Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth

The author of this fic does not own any of the characters. That is why it is published here and not making money or producing royalty checks.
Chapter 1.
He grew up watching the waves smash against the stones. "The power of Ulmo is still strong in the world," the majestic lad thought. Royal blood was in his veins, yet he was still very in tune with the elements around him. "He is like an elf," those of the port city always said. They had good reason to say such things about Imrahil. He was tall, fair haired and strong. He was kin to the line of Isildur, some said he looked the part himself.

The young man thought about how the world was changing around him. The darkness from the east was getting ever closer. Being a prince in a time when there was no ruling royal family was difficult on Imrahil. "How does my country view me?" was a common question that he asked. He heard that the Stewards have for ages disliked those whose blood made them royalty. Despite his many questions, he was the leader of men... men of Gondor.

Imrahil trained with his men regularly. He believed that the only way to be ready for the war with the Dark Lord was to have the best-trained combat men around. The knights of Dol Amroth were arguably the best troops in the country of Gondor. Their armor was spectacular; every man looked strong and noble, the women always cheered and loved them. Imrahil lived a good life, though he knew destiny and country would call upon him before he passed away.

He looked to his closest friends and told them the war was coming. Sauron has openly proclaimed himself, all evil was gathering in Mordor. He could see the remaining power of the west leaving under his very nose. "I have seen the Elves leaving from my city almost every day," Imrahil said sadly. Soon, we will lose many of our long-standing allies. Even those that remain will be able to accomplish little for long. If Gondor is to survive, it will be its own people that will need to be victorious.

Victory, a word that Gondor was able to exclaim regularly in its past. However, now, his nation was weak. Plague and fear had claimed the heart of most of the citizens. In his fiefdom, the prince did all he could to keep the spirits of the people up. What could he do to help save his country? How would he do it? Imrahil sat in deep thought. Then there was a sound of hoofs on the ground, following by a loud neigh from a horse.

"My Prince," exclaimed the rider, "it's a message from Minis Tirith."

To be continued