“In the forefront of the charge they saw two great horsemen, clad in grey, unlike all the others, and the Orcs fled before them; but when the battle was won they could not be found, and none knew whence they came or whither they went. But in Rivendell it was recorded that these were the sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir.” - Peoples of Middle-earth, “The House of Eorl”

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A peal of bright laughter drew Sam and Frodo’s attention as they wandered the halls of the palace in Minas Tirith. It was an enormous place, labyrinthine and echoing, with high ceilings and tall windows that let in plenty of light, and yet seemed somehow shadowy. “On account of it being empty, I suspect,” Sam had said when Frodo had remarked on it earlier. “There’s not been much cause for light lately, has there? But Strider and Lady—I mean, Queen Arwen, they’ll put it to rights, like everything else.”

The large hall where the laughter had come from was a gallery of sorts, with frescoes upon the walls between finely woven tapestries, and busts and statues scattered about, and occasional paintings hung in ornate frames, dark against the pale stone walls. Frodo peered curiously at the tapestries, which depicted scenes he only vaguely recognized, from tales he had heard in Rivendell what seemed like a hundred years before, or perhaps from Bilbo long ago—tales of Númenor, and of Elvenhome, or of the Elder Days and the great wars in the drowned lands, when Glamdring and Sting had been forged.

At the far end they found Elrond’s sons with Legolas and Gimli, and with Éomer King and Lady Éowyn, standing before an enormous fresco of a charging army of horsemen. “Why, isn’t that what just happened, the way it was told to us?” Sam exclaimed, looking up at it.

It could not be, of course. This painting was old, with faint cracks running through it and the paint faded or discolored in places. The figures upon the horses did look like Éomer and Éowyn, with long golden hair flowing under their helms; some held horns to their lips, and Frodo thought of Pippin trying to describe the sound of the horns of the Rohirrim as they came at last with the rising of the sun. They held swords and banners of green and white, though the design was not like that of the banners Frodo had seen.

“No! This is a painting of the Battle of the Fields of Celebrant, long ago,” said Lady Éowyn, smiling at them. “Gondor called to our forefathers for aid, and Eorl the Young led them into battle against the Easterlings and the orcs that allied with them. See, there he is upon Felaróf, from whom all the Mearas of Rohan are descended. It was after this battle that the Steward Cirion gave our people the lands of the Riddermark where we have dwelt ever after.”

Frodo peered up at the horse, a splash of white upon the otherwise brown and green and golden paintings. Whether or not he had been so in life, Felaróf was painted larger than any of the other horses, and like Théoden had on the Pelennor Fields, Eorl outran his host—but he was far younger than Théoden King had been, and the expression upon his face was fierce and bold.

“It is said also,” Éomer King said, with an amused glance at Elrond’s sons, “that there were two who joined the host of the Éothéod who did not dwell in the northern vales of the Anduin, and who fought valiantly and yet vanished into the evening before any could do them honor.”

Elrohir laughed; it was he and Elladan who Frodo and Sam had heard before. “So there were, though I did not expect Gondor to have remembered it also!” And sure enough, on the edge of the painting were a pair of dark-haired riders upon dark horses, clad all in grey, with stars on their brows and shining swords in their hands. “It was chance that brought us to the lands of the Éothéod when the Red Arrow came, for we had been hunting orcs in the Misty Mountains—and it was to the Misty Mountains we returned, after taking news of the victory to our father in Rivendell. It would have been an honor to ride into battle with your people again, Éomer King, Lady Éowyn, had we not been called upon another path.”

“We are glad to know that the spirit of Eorl the Young lives on in his descendants,” Elladan added.

“I hope another painting will be added to this gallery, to commemorate the charge of the Rohirrim onto the Pelennor,” Legolas said.

“It will be remembered in song, if not in paint,” said Éomer, “by our people and the people of Gondor.”

And in plain words in the north, Frodo thought, thinking of Bilbo and his book waiting for them back in Rivendell. He would have the tale of it from Merry and Pippin, and anyone else who might care to tell him. He looked up into the face of Eorl the Young, and thought that he looked not so much like Éomer, but like Éowyn, who stood aglow before him in the sunlight streaming through the high windows of the hall, all vivid gold and bright white and silver in contrast to the fading yellows and greens of the paint.