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By far the least entertaining part of any meeting of the Great Council of Gondor was the preamble. That was, at least, in the High King's humble opinion. Trying to cultivate a little bit of his eldest daughter's preternatural patience Aragorn quietly sighed and straightened his shoulders. Politics and governing he could abide as necessary evils of kingship. All the trimmings of decorum that went with it he could happily leave though.

The Great Council met once a turn of the moons in the Dome of the Sun in the Sixth Circle of Minas Tirith. The Great Council had been an enduring feature of the kingdom of Númenor in its glory days, but had fallen into ruin with the coming of Sauron. After his coronation Aragorn had re-instated the Council, and formed it from all the great lords of the realm. Elphir, son of Imrahil sat for the Princedom of Dol Amroth, Éowyn sat as the Lady of Ithilien (Faramir as Steward held the position of Council Moderator and so could not compromise his impartiality), Legolas sat for the Elves of Ithilien, and numerous other lords and ladies for each of the regions of Gondor and Arnor. Representation from Rohan was also present on this occasion; namely King Éomer, Queen Lothíriel and Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves. All told there were one hundred and twelve seated around the council table beneath the gleaming arc of the Dome of the Sun.

The ring of Barahir's emerald eyes winked up at Aragorn from his hand where it rested on the polished tabletop. The twin snakes almost seemed to be laughing at his mounting boredom. Ah, how his hand itched to grasp Andúril, the sword of his ancestors. How aive he had felt in those days of the Fellowship, how vital! Aragorn remained tall and hale at well over a century old, his grey eyes as clear as they had ever been. There were streaks of silver in his hair now beneath the crown of Gondor, and furrows had begun to edge their way into the lines of his brow. Cloaked in black and red with the white tree upon his breast Aragorn still cut an impressive figure at the head of the table.

Glancing at Arwen where she sat at his right, Aragorn thought his wife had worn the years better than himself. The slight softness beneath her midnight blue gown bespoke of the bearing of their four beloved children, each one as strong and healthy as the last. Arwen may have renounced her immortality, but in many ways she retained evidence that she had been born a daughter of the Eldar. Her voice still rang with the music of silver bells, and that secret smile lingered in the corner of her mouth. If age and mortality had changed the queen, Aragorn found those changes all the more endearing for having seen those years at her side.

Aragorn did not begrudge aging for its own sake, nor for the loss of his prime as a warrior. He mourned only for the reminder it served that one day this life he and Arwen had built together would end. It seemed a waste to spend even a minute of that precious time left to them listening to speeches and dealing with formalities. If it were in Aragorn's power he would have stolen away Arwen and their children for a day out riding by the River Anduin together. Then his gaze fell once more upon his rough, scarred hands and he remembered how hard-won this kingly boredom had been. Marshalling his powers of self-discipline Aragorn tried to re-focus. Briefly he sparred a wistful thought for memories of the Dúnedain and their fireside councils.

"The Great Council of Gondor, High King Aragorn Elessar and High Queen Arwen Undomíel recognize the delegation from Rohan, and bid welcome to King Éomer, Lord of the Mark and Queen Lothíriel. The kinship and allegiance between the realms of Gondor and Rohan..."

Aragorn did his noble best not to give Faramir a 'look' as the Steward rattled off a detailed monologue to the council. Sometimes it seemed as though the Prince of Ithilien relished his duties as Council Moderator a bit too much. Aragorn and Faramir had built a strong foundation together as King and Steward over the years. To say that Faramir was above using that mutual respect to enjoy a little fun at Aragorn's expense from time to time would taste of a lie though. The most fundamental difference between the two men was that Faramir was a scholar at heart, while Aragorn would remain a ranger in his bones till the end of his days.

On Aragorn's right, Arwen saw her husband's eyes twitch restlessly and smiled inside. Even after nearly thirty years as King, Aragorn still struggled to keep the restless soul of a Dúnedain in check. It both heartened and sobered Arwen to think of how similar Aragorn and Eldarion were. When Eldarion came of age he would be required to join in on meetings of the Great Council, and would no doubt find them just as enthralling as his father. So many years had passed since Arwen had first glimpsed her eldest child in a vision of Foresight. Quietly she thanked the Valar yet again that she had turned her horse back to Rivendell that fateful day. If not for that vision, much might have been different.

