Chapter 1. Wains

Gil-galad and Elendil
Marched their armies up the hill
To meet the Dark Lord face to face,
And cast him down from his high place.

The thunder boomed and the lightning flashed
As on the battlefield the armies clashed...
If men had let their duty go
The Dark would have taken Gondor long ago

...If men would let their duty go
The Dark would have taken Gondor long ago...

(from a children's lullaby of Gondor)

***

He watched the last of the wains roll through the gate with a sigh of relief.

He had thought of hiding as the last of the refugee carts were loaded, so that they could not send him away with his much younger brother, but that would not be a soldier's doing. He was not a child any longer. He was all of ten years. He straightened his shoulders, proud to be counted with the men and not carted off with the women and children to safety. He would face the battle to come. Maybe he'd even knock the head off an orc or two. Though he was still only fighting with a blunted practice sword, he could throw a mean stone.

A sudden blow from behind smote his shoulder, half spinning him round. His cousin's voice exulted, 'Got you! You're it!'

He spun the rest of the way to face Fargil. 'Be serious! We're at war now!'

The younger boy laughed. 'Not this minute, we aren't! Come on,' he wheedled, 'they'll put us back to work soon enough... let's play while we can!'

Bergil stood silent until he saw the younger boy start to relax, then with a roar he thrust forward and tackled him. The boys fell to the ground, twisting and wrestling. If he could just get the right hold, he could pin his cousin... but the wiry lad twisted somehow and wriggled free. How did he do that? Fargil jumped to his feet and laughed, panting. 'C'mon! Catch me if you can! You're "it"!' They had a grand chase around the courtyard.

***

Beregond sat at the table, carving a soldier for Fargil out of a piece of the firewood piled by the hearth. He hummed as he worked. Gilwyn was putting up sandwiches. When she had finished wrapping a cloth around several, she turned to him.

'Why are soldier's songs always so sad?'

He looked up in surprise. 'They are not always sad. I know quite a few lively ones.'

'Oh, yes, the ones that are all about wine and women. Those are lively enough. ...but so many of your songs are about death.'

'That is my business,' he said mildly. 'Duty and death. Just like your business is cutting and sewing cloth.'

'It is not the same thing at all!'

He grinned at having been able to get a rise out of her. She stared at him, hands on hips, then relaxed with an exasperated sigh.

'Well just make sure it is the other fellow who does the dying.'

He smiled and bowed, 'I will do my best to carry out your order, my lady. Following orders is my bread and meat.'

'I know,' she answered wryly. 'Now, take some of this bread and meat with you when you go.' She thrust the sandwich at him and he laughed. 'I know they never feed you properly at that mess of yours.'

'Leave it on the table, I will take it with me when I go. I have some time, yet.'

'Where is Bergil? He knew you were to be here today.'

Beregond laughed. 'I think he is avoiding me. The last of the wains were to be loaded today and he wants to be sure I do not change my mind.' He frowned at Gilwyn. 'I wish you would go, and take the boys with you.'

She shook her head. They had already had this argument. Several times. 'No, I can be of use here, and the boys can run messages. And there is no guarantee of safety in the mountains.'

Beregond shrugged and went back to his carving. She bustled about the hearth, stirring the stew and cutting more bread fresh from the baker. She filled a bowl and plopped it on the table with a spoon and some bread.

'There. You have time to eat before you go...' and taking a bundle from the corner, she laid it beside the wrapped sandwiches. 'Here is your clean laundry. I mended a few holes and a long tear in one sleeve. You ought to tell your mates to be more careful at sword practice.'

'I don't know what I would do without you,' he teased.

'Oh, you'd just find some dewy-eyed girl to do your mending for you, I suppose. But beware! They charge high.'

'What is the going rate these days?'

'Mmmmmmm, no less than a wedding, I hear.'

His smile faded. 'I have had a wife.'

Gilwyn gazed at him seriously. 'Beregond, I know you loved my sister,' she scolded gently, 'but how long are you going to mourn Gilmarie? It has been five years... You need a wife to take care of you...' she changed her thought as he waved his hand irritably in rejection of her words, 'and Bergil needs a mother.'

'Bergil is doing fine. You take as much care of him as his own mother might.' He looked up at her, spoon upraised. 'Besides, you are one to talk. How long have you been in mourning? Hasn't it been a year yet?'

She bent her head and turned away to hide the sudden tears. Beregond rose from the table to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. 'I am sorry, Gilwyn.' She turned back to him, trying to smile. He placed a brotherly kiss on her forehead, swung back to the table, scooped up the sandwiches and laundry, and said, 'I must go. Say hello to Bergil for me when he comes out of hiding, the scamp!'

Her smile became a real one. 'That I will. Take care now. When will we see you again?'

He shook his head. 'You will see me when you see me.'

'Ah,' she nodded. 'Not until you run out of clean clothes, then.'

He raised a fist to pretend a threatened blow. She gave him a push towards the door. 'Get along with you! When did you start frightening helpless women?'

He laughed. 'You are anything but helpless! I would rather face a mother bear bereft of her cubs!'

'Go on with you!' she repeated. 'You do not want to be late!' Laughing, he strode out the door.

2. Perian The thunder boomed and the lightning flashed
As on the battlefield the armies clashed.
As Elendil raised his sword on high
The soldiers drew their swords and gave the cry...

Through the air elven arrows flew,
Orc and troll and man they slew.
If men had let their duty go
The Dark would have taken Gondor long ago...

(from a lullaby of Gondor)

The sunset bells had already sounded when the boys burst in through the door. They roiled around the room, and what had been a comfortable space seemed hardly to contain them. They fetched up against Gilwyn, who was standing, hands on hips, with a frown on her face. Bergil picked Fargil up off the floor and, after a few quick swipes at their dusty clothes, the boys stood at attention before her.

She eyed them sternly. 'Well?'

Fargil burst out, 'It is Bergil who was late! I was just waiting for him!' Bergil moved as if to pummel his cousin but was stopped as his aunt's stern eye turned to him. He settled back into his stiff stance. While still staring him down, Gilwyn spoke to Fargil. 'Do not go blaming your troubles on others. You are late. You know your way home; you do not have to wait for Bergil.'

'Yes, ma'am,' Fargil answered, lowering his eyes.

'Now, Bergil?'

He met her eyes, and suddenly all the excitement burst out again. 'Oh, Aunt! There's a Halfling in the City! He's...'

'Yes, I seem to have heard that a Prince of the Halflings had come. I did not see him myself... they say that when Rohan comes each Rider will have a halfling warrior riding behind him. So, did you see him?'

