In The Great Halls Of Men
1. Life's Rich Tapestry
A horn of ale in his hand, Eomer looked around the Great Hall and was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness.
Oh, Merethrond was as grand as ever, but...
His men grew older every year- their beards longer, their hair whiter, their bodies frailer, their numbers fewer.
Some day soon, the King of Rohan thought, there would come a time when none would remain who remembered what it was like to ride out on the Pelennor Field against the Dark Lord- none who remembered how it had felt that day to stare death in the face and laugh.
He sighed, and suddenly there was a hand upon his.
"What troubles you, my love?"
Lothíriel's voice was soft, barely a murmur under the noise of the feasting hall, but he heard it louder than the sweetest music of the Elves. The old King shook his head.
"Age, my love. Age and memories of a world soon to be lost and forgotten."
The Queen smiled.
"Ah- that old chestnut."
Eomer smiled despite himself, and she continued.
"Men may fade and kingdoms fall but heroism lasts forever, my love. Whenever men wake and greet the morning sun, they will remember that it is only because of the Great Kings of old that they got the chance to do so. Whenever men ride out on the hunt, or toil in the field, or charge out to battle, they will remember."
Eomer was puzzled, and his wife saw this. Turning from him, she clapped her hands, and two servants approached, carrying a long bundle between them. The hall fell silent, and Lothíriel stood, smiling.
"I had considered waiting until the King's birthday to give him this," she said, gesturing at the bundle, "but I think that now might be an even better time for gift-giving."
With a second clap of her hands, the servants unwound the bundle, and every jaw in the Hall dropped, a collective gasp echoing around the group.
In beautifully coloured thread, they saw the events of that day picked out for all the world to see- the charge of the Rohrrim, the death of the Witch-King, the victory of Men over the Dark Lord's malice.
With tears in his eyes, the King stood and embraced his wife.
For a second no-one spoke...
...and then every voice in the Great Hall was raised in triumph.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.