Imrahil of Amroth's Journal

from Dol Amroth
Dol Amroth might have been occupied, from its looks; no one moved in the streets, and every street had guards posted. Businesses and warehouses had been converted into field hospitals in every distrct, distributing carefully rationed food and medicine, and dealing with the bodies. People seemed faceless in the city, everyone wearing hoods and gloves, with cloths tied around their faces, exposing only the eyes. Those who coughed were confined to death houses, and if they did not respond to treatment, the healers, pressed for resources, would quietly gave poison to cases that would not recover, ending the suffering.

The city had been under total and complete lock down for weeks, but the disease had finally spread to a grinding halt. Healers had not reported any new cases in nearly 5 days, and about a third of those currently infected were expected to live if they remained in isolation. Recovery was higher in Dol Amroth than in other cities -- the division of the patients by stage of progression had cut down on the treatments that would fail. An end to the black smoke of funeral pyres burning on barges out at sea was finally coming in sight. The harsh prohibition of movement meant that most of the dead were coming from Gatetown, and every day the knights posted at the entrances and exists of every district, distributing the herbs that had suppressed the cough, or eased the deaths, wrote of children bringing other children for treatment, prostitutes sending healthy representatives begging for more of the herbs, with no families in sight to care for the forgotten dying.

Imrahil's face was white and drawn, weary with too much sleeplessness. He stood on the private dock of the prince, a black cloth covering the lower part of his face, staring out at the sea. Even messages from the outside world had been largely delayed, messengers having to go through a 'decontamination' period outside the city walls before they were allowed in through a carefully cleared route through the city used by healers and knights. Imrahil was still waiting for word from Pelargir, ever since the black sails had appeared on the horizon. Was the city blockaded? Had corsairs already sailed up the Anduin?

Behind him, clattering down the long staircase that lead up and down from the citadel to the dock (a bloody staircase, one where Imrahil's ancestors had repelled corsair attackers step for bloody step, where men and women had died in defense of the Prince and Dol Amroth) came Imrahil's personal page, a young man with bright eyes, who had wept openly for the city, and spent large sums of his personal fortune to track down orphaned but healthy children in each district and pay for their food.

"My lord," the page muttered beneath his own face covering. "My lord, the gate guard have sent word your sons have cleared quarantine and are to be allowed back into the city. They're passing through the middle district now."

Imrahil sighed deeply, turning to his page, wishing the health of his children was his only worry in this tragedy. "Send them word they are to wash and rest and I will see them in my office," he said grimly. "Tell Amrothos to dress for war. The Doxy will be sailing to reinforce the blockade."

Too many sailors had died. Since the the fleet had been deployed in blockade early on, many ships crews had been spared entirely, but other ships flew the dark flag of quarantine above their decks, crewed by only a few dozen men, who sent rowboats of the dead out to the funeral barges, Imrahil having forbidden any plague bodies to be cast into the sea until after the burning, for fear of contaminating even the fish. The condemned worked on the funeral ships, criminals whose executions had been delayed by circumstance, but Imrahil still had misgivings about how the dead were disposed of, impersonal bodies stripped of their belongings and lit by the torch. He still remembered Denethor. But he had misgivings about everything.

He pulled out his spyglass and watched as a few small, light ships with the black sail broke the horizon and began to sail towards the blockade, which had assumed a battle formation a few days ago. The Umbarean ships came in waves of two or three or four, several times a day. They were regular, but not regular enough to imply concerted attacks; these were individuals becoming opportunistic, not a concerted attack on the fleet. Imrahil knew there was no fleet in Umbar large enough to take his own ship for ship, but it was a small comfort. Sound carried well over the harbor; he could hear the calls of ships loading their trebuchets, archers scrambling onto the deck. The wind shifted abruptly, favoring Dol Amroth, and in the surge of strong wind bearing down against the now-empty Umbarean sails, the silver singing of arrows was followed with the burning of wood. If only he dared send order to break up the blockade and engage in defensive positions along the coast and deeper out at sea where the Amrothian ships had a better advantage! But he couldn't do that until he could support the ships, until movement had been restored to the city; anything else would result in utter chaos.

It would take much more than a few small ships, however fast, to break the blockade, but it was the question of whether or not those ships were capable of harassing the coastline that worried Imrahil more. If the Umbareans were to torch what grain stocks there were so far, it could be disastrous later in the year, there was no question about that...

"Lord Imrahil," it was his page again, who it seemed had just run up the steps only minutes ago to convey a message to Amrothos and Erchirion, "Lord Imrahil, a man in quarantine outside the city is requesting permission to enter, he says he is from the sea-merchants of Belfalas and he represents a coalition of captains who want to defend the coast. He says it cannot wait for the five days of quarantine to pass, my lord, and that he must be admitted immediately to see you."

Imrahil tore his eyes away from the burning ships and the battle to sink the few that had not begun to flame, and turned back to his page, who was breathlessly waiting for a response so he might run back up the stairs. "Send Admiral Amrahil to see him, then, Amrahil I trust to make the right decision in giving orders." The page had already begun running back up the long flight of stairs.

Imrahil waited until the last ship was sinking before he went back up the stairs himself.

Current Mood: worried