'See him! I...'

Fargil interrupted stormily, 'He took him all over the City, and I couldn't come!'

Bergil turned to him. 'Father sent him to me.'

'And I had to stay with the other boys, and Bergil got to go beyond the Gate to watch the Captains of the Outlands marching in.'

'Beyond the Gate?' Gilwyn questioned.

'Yes! Pippin knows the password, and the guard let us through, and... I am allowed past the Gate with an elder. Pippin's as old as Uncle Iorlas, even though he only comes to here on me.' Bergil's hand measured a point somewhere below his own height.

Gilwyn's lips twitched, but then she stepped back and surveyed the boys grimly. 'You men are a disgrace to the Company,' she scolded. 'Now go back out, dust yourselves off properly, wipe your feet, wash up, and march into the mess as proper disciplined troops should.'

'Yes, ma'am,' both boys shouted.

After they had complied with orders, and after the Standing Silence, they piled onto the bench and began jabbering both together about the Halfling and the Outland Captains and all they had seen and done that day. Gilwyn ladled stew and set a basket of bread on the table, and they dug in as famished men who have not eaten in days. Not able to get a word in, as usual, Gilwyn ate silently and enjoyed the chatter.

She rose to pour herself a cup of tea, and continued to watch the boys ravage the table. When the talk had died down, and the boys' appetites had been satisfied for the moment, she spoke.

'Your father was here this morning, Bergil.' The boy gave a start and dropped his eyes. 'Did you forget that he was to come today?'

'No,' he said low.

'Bergil...'

He forced himself to meet her eyes. 'No, ma'am,' he corrected.

She smiled. 'That is not what I meant, Bergil.' The boy looked puzzled. 'Time is so short,' she added. 'Your father has so little time these days to visit. When he is here, you ought to be here as well.' He nodded, and she changed the subject. 'It was so warm today for March! Do you know, I got an entire washing dried in the sun, and didn't have to bring any in to dry by the fire.' Relieved that the time of lecture was over, the boys pretended interest in these domestic affairs and the conversation continued companionably, with much mention of the Halfling, until it was time for them to wash up and go to bed.

3. Siege

Through the air elven arrows flew,
Orc and troll and man they slew.
The archers aimed their arrows high
And sent them bolting through the sky.

The Dark Lord raised his hand in spell
On the battlefield the Elf Lord fell
If men had let their duty go
The Dark would have taken Gondor long ago...

(from a lullaby of Gondor)

It was still dark when his aunt called them to get up. Bergil pushed Fargil out of bed, pulled the covers up, smoothed them with all the attention that a ten year old boy usually gives to such matters. Fargil went out to bring in wood and Bergil took buckets to the well to fetch water for the morning. The usual banter around the well was absent. People silently waited their turn to draw water, leaving with the barest of greetings.

The lantern was lit on the table, and his aunt had put out bread and butter and hard cheese. There was only water, cool from the well, for drinking. Gilwyn ate nothing, but nursed a cup of tea. The air was heavy as if a storm was coming, and the boys ate silently.

When breakfast was finished and the table cleared and scrubbed, Gilwyn put a hand on each boy's shoulder. 'You boys stay close, today. They may need you to run messages, and I want to know where to find you.' She found them tasks to do about the house and little garden.

Beregond surprised them with a brief visit before leaving on an errand to the Guard-Towers on the Causeway.

He threw back his head and laughed when Bergil recounted his meeting with the Halfling, but sobered quickly. 'I am glad to find you here,' he said, becoming unusually stern with the boys. 'I want you to listen well to Gilwyn,' he said. 'And stay close to home, unless you are called to run errands.' He turned to Gilwyn. 'I do not want them watching at the wall.' She nodded, and with a quick embrace of his son, he was gone.

The day continued gloomy, and the boys' usual high spirits were dampened, even with the diversion of running messages and watching the preparations in the City after they were released to go home and eat supper. Fargil wanted to stop to ask questions, but Bergil hurried him along. The sunset bells rang, though there had been no sun that day to set now, and they sat with little appetite to their evening meal. Suddenly a terrible feeling came over them, as if a darker shadow than that of evening had been cast over the City. There was shouting outside. The boys rose from their benches, but Gilwyn stopped them with a stern look.

It took all the soldierly discipline Bergil could muster, but he sat back down. Fargil slowly followed his example. They listened, and to their relief and joy they heard the name of Faramir being cried aloud. Gilwyn's strained face broke into a smile. 'Faramir has returned!' she cried. 'You may go as far as the main street and watch him on his way to the Citadel. But come right back.'

The boys promised and bolted for the door.

Bergil and his cousin pressed through the crowd. They reached the front just as Faramir and Gandalf passed by. Pippin was following, and he gave Bergil a friendly wave of acknowledgement as he passed. Fargil pulled at Bergil's sleeve. 'Come on,' he urged. 'We promised my mother that we would return at once.' The boys hurried back through the darkened streets. No stars shone in the sky. It was easy for them to imagine evil things lurking in the shadows. Fear lent wings to their feet, and it was not long before they were once again back at the house.

The next day was even darker, if possible. The word at the well was that Faramir had been sent from the City, to hold Osgiliath as long as it could be held against the advancing forces of the Dark Lord. Bergil brought the news back with the water buckets, and his aunt was silent for a long time. She kept them indoors again, using the time to fit them for new garments. Gilwyn also had them practice their letters, and then by the light of the lantern, they drew pictures on the hearth with blackened sticks from the fire, and played simple games that were more suited to snowy winter evenings. It passed the time. When Bergil went to the well to draw more water for the evening, there was still no news. They did not see Beregond that day.

Again there was no dawn. On his way back from the well, Bergil heard the watchman sound the call to arms, and along the way home he saw men of the City putting down their tools, taking up swords, and heading to the walls. He wished he could go, too, but his aunt put him to work as soon as he returned with the buckets. Dull rumbles were heard periodically, as the boys scrubbed the walls and floor to her satisfaction.

At one point they heard the clop of horses' feet being led down the main street from the stables, but Gilwyn would not let them go to see.

They heard shouting from the walls, and then the ring of a trumpet from the Citadel. The shouts became clearer; men were calling 'Amroth for Gondor! Amroth to Faramir!' The shouting grew louder and more confused, then suddenly died away.

Gilwyn put down her needle and the cloth she was sewing by the light of the lantern. She rose. 'You boys stay here,' she ordered. 'I will not be long.' She threw a shawl about her shoulders and stepped lightly out the door. After she had gone out, the boys went to the door and stared out into the darkness, but they did not follow.

