“And what’s that I smell?”

A dark shape formed itself suddenly out of the shadows and loomed over one small hobbit.

“It’s stew, Master Boromir.  You can help yourself; there’s plenty left.”

“Ah, Master Meriadoc, I did so hope.”

Around them the Fellowship slept, a jumble of formless heaps of blankets and packs.  Only Legolas stirred to rise gracefully to his feet and, after nodding to his companions, disappear soundlessly into the dark.

Sighing softly Boromir quietly divested himself of his gear and stretched.  Then he approached the fire, offering Merry a hopeful smile as the hobbit gently stirred the cookpot.  The man crouched opposite, and warmed his hands over the glowing coals.

Boromir had missed dinner, what there would have been of it.  With the threat of wolves ever present since they had descended Caradhras, the Company had decided two watchmen would be better than one.  And, with the Halfling’s distress upon the mountain still fresh in his heart, Boromir had restlessly volunteered to be first to go out, and had left camp before it had barely been established.  Merry hadn’t heard or seen sign of the man since, but had felt his uneasy presence prowling about in the dark around them.

“So,” the Boromir’s eyes seemed glued to spoon as Merry swirled it about the pot.  “Sam roused himself after all.”

“Oh, no,” Merry shook his head mournfully and reached Boromir a bowl; “he’s stayed exactly as he fell, poor lad; absolutely exhausted.  Been packing more than his share, if you ask me.  No, no;  Strider cooked, more’s the pity.”

Having accepted the bowl Boromir now halted in the act of reaching for the spoon.

“Pity, you say, Master Meriadoc?” 

Under his dark brow the warrior eyed Merry warily.  For a few days now the Hobbits had been playing tricks upon one another – something about an annual tradition in the Shire – to the point where no one in the company was immune.  Pippin had woken to find himself sewn in a blanket as he slept, Gandalf’s pipe disappeared from his pack, Gimli’s water skin had been blocked with moss, and just last night Aragorn’s hair had been braided to match the Elf’s.

Merry leaned back against his pack and crossed his legs, one hairy foot nodding over the fire.

“Oh, yes.  There’s more than one reason Sam does all our cooking.”

Boromir sighed.  He had no wish to go to sleep hungry and with the taste of herbed mud in his mouth, but it seemed the only alternative was to sit through one of the Halfling’s great orations.  He sat down.

Merry began:

“Now, most hobbits can cook, you know;  being as fond of food as we.  Frodo can manage a bit in a pinch, and I myself, have been known to whip up a quick loaf of something if I know folks are coming for tea.  Though Pippin, of course, having three older sisters is completely useless.  But Sam is a right genius in the kitchen.  We often used to drop by Bag End uninvited for a bit of Sam’s cooking.

But, I’ll tell you, Boromir, Strider makes our Pippin look like a gourmet.”

Boromir cocked his eyebrows dubiously.  Merry continued:

“Yes, we learned that soon enough after meeting him.  Happy enough to tear into haunch of grilled venison or rabbit if there’s any to be had, but cooking like this –" Merry gestured at the cookpot – “turning some long-stored scraps into a meal with only a few dried herbs and maybe a root of something to work with?  That’s where having Sam around is truly marvelous.  But Strider?  Hopeless.”

Boromir frowned.  He knew the ranger had lived years alone in the wilds, traveling the land from corner to corner; the man must have learned something of taking care of himself.  Why, even he, the Steward’s Son of Gondor and Captain of the White Tower, had learned to feed himself over a camp fire.

“You jest.”

“No! Perfectly serious, this time at least.”

“You would not deceive me.”

“Oh, I would!  But I’m not.”

“I will not believe it.”

“Then go ahead.”

Boromir squinted dubiously at the thick broth, and then scooped some into his bowl.  He tentatively raised it to his face.

“It smells well enough.”

“Oh! Yes, well … not all that glitters is gold, you know, applies to Strider in more ways than one.”

Boromir frowned and looked back and forth from Merry to the bowl and back to Merry again.  Then he upended the bowl back into the cookpot.

Boromir stood.

“I would rather bed down and sleep hungry than lie awake all night with an unquiet stomach.”

“And, it won’t just be your stomach, I can assure you of that.”  Merry rested a hand over his own, somewhat protruding, belly.

“Then I will bid you good night, Master Hobbit, and wish you a peacefully remainder of your watch.”

“Good night, Boromir, sleep tight!”

Merry watched from the corner of his eye as the man prepared to lay himself down.  First the shield was positioned, and the long sword and belt with the great horn laid in. Then Boromir took up his bedroll and deftly unfurled it upon the ground with the shield at its head, within close reach.  Then the man himself lay down and, lastly draped the dark cloak about him.  When after some time a gentle snore was all that came from under the cloak, Merry stirred himself.

“Right, more for me.”

Soundlessly he rose and, with the spoon dipped every last drop of the thick soup into the discarded bowl.  Then, stealing a last look at the piles of sleeping bundles about him, slipped off to the edge of the camp and to sit down with his back to a tree and his grinning face to the fire.

He cradled the full bowl in his lap and sheltered it behind raised knees.  He ladled in the spoon, then raised it.

Thunk!  A knife flew swiftly out of the dark to pin his sleeve neatly to the tree.  Merry let out a strangled cry, as much at the knife as at spoonful of Sam’s wonderful stew gone lost.

Slowly, Boromir rose from his cloak.  Glowering at Merry, he strode measuredly across the camp to where he had skewered the little hobbit as if he were no more than meat for a meal himself.

The big man crouched down and seized Merry’s struggling eyes with his own.  Then he reached a square hand into the hobbit’s lap and, uncomfortably for Merry, extracted the bowl brimming with stew.  With his other hand he gently pinched the sides of Merry’s wrist where it stayed trapped against the tree.  The spoon neatly dropped; Boromir neatly caught it.

Slowly and with great relish, Boromir tortured Merry by scooping spoonful after spoonful of the truly succulent olio into his mouth as Merry whimpered and then stilled, skewered anew by Boromir’s gaze.  At last, smiling slightly to himself, Boromir rose and returned to the cook fire.  As Merry worked the knife out of the tree and his cuff, the Warrior poured a little water from his bottle into the pot still hanging over the fire.  He mixed up a strong broth, painstakingly scraping the sides of the pot until every last drop was mixed in.  Then he emptied this into the bowl and following into his gullet. 

Merry approached him sullenly and handed the man’s knife back to him.  Licking his lips, drops of brown broth glistening in his beard, Boromir accepted the peace offering and secreted it among his clothes.  Then, wordlessly he returned to his bed, wiping the satisfied grin on his face as he went.

Written for the "Open Scrolls" 'April Fools' Challenge; posted at SofA in response to Karri's 'April Fool's' challenge