"You are a scholar, Captain Elfwine?"
Aragorn started, looking up from the huge old tome open on the table before him to see the Steward standing in the library door. "Would that I were, my lord," he answered, recovering himself. "I can't make head or tail of this."
Ecthelion came around the table for a closer look and laughed. "I'm not surprised. Master Tinfang owed his appointment to his lineage, not his scholarship. His grammar and spelling were, to say the least, original."
"His handwriting's none the best either." Aragorn agreed dryly.
"I sometimes think it's a mistake to keep our Annals in Quenya when there are so few today who know the tongue," Ecthelion observed casually, "but it is our tradition."
Aragorn, realizing he had given himself away, raised his eyes to meet the Steward's lucent, amused gaze. "And where did you learn your Quenya, Captain?"
"From my uncle, who is learned in many languages." he answered truthfully.
"Well, the better he taught you the more indecipherable you will find poor Tinfang." Ecthelion shoved the huge Annal aside, glanced over the other books on the table and drew one closer. "I'm sure you'll find Master Istimor easier going."
Aragorn turned the pages. "Yes, this is much better. He was Elven taught wasn't he? By one of the Teleri if I'm not mistaken."
"Exactly right. There were still Eldar living at Edhellonde in his day." Ecthelion smiled. "But I misdoubt you came in here to study the grammar and epigraphy of our annalists."
"I had thought to learn more of the history of Gondor, of which I know very little." Aragorn admitted.
"A large subject which might well take a lifetime to master." the Steward observed, settling himself on the edge of the table. "But then I have had a lifetime to study it. Perhaps, Captain, it would be simpler to ask me your questions instead of searching through all these books."
--
A little girl's voice, furious and fighting back tears, floated through the open stable doors. "You promised!"
A Man's voice, edged with exasperation, replied: "Be reasonable Finduilas, he is far to big for you."
A third voice, slightly out of breath put in: "She will grow, sir."
"Excuse me." Barahir said to the horse he was tending and received a forgiving whicker in return. He went out to see what was going on.
The Prince of Dol Amroth, remembered from the Steward's audience, had entered the stable yard with a pretty, golden haired little girl wearing a stormy expression. They were followed by the Steward's young heir struggling with one of the great Numenorean warhorses, a fine chestnut at least eighteen hands high, (1) determinedly trying to push past him to reach the girl.
"Look at him!" Adrahil snapped to the other Man. "she could never control him no matter how tall she grows."
"If I may, my lord." Barahir interrupted politely. "The young lady's horse senses she is distressed and is trying to reach her." adding to Finduilas. "Let him see you're all right, m'Lady."
The girl went to the horse and he calmed immediately, nuzzling her hair and blowing contentedly into her ear, making her giggle.
Denethor backed away shooting Adrahil a look of muted triumph. "You see? He's gentle as a kitten with her."
"No question but the beast's set his heart on the young lady." Barahir agreed. "Likely he'll pine away if you part them."
"And your daughter will never forgive you." Denethor added pointedly
Adrahil gave both young men a decidedly harried look. "A warhorse for a lady's palfrey!"
"If you grudge the expense, sir, I would be glad to -" Denethor began smoothly.
"That's not the point at all!" the Prince threw up his hands. "Oh, very well. I see I must yield!"
"Oh, thank you, Papa!" face glowing Finduilas threw herself into her father's arms then whirled round to kiss Denethor's cheek. "And thank you too!"
"Well see to your horse, daughter." the Prince told her. "If I may have a word with you my Lord Denethor?"
They left together and the Princess giggled. "Poor Denethor, now Papa's going to scold him for letting me pick such a big horse."
"Looks to me like it was the horse who did the choosing." Barahir observed nodding to the stallion towering over her. "They do that sometimes, as I know to my cost!"
"What do you mean?" Finduilas asked curiously as he held a stall door open for her.
"My first horse, or rather what was supposed to be my first horse, set his heart on my little sister instead." Barahir smiled reminiscently. "I was very annoyed - but there was nothing to be done about it. My uncle had to send for another horse for me."
"How old was she?" "Oh, about your age. Thirteen."
Finduilas glowed even brighter and Barahir hid a smile. He was still young enough to remember the surest way to please a child is to take her - or him - for older than she is.
--
Ecthelion helped Aragorn collect his notes glancing casually at the elegant Feanorean script. He smiled: "I see you were taught by a Noldo."
"Rather my Uncle was." Aragorn answered easily. "I thank you for your help, my lord."
"Not at all," the Steward answered sincerely. "I've found it most interesting and instructive."
"I am happy you should think so." They looked at each other from behind polite masks concealing their true minds.
Aragorn could see Ecthelion was pleased with himself - as if some theory had been confirmed. And yet for all that he was quite sure the Steward had come nowhere near the truth.
--
NOTES:
Think a somewhat more gracile clydesdale. 'Great Horses' are descended from those Men brought with them into Beleriand crossed with the Elven mounts of their allies and bred for size, big horses meant to carry a tall people. Very intelligent with a tendency to bond strongly to their riders.