The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Drinking Contests and Dancing

The Golden Hall of Meduseld brimmed with life once more, but this time, the sound of revelry replaced the clashing of swords and the cries of battle. A great fire roared at the heart of the hall, its warmth casting flickering light over long tables laden with food. A lamb roasted slowly on a spit, its juices crackling over the flames, while barrels of wine and ale were scattered across the room, ready to fill the mugs of those who had returned victorious from Helm's Deep. It was a feast of remembrance and triumph, of sorrow and celebration.

King Théoden, standing tall at the head of the hall, raised a goblet of wine high above his head. His voice, though weathered from years of battle, carried strongly across the hall as he called the people of Rohan to order.

"Tonight," Théoden began, his gaze sweeping across the crowd, "we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country. Hail the victorious dead!"

A great cheer erupted in response, as mugs and chalices were raised, and the people's voices echoed through the rafters. "Hail!" they cried in unison, their voices filled with both grief and pride. The weight of their losses was heavy, but the victory had been won, and tonight, they would honor both.

As the crowd's attention returned to the feast, Éowyn approached Aragorn, her steps soft and deliberate amidst the noise of the celebration. She held a silver chalice in her hands, her eyes meeting his as she drew closer. The firelight caught the golden hues of her hair as she bowed her head slightly, offering him the drink.

"Westu Aragorn hál," she said, her voice soft but full of meaning. The words, a formal greeting in the tongue of her people, held more than just honor—they were laden with unspoken feelings.

Aragorn accepted the chalice with a small nod, their eyes locking for a brief moment before he moved away into the crowd. Éowyn watched him go, a silent sigh resting on her lips. Before she could lose herself in thought, a voice, gentle yet firm, spoke beside her.

"I am happy for you," Théoden said as he approached his niece, his gaze following hers toward Aragorn.

Éowyn looked up at her uncle, startled by the remark. "He is an honorable man," Théoden continued, sensing her confusion.

A faint smile tugged at Éowyn's lips. "You are both honorable men," she replied, glancing at her uncle with affection. Yet Théoden's expression had grown somber, a shadow of doubt crossing his weathered face.

"It was not Théoden of Rohan who led our people to victory," he said, his voice quieter now, almost as if speaking more to himself than to her.

Éowyn frowned, her concern deepening as she watched him. "Do not listen to me," Théoden added with a wave of his hand, shaking off the moment of vulnerability. "You are young, and tonight is for you."

He smiled, but the weight of his words lingered in the air. As Théoden began to move away, Éowyn's gaze drifted back to Aragorn, but this time, she noticed another watching figure—her brother, Éomer, standing with a mug of ale in hand, his eyes fixed not on Aragorn but on another.

Visenya.

Éomer stood at the edge of the crowd, his attention completely absorbed by the woman who had just entered the hall. Visenya was a vision, dressed in a plain but elegant gown of deep red that clung to her form, made of a thick, sturdy fabric that was both practical and beautiful. The color contrasted sharply with her alabaster skin, and her silver hair shimmered in the warm glow of the candlelight, creating an ethereal effect as she was escorted into the hall by Aragorn.

The sight of her took Éomer's breath away, and for a moment, the noise of the hall seemed to dull, leaving him alone with his thoughts. His gaze lingered on her, the grace with which she moved, the way she carried herself with quiet confidence. There was something about her—more than her beauty, more than her strength in battle—that drew him in.