This takes place the night after 'Bema!', and is consequently the night following annafan's delightful 'Howzat' where our favourite Rohirs learn to play a good old game of cricket. Extra points to anyone who can pick out quotes from 'The Castle' and 'Priscilla Queen of the Desert'. The title of this story has been graciously supplied by Thanwen, and this sentence is not tongue in cheek at all. Thank you to the lovely Anna for reading this at its worst and serving it back in a much nicer package.

The festivities in Cormallen were slowly drawing to a close for the evening, though there still remained a number of figures around the fires in the camps of Rohan and Gondor. Almost the entire Dol Amroth contingent had already retired to their tents after a taxing evening of wine and a polite dance or two, though there was one Prince that was representing the principality proudly, ensuring that the coastal city had the reputation of having at least one citizen that could withstand a drinking session with Éothain, the Captain of Éomer King's guard. Presently, Prince Amrothos was staring vacantly at the river that he had fallen beside, only half paying attention to Éothain's description of a certain camp follower's general chest area. It was only when the Captain hinted that they were the first satisfactory breasts he had seen since his arrival in the Southern realm that Amrothos flew the standard once more and vehemently stated that there was a lot to be said for smaller assets, being vastly better than no assets at all. Éothain did not agree, and they quickly moved onto more suitable topics of conversation.

"Gondorian women," Éothain said into the air, managing to shake his head though his mind swam as if he'd dunked it in ale rather than simply drinking it. "Gondorian. Women."

"Gondorian women," the Prince agreed. "Yes. Gondorian women… what about Gondorian women?"

"They're impossible," Éothain said flatly. "Bloody impossible. How's a Rider s'posed to know where he stands when they batter their eyelashes then run off the minute you offer a walk in the garden?"

Amrothos cocked an eyebrow then, quite elegantly, manoeuvred the tankard to align with his lips and tipped the rest of the ale straight into his mouth without spilling a drop. "There're no gardens in Cormallen."

"The whole place is a garden."

"Well, not exactly. You see, beside the river here could be argued to be a 'Garden', however it is so private that it is more like a 'Confined Space', and therefore it is not a suitable 'Garden'. The space between camps could possibly be a 'Garden', but I would hazard an educated guess that it would be deemed as a 'Thoroughfare' by any interested parties, and also is therefore an unsuitable 'Garden'. You have simply been at the wrong place at the right time, my friend. You have not found the right 'Garden'."

"What law is that based on? I bloody knew it – you're all pompous arses-"

"The law of common sense!" Amrothos hurled back, appalled at the Rohir's idea of propriety. "If you wish to court a lady-"

Éothain spluttered and rolled over onto his side to face the Gondorian. "Who said anything about courting?"

The Prince studied the Captain for a long moment, his grey eyes narrowed until he finally realised –

"Ahhhh, my friend!" He reached over and tapped Éothain on the shoulder. "Well, my solution is this: turn to Rohirric women instead."

The Rohir sat up in a flash and was on his feet before Amrothos could blink. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Holding his hands up defensively, Amrothos rolled over then heaved his very reluctant body up, resting one leg on a fallen tree to obscure the fact that Éothain was a head taller. "Quite obvious, I should think. I can't walk a step without being accosted by a shieldmaiden!"

"Accosted? There's nothing wrong with a woman knowing what she wants – most men can appreciate that, obviously not you pansy Gondo-"

"When I walked over here, no less than five pairs of hands squeezed my-"

"You're dreaming, Prince. Five?"

"I assure you, I was not dreaming. If I was dreaming, the number would have been considerably larger."

"What did they go for?" Éothain asked in an entirely deadpan manner that had Amrothos' arms spreading akimbo like a fishwife guarding her bucket.

"What?"

Éothain huffed and gestured vaguely with his hands. "You know. Where'd they reach?" He waved an arm around his own body, pointing to key squeezing areas.

"Er…" Amrothos frowned and thought for a long moment, then held his index finger up with an air of triumph, pointing towards his backside.

"So, on your rump?" Éothain confirmed, bending to take a look for himself when the Gondorian nodded firmly. It wasn't exactly an attractive rump, by Eorling standards, far too knobbly… which explained it completely, he thought with a wicked grin.

"Well that's not entirely surprising – we are master breeders, after all. Seems like they were assessing your suitability."

"For what? Breeding?" Would there be no end to the surprises when it came to the Rohirrim? Amrothos shifted on his feet nervously, suddenly all too aware that Éothain himself had taken a good look.

"You'll never know now, will you?" Éothain winked, knowing all too well just how serious a Rohirric woman could be about finding a good man. "Anyway, if so many had to test then you've obviously failed somewhere, otherwise the first one would've kept you now wouldn't she?"

