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.
Freshly baked goods had been arranged on a platter and set on the table between her and the two brothers. Honeycakes and buns, even glazed cinnamon buns, a treat that was kept for the autumn season. Upon hearing word that Madril was searching for him about the upcoming ranging, Faramir stood, taking a honeybun and left. Aeardis poked at the thick syrup that coated a cinnamon bun, unable to find her appetite. "Do you remember a young soldier named Hallas?"
Boromir looked up from the recruitment listings as if surprised she knew that name. "Yes," he nodded, reaching forward to take an apple tart.
"I met his father in the market today," she began, "His crop of grain is at risk of failure as he cannot tend to it all in his health." It pained her to say such a thing, Gondor was in a thousand year decline and the people had little hope yet Denethor had forgotten the meaning of his position.
A grim expression overtook the Steward-Prince's countenance. He knew from previous talks with Aeardis and trips to the countryside that Gondor would be hard-pressed to make it through the winter without Gilraen's wheat. "Have you spoke to my father about sending aid?"
She nodded, staring blankly into the cup of dark mulled wine, "I did and encouraged him to hold court as well but he would not listen."
Boromir remained somber, despite the liveliness of their prior conversations. "I'll see to it," he assured her, even if it meant that he had to go and wield a scythe to harvest the grain.
"Thank you," Aeardis replied with an ephemeral smile. He returned his attention back to the scrolls and it reminded her of the letters left to be finished in her own study. Taking a cinnamon bun from the platter, she stood with it and her goblet of wine. "Aeardis," Boromir called for her before she could reach the hall.
"Yes?" came her subdued question. He met her murky gaze and finally choked up the words he had intended to say. "The people love you," he meant it. It was obvious when she was in the marketplace, conversing with the soldiers, and journeying to the countryside. She had the love of the people, but little power to help them.
"As they love both you and Faramir," she countered. Gondor may have been a kingless state, but it had two princes whom they loved and respected. Boromir shook his head, it was a different kind of love the people had for her. "No, they truly adore you." As I adore you, he wanted to add, but it felt improper and poorly timed. Aeardis looked down, hiding her small grin as if she could read his thoughts. Excusing herself for the night, she left to attend to her own duties, leaving Boromir to dwell over defensive matters.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Two days later, Aeardis and Boromir were riding out of the great gates of Minas Tirith with no less than a dozen men that had volunteered to help Gilraen with his harvest. All of them had known his son, all of them called themselves a friend to the fallen soldier. Denethor had been the subject of their conversation since leaving the Citadel. The Captain of the White Tower was both angry and disheartened by his father's neglect for the living people of Gondor. All his attention had been directed to the fallen city of Osgiliath, it would be folly to try and take back the city again.
Aeardis thought over her next words very carefully, she had already divulged the information to Faramir, but not to his brother. "He uses a Palantír, Boromir. It is reckless and dangerous." His expression darkened at those words. Now he began to understand why the Enemy seemed to know their every move in battle, why so many were slain while trying to defend Osgiliath. Having just passed through the southern gate of Rammas Echor, Boromir pulled the reins of his brown mare to a halt. It seemed as though he needed to speak with his father.
"I trust you know your way back to the city?" He inquired, it had been a year since she had ventured south into the countryside. Aeardis nodded, "Of course."
The traveling party moved ahead and Boromir looked over to her. She had dressed for the occasion, brown trousers were tucked into worn riding boot, her roughspun tunic and scratched leather jerkin made her look like a commoner. It was clear she had come to work, "Are you sure you wish to stay?"
Aeardis glanced back to him from the open plain, "Such work is not below me. I may have been raised in a castle but I know the value of people and their duties." She smiled and the Steward-Prince bowed his head, offering her a quick smile of his own. This was the stubborn woman he had grown so fond of. They parted, going separate ways then.
Another half hour passed before they came upon the first field of wheat. The tall golden grass was waist high at least. In the middle of all the fields was a small farmhouse, made of stone with a thatch roof, modest and charming. Aeardis rode ahead of the men and found Gilraen in a far-off patch of barley. She slid off her mount and knelt next to the man who struggled back to his feet even with the aid of a walking stick. "I've come to help with the harvest," she said.
Gilraen's paled as he realized that it was Lady Aeardis who stood before him. "This is not a woman's work," he commented, but it was not meant to be taken as an insult.
A bright smile crossed her fair features when the sound of iron horseshoes grew closer. "I have not come alone." The widower almost fell to his knees, tears sprouted up in his dark amber eyes. He took Aeardis's hands within his own. Hard work in the fields had given him hard callouses and swollen knuckles, age had wrinkled his skin and thinned it, the sun had left its damage too. "I do not know how I could ever repay Lord Denethor for his kindness."
"It was not the Steward who had say on this matter," she told him while returning to her horse to fetch two hefty coin purses from the saddle, "but Lord Boromir, he knew your son well and says that he fought bravely until the end." Gilraen did shed a tear then. Hallas had been among those that had perished in the last campaign in Osgiliath, along with many others.
Aeardis handed him the coin purses and said nothing more of its contents. Last year Gilraen had been paid with two purses of bronze, this time, upon Boromir's insistence, it was gold coins that filled the leather pouches and a small slip of parchment promising that he would send men again the following year and then the next year as well, to help with the harvest, and sowing the seeds. She took the scythe from the old man's hands and went to work in the dying heat of the sun, not caring about the sweat on her brow or the dirt on her hands.