So here we go for some more fun at the farm! Thank you for reading, "favouriting" (Is that an English expression? ;) ) and for your nice reviews.

Chapter IV

It was three griddles the farmer pulled out of the oven, and in no time she put a large wooden plate with crusty pies on the table. "Minced beef with spices and feta, that is sheep's cheese," she said, breaking one open for her guests to see.

Éowyn sniffed. "That smells gorgeous." She reached for one of the pieces and took a bite. To the farmer's great satisfaction, she exclaimed her approval. "Chillies and garlic! And allspice, isn't it?"

The farmer nodded, and Lothíriel took the other half and tasted it. "Lovely. There also is a trace of cinnamon and nutmeg. And cardamom, I suppose. Have a try, mother." The queen of the Mark held the chunk out to her mother.

Gelíris took a bite of the proffered pie, her eyebrows raising in surprised approval. "Yes, definitely cardamom. And there's also coriander, I dare say. What a cunning mixture."

The farmer couldn't help a wide, happy grin. It was a true blessing for any enthusiastic cook to have knowledgeable guests who cherished a good meal. "I normally use these spices to make Merguez, a kind of small spicy sausages, but it's nice with any kind of mincemeat dish." She urged the women to have some more. "It's a recipe from what you probably would call Near Harad."

The women complied, but then, her hand already reaching for one of the small pies, Gelíris hesitated. "I suppose this was meant to be your husband's meal. I hope we are not depriving him of his food."

The farmer shook her head. "Don't you worry, I put some aside as a safe store for him. I certainly would not let him go without food, be it the Valar themselves visiting."

Gelíris smiled. "He's a good man, though a quiet one, from what Winfrid reported."

The farmer snorted. "You don't expect me to disagree, do you? But all in all I suppose none of us can rightfully complain about the husbands they have."

"I at least won't, and I doubt you will." Grinning lopsidedly at Éowyn, the queen of the Mark tucked into her pie.

The farmer rose and cleared her throat. "Well, let's drink our husbands' health. I have a light white wine that goes perfectly with spicy food."

Soon four glasses were filled and clinked together. "To the oafs we are saddled with and who we love despite their quirks and flaws, not least for the valour with which they accept ours!"

Éowyn snorted with laughter and then reached for the left over ice cubes. "I had better water the wine, before I start going into details about saddles or no saddles as far as husbands are concerned."

"Wait!" The farmer got to her feet. "I think I have got something better." She rushed to one of her freezers and soon came back with a small plastic bag filled with reddish orbs. "Frozen strawberries," she said with a grin. "They have no special taste in this state, but leave them to thaw in wine and they taste simply divine."

There was little talk while they finished their pies, but when the farmer opened the shortbread tin again for something sweet to close the meal with, Éowyn thoughtfully turned the biscuit in her fingers. "Have you never thought about getting a new dog?"

The farmer shrugged. "I certainly have, especially as we are having problems with stray dogs in the village lately. But not just any dog would do for my purposes. It's not easy to find one that is a good guardian, strong and intelligent, friendly with the livestock and not having any hunting instinct." She grimaced. "I'm afraid I've been spoilt by the dogs I had. And then there also is the aspect of the price..."

Éowyn lowered the shortbread she had just been about to take a bite off. "There are sheepdogs in the Wold. Huge beasts, looking almost like sheep themselves. And probably they think they are sheep and the flock is their pack they ought to protect."

Eagerly, Lothíriel nodded. "There is such a breed in the Morthond valley, too. They are not afraid of wolves and even defend the flocks against bears."

"I suppose there are similar breeds wherever people keep large flocks, even though in our area it's rather stray dogs that endanger the sheep." The farmer sighed. "Keeping the few sheep I have fenced in, it should not really be necessary to have a dog. But since some rich urbanites bought one of the old farms we are having problems in the village."

"Urbanites?" Gelíris raised her elegant brows quizzically.

"City people who don't know shit about keeping animals or country life in general but think it cool to go rural. Even worse than those who only spend their summer holidays in the country but keep a house here that's standing empty for the rest of the year."

