The past is already written.
The ink is dry.
But the future remains unset and the Valar have begun to sing a song anew.
Gondor is a kingless state falling into ruin against the Shadow of Mordor. Doomed to fail and forsaken by Men and...
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AUTUMN was heavy in the air of Minas Tirith, bakeries smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg, with spiced wine and apples. The marketplace on the third level of the city was bustling with merchants and vendors, some had even come from Rohan to purchase silks and spices, but all the children had gathered at the edge of the wall where Aeardis sat, telling stories of old.
"The Men of Númenor were strong and tall and proud," she said, recalling that her father had once told her this story. "They did not fear the Dark Lord and built their shining city of Minas Anor in full view of the Land of Shadow as if to challenge Sauron to come forth and take it if he dared. For over a thousand years, it stood guard against the Enemy, and ever he watched it from his dark throne, yet he dared not test the might of Gondor, not until the time was right."
Her story from the Second Age, however, was interrupted when an elderly man came rushing forward, calling her name. She sighed and looked around at the children, who were already disheartened, "I'm afraid I'll have to finish this story another time." Dejected they all stood and dispersed amongst the market frenzy. The man lowered his head in respect of her title and twisted the hem of his tunic, nervously.
"My son was killed in the last battle," he began, "Gondor needs my wheat but I have no one to help with the harvest. Is there not someone who would come help me?" He pleaded.
Aeardis took the man's trembling hands, they were scarred and calloused from many years of plowing fields and harvesting crops. She knew him as Gilraen, one of the best wheat farmers in Gondor, his crop helped feed the city and realm throughout the winter months. If it was within her jurisdiction, she would have sent several men then and there, but as Denethor had been wroth with her as of late, she decided against it. "I should have to speak with Lord Denethor."
Gilraen clasped her hands within his and nodded his appreciation with trembling lips, "Bless you, Lady Aeardis."
By the time Aeardis had reached the Citadel the pleas of Gilraen had soured her mood and brought her back to the startling awareness that the people of Gondor were suffering, not just because of the war efforts. Denethor was in his private study when the page boy announced her arrival. The Steward had several scrolls in front of him, but none were relevant to the current affairs of the realm. He looked up at her and she could already see that he was not pleased, "You have interrupted my duties, now speak."
She stepped forward into the study. "My lord," Aeardis began, hoping that the genuflection would appeal to him and open his ears to what she had come to say. "I believe it would be wise if the people saw you more."
"Why should I be bothered with them?" He sneered, uninterested in the families that had sent their sons to die for a lost city and their troubles. Aeardis felt her heart drop, each passing day it seemed he valued her counsel less and less, she knew not whether it was because of her opposition to using the Seeing Stone or for her loose tongue.
"If you will not mingle with them then I must insist that you set aside time so that you may hear their plights. They have sacrificed much in these dark times." It seemed impossible to imagine what the people of Gondor had endured over the past decade as Mordor's strength grew. So many that had gone to battle had not returned. "Your sons agree with me on this matter, my lord," she added, almost in a whisper, but Denethor would speak no more on the matter and Aeardis fled from his study with heated blood.
