietly. "Please, Zinat. Let me have this thing that is mine."

What reply could Zinat make to that, but 'yes'?

.

Over the next weeks, Emyn Arnen seemed to stir from its white sleep, stretch, and come alive--the huntsmen could be seen taking the dogs out near every day, tracking and snaring, dreams of fresh venison driving them on; the pantler and the cook were too often found their heads bowed together, whispering over sauces. Maidservants ran through the halls with armfuls of vardarianna and eregdos, until nearly every pillar bore a crown of fragrant green, and even Boromir admitted to be sick of the sight of red berries.

The news spread to the villages around Emyn Arnen like wildfire--Did you hear? The Lady Eowyn is to celebrate a Horse-lord feast day, and all are welcome at the Steward's table in her honor. Even Zinat's ladies were not immune, airing out their best jagulfis and weaving snow-drops in their hair. "To show that we remain pure, like our lady, and the snow," Indrani explained one night, as she was undressing Zinat.

"Your faith in me is too great," Zinat said with a sigh, twirling one of the snow-drops between her fingers. "Eowyn and I have not yet found a solution that suits us both."

"You will," Indrani said. "As you said, my faith is great."

And Zinat--oddly, Zinat had faith as well. She had expected Eowyn to be extravagant, her excitement and forthrightness not lending itself to planning or thoughtful rationing. But Eowyn was almost over-careful, determined to leave them a generous margin in all things, conjuring visions of besieging armies and winters that would not end when Zinat pushed for more liberality.

"All I know is my uncle's hall," Eowyn said with a small shrug. Her voice had gone quiet, cold. "He was ill for so many long years, and the land was ailing with him--it is not in my nature to use up stores wastefully, in faith that there will be more. For sometimes the snow melts, but no spring comes."

Zinat did not remember ever going without, not truly--a bad year for Rhunish peaches or a delay in delivery was not this, the hollow echo in Eowyn's voice. Zinat suddenly wondered at what Eowyn had said before, about sacrificing horses for Geohhol. How many winters it was done because there was nothing else?

Still, it was good to see the light return to Eowyn's countenance, and Zinat caught her singing in Rohirric more than once--she had a fine voice, and the rustic, earnest songs were charming. (Though, when Zinat asked for their meaning, Eowyn had turned the color of eregdos berries. "They are mostly about horses, in the spring," she admitted sheepishly.

 "Ah," Zinat said. "We have one like that, about gazelles." And they had grinned at one another.)

Once, Faramir withdrew to his rooms, only to find Eowyn asleep on their bed and Zinat curled beside her, ledgers and lists scattered about them. He had smiled and moved the inkwell--precariously balanced on Eowyn's knee--before blowing out the candles and retreating to Boromir's door.

"Do you still snore as you did?" Faramir asked when it swung open.

Boromir grinned. "Mighty talk, from one who kicks like a mearh. I believe I still have bruises from those nights you crawled into my bed. Has Eowyn finally evicted you?"

"No, your wife has. I would have woken her, but I value my life. Is there still room in your bed for a little brother?"

Boromir's grin widened. "If you kick me, little brother, I will make you sleep on the floor. I happen to be a prince, you know, I can do so."

"And if you snore, I'll stuff my socks in your mouth. Or maybe your socks, they no doubt smell worse, my lord."

Boromir laughed, looping an arm around Faramir's neck and pulling him into the room.

Out the window, a fresh snow began to fall.

.

Zinat pulled her sarbgati more tightly around herself, stepping out into the cold of the yard. The large braziers were burning merrily, the firelight of them catching on the green silk tent that had been erected over the snow. It had been their compromise, hers and Eowyn's--within the gates of Emyn Arnen, so that Eowyn could bless the place that was hers, but where the snowmelt would wash away the blood, to keep the place that was Zinat's pure.

It was difficult to see within the tent for the crush of people within and around it--all the household had gathered to partake, and many of the people from the settlements around Emyn Arnen had turned out to see this strange Horse-lord rite. Or, Zinat wagered, to enjoy the hospitality of their prince's table.

Still, Zinat could picture it in her mind, the great bowl of sacred hlot, the high platform with the carvings of Rohan's gods, blood on the grain of the wood. Eowyn had named them for her, as the carved panels were brought forth and set in their places of honor--Jolnwë, the Elder Chieftan, who ruled all the world; Njöromë, the Great Rider, to whose special favor the Rohirrim entrusted themselves; and Yngvána Ever-young, who brought the spring where she walked.

