[JennyHallu]

“Or if you prefer, there is a tack room just down the aisle where you could put the saddle and bridle. And might I ask the horses’ names? And… I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name, either…”

"My name is Marenil," the older man said cheerfully, affectionately stroking his horse's nose. "And as for the horses, I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea what their names are. They were gifts from friends of my lord in Minas Tirith, and he was so proud of the oddity of living in Minas Tirith and owning a horse he gave the poor dears the most ridiculous names. No beast needs to live with a name like 'Son of Nahar'...I've been calling Lin's mare Pansy, and my gelding here Apple, and they seem not to mind."

He winked cheerfully at Léof. "I've got a grandson about your age, you know. As a matter of fact, he just entered the service of my lord, as a page. (Which makes me wonder if perhaps I've made an error in calling you 'lad'; but you can't do anything about it. It's healthy to have respect for your elders.) I'll tell you the same as I tell him...I'm sure it wouldn't hurt me to care for these beasts myself, but my bones are old, and frankly, I don't want to. I'll just leave this lad here..." he looped the reins over the boards of the stall. "...and let you do your job."

He felt suddenly particularly old. It had not occurred to him until just now that his son, now head groom back at home, had been a full grown man for quite some time, and that the people he'd seen as boys for years were working becoming men...He sighed, and left the stable feeling slow, and bent over, and tired.

Linduial was still waiting for him in the doorway, holding her saddlebags. "My trunks should get here in...what? A week?" She'd left her things in the hands of a merchant train travelling from the City of Guard slowly and steadily. "Marenil? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, dear. Let's just go in and speak to the lord of this Hall. Maybe I can get off these old feet for a while and rest."

Linduial laughed, a sunny, clear sound, that cut deeply through his self-pity. "Old, Mar? You? You'll never get old." She slipped a slim arm through his. "You know you're like a father to me. I'll miss you when you head back home, but with your son's Filië expecting again, I won't hold you." She kissed him softly on the cheek. "As long as I have to reach up to do that, you're not old. Now come on, you're supposed to be taking care of me. What would my father say?"

For a moment, Marenil understood perfectly why Lord Farlen allowed this slip of a girl around him so easily. He couldn't help it. Men had no natural defenses against youth, beauty, and sweetness, combined in such a perfect triple threat. Then Lin poked him ornerily in the ribs, muttering "Posture, posture! Don't sag!" in such a perfect imitation of her deportment tutor the budding realization was completely lost.