Chapter II

Éowyn picked up the lid of the biscuit tin and resolutely closed the tin, facing her with as determined a mien as she must have shown facing Angmar. "Have you never thought of writing a sequel?"

The farmer crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Why should I?"

"Because there still are some loose threads."

Why was the voice of Imrahil's wife always so smooth and friendly, even if she said the most unfriendly things? Going into a huff, the farmer placed the tin on the shelf. "Nonsense. That story was a gap-filler, and developed the way the professor had intended it to do. So what needs to be done should be done by Éowyn and Faramir. There is nothing I have to do about it."

Eyeing her over the rim of her glass, Gelíris shook her head. "I'm not talking about that. I dare say those two are fine so far. It's the Mark that you left with unsolved problems."

The farmer lifted her chin. "Beg your pardon, but your daughter and her spouse are grown-ups and should be able to solve their own problems."

"Our own problems, no doubt," Lothíriel chimed in, her intonation resembling her mother's in an almost stunning way. "But what about the Airik-affair you saddled us – or rather poor old Egefride - with?"

"Poor old Egefride!" The farmer snorted. "The woman might be old, but to call her "poor" is absolute baloney. She's as keen as a well-honed battle-axe."

Lothíriel shrugged. "True, but she can't do anything without the king's orders."

"So what? Since when does your horselord feel reluctant to order things to be done the way he wants them to be done?" Her face in a deep frown, the farmer was tapping her foot now. What an idiotic attempt to make her feel sorry for a man who had dared to bully her in her own house! But somehow the Queen of the Mark seemed to be truly uneasy.

"I think he simply doesn't know what to do as he's afraid it might displease you and therefore endanger the well-being of his family and people."

"What utter nonsense!" Propping both fists on the kitchen table, the farmer glared at Lothíriel. "The professor says Éomer was called Éadig and lived a long and blessed life. Even if I thought he deserved a well-aimed kick, I would never muddle with canon. What does that spouse of yours take me for? Some evil witch?"

Lothíriel grimaced. "Well, he never told me explicitly, but that certainly hits near the mark." She sighed, raising her hands in a helpless gesture. "He's a true son of Eorl; he can't help being superstitious, and after what happened to him the last time he certainly doesn't wish to anger you."

The farmer laughed. "My favourite poet Heinrich Heine once said that kings should show authors the respect due to them and fear their abilities to ridicule them, but I don't deem myself in the same league with him."

The Queen of the Mark was visibly not amused. "Be that as it may. But you didn't leave any hints as to how Airik's story will continue, and the professor does not say anything about her as she is your character. So we are stuck with her, much to the displeasure of everybody involved. I told Éomer to try talking to you again, but he outright refused, even when Éowyn and Gelíris supported my opinion."

Having quietly finished her drink, Gelíris of Dol Amroth put down her glass. "I tried to explain that I could not imagine any witch, no matter how evil, to be unmoved by a rather smashing barbarian grovelling at her feet, but I could not convince him."

It afforded the farmer some willpower to get the image of said barbarian's grovelling out of her mind. Pointedly, she cleared her throat. "And rather than coming himself, he sent you? What a coward!"

Lothíriel shook her head. "No, he doesn't even know we came"

Well, at least that meant that they would be eager to get back soon, wouldn't it? But she would be careful not to buy anything these three tried to sell her. Tilting her head, and putting on a haughty expression, she asked: "And who told you about the way, if not he?"

It did not impress her visitors at all. Éowyn merely shrugged. "Winfrid is quite a clever lad."

It wouldn't work like that. With a sigh, the farmer raised her hands. "I see. Look, girls: It's not that I'm unwilling to write a sequel, but time is always such a bother. That was exactly what I told Éomer when he came, but he simply was impatient and wanted to get his will. That's how the entire crap started."

"I'm not asking for forty-five chapters, mistress Thanwen." Lothíriel's voice sounded almost pleading.

The farmer grimaced. "I know. But I suffer from Lialathuverilitis: Once I start writing, a thousand ideas pop up and what was intended as a rather short story becomes quite epic." The farmer sat down and propped her head on her hand. She had known it all the time that that damned loose thread would come and bite her bum one day. And had not Borys warned her immediately when she had posted the last chapter? It had been sloppy work and now there obviously was no decent way out of it but to write that blasted sequel.

With a grunt, the farmer motioned to the women to take a seat at the large kitchen table. "Well, being women endowed with reason, we should be able to come to an agreement. Tell me what you want, and I tell you what can be done and how much time I will need. But first we'll better have a bite and a draught to help thinking."

Soon everybody was helping themselves to buttered slices of still hot bread and ripe cheese, while the farmer poured cool, frothy beer for them from the typical green bottles of the local brewery.

"Ah, that's just what it needs with a good chunk of fresh bread." Having downed half of her glass in one gulp, Éowyn eyed the beer approvingly. Lothíriel also drank the well-hoped brew with obvious delight, while her mother seemed quite reluctant, sipping rather for politeness sake.