4. Battle

The Dark Lord raised his hand in spell
On the battlefield the Elf Lord fell
The Dark Lord strode to Elendil,
Spilling his blood upon the hill.

The sky grew dark with increasing gloom,
As the soldiers rallied to meet their doom.
If men had let their duty go
The Dark would have taken Gondor long ago...

(from a lullaby of Gondor)

The clamour of fire bells awakened Bergil. He looked over at Fargil, but his cousin still slept, one arm curled around the soldier Beregond had carved. He eased from the bed. His aunt would be putting up sandwiches to feed the fire fighters. Sometimes she would let him carry the bundles of food to the fire, and he would get to watch the excitement.

The lantern in the kitchen was dark, blown out or perhaps burned out. By the dim light of the fire on the hearth, he saw Gilwyn sitting motionless at the table, head resting on her clasped hands. He crept back to his bed.

***

It was still dark when Gilwyn awakened them. Smoke hung heavy in the air, but the fire bells no longer rang. Outside was a confused murmur as of faraway thunder, or a heavy rain. Gilwyn's face was pale and she had dark smudges under her eyes.

'Fargil,' she hissed. 'I want you to gather extra clothes for yourself and Bergil and roll them in your blankets.' She attempted a smile at her son's blinking confusion. 'Just like the time your Uncle Beregond took us to sleep under the stars, remember?' The boy nodded sleepily and began to comply.

She beckoned Bergil out to the kitchen. The lamp was lit and the usually tidy room was in a state of semi-confusion. Gilwyn took up a half-wrapped loaf, finished wrapping the cloth around it, and placed it in one of the water buckets.

'Here, Bergil,' she instructed. 'Wrap all the bread and dried meat and dried fruit you can, and pack it up.'

As he packed away the food he watched her take down lengths of undyed cloth from the shelves, roll them tightly, and place them in the other water bucket. She added packets of needles and skeins of thread, tucking a cloth over all.

''Done,' Bergil stated. She checked his bucket and gave him an approving nod.

'Here is a cloth--tuck it over the top of your bucket as I did mine.'

As he was doing so, Gilwyn reached again amongst the lengths of fabric on the shelves, bringing down an oblong object rolled in a cloth. She sat down at the table to unroll it, revealing a sharp new knife that glinted in the light from the lantern. She looked at Bergil.

'Your father meant this for a gift on your next birthday,' she said. 'I think he'd say to give it to you now, were he here.'

The knife slipped into the right place in his boot as if it had been made to fit there. His aunt smiled faintly, then was all business again.

When Fargil came out with the blanket roll, she tied rope around the ends and fashioned a rough shoulder loop.

'There,' she sighed, and looked about the room. She turned to the boys. 'The first circle of the City is all afire and I know not how long we will be safe here. We are going to the Houses of Healing. I hope that we can be of some use there.'

Fargil gasped and ran back to the bedroom. Before his mother could call him back, he returned cradling his two treasures, a horse carved by his father who had been slain by orcs the previous year, and the carven soldier. Gilwyn nodded and tucked them into the blanket roll. She settled the loop about her son's shoulders, picked up her own blanket roll and slung it over Bergil's arm. She bent to put the yoke for the water buckets over her own neck, and straightened again. Giving a hand to each boy, she guided them out the door.

Outside the raging flames from the outermost circle painted the sky above the City. Gilwyn hurried them through the deserted streets. Not many people were about. Most of the women and children had left before the siege began, Bergil's young brother sent with them, and all the men in the City now stood to arms upon the walls or wherever their duty placed them.

Bergil stumbled. The streets were littered with small round shot about the size of a man's head, but before he could get a better look his aunt pulled him along faster. The rushing sound was louder and he realized he was hearing the sound of battle. He could hear the deep beat of drums and the shouts of men and shrieks of voices not men's.

When they reached the Houses of Healing their legs burned from the long climb and their lungs from the rising smoke. Men moaned on the wide porch and in the corridors, mostly casualties of the fires in the first circle. Old Ioreth greeted them distractedly, telling the boys to set their bedrolls in a corner and wait out of the way. Gilwyn broke in with a question, ‘Do you need more bandages?’

‘Yes, I am sure we will need plenty before the night is out. They are sending siege engines against the walls, and more wounded will be arriving soon.’

‘I brought supplies,’ Gilwyn said, lifting the covering from the bucket of fabric, ‘and I can sew flesh as easily as cloth.’ Ioreth nodded and gave her arm a grateful squeeze. ‘The boys can run messages,’ Gilwyn added, ‘but until they are called for I will keep them with me. Where is a table where we can make dressings?’ Ioreth led them to a dining area, now being set up to handle wounded. Gilwyn set one bucket under the table and held the other out to the old healer. ‘Here is food, all we could bring.’ A smile flickered across the old woman’s face as she thanked them, took the bucket, and departed.

Gilwyn turned to the boys. ‘Now, here is what we do…’ She took out a length of fabric, unrolling it on the table with a deft flick of her wrist. Cutting a slit near one end, she tore a strip down the length of the fabric. Again and again she repeated the action until the piece had been reduced to a pile of strips. She took one, nodding to the boys to copy her, and rolled the strip quickly into a neat, tight roll.

The boys were more awkward to start but with practice they were soon turning out uniform bandages. They worked on until all the fabric in the bucket had been reduced to dressings.

Gilwyn took the boys to the corner where their bedrolls lay and told them to lie down and wait. Fargil soon dropped off to sleep again but Bergil lay wakeful. He heard two guardsmen talking low as their wounds were being dressed. Faramir had been taken to the Houses of the Dead! Tears stung his eyes, and he thought of his father. Where was Beregond this night? Did he already lie among the wounded, or was he dead?

Gilwyn came to check on the boys, and he told her what he had overheard. She bowed her head, took a few deep breaths, and raised it again. ‘They are bringing siege towers against the walls, and they are assaulting the Gate,’ she told him. ‘If orcs break through to the Houses of Healing, and cannot be stopped… if all hope fails…’ he followed her gaze to Fargil.

‘I will take care of him,’ he promised. ‘The orcs shall not have him.’ She hugged him briefly and was gone again.

5. Healing

The sky grew dark with increasing gloom,
As the soldiers rallied to meet their doom.
Isildur took his father's sword.
He did battle with the dreadful Lord,

With the fighting raging all around
And his father dying upon the ground.
If men had let their duty go,
The Dark would have taken Gondor long ago.

(from a lullaby of Gondor)

Battle was over; help had come when hope was lost, just as the City reeled on the edge of disaster, destruction, death.

