Imrahil Chapter 3: Ride To Gondor
"Your liege?" an aid cried out to Prince Imrahil. Imrahil had been in a near trance as he began the ride at the front of his men. "I am sorry, I was just thinking about more pleasant thoughts," the royal sad softly. Imrahil had plenty to think about, some good, and some bad. He was sixty-four years old; not that aged for a man of Numenorean blood. His father, Adrahil, died just nine years prior to the current emergency. Imrahil was the 22nd Prince of Dol Amroth, he was proud of this.
He had family ties to think about as well. He was following in Finduilas footsteps. The wife of Denethor was not just married the most powerful man in Gondor, but was also Imrahil's sister. He had known from her that the steward was not as he once was, his mind seemed to be going to her. Alphros, his first grandson, was just born two years ago. Imrahil could think of the child laughing and crying. He wished to be playing once more with his grandchild. Now all he could see was the dark clouds of war deepening in the distance. He thought about his wife, how she had birthed him four fine children. He still loved her so much, though it has been some time since anyone has talked about her.
It seemed like forever since he got word to head to Minas Tirith. The air was foul, yet he could still smell the fresh water in his nose. "What day is it?" asked the Lord of Dol Amroth. "It is March 8, 3019 my lord," the aid responded. "Good, we should be at the White Tower by the morrow. I long to see my nephew again." Imrahil recently lost one of his nephews. Boromir, the first son of his sister had died at the hands of uruks when the fellowship of the ring began its journey not that long ago. He knew his other nephew, Faramir, was still at the White City and undoubtedly already engaged in defending his country and in reality, the entire free world.
"My people are tired, the marching has gotten to them," an officer said.
"If some marching is too much for them, what do you think four hours fighting with orcs will be like," the lord said bravely.
He knew that it was not exhaustion that was bothering the men, it was fear. He knew, because he was fearful himself. He can tell that his host was very small, not even a thousand men at arms. He knew few of the other fiefs would be able to send more, many of them were too far away to send any in time before being cut off by the enemy. Imrahil knew it would be bravery and honor that would need to win the battle. The prince was to be shocked when he became aware of the might that Sauron would muster against his nation. However, he remained undaunted or at least appeared to be. "We will continue to move forward, our enemies are miserable scum. We shall ride over them as we ride over the winter's dust," proclaimed the fair prince. His words, if hollow, rang true to his loyal men. They did not waiver on the march and they would not waiver when in battle. They were well prepared for the ordeal ahead.
In the distance, the White Tower came into view. The site of it reminded the prince of his home. This tower, however, was not his home. He hoped it would not be the place of his death either.
"Will you look at that," one man said. Another exclaimed, "It is the most amazing site ever to enter my eye." Minas Tirith towered above the men as they approached. Many could not believe the size of the city. Could a city so large ever fall to a foe? What could they do to defend such a place? Each man from Belfalas had such a sort go through his mind. The gate of the city opened before them. They could see the joy on the faces of the people as they entered. Yet, behind the joy was a deep pain. Many had lost family already, they were already keenly aware of the forces coming to kill them. Looking ahead of him, he saw a face he Imrahil had not seen in some time, his eyes beamed with delight.