Éowyn gave her a sympathetic nod. "Tell me about the rich and noble of Minas Tirith flocking into Ithilien every summer. A pest."

Gelíris nodded. "When I was young and Ithilien was still overrun by the Enemy, those snobs tended to infest Lossarnach, especially Imloth Melui. We have relatives there, and they were fed up to their back teeth with them."

A malicious grin spread over Éowyn's face. "I'm bloody sure when Morwen still lived there, she had no qualms to tell them that they weren't welcome."

The farmer bared her teeth in responding wickedness. "She truly hadn't. But that is MedeaSmyke's story to tell. I wish she would also take care of the bloke I'd like to get rid of. The idiot is keeping huskies."

"Huskies?" The word obviously didn't ring a bell with any of her guests.

"A special breed of dogs. They cost a fortune. One of them is worth more than all my sheep together. And that's why some people keep them. That and their beauty. But they are working dogs, sledge dogs from the North actually, dogs that need a proper master, one who makes them work, not just an owner, who keeps them as mere pets." The farmer grunted. "The problem always is the owner, not the dog. But we shouldn't let those idiots spoil our day."

"We certainly shouldn't." With a rather determined gesture Gelíris put down her glass. Looking up, she gave the farmer an almost dazzling smile, causing the woman to prepare for the assault that was certainly to come.

"You see, mistress Thanwen, once we are here..." A side-glance flitted to the younger women. "Éothain mentioned something that has highly intrigued me. Some kind of magic window or rather a surface like a mirror that could show a story..."

"TV," the farmer said.

"Tea what? What a strange name." Éowyn frowned. "Anyway. Éothain said our story was shown in it and that it had been fun in the beginning, but those barmy people in the mirror didn't know a fart about horses and warfare, making an éored gallop down a steep slope to attack a host of orcs. And Éomer was highly put out because he had been made to be the leader of that éored."

The farmer shrugged. "Most film makers are not interested in realistic scenes but want them to look impressive. They have sword-fights with the opponents whacking at each other's blades and pirouetting, turning their backs to their foes during the fight, just to show off."

"Bollocks." Éowyn grimaced. "Éomer then was more than right to feel peeved."

"He certainly was. More so as his best lines were all given to somebody else. But there certainly are others who have reason to feel miffed." The farmer eyed the Shieldmaiden with badly hidden glee.

Éowyn frowned. "What do you hint at? Me?"

"Faramir." The farmer's smile could only be called wolfish.

"Oh dear." Gelíris face showed serious unease. "I had better not made that remark, I fear."

The farmer chuckled. "Never mind. They are grown up. They must be tough enough to stand the truth."

"Truth?" Her eyes glinting angrily, Lothíriel joined in the fray. "How can you name such stupidities truth."

Still grinning, the farmer shook her head. "I don't. Such scenes are stupid, no matter how impressive they look. What I meant by you accepting the truth is, that you must realise that such things, be it gossip, stories or films, as we call them, do exist and you have to cope with their existence. You can't stop the creation of legends as little as you can stop the tide."

Her brows still knitted, Lothíriel nodded. "Fine. So be it. But if I cannot change those things I at least want to see them to judge for myself. Show us those films."

Wagging her head, the farmer eyed the clock at the kitchen wall. "Watching a single film will take hours, and there are three of them. It will take too long as it's late already and I need to feed the animals before dark. But I could show you some scenes to satisfy your curiosity."

She ushered her guests into the parlour, and soon Lothíriel and Éowyn sprawled on the tiny couch while Gelíris ensconced herself in the armchair, all of them staring expectantly at the TV screen. The farmer sized the remote control, and after some skipping through the menu, Éomer calling the Eorlingas to fulfil their oaths and ride to Gondor filled the screen, much to the excitement of her visitors.

"As a marshal he's not bad at all," Éowyn allowed, "and as a man he's nothing a woman would shove off her beside without a second look, I dare say."

"True," Lothíriel said, "But he's not Éomer."

The farmer pressed the button, and the scene froze in mid-motion. "Why not?"

Lothíriel shrugged. "The frame's not too bad, but he's too pudgy in the face."