Beregond sat without moving as Gilwyn stitched his arm. The slash was shallow but long. 'This is the same sleeve I mended before,' she scolded, pointing to the neat stitches in the fabric. 'You must be dropping your guard. This has got to stop!'

'I will do my best to carry out your order, my lady,' he promised, but his face held no humour and his eyes were haunted. At times he would blink hard, as if trying to banish a vision. Or a memory.

She glanced over to the bed where Faramir lay. A healer was wringing out a cloth in a basin of cool water, to replace the one on his burning forehead. Pippin, standing guard by the bed, met her eye with a grim look.

Beregond followed her gaze. 'There is something I must tell you,' he said in a low voice. 'Before you hear it from someone less well informed.' And before the boys return from running messages, his glance told her.

She nodded, turning her eyes back to her stitching. 'I am listening,' she said encouragingly.

He waited for her to complete a stitch and spoke before she could begin the next. Very wise, that.

'The Lord Denethor is dead.' She gasped and her hand shook.

'Who rules the City, then?' she asked.

Her first thought was of her father telling her of a ship that lost its rudder in a storm. It foundered, and only one man reached the shore... her great-grandsire. He had turned his hand from fishing to farming, and that was how her family ended up in Lossarnach...

'Mithrandir, I suppose. Perhaps Imrahil.' He met her eye. 'You may not have known, but they had been directing the battle since Faramir was brought in.'

'I had heard that Denethor sat grieving with his son, but no more than that.' She controlled the trembling in her fingers and began to stitch again.

'There is more.' He sketched the details of the night, of hearing that Faramir had been taken to the Houses of the Dead. The Halfling's frantic plea. His choice. He winced as the needle stabbed deep, mid-stitch, but steadily met the eyes she raised to his.

'You left your post?' she whispered.

He nodded, once, and continued. Slaying the porter at the door, the desperate fight in the Hallows, two more deaths. Mithrandir's appearance. Faramir, still breathing, laid out on a pyre ready for the torch. Denethor's attempt to slay his son with a knife after Faramir was taken from the pyre. Denethor's death, and the rising flames.

He began to cough, and the healer brought him a cup of water. He thanked her and sipped. He had breathed some of the smoke.

'I have been removed from the guard until my case can be judged. The captain of the Tower has detailed me to keep watch over Faramir for the present.'

She nodded and finished her stitching.

Mithrandir entered, going to the bedside. He touched the cloth on Faramir's forehead, already warm and dry, and lifted an eyelid with his thumb. Faramir's breath came faint and fast. The healer took the cloth and replaced it with a fresh one. The wizard turned to the Halfling. 'Pippin, injured Rohirrim are being brought in from the field. The King of Rohan has been taken to a resting place, and his niece Eowyn here to the Houses of Healing. Merry was not with them.'

The hobbit started, then stood firm again. 'I want you to go look for him,' the wizard continued. Pippin glanced down at the bed.

Beregond said, 'I will watch him now.' With a look of relief Pippin left the room.

***

Bergil was running back from the storehouse of herbs when he saw two Periain walking up the street, one dressed in the livery of the Tower and the other in the green of Rohan. Perhaps "walking" was not the right word, for the green-clad hobbit leaned heavily upon the other -- Pippin, of course. As the boy jogged by, Pippin hailed him.

'I am running errands for the Healers. I cannot stay,' Bergil panted.

'Don't! But tell them up there that I have a sick hobbit, a perian mind you, come from the battle-field. I don't think he can walk so far. If Mithrandir is there, he will be glad of the message.' Bergil waved in acknowledgement and ran on.

Mithrandir was glad enough of the message. As soon as Bergil had told him where to find the hobbits, he strode from the room. Bergil glanced hopefully at Faramir -- no change apparent, for better or worse -- gave a brief salute to his father, on guard by the Captain's bed, and turned to deliver the herbs and take up his next errand. On his way back down the hill, he met Mithrandir, carrying the green-clad hobbit, with Pippin trotting along beside.

Bergil was in and out of the Houses of Healing the rest of the day. When he stopped to grab a bite to eat, he listened to the low voiced conversations. Among the dying were named Faramir, the Lady of Rohan, and the hobbit, Pippin's cousin. There seemed no hope. Pippin, chased for the moment from his cousin's side whilst the healers consulted, sat down next to him with bread and meat one of the women had pressed upon him, but he only toyed with the food and did not eat.

Bergil tried to draw him out. 'You were right about those black ships,' he said. 'How did you know they were not Corsairs?'

The hobbit smiled, but only briefly and without humour. 'I made a good guess,' he said.

'Oh,' Bergil replied, and turned his attention to his food.

The hobbit looked at him and made an effort to turn both their thoughts from the dying. 'How is it that you and your father are so tall? I watched the men of Lossarnach march in.'

'And we do not look at all as if we come from Lossarnach?' Bergil smiled.

'Something like that,' Pippin agreed. 'It got my curiosity going. Of course, it does not take much...'

The boy actually laughed, remembering Pippin's unending questions as he'd guided the hobbit about the City.

'My father's people came from Ithilien. When Mordor overran their land, they went to Lossarnach. The people of Lossarnach took them in and gave them land to farm. Eventually they did well enough to buy their own land. And my mother's people were fisher-folk who lived near the Great Sea until they decided to try farming instead.' He finished his food and rose.

Pippin rose with him, leaving his own food untouched.

'Let us go to the door to see what is happening.'

The hobbit agreed.

They found Beregond there. 'Mithrandir went out in haste. He told me to wait here for his return.' It was not a long wait. Soon Gandalf arrived with Imrahil, a Rider of Rohan, and a grey-cloaked man in mail.

Pippin cried aloud in joy and surprise. 'Strider! How splendid! Do you know, I guessed it was you in the black ships. But they were all shouting corsairs and wouldn't listen to me. How did you do it?'

The cloaked man laughed and took Pippin's hand and greeted him warmly. Imrahil made a low-voiced comment to the Rider, and the cloaked man heard, turning with a laugh to answer, but the answer made no sense to Bergil.

He followed them, listening to Mithrandir tell the deeds of Eowyn and Pippin's cousin. Bergil had overheard some snatches as he passed in and out of the rooms with basins of hot or cold water, but now he listened in fascination to the whole story. They visited Faramir, then the Lady Eowyn, and went last to the hobbit. The grey-cloaked man seemed sad and weary, and the Rider urged him to rest, but he answered that time was running out, most swiftly for Faramir.

He called to Ioreth, hovering nearby, and asked after herbs, specifically an herb called kingsfoil. Bergil's great-gran had used that herb to treat headaches, he remembered. The cloaked man sent the healer off in haste to seek the weed.

