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Sons of Fellowship  by Conquistadora

Since this whole story is something of a canon-hugger, any direct quotes will be underlined. Co-authored with Tolkien, if you will.


After fifteen days, the procession came at last within sight of Edoras, and there again was the golden hall, gleaming beneath the sun to welcome back both its kings, the fallen and the new-crowned.

There they all rested for three days while the men of the Mark busily prepared a funeral for Théoden.  At last the feast was ready and the ceremonies begun, attended by the Lords and Ladies of Rohan, Gondor, and the victorious Elven-realms.

The body of the king was borne solemnly to his barrow, prepared with love by his people, and there was entombed with the arms he had carried in the last battle, and many other things of his house.

Legolas stood silently beside Celeborn as the mound was raised and covered with white evermind blossoms.  Burial was not a sight he enjoyed, but as the son of the king he had attended many in his time, for it was the duty of the lord to answer for every death suffered beneath his command.  He had laid to rest many of his friends and grieved with their families.

But somehow the passing of this king of Men was different, for to lament it would be to lament the inevitable.  There were tears in the assembly, surely, but among the Rohirrim there was only passing regret beside grim pride, for Théoden King had died an honorable death in open battle, leaving the world in a blaze of glory that would hopefully be the envy of many to come.

Then the Riders of the King’s House who had assembled nearby rode slowly round the finished barrow, solemnly chanting a song of Théoden in their own sonorous tongue.  Legolas understood not a word of it, but its haunting notes and relentless cadence tugged at his heart nonetheless.  This lament of the horselords was not unlike many a threnody chanted in the dark hours of Mirkwood after the fashion of the silvan Elves. 

Merry stood at the foot of the mound, away from his fellow Hobbits, weeping unashamedly.  When at last the song had ended, the bereaved halfling cried, “Théoden King, Théoden King!  As a father you were to me, for a little while.  Farewell!”

The strident sorrow in his voice did at last wrench a tear from Legolas, who lay a hand then upon Gimli’s shoulder as the dwarf had begun to shift uncomfortably beside him and surreptitiously pass a gloved hand across his own eyes.

When thus the last farewells had been said, they all left Théoden to his peace.  Sorrow was forgotten amid the cheer of the feast inside Meduseld, for no expense had been spared to make it a worthy tribute for all those it would honor.  Festive banners adorned the walls, the tables were laden with food of all kinds, the hall filled with guests from all corners of Middle-earth.

Soon it came time to drink to the memory of the kings, a time-honored custom in Rohan where lore was preserved largely by memory.  Beautiful with gown of white and with pale blossoms in her hair, Lady Éowyn passed a full cup to Éomer her brother.  The assembly sat silent as the loremaster then impressively recited the names of the Lords of the Mark in due order.

“Eorl the Young; and Brego the builder of the Hall; and Aldor brother of Baldor the hapless; and Fréa, and Fréawine, and Goldwine, and Déor, and Gram; and Helm who lay hid in Helm’s Deep when the Mark was overrun.”

Not until now had Legolas fully realized the astonishing brevity of the kings of Men.  Rohan of the Horselords had not stood for but five centuries, and yet so many names already had come and gone.  The lineage of his own forebears could yet be counted upon one hand and still reach back into the dawn of the world.  To the immortal mind there was something sadly pathetic about these short-lived Men who made as great an effort as their valor and strength should allow, but who were denied time, much like small candles which burn brightly ere they fail, and which could have given much more light if only their wicks had been longer.

“Fréalaf, Helm’s sister-son, and Léofa, and Walda, and Folca, and Folcwine, and Fengel, and Thengel, and Théoden the latest.”

When at last they had named Théoden, Éomer downed the contents of his cup according to custom.

“Come,” Éowyn bid them then, “people of Rohan, Lords and Ladies of Elves and Men, let us rise and drink to the new king!”

Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark! came the resounding reply from the voices of many nations.






Many glad hours passed in celebration of the new day that had dawned over Rohan with the banishing of the dark lords from power over the earth.  It was a rebirth shared by many, but for now it was the hour of the Eorlingas.

When at last they evening drew on, Éomer stood.  “Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King,” he said, “but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he should not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister.  Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as have never before been gathered in this hall!  Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing.  Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all.”

Amid the glad adulation and applause of their friends and kinsmen, Faramir took Éowyn in hand, and all drank to their glad future together.

“Thus,” said Éomer, “is the friendship of the Mark and of Gondor bound with a new bond, and the more do I rejoice.”

“No niggard are you, Éomer,” Aragorn spoke up jovially, “to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm!”

Éowyn turned to him as light-hearted laughter rang through the hall, her fine eyes shining with new life.  “Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!”

“I have wished thee joy ever since I first saw thee,” Aragorn assured her, Arwen upon his arm.  “It heals my heart to see you now in bliss.”

But there in Aragorn’s regal shadow sat another, and Faramir called to him gladly.  “Hail, Legolas!  May the stars shine upon your path, and the new saplings of Ithilien grow not overtall ere we meet again in our realm!”

"Indeed not," Legolas said brightly, raising his glass in return.  "I am certain we shall be very amicable neighbors."

But Éowyn for the first had truly met the bright eyes of the Elf, deep with unfathomable memory, and wondered that she overlooked him before.  Another who, like herself, had left home to face death and destruction, and she regretted now that she knew him so little.  Her generous love of Faramir had overcome the barriers she had raised about herself, revealing to her at last the kindred light in others.  

“Ah, Éowyn!” Éomer suddenly burst upon her, arresting her attention as he affectionately kissed her brow.  “I am happy for you, sister.  To imagine that only this time last year I would not have thought it possible.”

“Last year it was not possible,” she said.  “Much has changed, brother.”

“That it has,” Éomer agreed, folding her white hands in his.  “Let us hope that any more change shall be also for the better.”

“Surely,” she placated him, glancing back then for Legolas.

He was gone.

Her heart jumped a bit at his disappearance, suggesting a more eldritch aura than she had before imagined, and briefly she wondered if he had really ever been there at all.  But quickly searching the room, her sharp eyes caught a tell-tale swirl of green and gold at the door.

They say Elves are drawn to the stars.

The close air of the hall had begun to wear upon her as well, she decided, and Éomer was now fortuitously deeply engaged in conversation with Faramir. 

She simply must speak to him.







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