The farmer nodded. "That's what I always thought. And not only in the face, I dare say. I saw him in "The Pathfinder" where he wore little more than a loincloth and I found he had a striking resemblance to a badger ready for hibernation."

The queen of the Mark gave her a dirty look. "You won't find a single ounce of surplus fat on Éomer King. He's quite bulky, yes, but fat... No way!"

"A good cock doesn't grow fat, as the saying goes." The farmer's remark was met with a neighing laughter from Éowyn and a gasp from Lothíriel while the Princess of Dol Amroth schooled her features into impressive blandness.

"Cock as in male chicken," The farmer explained with glee, "but you got the meaning right. But let me show you a scene you'll certainly like; the one when he takes down the mumak."

"He kills a mumak?" Éowyn leaned forward eagerly. "How does he do that? "

"You'll see. It is a bit over the top, but still plausible and quite impressive." Better not tell them how Jackson killed every grain of logic afterwards with those Legolas stunts. A few clicks brought on the battle on the Pelennor, featuring Éomer in berserk mode, throwing his spear at the smirking mumak driver, thus causing the animal to crash into a neighbouring one and the women in her parlour to whoop. Again the farmer stopped the scene. "Want to see it again?" Not waiting for an answer, she repeated the scene, much to their delight.

"Éomer or not Éomer, that man certainly got healthy teeth." Gelíris smug remark made the others double over with laughter.

"He truly looks as if he could bite off some foe's head without any problem." Lothíriel nudged her sister-in-law. "If it has the battle on the Pelennor, could we not also watch Éowyn killing the Witchking."

Blanching visibly, the Shielmaiden shook her head. "I'm sorry to spoil your fun, Loth, but I would rather we don't. I..." Nervously she fingered her left arm, only to be swept up in an affectionate embrace.

"I'm sorry, Wyn. That was thoughtless. But I have to admit I really would like to see how they present you in this film."

"Not to say anything about Faramir," Gelíris added.

"The Houses of Healing it is then." The farmer skittered through the menu, until the screen showed Miranda Otto, raising from her bed in a huge, lofty room, her arm only wrapped in what seemed to be a linen bandage, and walk towards the window.

"Béma, is that supposed to me me?" Éowyn's voice had an unexpected shrillness. The farmer stopped the scene and shrugged.

"It's supposed to be you in the Houses of Healing, the moment before you meet Faramir."

Éowyn shook her head. "How abominably stupid. That's only a few days after the battle. That arm was broken in several places. Without a proper splint and support it would simply have come apart."

Lothíriel shrugged. "At least the gown is nice."

But the Shieldmaiden was not that easy to sway. "Yeah, and it would look like that if I had slept in it. And that room! What do they think the Houses are, a festival hall?"

The farmer's eyes went from the Éowyn on her old couch to the one on screen. Truly both were beautiful, lithe, slim with even facial proportions, but were the actress was delicate, the one in her parlour had muscles and her face lacked the tender sweetness the actress radiated. It rather was the bold layout of her features, the straight nose, the proud chin, the clear grey eyes that all but contradicted the sensuous curve of her mouth which made her beautiful. A falcon ready to swoop. The farmer suppressed a grin, looking forward to Éowyn's reaction with malicious amusement. She pressed the button, and from between the columns David Wenham hesitantly entered the scene in a loose hanging shirt, looking puppy-eyed at the film Éowyn.

Éowyn gasped. "Who the heck is that supposed to be? Don't you tell me..."

The farmer nodded with mock seriousness. "Faramir."

"No way!" Éowyn almost shrieked, while Lothíriel snorted with laughter.

"Come on, sister. He isn't too bad. If I get a roly-poly, why shouldn't you get a sandy-haired pup. At least he has a big nose, and that is certainly promising, as our host will tell you."

Raising a hand delicately to her mouth,Gelíris sniggered. "My, that fellow has nothing of a Númenórean about him. I certainly don't want to offend him, as he seems to be a quite nice and meek specimen, but that hair! That face! And that posture! Incredible. Éowyn, they married you to a blend of sheep and setter puppy. "

Shoving off her sister-in-law, who had by now collapsed with laughter into her lap, Éowyn glared at her aunt by marriage and then turned to the farmer. "Is there any scene showing Prince Imrahil? I would like to obtain some satisfaction for my paining eyes or at least to draw level."

