The next morning, the cloak had arrived, and the women who helped Dernhelm dress added it to the other clothes.

He had already left the room when he heard the women chatter. Usually, he paid no attention to gossip, but he had heard the name "Éowyn" mentioned. So he stood and listened.

"He should have given her his mother's cloak. That was fit for a princess! I still remember it, after all those years! Her lady's maid was devastated that it hadn't been left to her in the will!"

Well, the Steward had skillfully avoided that sandtrap, Dernhelm had to give him that.

"Why part with that, for a wild shieldmaiden? She's barely civilised. No wonder he would not give a family heirloom to her, not even borrow it."

Dernhelm's hand went to his sword, which was not there. Perhaps that was as well, Éomer had advised him to stay out of trouble, and killing a stupid Gondorian girl would no doubt cause lots of trouble.

"Shieldmaiden or no, she is a princess!"

"Still. Giving her such an expensive cloak would create the impression that he is courting her. Courting her! Can you imagine?"

"Quite well, actually. Why not court her? It would stabilize the alliance with Rohan."

"Would you have our poor Lord Faramir marry a shieldmaiden, with rough hands and no bosom? Do you have no love at all for him? Surely, there is some match that is, if not better, at least as good, and does not sentence him to a marriage bed full of chainmail and calluses."

"Don't be ridiculous. He wears armour himself, and no doubt she knows as well to take it off before bed as he does."

Dernhelm left the women to their brainless gossiping and ventured outside.

There he found the Lord Faramir, deep in conversation with Merry.

"... just like a man's ... youknowwhat."

"Male member?

"Um, yes. Actually. Just like that."

Why on earth were they discussing dicks? Though it was unsurprising that the Steward used such a tame description, the man behaved like a gelding ...

"Ah, the variety of nature. There is a seashell that I have been told looks just like the female genital. Though I admit that, being unwed, I have never had the opportunity to verify that."

A gelding indeed! Were there no whores in Gondor?

Dernhelm cleared his throat.

Merry jumped, and his ears went red.

"Ah." Lord Faramir turned around. "Greetings, Lady Éowyn. We were just discussing mushrooms."

"And seashells", Dernhelm could not resist to add.

For a short moment, the Steward's expression was shocked, then he schooled his face. "Indeed. Merry, I believe you promised to give me your favourite recipe for mushroom soup."

Merry? How could the insolent man use this nickname when ... when Merry had, in all likelihood offered. Hobbits were like that. Way too trusting. Dernhelm clenched his jaw.

"Oh! Of course, thank you for reminding me. First, you need butter and onions ..."

"You use butter? I find I prefer lard. It doesn't burn as easily over a campfire."

"You can use lard, of course, but butter has this delicate taste ... Hobbits don't usually cook on campfires."

"Of course. Please continue."

Merry continued to describe the recipe. When he was finished, he turned to Dernhelm. "You have been awfully quiet. Don't you have a preferred way to make soup?"

"I don't cook."

"What, not at all?" The Hobbit stared at him with a shocked expression. "I mean, I know you don't have to, like, of course you have servants, but ... not at all?"

Éowyn had cooked. Had spoonfed her ailing uncle his meals. Had been accosted in the kitchen by Wormtongue, who accused her of poisoning the meals, merely seeking an excuse to press his filthy, stinking body to ...

But that was the past. Dernhelm did not cook. At all. "Not at all."

"I imagine the two of you have much to talk of. I shall leave you to it."

Before Dernhelm could come up with an answer, the Steward had already walked away, and was now looking at the greens that would, eventually, develop lilac blossoms. Crocuses, he had explained. How he could see that in the indistinctive green, Dernhelm had no idea.

"Very polite man, isn't he?"

"I ... suppose so?"

"No, really. And it's all natural, not like some people back at home, who ... who just learnt a book of good manners by heart. You know? He noticed you didn't have anything to say, and, well, he would't intrude on us talking about Rohan."

"You think so?"

"Oh, certainly! We talked all morning, so I can't imagine I suddenly bored him. Fara is never bored, he's really interested in, well, all kinds of things!"

Fara? What kind of familiarity was this? "For how long have you known him?"

"Not so long. Well, he visited me when I was abed, of course, but just to say some things about thanking me for helping defend the city, and such. We only really had the opportunity to talk today."

He had visited Merry? Then why not Dernhelm? Not that Dernhelm would have cared for his company. "

"And you already nicknamed him?"

"I told him to call me Merry, and he offered that I could nickname him, too, as it would otherwise not be fair. He's really different from ... from his brother." Merry's shoulders sank. "I still can't believe that Boromir is ... that he will not come back." He glanced towards where the Steward stood. "Poor man. I miss Boromir awfully, can't imagine how it must be for him."

"We all lost relatives in this war." And surely, the Steward had gotten off lightly, only losing one brother.

"Well, yes, but ... it must be diffcult. To know that his father tried to kill him."

"I had not heard of that."

"He hasn't told you?" Merry shot him a questioning look. "Huh. Well, perhaps the pain was too fresh those past days. He came back wounded, you know, and he was unconscious, and his father thought him dead."

"Dead?"

"The Black Breath. You know, makes one awfully pale. You yourself ... anyway. His father put him on a funeral pyre and was just about to set it on fire when they managed to stop him. And ... and ..." Merry swallowed. "Burnt himself. Denethor, that is. The old Steward."

All this, and Lord Faramir had not thought it necessary to tell him, in all these hours they had spent together? But immediately told the Hobbit when he met him? "Kinslaughter? I did not think the Men of Gondor would stoop so low."

"Oh! You mustn't think that! He was out of his mind, Denethor was", Merry whispered. "Thought he had lost both his sons."

"Yet there was no worm at his court, pouring poison into the Steward's ears." They were weak, those Men of Gondor.

Merry shrugged. "I don't know. Pip hinted that there might have been some bad influence, but ... I suppose we shouldn't talk about that. All secret." He stared at the Lord Faramir for awhile, then turned back to Dernhelm. "Talking of secrets, your brother told me to call you Éowyn."

Dernhelm flinched. "Yes. He said to keep up the pretense while in the Houses of Healing. I do not like it one bit, but he is right. We cannot trust those Men of Gondor."

"You think so? Perhaps not, but I'm sure we can trust Fara. Why don't you tell him?"

"He would not understand. Few do."

"Well, I suppose so, but I do understand, don't I? And he is much wiser than me. You know what I mean."

"Older, perhaps. Not wiser."

"It is up to you, of course." Merry glanced at the Lord Faramir once more. "I for my part think he is trustworthy."

Being a vegetarian, I have never used lard in cooking, and I have found contradicting statements on how much heat those respective fats can stand. So I hope this is correct.