"It tastes quite bitter after the sweetness of the liqueur, doesn't it?" The farmer gave her a thoughtful look. "Perhaps I had better make you something more dainty. How do you feel about a cocktail?"

"A cock what?" Éowyn almost sputtered the mouthful of beer across the table.

The farmer guffawed. "For goodness sake! Get your mind out of the gutter, girl! One could think you were AnnaFan's Éowyn! Cocktail, I said. Like in "coloured feathers"!"

But Éowyn was not that easily convinced. "And what could such feathers have to do with a drink?"

The farmer shrugged. "Oh, the different colours. And perhaps the different tastes. It is a kind of punch, a mixture of all kind of ingredients, so everybody can find their own."

Éowyn frowned. "Like with a perfume?"

The farmer chuckled. "Exactly. Only that you don't dab your outside with it but rather wet your inside. But I'm sure I can concoct something that mirrors your respective personalities. Just a minute, I'll show you."

Still chuckling, the farmer dived into her cellar. Soon everything that was needed stood to attention on the large kitchen-table, much to the surprise of her visitors.

"For Uinen's mercy. Do you run an inn or something the like?" It was the Lady Gelíris who uttered what probably all three of them were thinking.

The farmer shook her head. "No. And I myself don't even drink much of this stuff. But I am holding a course on cocktail making with in-house means for the Farmers Wives Association next Sunday." She grinned. "You see, cocktails are very popular with the ladies, but people tend to make such a fuss about how difficult and expensive it is to make them and how much special equipment you need, so I just felt challenged to prove the opposite."

The Queen of Rohan eyed the assembly of bottles, glasses and fruit suspiciously. "I am sure one can mix some kind of punch from all this, and probably certain people will prefer certain mixtures, but I am not convinced that there could be a drink that represents a person."

"No?" The farmer smirked at her. "Then let me show you a quite tell-tale Lothíriel cocktail."

With nimble hands she selected three bottles. "So here we have white rum, Blue Curaçao, orange juice, a lemon. Ah well, and I'll need some ice cubes." Having fetched the necessary item from the freezer, she took up a white wine glass, put a couple of cubes in it and winked at her guests. "So, here we go. First of all we need some ice to keep things cool. Then some rum to make them strong. And now there comes a touch of Dol Amroth." She added a measure of the blue liqueur.

"How beautiful!" Smiling with surprised delight, Gelíris reached for the glass to have a closer look. "That truly could be called a Dol Amroth drink."

"Could it?" Grinning, the farmer cut up the lemon with swift movements and then held the result up for the others to see: a lemon slice, shaped like a multi-rayed star or a sun the way children would draw it. "So in this glass we have Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, clear, strong and cool, and now there comes a certain horselord who not only bears the white horse in his standard, but also the sun. Now let's see what happens, when these two meet." She added the lemon to the blue liquid, and under the women's watchful eyes that started to turn a deep green around the edges of the slice.

Éowyn laughed. "Looks the "horselord" is putting out feelers into Dol Amroth." Even Lothíriel's forceful dig in her ribs did nothing to quench her mirth.

The farmer cleared her throat. "Well, to keep things decent, we had better make things official. So here comes the wedding." With that she poured some orange juice into the glass and stirred the contents, which immediately turned the colour of lush grass. Adding a white straw, she shoved the glass over to the black-haired woman. "So here you are, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, now queen of the Mark. Have a try!"

Said queen of the Mark gingerly took the proffered glass and tried a quite reluctant sip, her face brightening up immediately. "Very nice. So fresh and fruity." With that she passed the glass to her mother for a try.

"Oh, you had better …" Her presence of mind kicking in, the farmer bit her tongue. Let them find out about the hidden vice of "fresh and fruity" by themselves. It was not as if she was forcing anybody to drink the stuff, was she?

Gelíris took a sip, rolling the liquid carefully in her mouth, before swallowing it, and then she nodded appreciating, passing the drink back to her daughter. "Fresh and fruity indeed. But I dare say there's a quite strong spirit lurking under that cover."

The farmer couldn't help a grin. She should have known that the princess of Dol Amroth was experienced in more than polite conversation. With an acknowledging nod, she shoved the white rum over to Gelíris. "Have a sip, but be careful. It truly is quite strong. It has no proper taste in itself, but it carries all kinds of flavours admirably."

Raising the bottle to her lips, Gelíris took a cautious sip and them shook herself. "That truly is vile. But didn't you say it was rum? Like the drink Éomer enjoyed so much?"

"There's rum and rum," the farmer explained. "What the men drank was old dark rum and a quite mellow variety."

Lothíriel took the bottle and sniffed at the opening. "Probably "Bosun's death" or something the like", she remarked. "But it goes nicely with the other ingredients." With a malicious grin she turned to the farmer. "Well, what about a drink for the Princess of Ithilien now?"