She beckoned urgently to Bergil. 'Come, boy! I need your swift legs.'

At the porch she started to give him direction on where to look in the storehouse of herbs, and what to look for. 'I know kingsfoil', he answered. 'My gran used to use it for headache.'

'Good,' she answered, and turned him towards the porch steps. Giving him a push she said, 'Then run! Run as if your life depended on it. For surely the life of the Lord Faramir does!'

He needed no encouragement and ran at his swiftest pace. Reaching the storehouse, he sought the pots Ioreth had described. In one, he found six leaves of what he recognized as kingsfoil. He quickly wrapped them in a cloth and flew back to the Houses of Healing.

Running into Faramir's room, he held the cloth out to the man in the grey cloak. 'It is kingsfoil, Sir, but not fresh I fear,' he said. 'It must have been culled two weeks ago at the least. I hope it will serve, Sir?' He looked at Faramir and burst into tears.

Smiling reassurance, the man answered, 'It will serve. The worst is now over. Stay and be comforted.' Bergil watched in awe as he called Faramir back from the threshold of death. He saw Faramir, who had lain unmoving, scarcely breathing, for so long, stir and then open his eyes and speak.

'My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?'

King? What did it mean? Bergil's eyes met his father's, but then both were lost in the joy of Faramir's recovery. The grey-cloaked man left the room. Beregond directed his son to pour a cup of water, and he raised Faramir while his son held the cup to the Captain's lips. Faramir drank and sighed. 'That is good. Thank you.' Beregond offered more, but Faramir shook his head. The guardsman laid his Captain back down on the pillow and took up his guard by the bed once again.

Bergil heard excited chatter outside. 'The hands of the king are the hands of a healer.' King?

6. Waiting

With the fighting raging all around
And his father dying upon the ground,
His soldiers rallied and did their best
While round about them the dark host pressed.

Isildur raised his father's sword
Shouting defiance at the grim Dark Lord.
If men had let their duty go,
The Dark would have taken Gondor long ago.

(from a lullaby of Gondor)

Fargil awakened to low voiced conversation in the kitchen. One voice was his mother's... then he heard the deep rumble belonging to his uncle. What was Beregond doing here in the middle of the night? He looked over at Bergil by the dim light of the night lamp, but his cousin slept soundly. He arose as quietly as he could and stole across the cold stones to the doorway between the bedroom and kitchen.

'...the penalty of old was death.' He heard his mother gasp, then his uncle continued, 'but I doubt the matter will ever come to trial.'

'What do you mean?' Gilwyn asked softly.

'We march to the Black Gate. The mere thousands we can muster, against all the might of Mordor. You know what I am telling you.'

There was a long silence. 'You do not think you will be coming back,' she murmured.

'It seems madness. But the Captains must have good reason. Perhaps they seek to gain time for the people of Minas Tirith to find safety in the mountains.'

'Temporary safety, at best,' his mother said.

'Yes,' Beregond replied.

'There has been no evacuation order given.'

'I do not know the plan. But I want you and the boys to be ready to go as soon as the order is given.'

'We will be ready,' she promised.

Fargil crept back to bed. His uncle was marching with the armies of the West to the Black Gate of Mordor. It was clear he did not expect to return.

Fargil looked over at his sleeping cousin. He remembered how his own father had gone out on patrol, the waiting when word came the patrol was overdue. The waiting had seemed worse than the actual news, later, that his father was dead. He decided not to tell Bergil what he had overheard. It would be bad enough for Bergil to hear his father had died, without the agony of waiting beforehand, knowing Beregond anticipated dying in battle.

***

When the morning sun shone through the shutters, Beregond and Gilwyn still sat at the table just as Fargil had seen them in the middle night. Bergil stopped at the threshold in surprise. 'Good morning, Father,' he said. 'You are here early!'

You do not know how early, Fargil thought to himself.

Beregond had a hug each for his son and his nephew. 'The armies of the West march out today,' he said cheerfully. 'We go to do to the land of Mordor what they tried to do to Gondor.'

Bergil's hands dropped to his sides and he regarded his father anxiously. 'You are going too, Sir?'

Beregond grinned widely, 'I am to lead a picked Company of men of the City.' He tousled Fargil's hair. 'It is quite an honour.' When he turned back to Bergil, he was serious. 'Bergil, I want you to take care of the family while I am gone.'

'Yes, Sir!'

'I don't need to be taken care of!' Fargil protested.

Beregond fixed him with a stern eye. 'Fargil, I expect to hear a good report of you when I return. A good soldier always follows orders.'

Fargil stiffened. 'Yes, Sir!'

Beregond gave hugs all around, first Gilwyn, then Fargil, and last his son. After hugging Bergil, Beregond held him at arm's length and took a long look at his son. 'Keep your knife sharp, son!' he admonished in a low tone.

'Yes, Sir, I will. You'll find everything in order when you return.' Bergil was enveloped by his father in another long, hard hug. A silver trumpet sounded over the City, his father released him abruptly and was gone.

***

Bergil had watched with Pippin's kinsman as the army marched away, and they waited there long after the last glint of the morning sun on spear and helm was lost to sight. The hobbit stood with bowed head, and Bergil felt as cast down as the other looked.

Suddenly Merry clutched at his right arm, and Bergil could see that he was in pain. 'Come, Master Perian!' he said. 'I will help you back to the Healers. But do not fear! The Men of Minas Tirith will never be overcome. And now they have the Lord Elfstone, and Beregond of the Guard, too.'

Fargil stood silently with them, and did not speak of Beregond's words to his mother.

The waiting seemed endless. Days passed. The boys were still used as messengers, and so they heard much news as they went about the City. When off duty, Bergil spent time with the hobbit Merry. He missed Pippin, but found his kinsman to be nearly as good company. Merry was quieter, but he could still tell a good story, and shared some uproarious tales about Pippin. Bergil never tired of listening to the hobbit's stories, and each day learned more of the wonders of the parts of Middle-earth he had never seen. The healers smiled to see the boy and the hobbit walking the gardens of the Houses of Healing together, nearly matched for size.

The bright weather turned cold and drear and a cold wind that had sprung up in the night blew from the North. The people of the City were subdued, and Bergil brought little news home with the water from the well that morning. All went about well cloaked as if spring had released its grip and let winter return to hold sway.

It was the seventh day since the army had marched away. The wind increased as the day progressed, blowing in gusts as Bergil ran his errands about the City. He was glad to return home for the midday meal; Gilwyn had built up the fire on the hearth and the room was comfortably warm. Still, Bergil shivered as with chill. His aunt put a hand on his forehead. 'Are you sickening with something?'

