Fic: Witan Day, LOTR, gen
Title: Witan Day
Author: caitri
Rating: PG (Some violence)
Word Count: 507
Summary: Éomer as a new King. Written for anutty1.
Disclaimer: With apologies to J.R.R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson, and Karl Urban while I’m at it.
It is early morning, and a breakfast of oat porridge and a cup of ale sit on a nearby table, untouched. He has no stomach for this, and curses himself for a coward.
“My King?” Erkenbrand’s voice through the door. “Are you ready? All are assembled.”
“I come.” Éomer is wearing the heavy ceremonial cloak that Théoden wore before him; it is said that the first to wear it was Fréaláf though Éomer doubts it; it just doesn’t look that old. He emerges from his chambers at a fast clip; today will be the first time for which he has sat before petitioners. He can hear the low rumble of dozens of voices in the Great Hall, and when he emerges they grow silent. He climbs the dais and sits down. “Who is first?” he asks his Chief Marshal, and his voice echoes throughout the room.
“Wealtha of Grimslade,” Erkenbrand answers, and the woman steps forward. She bows low, and proceeds with her tale. After her case is heard and judged, there is that of Aelfred of Dunharrow, and then Freca of Calenardhon.
They have been at this for over half the day when a horn is sounded and a Rohir runs into the Hall. People rumble and stir at the intrusion. “Speak! What has happened?” Éomer demands impatiently.
“Orc have been sighted, highness.” The Rider bows low, removing his helm to show his face as Ceorl. “We estimate some four dozen, on the plains. The Second Eored is preparing to ride.”
Éomer is already up. “I ride with them,” he says immediately, slipping off the ceremonial cloak. A serving man appears to take it from him, and he’s already moving to the armory for his gear.
“Éom-your majesty, you can’t!” Éomer represses a grin as Erkenbrand corrects himself; the Marshal is no more used to this courtliness than he is.
“I am King, I can go to and fro as I like,” he says stubbornly. “If I can’t, what’s the point of being King?” Several of the Riders from his old eored overhear this and cheer loudly.
They ride out soon enough at speed, fast as their horses’ hooves will take them. Firefoot is all but quivering with delight, and Éomer gives the Mearas his head. They’ve both been stifled too long indoors.
They overtake the Orcs soon enough, and the fight is over and done with minimal casualties. The foul creatures have had little heart since the fall of Mordor. Afterwards they build the pyres and two dozen men are left behind to watch it burn as the remainder return to Edoras.
It is just past nightfall when they enter the city. People cheer their return, women running to greet their men. They retire to the armory to clean their gear, and then back to the Hall for ale and song. There is much laughter and the light is warm. His people are happy. Éomer sits and watches them, and considers that mayhap, just mayhap, he’ll be able to do this thing after all.
Author: caitri
Rating: PG (Some violence)
Word Count: 507
Summary: Éomer as a new King. Written for anutty1.
Disclaimer: With apologies to J.R.R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson, and Karl Urban while I’m at it.
It is early morning, and a breakfast of oat porridge and a cup of ale sit on a nearby table, untouched. He has no stomach for this, and curses himself for a coward.
“My King?” Erkenbrand’s voice through the door. “Are you ready? All are assembled.”
“I come.” Éomer is wearing the heavy ceremonial cloak that Théoden wore before him; it is said that the first to wear it was Fréaláf though Éomer doubts it; it just doesn’t look that old. He emerges from his chambers at a fast clip; today will be the first time for which he has sat before petitioners. He can hear the low rumble of dozens of voices in the Great Hall, and when he emerges they grow silent. He climbs the dais and sits down. “Who is first?” he asks his Chief Marshal, and his voice echoes throughout the room.
“Wealtha of Grimslade,” Erkenbrand answers, and the woman steps forward. She bows low, and proceeds with her tale. After her case is heard and judged, there is that of Aelfred of Dunharrow, and then Freca of Calenardhon.
They have been at this for over half the day when a horn is sounded and a Rohir runs into the Hall. People rumble and stir at the intrusion. “Speak! What has happened?” Éomer demands impatiently.
“Orc have been sighted, highness.” The Rider bows low, removing his helm to show his face as Ceorl. “We estimate some four dozen, on the plains. The Second Eored is preparing to ride.”
Éomer is already up. “I ride with them,” he says immediately, slipping off the ceremonial cloak. A serving man appears to take it from him, and he’s already moving to the armory for his gear.
“Éom-your majesty, you can’t!” Éomer represses a grin as Erkenbrand corrects himself; the Marshal is no more used to this courtliness than he is.
“I am King, I can go to and fro as I like,” he says stubbornly. “If I can’t, what’s the point of being King?” Several of the Riders from his old eored overhear this and cheer loudly.
They ride out soon enough at speed, fast as their horses’ hooves will take them. Firefoot is all but quivering with delight, and Éomer gives the Mearas his head. They’ve both been stifled too long indoors.
They overtake the Orcs soon enough, and the fight is over and done with minimal casualties. The foul creatures have had little heart since the fall of Mordor. Afterwards they build the pyres and two dozen men are left behind to watch it burn as the remainder return to Edoras.
It is just past nightfall when they enter the city. People cheer their return, women running to greet their men. They retire to the armory to clean their gear, and then back to the Hall for ale and song. There is much laughter and the light is warm. His people are happy. Éomer sits and watches them, and considers that mayhap, just mayhap, he’ll be able to do this thing after all.