Chapter Text
‘Twas three months before Yuletide
~o~O~o~
“Fascinating,” said Faramir, running his finger along the series of curves, then tracing the runes visible beneath the lichen.
“How old is it?” Erchirion asked.
“We do not know,” the Bard replied. “Already ancient by the time of Eorl the Young.”
“So the sun hits the standing stone over there…”
“The menhir, aye.”
“And casts a shadow which will trace one of these curves on the flat slab below?”
Faramir’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Erchirion, remembering the pages of calculations on the trajectories of projectiles from ballistas, was not in the slightest bit surprised by this. Éowyn, standing to one side, bestowed an affectionate half-smile. Éothain shook his head as if to say “Gondorians! They’re all bloody mad.”
“One for the summer solstice, one for the winter solstice, two for the equinoxes,” the bard continued.
Faramir squinted up at the sun, and then placed his finger where it currently cast a shadow, noting that it was within a hairs breadth of the curve tracing the Autumn equinox.
“And these notches?” Erchirion asked, pointing just above the position of his cousin’s finger.
“The lārsmith uses those to predict when the equinoxes and solstices will fall. The sun at its height will cast a shadow on the mark a se’en-night before each.”
Seeing the Gondorians’ look of puzzlement, Éowyn said “The wise-man. One of the bards charged with tracking the motions of the heavens. They need to predict each a se’en-night before so that we can celebrate Yule on the shortest day, celebrate our Mother Earth springing to life, celebrate the summer solstice, and give praise to our Mother of the Harvest.”
“So you don’t simply count days?” said Erchirion.
“Nay, Erchirion, have you forgotten your history?” Faramir asked. “Counting days leads to the reckoning of the calendar gradually getting adrift from the seasons. Did you not study Mardil’s correction of the Deficit and his introduction of the Steward’s Calendar? Initially the people rioted because they thought twelve days of their lives were being stolen, before a compromise was reached to keep Mettarë twelve days after the winter solstice, as it had been before the calendar reform.”
Éothain cast another glance at the two dark haired men. Not just mad. Boring as hell too. What on earth was Éowyn thinking of?
Éowyn, it transpired, was thinking of counting days, albeit with a much more practical outcome in mind.
“So I could celebrate Yule with my people then ride to Gondor to spend Mettarë with you?”
“Not on my watch you don’t,” growled Éothain. Éowyn squared up to him, hands on hips.
“I think,” said Erichirion, whose attempts at urbanity fell far short of his father’s, “That what Lord Éothain is trying to say is that should you follow such a course of action, your brother might well follow you, leading to the fir tree for Mettarë in the great hall ending up decorated with your betrothed’s guts. Best not, I feel.”
Éowyn looked daggers at the men around her, including her betrothed, clearly feeling that he was somehow implicated in not encouraging her to partake of a midwinter ride. Éothain glared back, in what he hoped was a severe enough manner to persuade her that the men around her, fiancé included, were right.
Elfhelm, had he been there, would have been able to tell Éothain that a glare was rarely enough to suffice.