'No,' he said, pushing her hand away.' The wind bites, and I find it hard to get warm again.'

Suddenly the sound of the wind died, and the boys started up from the table. Gilwyn stumbled to the door and threw it open. The light dimmed, the sun was bleared, all sounds in the City were hushed. Time seemed to stop. A tremor shook the floor under their feet and the walls about them quivered. A sound like a sigh went up from all around them and they were released from the spell of stillness.

The boys ran to the door and stopped with Gilwyn. They saw to the North and East a vast black cloud like a mountain, lightning crowned, but the wind was already blowing it away.

'What is it? Oh what is it?' Fargil cried.

His mother engulfed him in her arms. 'I do not know, my son. Perhaps it is the end of the world. But no...'

Bergil felt it as well. A lightness of heart. Joy, even. Unreasoning hope.

The day brightened as the Sun shone with renewed strength, and Bergil heard singing outside. Gilwyn joined in, and the boys, and all over the City the song arose, neither sad nor bawdy soldiers' song but a song of joy and gladness and hope.

Gilwyn turned back to grab her shawl. Throwing it over her shoulders, she gave a hand to each boy and they ran to the wall of the City. Looking out, they could see the River Anduin like a ribbon of silver in the sunshine. They stood a long while there, breathing the air, surely fresher than it had been in long days, and gazing out upon the day.

A great Eagle came flying, crying out news of the victory and the end of the Realm of Sauron, and the coming of the King. And in all the ways of the City, the people sang.

***

Bergil was sitting with Merry in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. Merry had just been recounting the story of Bilbo's birthday party, when a runner came with a message. His face paled as he read. 'What is it?' Bergil asked anxiously.

'It is Pippin. He has been badly wounded, and I am called to his side.' He tried to smile. 'The good news is that my cousin Frodo has been found with Sam. Their recovery is also yet in doubt. But at least if they die it will be among friends.'

Bergil's heart sank. He had as yet had no word of his father, but he knew that Pippin's wounds, and the others', must be grave indeed to occasion this sort of summons. 'I -- is there ought I can do to help you?' he asked. Merry took his hands and squeezed them hard.

'You have done much already, my young friend. Your companionship has been strengthening and healing. I have the strength now to do whatever I must.' He rose abruptly. 'I will greet my cousin for you. I am sorry to miss Fargil, but I am to leave at once.'

'Then I will greet my cousin for you,' Bergil said firmly, and was rewarded by a small smile from the hobbit. 'If you hear word of Beregond...'

'I will look for him,' Merry promised, then hurried away with the messenger.

***

Gilwyn was summoned a day later. All tailors and seamstresses in the City and all of Gondor were called to the encampment in Ithilien. The army was to be fitted with new uniforms for the feasting to celebrate the victory, and the coronation of the King that would follow. Gilwyn and old Ioreth had become friends during those terrible hours in the Houses of Healing, and Ioreth offered to take the boys in whilst Gilwyn was gone. She gave last minute instructions to the boys as she packed to go.

'It is good to be packing up my needles for this happier reason,' she exclaimed. She turned to the boys. 'Now stand. Let me look at you.'

They stood at attention for her inspection. She could find no fault, and her stern look softened as she put a hand to each boys' cheek. 'Take care of each other,' she said softly. 'I expect to hear a good report of you when I return.'

They promised.

She hesitated, then added, 'I will send word of Beregond.' She gathered them both in a hug, then turned to Ioreth. 'Thank you,' she said simply, picked up her bundle and hurried down to the waiting wains.

7. Coronation

Isildur raised his father's sword
Shouting defiance at the grim Dark Lord.
In the face of death he raised his hand,
Banishing the Darkness from the Western lands.

If men in peace would seek to live,
They must be ever ready their lives to give.
If men had let their duty go,
The Dark would have taken Gondor long ago.

(from a lullaby of Gondor)

Ever since the first wains began arriving from Ithilien, the boys watched from the city wall for Gilwyn's return. As it was they missed her arrival. They turned reluctantly from the wall as the sunset bells rang. Old Ioreth would scold if they were late to supper. Afterwards they helped collect the trays from the soldiers still occupying beds in the Houses of Healing, and then helped the dishwashers with the drying and putting away. Then it was time to help settle the soldiers for sleep, and if the work were done swiftly and well there might be a story from one of the grizzled veterans before the boys were sent to their own beds.

In the middle of the night Bergil was wakened by a glad cry from his cousin. Sitting up, he saw Fargil hugging Gilwyn as if he’d never let her go again, and he jumped up to join the embrace.

 ‘My lads, my fine boys,’ she murmured over and again, hugging one with each arm. Putting them away, she looked searchingly into their faces. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘did I call you “boys”? “Young men” would be closer to the truth. How you’ve grown!’

 ‘Is my father here?’ Bergil said.

Fargil saw a shadow cross his mother’s face as she answered, and he wondered, but Bergil, looking eagerly towards the doorway, did not see. ‘Not yet,’ Gilwyn said, giving both boys a squeeze. ‘The army will march soon, however, and the City must prepare to greet her King!’

If the boys had ever thought themselves busy in days past, they now found themselves caught up in a bustle that surpassed any they’d ever seen. Every washable surface was scrubbed; what could be polished, was; colourful pavilions were erected outside the walls to house visitors from far and near and bright banners hung from every wall and window and waved from every tower. The White City was dazzling white indeed when the great Army of the West marched over the Pelennor, to the cheers of the waiting people.

The vast army halted a furlong from the Gate, drawn up into razor-straight lines that gleamed in the light of the sun.

All around them people were crying the names of loved ones, waving welcoming cloths. “Father!” came from more than one throat, Bergil’s included. He could see Beregond standing at the head of the Company formed from picked Men of the City. It was almost as good as standing in the ranks of his own company of guardsmen. Perhaps, now that the War was over, life would be as it always had been before... only better, for the Dark Lord was gone. Yes, life would be better. All Shadow was past, all sorrow behind them. Bergil nodded firmly to himself, and he plastered on a great grin just in case his father’s eyes were searching the walls. ‘Do you think he sees us?’ he shouted.

Gilwyn had left off her mourning and was dressed to mirror the blue skies above, with billows of lace at throat and wrist rivalling the fleecy clouds. ‘He sees us!’ she said firmly. ‘He said he’d look for this dress, and it’s the only blue one on this part of the wall.’

Bergil grinned anew, realising now why she’d moved them to this place from their original overlook.