Zinat had not liked the flat, forbidding look of Eowyn's gods, confiding to Boromir that she preferred her faceless One, who she knew only through her forehead to the ground, peace and blessings on her lips. ("It is different when it is yours," she had said, feeling the weight of those words, the ache of them.)

The cook's daughter brushed suddenly by her, towards the great crowd beneath the tent, startling Zinat from her thoughts. On her heels was one of the Greenwood elves, who nodded graciously to Zinat as he passed. (They had come up from their camps in the south a fortnight before. It was not a sight Zinat would soon forget, two dozen elves walking along the top of the snow as though it were solid earth. They wore eregdos in their hair, and the wind carried their hymns to Elbereth, whose raiment was brightest in cold winter. 

We heard there was to be a feast, Legolas had said, after embracing Boromir and bowing to Zinat in greeting. We came to offer our strength for the hunting, and our voices for the singing, if you will have us.

At least they were merry company, Zinat thought, and Eowyn seemed cheered by their presence amid the bustle of preparations. Though that might have been how many of their number urged her to tell the story of her victory over the witch-king, at least once more...)

"Zinat!"

Zinat lifted her gaze to see Eowyn emerging from the great gathered crowd. She was dressed in all Rohan's finery--a gold circlet glinted at her brow, and the horsehair cloak she wore only at the greatest of occasions shifted as she walked towards Zinat. She reached for Zinat's arm as she drew near, laughing when Zinat shied away.

"Have no fear!" Eowyn said, holding out her hands to show there was no blood on them. "I come to you without stain, we have not begun the sacrifice yet. Will you join us?"

Zinat eased, smiling. "No, I am contented to supervise my people in the hall. All will be ready, when you have finished."

"Good. And I--I spoke to your gothi. Your holy-man?" she said, at Zinat's confusion. "I am sorry, I do not know the Haradi word. But I spoke with him, and he said that if I set aside some of the animals, he would see them slaughtered in a way that is permissible. I know you do not always insist on it, but...I know you believe in the One, it did not seem right to offer you meat sacrificed to the Powers."

"Oh," Zinat breathed. "Oh, Eowyn, that is--you did not need to..."

"Zinat," Eowyn chastened her. There was a tentative warmth to her expression. "You must know how grateful I am for all you have done, all you have allowed. You have given to me that which is mine, I am only too glad to do the same. And," she added, strangely shy, "you must tell me when that feast-day is nearing, the one you spoke of before. I know we are not sisters, but I would be glad to wait for the new moon with you. If you would like."

Zinat took a sudden breath, feeling a sharp pain under her ribs. "I would like that," she said, reaching out and clasping Eowyn's hands. "I would like it very much. Blessed Geohhol," Zinat laughed, blinking away the tears gathering in her eyes, before they could ruin her collyrium. She did not know where they had come from, only that they hurt, too. "Or--is there some special greeting for this day?"

"In Rohan we say, 'Éadig Geohhol'."

"Then Éadig Geohhol," Zinat said, though the phrase felt strange on her tongue and Eowyn laughed merrily at her saying it.

They were still smiling at one another when Faramir and Boromir joined them, attired in the livery of Ithilien. "Your people await, Lady Eowyn," Faramir said, with a greatly. "We should not tarry too much longer before beginning, or we will lose the daylight."

"You look lovely," Boromir said quietly, coming up alongside Zinat. He wore a crown of greenery with small white berries, and her curious stare made him blush. "Legolas insisted. He said it was a symbol of good fortune, and protection."

"That is mistil," Eowyn said, her eyes dancing. "In Rohan, we make contracts beneath its protection, it is said you cannot lie beneath mistil. You must swear a vow to your lady and then seal it with a kiss, Lord Boromir."

Boromir smiled at Zinat, lifting his eyebrows. "Is there anything you would have me swear, lady wife?"

Zinat made a show of pondering the question, before asking, "What more could I possibly still desire, lord husband?" She rose up onto her toes and stole the kiss from him first, before darting away, back to the warmth of the hall.

Later, there would be a great feast, and she would drink toasts to Aragorn, across the icy Anduin in Minas Tirith, and to Boromir, Prince of Ithilien, who sat beside her, red-faced with drink--she and Eowyn would dance with one another, spinning in reckless circles that made them both dizzy and giddy, and she would sing the song about the gazelles, Indrani joining in on the chorus, and for however brief a time, she would--not forget Harad, but bring it here, keeping it warm in her skin despite the snow all around them.

It is different, Zinat thought, her fingertips lingering at her mouth, It is different when it is yours.