He would have known her anywhere; by her bearing, by her voice, by the soft fall of hair that he has buried face and small hands in a hundred times in his thoughts. He knows her now by the feel of her body against his, by the scent of simbelmynė that lingers on her skin, by the gentleness of her sword-callused hands as she enfolds him in her cloak.

"I don't know your name," he whispers anyway.

"Do you not?" she asks. "Then call me Dernhelm."

It is not what Merry wants to call her, but his Lady's word is law.