For Arwen those first years in Gondor had been filled with both joy and uncertainty. It is not everyday that one sees all their dreams come true. Arwen had been born and reared an Elf though, and that meant it had taken some settling in to grow accustomed to her new life. The customs of mortals were not entirely alien to a daughter of Elrond Half-Elven, but they were still unfamiliar all the same, as were the expected roles of a noblewoman. For many years the women of Minas Tirith had been reverent of her almost to the point of unease. Finding her way into the social circles of her new peers had been challenging; there were very few comfortable enough in her presence to regard her as a friend.

An unlikely ally to the new queen of Gondor had been the Lady Éowyn. Proud and fiercely indomitable in her own right, Éowyn alone had always met Arwen's gaze head-on as an equal. Oddly enough when the former Shieldmaiden's unrequited admiration for Aragorn came to light it had only served to reinforce the growing comraderie between the two women. After all, how could Arwen ever dislike anyone who thought so highly of Aragorn? Once that understanding had been reached their friendship had flourished like the blooms in Éowyn's garden in Ithilien. The two of them were also united in their experiences as strangers in Gondor, now married to prominent lords of the realm. Over time the other noblewomen had grown accustomed to their queen's otherworldly beauty, but Arwen still counted Éowyn as her first and greatest friend in Gondor.

Once Faramir had finished his lengthy introduction of their oldest allies and Éomer had accepted the official welcome, the true purpose of the council could at last begin. This was not a routine meeting for the Great Council, and it was after great deliberation that Aragorn had invited the leadership of the Riddermark. As glad as Aragorn was to see so many familiar faces around the council table, there was an air of unease all around. Keenly did everyone remember the days of Sauron and of war. It seemed the shadow of Mordor lingered on even as the White Tree grew tall and strong. After a moment to let the air settle Aragorn spoke.

"Friends, as you all know our efforts to bring an end to conflict from the East have been long and often fruitless. For years peace in the east has remained elusive. Old allegiances are hard forgotten, and even harder still to forget are old grudges. Our scouts report that the Easterlings and Haradrim continue to mass west of the Sea of Rhûn, growing in number every day. The treaty we proposed this time last year was not ratified, and so we find ourselves yet again brought back to the same question. Do we continue to rely on negotiation, or do we turn to strength of arms?"

A murmur traveled down the table like a ripple. The lords of Gondor had debated long and hard at their last meeting over this very topic. The men of Rhûn and Harad had been threatening Gondor's eastern borders nearly without respite since the fall of Sauron. The men of the West, though victorious at the Black Gate were decimated in number. It had taken nearly a decade to even begin the rebuilding of Gondor's armies. Riding out in strength to deal with their bitter neighbours had not been a viable option until now. The decision to wage a military campaign was never a thing to be taken lightly, not when memories of the War of the Ring were still so near. Nearly every man, woman and child in Gondor could name at least three close relations whom had perished in the War of the Ring.

"Why was the treaty not ratified? We were assured that Gondor's greatest minds were set to its drafting." Queen Lothíriel asked, frowning. Éomer's wife was also Faramir's cousin, the daughter of the late Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. The Queen of Rohan was a stately woman with a wealth of smooth grey-brown hair and a dimpled chin which their son Elfwine had inherited.

"We would have asked the official courier who carried the document, but he returned from Haradwaith with his head in his saddlebag." Elphir answered his sister, prompting general outrage from the rest of the council.

Aragorn held up a hand to request order, which he immediately received. "We were not so surprised as might be thought, Lady Lothíriel. The Haradrim are a grim people, fierce and proud in despair. And despair they do. They and the Easterlings were promised a great deal from Sauron, namely the lands of Rohan and the Mark, as well as holdings in northern Gondor. These offers were of course predicated on our utter defeat. Naturally we cannot and will not match Sauron's promises as we sue for peace."

Dark muttering from the delegation from Rohan arose as Aragorn spoke. Éomer lifted his chin defiantly, displaying his neatly trimmed beard. The King of Rohan cut a splendid figure in a tunic of autumn brown edged in gold braiding to match the crown upon his head. Éomer was not of the blood of old Númenor though, and so appeared several years older than Aragorn and even Faramir now. There was some resemblance to the late King Théoden in Éomer, something that had taken the passing of years to make visible where it had not been before.

"If the Easterlings and men of Harad wish to take the Mark, they may do so from our stiff and lifeless corpses. I will hear no talk of yielding Rohan's lands to the servants of evil."

