Rohan, your lands call to me. Your rolling hills dotted with rock
brings to mind a wild beauty with amazing strength that is embedded in
your people. The freshness that blows in your wind clears the mind and
braces the spirit. The majesty of your mountains surrounds and protects
your people. To see your horses roam the land freely overwhelms and
inspires me. Looking upon your great Golden Hall of Edoras, Meduseld,
shining in the evening sun rivals the most glorious of sights in
Middle-earth. Your people revere and love you, long will they protect
you from all threats around.
A silly drabble for Rohan day
Aragorn watched the two children as they sat, weeping at the bare table in the great hall.
"Do not weep, little ones." Aragorn said. "I know what it is to loose a
mother, but you are strong. You are children of Rohan, and you will
live to see these days renewed."
At this, young Eothain raised his head from the table.
"We do not weep because of that!" he said, indignantly, "Everyone knows that she's not really dead."
"Then why do you cry?" asked Aragorn, confused.
"Because, you idiot," Eothain explained, "We are forced to eat the Lady Eowyn's stew!!"
Do not weep, horselords. Your lands are ravaged, your crops are ruined
and the crows pick at the remains that lay silent in your blackened
sheepfolds. Your families have known great losses, of fathers, of
mothers, of even the children who once ran as straightlimbed and strong
as the horses of your pride. But do not weep. Take up your banners
dry-eyed, and sharpen your blade. Saddle your horses and ride!
Ride with your people, ride to death and glory; fulfill your oath
to lord and to land, revenge the wrongs that were wreaked upon your
people. Ride forth Eorlingas!