The farmer laughed. "Let's see what can be done. But for someone as stubborn as Éowyn more force is needed." Filling some ice-cubes into a small plastic bag, she put it on a thick chopping board and swiftly crushed it with the help of a mallet. "And it doesn't mix as easy as the "Lothíriel", so we need vigour but also patient persistence." Winking at Lothíriel, she tipped the crushed ice into a plastic shaker and reached for the bottles. "There is a trace of Morwen of Lossarnach in her, so we will have a dash of Dol Amroth, that is Curaçao. Well, and she has a partiality for the exotic, so here comes some pineapple juice."

"Pine apple as in pine cone?" Éowyn visibly was at a loss.

Laughing, the farmer shook her head. "No, not at all. It's a big yellow fruit, and a quite tasty one, too." Pointing at the label of the bottle, she added. "As you can see, the pattern on the fruit skin looks a bit like the one on a closed pine cone, but otherwise they have nothing in common. I might have some canned pineapple, so you can have a taste of it later. Well now, back to the cocktail. Éowyn is called the "White Lady" in Gondor, so we need something white. Here comes some cream. And all that's left now to make her show herself is to shake." And that she did. Wetting the brim of a champagne saucer afterwards, she dipped it into the sugar pot. To the wonder of her visitors, the crystals stuck to the moisture, making the brim look like covered in hoarfrost. And then she poured the shaken liquid into the saucer and shoved the slightly opaque turquoise drink towards her baffled guest. "Her comes my Éowyn cocktail. I think I'll call it Glacier Run-off."

Éowyn's eyes rivalled the size of the saucer. "Béma! It really looks like that!"

"I assure you, it doesn't taste like it!" The farmer grinned mischievously. "It's smooth and sweet, though strong. Nothing to fool around with."

Gingerly, Éowyn raised the glass and carefully touched the crystals around the rim with the tip of her tongue. With an exclamation of surprise, she set it down again. "It's sweet, not salty or bitter and not cold either, though it certainly looks like salt or ice."

The farmer laughed. "The harshness and cold are just pretense. Just go and ask a certain Steward about that."

She was sure that the gesture Éowyn made at her remark had to be a Rohirric equivalent of the finger, but before the situation could escalate further, Geliris reached out an elegant finger and picked a few crumbs from the sugar pot. "Truly sweet."

"Refined sugar," the farmer explained. "The most common way to sweeten things in this world. Though it is not good for your teeth if you eat too much of it. But that seems the way of the world anyway: All things that are fun are forbidden by law, bad for your health or said to be indecent."

Giggling with the others, Éowyn took a testing sip."Erce's tits. This stuff is certainly worth being a tad indecent!"

"Let me have a try." Taking her sister-in-law's drink, Lothíriel sipped and then smacked her lips, winking at Éowyn. "I bet you, things will get more than just a tad indecent if you serve that to your husband."

Busy, making the same cocktail for Gelíris, the farmer grinned. "You had better watch it though, not to give him too much as you might find you expectations thwarted."

"That certainly does not only apply to that drink." Gelíris full lips curved in a knowing smile. "There is nothing but a little alcohol to forward a man's performance, but if you are keen to bring in a good harvest you should be wary to really make it just a little."

Éowyn frowned. "I just wonder, how much booze it takes before a man suffers from brewer's droop."

"Fancy trying out?" Lothíriel's grin was positively wicked, answered by Éowyn with a fake expression of haughtiness.

"No, I don't. I rather leave it to you to experiment with my sot of a brother. But I fancy guzzling the drink that was especially made for me. So paws off, sister."

Laughing, Lothíriel ceded the glass to her, only to make a grab for the one the farmer had put before her mother in the meantime. "This one is much too northern for you, mother. Let our generous host come up with something especially for you."

With a wry grin the farmer turned to Geliris: "Well, what would fit the mermaid of Dol Amroth?"

Scanning the battery of bottles, she reached for the orange-juice. "No doubt something fresh and fruity, but certainly with a dash of temptation." She placed the raspberry liqueur beside the juice bottle. "And then there is a very high amount of danger." This time the dark rum was sorted out. "And deep down there is a touch of the South." She reached for the banana juice and then spooned three ice-cubes into a champagne flute, added the banana juice and a good shot of rum and filled the glass halfway with orange-juice before letting the raspberry liqueur flow along the spoon into the tall glass.

"How lovely!" Lothíriel exclaimed as the scarlet liqueur settled unmixed at the bottom of the glass, leaving the surface of the drink in undisturbed orange. "Like a sunset out over the sea."

Spitting two cocktail cherries and a slice of orange on a thin skewer and adding it, the farmer shoved the glass over to the princess of Dol Amroth. "Mermaid's Sunset," she said with a wink. "You had better stir it before you drink it, though that will spoil the look."

ooooooo

Many thanks go to the ladies of "The Garden" and especially to Lady Bluejay who helped me with the language. I suppose she was happy she only had to do proof-reading and no proof-drinking. ;D