I imagine Faramir took a quiet pleasure in cookery. He kept, in some private corner of his chamber, a small collection of worn cookbooks gathered from the many lands he had passed through in his travels.
Though he dwelt in comfort within the Citadel, his taste was ever drawn to the fare born of hardship: coarse breads that kept for many days, and hearty stews stretched thin to feed as many men as might be gathered. It was such meals that best preserved the spirits of his company.
Faramir had often said, “I may be hungry, or weary, or wounded but I will not be all three at once.” And in this he was earnest. He had long understood that the strength of men lay as much in the comfort of the mind as in the health of the body.
Boromir would prod and tease him for it, as was his way, yet always in good humor. For though he laughed, he did not scorn the meals his brother contrived from scant provisions upon the road. Indeed, Boromir’s jests were few when his belly was full and his heart at ease.
Later, in the Houses of Healing, when he lay beside Éowyn, he found the fare set before them thin and joyless. He marveled that any should mend with such tasteless porridge. It was not long before they wandered together in the gardens, and by chance or perhaps by some gentler design found their way into the kitchens.
There Faramir conceived again his familiar thought: that time and care may mend any hurt. And so he set his hand to the work, pouring what quiet affection he possessed into the making of the meal.
Éowyn sat nearby and lent her aid, cutting herbs and slices of meat, while Faramir moved about the kitchen with an ease that seemed near to craft. The hour was late, yet neither felt the weight of weariness.
When at last they sat together, they shared their meal in silence. The soft bubbling of the pot lingered in the air, and the rich scent of stew filled the room. Éowyn watched him, and there was a wonder in her gaze; for no man had ever shown her such gentle care.
And so it was, perhaps, that Faramir won her heart. Though be it not by valor alone, but over a simple bowl of stew.