The farmer wagged her head. "As far as I know he's not in the films, at least not officially. But there is a bloke in one scene, a lot of people believe to be Imrahil."

"Let's see him!" Straightening, Éowyn waved at the screen imperiously.

Soon the wounded Faramir was dragged through the gates of Minas Tirith and then Ian Hughes hastened through the scene, mumbling that Denethor had been right about the threat. The farmer stopped the film, pointing at the screen with the remote control. "There he is," she said, struggling not to laugh.

"Who?" The princess of Dol Amroth stared at the actor's face. "That... That can't be."

The farmer shrugged. "It probably isn't. I told you, he was omitted from the story in the film. But as some people thought he had to be in it, someone spread the rumour it was him and launched a wild discussion if that was true or not."

While Geliris still shook her head in flabbergasted disbelief, her daughter was not impressed at all. "I can only suppose those people were drinking too many of your cocktails while watching the film. Why, that wimp doesn't even wear Dol Amroth' colours nor her arms. And that hair..."

The farmer shrugged again, her face deadpan. "Why not? It says in the books: Imrahil the fair."

Lothíriel snorted. "The fair, not the fair-haired. The princes of Dol Amroth are of Númenórean blood."

"That they are. But as they claim Mithrellas of Lothlorien as their ancestress and Peter Jackson pictured the elves of the Golden Wood with platinum blond hair..." The farmer couldn't help her mouth curve in a wicked grin.

Still shaking her head, Gelíris groaned. "And to imagine there are people who believe I could have fallen for that man!"

"Mistress Thanwen." Éowyn's voice was remarkably sober. Pointing at the remote control, she faced the farmer. "I say you had better stop this before it gets worse. We all have probably seen enough to give us nightmares or at least to question the intelligence of some of your people."

Inclining her head, the farmer obliged, wondering what reaction moth-eaten Théoden and apeshit-crazy Denethor would have evoked. Her gaze then wandered to the fast dimming window. The sky sported a dense blanket of cloud by now, and judging from the sound of the trees that bordered her premises the wind had risen considerably. Could it be that the weather changed for the worse automatically once she had that sort of visitors? Was it a kind of magic hint to invite them to stay?Unsure, what to do, she rose with a sigh. "You'll have to excuse me for a while, girls, but with the cloudy sky it darkens earlier than usual and the critters are waiting. Shall I open another bottle of wine for you to pass the time?"

Shaking her head, Gelíris rose, too. "Thank you for your excellent hospitality, mistress Thanwen. We truly enjoyed our stay, but I think it is high time we left, lest the boy might worry or get into trouble."

"The boy?"

Éowyn rose likewise. "Winfrid of course. He took us to the site he had travelled from the last time with Éomer and Éothain and stayed behind as a guard."

Slightly worried, the farmer frowned. "To guard what?"

Pulling Lothíriel up from the sagging sofa, the Shieldmaiden laughed. "Our picnic equipment, especially the hamper. We made sure that nobody should wonder if the trip took us a bit longer. Though the length of our stay here doesn't really correspond with time in Middle-earth. He said the last time only a few hours had passed back home while they had stayed here over night due to the storm."

That did not really help to settle the farmers worries, though she felt somehow reassured that the boy at least had something to eat while waiting for the women. "Do you expect the weather might pose any risk to your journey? I mean, you are welcome to stay if you aren't sure that everything will work out all right."

Éowyn shrugged, grinning broadly. "No risk, no fun." The two young women nudged each other at Éowyn's remark, their faces in a daring grin. For a moment the farmer wondered if she should have played her heavy metal discs to them. At least those two looked as if they would have enjoyed Sabaton bellow out Panzerkampf.

Annotations:

Sabaton: a Swedish metal band

Panzerkampf: one of the songs from their CD "The Art of War"

Many thanks go to the ladies of "The Garden" and especially to Lady Bluejay who despite my hard-to-kill Germanisms has not given up yet to help me with the language. :)