"The same from me and my folk." Gimli declared from his seat beside Legolas. Properly as Lord of the Glittering Caves he ought to have been seated with Éomer and Lothíriel. No one had any mind to separate the two friends reunited though. "Those ruffians are lucky we didn't drive them straight into the sea along with their Orc friends after Sauron fell."

Éowyn gave Éomer a sharp look across the table. "I'm sure your terms would be quite agreeable to the men of the East, brother. Surely there is still hope for avoiding open war yet? If the Easterlings and Haradrim truly had the strength to wrest land from us then they would have done so by now. There must be weakness somewhere that we can use for negotiations."

"I think we've heard exactly what they think of our negotiations." Gimli muttered into his magnificent red beard. A number of bright gemstones glittered on his fingers and from his belt.

"I hoped for the same, and still do, Lady Éowyn." Aragorn called for a page who brought a map forward. "New reports have changed the situation somewhat I fear." Spreading the map on the table he traced the distance between Minas Tirith and the Sea of Rhûn. "Our latest reports place Easterlings here, at the plains of Dagorlad. They left us this."

A second page came forth, carrying a long wrapped pole. The youth unfurled what was revealed to be a blood red banner emblazoned with a four-pointed yellow star; the standard of the Easterlings.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Elphir demanded, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

"An annexation." Legolas leaned forward, fixated on the worn standard.

"Of the Dead Marshes?" A lord from a southern Gondorian territory sounded incredulous. "What is the sense of that? There is nothing there of any import, only leagues upon leagues of swamp and rot."

Arwen spoke, both reproachful and grave. "The 'rot' you refer to includes the bodies of many valiant heroes of the Last Alliance, some of whom have kin here at this table. Never should their final resting place be disregarded as unimportant."

"There is also the principle of the gesture." Aragorn followed Arwen with a somber nod. "If we turn a blind eye to this encroachment, we risk not only appearing weak and pliant, but we also place the northeastern regions of Gondor at risk of further harassment. To this council I ask you now; how will Gondor answer this open threat?"

"There can be only one answer to such insult." Gimli stood up. No weapons were permitted in the Dome of the Sun, but the dwarf lord did not need his axe to bristle ferociously. "I say we remind them just who won the War of the Ring!"

Éomer likewise stood, his verdant green cloak falling about him like a mantle of summer hills. "Long have Gondor and Rohan stood fast as allies. Dagorlad and the Dead Marshes are not Rohirric lands, but I stand both for honour and the Oath of Eorl. Lord Aragorn, if you decide to ride out against the East then Rohan will ride with you." Lothíriel's lips pressed into a thin line at her husband's declaration, her expression unreadable.

"My friends, you honour me, and the bonds of our nations." Aragorn smiled around the table. "The decision to ride out to war is larger than any one man. "Captain Bergil."

"My king." Bergil, Captain of Gondor snapped to attention where he stood guard behind Aragorn's chair. To him would fall the duty of training Eldarion as the next Captain of Gondor's armies. Bergil was a broad, barrel-chested man with heavy black sideburns and a sense of duty a mile wide.

"Do you deem Gondor's armies ready for an open conflict such as this? Do we have enough men to push back the Easterlings and Haradrim without leaving Gondor undefended?"

Bergil gave a nod of affirmation. "My lord, we can send five thousand able soldiers on this campaign without compromising either the City Guard or our border watch. The army of Gondor stands ready to obey your command."

And now it came to the part that Aragorn loved least about being a king. It was a small matter to rush headlong into danger yourself; to place your own life and limbs in harms way for the sake of those you loved. Making that decision on behalf of thousands of others still did not feel quite right even after thirty years of ruling. How many lives might be lost on such a campaign? How many could be lost if the Easterlings and Haradrim were left unchecked, unchallenged?

He looked to Arwen. This decision would effect both of them, as well as their children. In the end that was all they wished for; a better world for their son and daughters. Arwen looked back at him with those infinitely wise, beautiful eyes of hers. Some joked that the king and queen could speak to each other without words. Little did they know how right they were. Arwen's brows twitched together imperceptibly. Then her chin dipped in a gesture so tiny no one else could possibly see. Aragorn squared his shoulders and spoke aloud to all assembled.

"Gather all those who would join us in this campaign on the Fields of Pelennor. In five days' time, we ride for the Sea of Rhûn."

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