"My lovely hair, which by then will be grey and perhaps falling out?" She laughs again, for his grin is impossible for her to resist, as he knows. Not that she tries very hard. "No doubt you will again have jam on your face for me to clean off, and all the grandchildren besides, who will all share your smirk and love of teasing their poor, aged grandmother, who will keep telling wild, impossible tales of how she once slew a dwimmerlaik."

She can jest about it now, sometimes; in such circumstances, with Faramir.