[JennyHallu]

The messenger was near home, looking forward to his own home and wife and bed, when he rode into the busy courtyard of the Mead Hall. Only a few hours' more riding, and he'd be there, impressing his wife with the handful of silver he'd earned her, all for dropping four letters and a small package off in the hands of an old man here. He grinned to himself. There was, of course, no need for his wife to ever hear quite how pretty the young noblewomen who'd entrusted him with the letters had been, and how earnestly she'd given her directions.

He glanced down at the carefully written labels on each little packet. The woman's handwriting was graceful and flowing, and while the shapes of the letters held no meaning for him, as he'd never learned to read or write, he recognized the hand as lovely. He wondered fleetingly if it was difficult to learn, but set the thought aside. A frivolity, that would be, for a man such as himself. He needed no more than the word of mouth, such as had brought him news of his grandson, born to his soldierly younger son, who'd stayed in Gondor after the War of the Ring, with the pretty little dark-haired lass who'd snared him. Himself, he preferred blondes, but the babe was fair and healthy and long-limbed, and Imrahil had welcomed the young man into his own guard, into a prestigious position training his new cavalry...he thought of how pleased his wife would be at the news.

Quickly he shook himself back into reality. He waved off the young man from the stables, who had given him a quick inquisitive glance as he led two steeds away, and cast his eyes about for the man the lady had described. Dark hair peppered with silver, grey eyes, a strong but wrinkled face...the hair alone was enough to identify the man. Almost all the others in the yard were fair, and no one else carried this man's age. He rode towards and dismounted before the older man.

"Are you Marenil of Dol Amroth?"

The man nodded, standing stiffly. "Aye, goodman, I am."

"I bear these letters, then, from the Lady Linduial, who bids you greetings." He reached into his saddle bag for the package, and stacked the sealed missives neatly in his large farmer's hands before handing them to Marenil.

"My thanks," the man said softly, taking the letters and flipping through them, reading the delicate script, smiling at whatever was written on the package. "For your trouble."

Marenil dug in a pocket and pressed two more silver coins into the man's hand. The farmer sensibly did not protest that the lady had already paid him, mounted, and was off before Marenil could offer him refreshment.

Four letters, hmm? For Degas, Saeryn, little Leodern, and himself, and the package for Leodern. "That my dear squirrel might write me secrets" he read again with a smile. Her old copybook, then. So she still meant to carry through on her promise. Good. He sat back down. The hall was loud and busy, and a little more delay on delivery wouldn't hurt anything.