26th March
Faramir's Diary
Dammit, my head hurts like the blazes. What was that rot-gut Beregond purchased to go with the ale? Brandy, he said. Wood alcohol more like! It's a wonder we're not all blind this morning. Still, I've dunked my head in a basin of cold water, downed some of Ioreth's vile willow-bark tea (when I taste it, I think of Éowyn's face, screwed up with distaste, as she drank the vile beverage – and even more of her face, trying not to laugh, when the healer's lad announced he'd come to give her one!). Of course, I doubt Éowyn will speak to me again after the liberties I took yesterday. Not that there is time anyway.
I am now in my study, the study which was until recently my father's, surrounded by paperwork. There are the surveys the engineers have done of the breaches in the walls and the fallen buildings, not to mention the damage to the water courses and drainage systems. Immediately after lunch I intend to make a tour myself to assess the extent of the work and come up with some sort of list in order of importance. My initial feeling is that the water and drainage must be mended first – men die fastest from thirst, and the next biggest danger is disease. (Oh, what a way to celebrate our glorious victory: worrying about the sewers! But it must be done.) I think some large halls should have roofs mended to act as temporary hostels for the families whose houses were damaged in the siege – the outermost circle of the city is one of the poorest, and they have been very hard hit. But we cannot mend all of the individual dwellings at once – that work will take months if not years. For the time being what matters is food, water and a secure roof – and dormitories will do for that.
Aye, food, that's another stack or two of papers. The Pelennor, rich farm land tilled ready to be planted, is now a morass of rotting dead bodies. It could not be more vile if the enemy had salted the earth. (Éowyn told me that Saruman's orcs did this in parts of the west of her country). So I have to write to all the various lords of Anfalas, Belfalas, Lebennin and Lamedon to ask what grain supplies and salted meat they can spare for the people of Minas Tirith. And come up with some sort of trade to sweeten the deal. Elfhelm tells me he has come across one or two intact barns of seed corn which were not put to the flame – perhaps I can offer them wagon loads of this to sow on their own lands in exchange for food.
And of course, it is the end of winter, so there will be precious little in the way of stores left in anyone's granaries. Perhaps stocks of salt fish can be acquired from the coast.
And the Pelennor. I know that Elfhelm's eoreds have been hard at work, burying their own dead and burning the carcases of the orcs and Southrons. I need to see if gangs of men can be sent to help in this task. Perhaps it is a good way of occupying the people of the outer circles, if I can offer some sort of meaningful payment – which will mean coins with which to buy food, if only, in turn, I can organise the food – see above! But some sort of sense of a task to be done and of a means of earning their way is necessary I think – Morgoth makes work for idle hands.
Oh – and more about food. Lord Aragorn set off for Morannon with enough supplies for the outward journey only, so as to leave enough food for the people of the city. I do not think he expected any of them to survive. So now I need to organise wains of food to send to Cormallen too.
I begin to think that my headache is down to much more than simply Beregond's rotgut. What a mess!
Dammit, I miss sitting with Éowyn in the garden, talking nonsense (me, that is, not her – she always seems to talk sense).
Éowyn's Diary
What an odd sort of day. The feelings of anticlimax continue. And I feel lonely. I never thought I'd be reduced to this, but I miss the Steward. I have become used to his company.
Still, I have decided to pull myself together and make myself useful. I may not be a healer, but I can fold up bandages (somewhat awkwardly for one arm is still in a sling) and hand out bowls of broth.
I could even sweep floors but am not allowed to (Ioreth drew the line at letting a "fine lady" do this).
I sent a note with a dispatch rider to Éomer, saying that I was much recovered.