There was a barrier across the road and men in the uniform of the Tower Guard waited, swords drawn, glittering in the sun. Before the barrier stood Faramir the Steward, Hurin Warden of the Keys, other captains of Gondor, and many of Rohan, and on either side of the Gate people thronged, their garments a rainbow of colors. 

The Lord Aragorn, riding at the head of the army, dismounted and walked slowly into the space before the gate, followed by the Dúnedain in their silver and grey. Very kingly he looked, garbed in black mail girt with silver, a long white mantle clasped at his throat with a green stone that sparkled and dazzled the eye when the sun shone upon it; a slender fillet of silver bound a star upon his forehead. With him were the Ring-bearer and his Companion, and Éomer of Rohan -- Merry by his side –- and Prince Imrahil, and Gandalf -- truly a White Wizard now, no longer veiled.

 ‘Pippin!’ Bergil shouted, his voice carrying clear above the shouting. They saw the Halfling look up and grin, though he’d learned enough soldierly discipline not to wave in return.

A single trumpet sounded and dead silence fell. Fargil squeezed Bergil’s arm tight, and Bergil nodded agreement. The Coronation had begun, and soon Gondor would again have a King.

Faramir walked forward to meet Aragorn, followed by four men in the high helms and armour of the Citadel, bearing a great casket of black lebethron bound with silver. They met in the middle of the open space, and Faramir knelt to surrender his office. He extended his white rod, and Aragorn took it, but then he gave it back, proclaiming that the office of Steward would remain for Faramir and his heirs as long as the King's line should last.

Then Faramir stood up and spoke in a clear voice: 'Men of Gondor, hear now the Steward of this Realm! Behold! one has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Numenor. Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?

Bergil shouted, 'Yea!' with all the host and all the people, and waved his banners wildly to join in the general acclaim.

Faramir spoke again, of how kings had been crowned in the past. The guardsmen stepped forward as one, bringing the casket to Faramir. He opened it and held up an ancient crown, shaped like the helms of the Guards of the Citadel, save it was loftier and shone white and fair in the sun, and jewels sparkled from it.

Aragorn took the crown from Faramir and held it up, crying out in a strange tongue. Then, to the wonder of many, Aragorn did not place the crown on his own head but gave it back to Faramir. By his direction, the Ring-bearer took the crown from Faramir and carried it to the White Wizard; Aragorn knelt, and Mithrandir set the crown upon his head. Bergil caught his breath as the newly crowned King rose and surveyed his people.

Tall as the sea-kings of old, he stood above all that were near; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him.

'Behold the King!' cried Faramir. All the trumpets were blown, the barrier was set aside, the people shouted and sang, waved banners and threw flowers, music poured forth, and the King entered his City. As the armies of the West stood at attention, they saw the banner of the Tree and Stars unfurl upon the topmost tower and knew that at last, they had a King.

***

Though war no longer threatened, Beregond still had duty in the City, but he spent much more time with Bergil these days. He seemed to be trying to make up for lost time, talking as he showed Bergil how to carve the playing pieces for a game of Strategy: kings, queens, wizards, knights, soldiers, towers; listening to his son and drawing him out with questions; just sitting in silence together. Once or twice Bergil came in from play to find Beregond holding Gilwyn’s hand, and he hid a grin. It was all very well with him if his father married Gilwyn. She’d been practically a mother to him, the past five years, though she’d never tried to take his mother’s place in his heart. He just wished they would hurry up and announce it, but perhaps they were waiting for the days of celebration to be over, lest their own private celebration be lost in the whirl.

When his father had first returned from the Black Gate, Bergil had known uncertainty, almost fear, as the King took up his duties. As the days passed with no mention of his father’s leaving his post and slaying guards in the Hallows, he relaxed subtly. Things had changed, after all. His father had proven himself in battle; nearly lost his life defending Gondor and her new King. The sling Beregond still wore on his arm bore silent testimony. He wore the plain black surcoat, rather than the White Tree of Gondor, but perhaps his punishment was complete in being excluded from the company of Guardsmen. It was difficult, but Bergil could bear it. Better that his father lose his guardsman’s position, than that he lose his father.

Chapter 8. Choices

In the face of death he raised his hand,
Banishing the Darkness from the Western lands.
If men in peace would seek to live,
They must be ever ready their lives to give.

If a man had let his duty go
The dark would have taken Gondor long ago...
(from a lullaby of Gondor)

And so the days passed, settling into routine of sorts. Chores, lessons, and games filled the time for Bergil when Beregond was on duty. There were frolics with Pippin and talks with Merry when the Halflings were not on duty, and frequent suppers with all the Halflings together, for they confessed they preferred the homey feel of sitting propped on cushions before Gilwyn’s table to the great banquets taking place at the highest level of the City.

It was just another day in a long procession of days. Bergil crouched under the table, breathing hard. A big grin broke out on his face as he realized he had managed to evade Fargil and the other boys. They would never find him here! He tried to steady his ragged breathing, but surely it couldn't be heard above the bustle of the marketplace.

The weaver's stall was the perfect hiding place, with lengths of cloth hanging down all around the table. If the weaver didn't notice him and eject him, if he could just stay hidden until the sunset bells rang, he would win the game. He heard the shouts of the other boys as they ran into the marketplace, their voices closer or further away as they searched, then the scolding of one of the merchants and the boys' departure.

Bergil hugged his knees. Sunset would be here soon. The merchants would pack up their wares, but it wouldn't matter. As soon as the bells rang he was home free. He sat quietly listening to the noise and conversations around him.

Some words caught his attention. 'A public execution, then? Hang him at dawn?'

'Nay, he's a guardsman; he'll be put to the sword when the sun is highest.'

'When?'

'On the morrow.' Bergil peeped out to see several men standing by the baker's cart, meat pies or sausage rolls in hand. His stomach rumbled and he missed the next few words.

'...brother's wife's cousin is a guardsman; they got the word today.'

'Why now? The Lord Denethor would have had him cut down on the spot. Terrible thing to make the man wait so long. Kill him at once, or pardon him, that's what I say.'

'I do not think the law allows for pardon when a man is guilty of treason.'

'Treason?' spoken in a tone of outrage.

'The law is clear. He left his post.'

Bergil held his breath now, trying to hear better.

'...shame. After what he did.'

'I do not like it, myself. Nevertheless, it is good to know that the new King knows the law.'

Someone stopped in front of the cloth merchant's table and the conversation drowned out what Bergil was trying to hear. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he willed the transaction to go quickly. Finally the customer left and Bergil strained his ears again.

'...but after he saved the Lord Faramir, I should think...'