Incensed at Amrothos' muttered slur about barbarians, Éothain continued after a long swig of his ale. "Well, how about this – I offered to cool down a woman's ale earlier and she burst into tears! Tears, Amrothos. Real honest to Béma tears."

"You offered to cool down a woman's ale? Have you no morals? No sense of decency?"

"It was a warm afternoon…"

Amrothos threw his hands up and leant to whisper into Éothain's ear what cooling a respectable lady's drink actually referred to in polite Gondorian society, leaving the Captain to gawk at the Prince like an idiot on the village stile.

"Well fuck me dead and call me Béma!"

"Béma!" Amrothos supplied, aiming to be helpful though he couldn't quite understand why Éothain stared at him with a curled upper lip.

"Yeah… No," the Rohir said eventually, torn between disgust and admiration for the supposedly 'politer' realm even coming up with such a euphemism.

"No?" Amrothos was thoroughly confused.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"No!"

"All right, all right," Amrothos muttered then promptly gave up on understanding Rohirric idioms, and decided to turn his attentions to the night sky. The moon was full and bright, and if he raised his hand just so, he could almost cover it with his thumb-

"At least I'm not wearing a purple tunic."

Amrothos blinked. "It's not purple, it's lavender. The shieldmaidens seem to think it's nice. Exotic, they said."

Éothain examined the garment, noting the swans that seemed to be stitched all over it. They seemed to be embroidered in a way that made them move each time the Prince adjusted his stance, rather disconcerting when the largest figure had its beak pointed downwards. "It's nice… in a hideous sort of way."

"Perhaps we should return to our previous conversation?" Amrothos suggested, fumbling in his pockets to produce a forgotten piece of honey cake, then continued to speak with cheeks bulging. "We managed to come to a satisfactory conclusion there."

Éothain sat down again with a thud and accepted the offered second piece of cake. "No we didn't. I said that a woman has to have something to hold onto, a bit of meat on the bones, not like these tiny stick figures that prance around here every night!"

"Sometimes delicate flowers can be most surprising," Amrothos countered with a sly smirk.

"Nothing that's delicate can be that surprising." Éothain shook his head again and slumped back down on the ground, suddenly overwhelmed with life and all the complications it brought with it. "What I wouldn't give to be back at home, riding the rolling plains, returning to a woman that doesn't look like a stable boy…"

"'S'not long before you can darling," Amrothos slurred, the ale catching up with him as he felt his body fall down beside the Captain's.

"Don't darling me, darling," Éothain mumbled, half asleep already. "By Béma's mighty balls, if you call me darling again, I'll…"

"Wha?" Amrothos managed, before he realised that Éothain had indeed fallen asleep. It wasn't long before the Prince felt his eyelids closing heavily, just making out the two figures that were strolling towards them, one dark haired that looked somewhat familiar and the other-

"You!" Amrothos pointed one very unsteady finger towards the fair haired siren stalking towards him, hair flowing over her shoulders, tiny nubs peaking through the thinnest of tunics… "You! You…" his voice broke off, and somewhere in the deepest depths of his mind that was not completely up the creek without a paddle, he recognised that this was the woman, this was her, the beauty that he had seen last night, the goddess that had stayed with him all day, the wild shieldmaiden just begging to be-

"Did you see his face?" Éomer stared at the Prince, baffled yet again at the repeat performance. "I do not understand why he looks at me in such a way before he passes out."

Lothiriel pressed her lips together and knelt down to brush a tender hand over her brother's forehead. "Oh, I'm sure he was thinking of your valiant deeds on the battlefield, my lord." She tactfully chose to say nothing of the very recognisable expression on her brother's face, something that was awfully similar to how he might look at a woman blessed with certain pleasing… attributes.

Éomer snorted and waved a general hand in the air. "The last time I saw a man looking at someone like that, it was because…" he trailed off in horror, his eyes fit to bust as Lothiriel turned to him with a raised eyebrow, though he was quickly distracted by the way the movement caused her dress to cling to her body. Béma, she was beautiful! The moonlight made her black hair shine, and Éomer couldn't quite remember what he was about to say.

"Say, Lothiriel?" He politely offered her a hand to help her rise to her feet again, then tucked it into the crook of his elbow.

"My lord?" she said demurely, though the twitching of her mouth at the corner betrayed her courtly manners.

Éomer swallowed. "Would you like to go for a walk in the garden?"

You may, my dear reader, choose to explain 'cooling the ale' however you wish, but in Eothain's defence, given that he is a default Aussie and won't stand for warmed Gondorian (ahem British) beverages, he truly did offer to merely cool the ale. That being said, I have absolutely no idea on how one might cool an ale on the fields of Cormallen.