Chapter 58
The plague ravaged the lands of Númenor, and the once bustling city of Pelargir was shrouded in fear and death. The streets were no longer in their former order, replaced by the smoke of burning corpses, desperate cries, and sporadic conflicts over medicine and food.
Pelargir's administrators didn't completely give up, but their response was clumsy and inadequate. The governors dispatched from the kingdom, ensconced in their heavily guarded mansions, issued rigid and often unrealistic orders: mandatory quarantines, movement restrictions, and the requisition of supplies. The soldiers who carried out these orders were often fearful, inefficient, and even engaged in embezzlement and oppression. Limited medical resources prioritized the colonists' upper classes, while the vast numbers of Middle-earth's indigenous laborers and the lower classes of mixed-race residents were virtually ignored.
The loyalists and their families, secretly rescued by Rómenna, drifted like seeds on the wind, many eventually landing in port cities like these. Most of them adopted anonymity, blending in with the locals, yet never forgot the teachings of the Valar and their duty to their people. For them, the outbreak of the plague wasn't the end of their calamity, but a call to action.
A middle-aged man named Ferrell stepped forward. Once a minor Loyalist noble from the port of Andunion, he had escaped with his family thanks to the help of Meereen and now ran a small warehouse on the docks. Leveraging his remaining prestige and the connections he had built as a merchant, he united several fellow Loyalists who had also been stranded there, as well as some well-meaning local Middle-earth elders.
They didn't wait for the inefficient rescue efforts of the Governor's Office. Ferrell organized a civilian rescue team comprised of Loyalists and local volunteers. Using information relayed from Meereen through Rivendell, they pioneered these efforts in neighborhoods where conditions permitted. They set up large cauldrons to burn wormwood, pine needles, and other materials, using the smoke to purify the air. They organized efforts to deliver water and food to the quarantined areas and care for the incapacitated. More importantly, they maintained a minimum of order and humane care.
When Meereen arrived at Pelage, he saw this scene: official rule had nearly collapsed, the city torn by panic and chaos. But deep in some streets and alleys, a self-help network organized by people like Ferrell was struggling but effectively functioning. The smoke from burning herbs rose stubbornly amid the chaos, bringing a glimmer of cleansing and hope. Meereen immediately joined them, providing more professional guidance, especially on optimizing herbal formulas and the layout of fumigation points. Where official power was absent or ineffective, this grassroots, morally driven force became a pillar of support against plague and chaos.
Thanks to the practice and promotion of Firiel and others, Meereen's herbal fumigation method gradually proved effective in halting the spread of the disease. New infection rates dropped significantly in areas where fumigation was systematically implemented. This news spread like a torch in the darkness, and other plague-stricken human settlements followed suit. Although Númenor's official medical officers scoffed at the method, calling it "primitive" and "unscientific," the desperate people seized on it.
After much effort, the tide of the plague finally began to recede, but it washed away not only lives, but also the last bit of hypocritical legitimacy and fragile control of Numenor's colonial rule.
When the weakened governor attempted to reinstate heavy taxes to "make up for losses incurred during the epidemic" and prepared to punish those who gathered and organized without permission during the epidemic, long-simmering anger erupted. Ferrier and the loyalists and local elders who had gained great prestige during the epidemic became natural leaders and chose not to tolerate it anymore.
A small but remarkably determined riot erupted before the Governor's Palace. The enraged mob—including survivors of the Númenorian lower-class colonists and, more often, abandoned Middle-earth natives rescued by the Faithful—surrounded the palace. They chanted, "Go back to Númenor" and "We don't need a vampire governor!" The Governor and his guards, facing the enraged and outnumbered crowd, were timid and ultimately fled Pelargir in disgrace by ship, leaving behind several bodies.
The rebellion at Pelargir lit a fuse. As word spread, other Númenorian territories, similarly traumatized by the plague, witnessing official incompetence, and deeply inspired by the actions of the Faithful, responded. Satraps were expelled, the banners symbolizing Númenorian rule were torn down, and warehouses were taken over by the populace to distribute surplus supplies. Order wasn't immediately restored, but the beginnings of a de-Númenorianized local self-government, born of shared suffering and resistance, began to emerge. The Faithful played a key role in this process. Their former status as "exiles" now became a unique bond connecting the disparate groups and uniting the resistance. Númenor's system of rule in Middle-earth began to crumble from its foundations.
Al-Pharazon sat on his great, cold new throne in Rómenna, listening to scattered reports of plague, chaos, and even riots from the colonies of Middle-earth. His response was to wave his hand dismissively, as if to shoo away an annoying fly.
He sneered at the loyalist courtiers gathered around him, "The territories of Middle-earth are but an inexhaustible storehouse for us, Númenor, and a place of exile for our sinners. As long as the kingdom's fleet remains, and its coffers are full, minor unrest in the wild lands will not shake the kingdom's foundations. Those so-called 'loyalist' rats should be left to fend for themselves in this filthy Middle-earth." He was more concerned with consolidating his seized royal power, amassing more wealth, and the progress of his secret experiments attempting to unlock the secrets of immortality. He saw the collapse of the Middle-earth colonies as a minor ailment, perhaps even providing an excuse for his future "restructuring" of Middle-earth.
Meereen stood on the shore of Pelargir, the air still lingering with the faint scent of herbal smoke, but thicker still was the clamor of post-disaster recovery and the confused discussions about future autonomy. He watched the setting sun, dyeing the sea a blood-red gold.
The scene before them—the corrupt rule spontaneously overthrown by the people, the spark ignited by the loyalists in despair that eventually spread like wildfire—formed an extremely glaring contrast with the arrogance of Ar-Pharazon on the island of Númenor and the decadence of the loyalists.
"The plague has destroyed the puppets that rule this place..." Milin muttered to himself, the salty sea breeze blowing his hair, "but the real poison of destruction is reveling on the throne of Romena."
He recalled once again the surging black waves and roar of destruction in that prophetic dream. Wasn't the island of Númenor itself a larger "infected area" ravaged by greed, arrogance, and betrayal? Weren't Ar-Pharazon and his followers the most deadly "source of the plague"? They abandoned morality, oppressed their people, blasphemed the gods, and coveted eternal life... These sins were deeper into their bones and more incurable than any plague. The smoke of herbs could purify the air of foul air, but it couldn't cleanse the corruption of people's hearts. The people of Pelage could expel the incompetent governor, but who could shake the fortress of Rómenna's royal power, built on sin?
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