Bergil burst from his hiding place, upsetting the table full of fabric into the dust. He paid no heed to the outraged shouts of the merchant or the calls of others who recognized him as Beregond's son. He had to get home.

***

Nearly blinded with tears, he burst in through the door, finding Beregond sitting with Gilwyn. 'It's not true! Say it's not true!' he shouted. Gilwyn shot Beregond a glance, bit her lip, and started to rise. Beregond put his good hand on her arm to restrain her. She sat back down as he regarded his son.

'Sit down, Bergil,' he commanded.

'No! Tell me it's not true!'

'Sit down and tell us what the shouting is about,' he repeated calmly. Bergil, breathing hard, stood locking eyes with his father for the space of several breaths. Beregond neither moved nor spoke. Finally, as if a cord had snapped within, Bergil loosed his fists and lowered them. Beregond nodded to the bench on the opposite side of the table, and finally the boy sat down.

Bergil stared desperately into his father’s face, but Beregond’s eyes never wavered. Bergil tried to speak, but the combination of deadly fear, grief, and running until he was breathless precluded speech at first.

Finally he was able to gasp, 'I heard men talking in the marketplace. They say you're to be treated like a traitor. They say you are to be put to the sword. They say--' his voice died as he looked into his father's face.

Beregond was nodding slowly. 'Yes,' he said coolly. 'That is right, Bergil. I left my post in time of war, and slew men who were only following their lord. My lord. The law calls my actions those of a renegade and outlaw.'

Bergil said frantically, 'But I thought--' He swallowed hard. 'They didn't do anything. There was no trial. They sent you off to battle. And then you came back, and still nothing happened, and I thought--'

'No, Bergil,' his father replied quietly. 'The King has simply not had time to hear my case.' To his son’s astonishment he smiled. 'It has been good to have this time together, hasn't it?'

The boy stared at him in shock, then suddenly put his head down on his arms and sobbed violently.

He could feel his father’s fingers soothing his neck as he continued. 'Bergil. It will be all right.'

It was difficult, but Bergil regained control of himself and raised his head, sniffling. 'How can it be? How can anything ever be all right again?' he said raggedly.

'You have your home with Gilwyn and Fargil. Things won't be that much changed. Even now I only see you every few days.'

The boy stared, feeling his whole world shuddering with the ragged breaths that consumed him. Still his father smiled. 'Perhaps you and Gilwyn, Fargil, and young Borlas can move back to Lossarnach. That is a fine place for a boy to grow to manhood. There will be nothing to tie you here.'

Anger and bitterness flared up then, and Bergil found himself on his feet, shouting, hands tightly fisted. 'What kind of a King would put you to death for saving Faramir?' 

'Bergil!' the voice of his father cracked like a whip, and he winced, half-expecting a blow, though Beregond was not one to strike his son. 'I will not hear that kind of talk! The King is a wise man and fair. I have heard of the judgments he has already handed out. But there is a law, and he is sworn to uphold it. He will do what is right.' 

Beregond gazed compassionately at his son, so tall for his age. Surely he would grow to be a tall man like his father, and his father's father before him. He added gently, 'Can I do any less?'

The boy bowed his head in silent defeat, then threw his head back again, not willing to admit that this was what must be. 'But, why?' he wrenched out. His father knew everything; he’d always known the answers to every question Bergil had ever thought to ask. Yet this question could not have an answer... could it?

Beregond blinked—could he be blinking away tears? Bergil’s strong guardsman-father? He smiled again, though his face was strained. Yes, he had an answer for this last question of his son’s. 'We all have choices we must make in this life, Bergil. When the time came, I had to choose between my own life and that of my Captain. If I could go back and change what I did... well, I would not. How could I choose to let Faramir die if it was in my power to save him? How would I live with that choice? There are times when we must choose to do the right thing, no matter the consequences. I hope that I have taught you that at least. I am sorry I will not be able to teach you more.'

'Oh, Father...'

'My one regret is leaving you, Bergil. You, your brother... Leaving those I love.' Beregond's eyes met Gilwyn's, and then returned to hold his son's gaze. 'Promise me you will seek to live well, to choose rightly, to walk with honour as I have tried to teach you.'

'I... promise.' Unable to bear any more, the boy buried his face in his hands. Beregond rose from his seat and went around the table to him.

Bergil rose and turned to embrace his father fiercely, and Beregond held him tightly with his one good arm. He nodded to Gilwyn, and she came to hug the lad from his other side.

They clung together for a long time. Fargil crept into the room and joined the sorrowful embrace.

Bergil wept until he had no tears left.

Chapter 8. Duty

If men had let their duty go,
The Dark would have taken Gondor long ago...

(from a lullaby of Gondor)

Though he was a great boy of ten, when he had spent all his tears his father lifted him as he would have years ago, and carried him to his bed. There Beregond laid Bergil down, and though Bergil clung fiercely to his father, Beregond gently disengaged his son’s fingers after a long embrace and eased him onto the pillow.

As Bergil lay, limp in defeat, he felt his shoes removed and the bedcovers pulled over his dusty clothes. He heard a murmured question from Gilwyn, and his father answered, 'I will stay with him until he sleeps.' He turned towards the wall and clenched his fists. He would show them! He would stay awake! He wouldn't sleep.

His father's warm hand rubbed his back, and Beregond's deep voice began to croon an old children's lullaby,

Gil-galad and Elendil
Marched their armies up the hill
To meet the Dark Lord face to face,
And cast him down from his high place.

Bergil's eyes stung. His father had cosseted him this way when he was small, after his mother died, when the nightmares wouldn't let him sleep. He lay stiff and unmoving. He was going to stay awake.

The thunder boomed and the lightning crashed
As on the battlefield the armies clashed...

The song went on, verse after verse. It occurred to him that he had never heard this much of it before. He’d had no idea there were so many verses. When he was younger he must have fallen asleep halfway through the song.

Despite himself he felt his body relaxing under his father's soothing hand. He fought sleep, but a fog seemed to be rising to envelop him. Dimly he heard the finish of the song...

...If men would let their duty go
The Dark would have taken Gondor long ago...

He didn't even feel his father get up again from the bed.

***

The next morning dawned bright. Too bright. It should be a day of grey, and drizzle, or black cloud, or thunder. Bergil lay abed a long while, listening to the city bells chime out the passing of time. Finally he could lie no more, so he arose, still in yesterday's dusty clothes, splashed his face with cold water still in the bowl, evidently Fargil’s, and went to the kitchen.

Gilwyn and Fargil sat silently at the table. Gilwyn's fingers circled a cup sitting on the table, but the tea was gone long cold. She was once again wearing mourning. Fargil's head was down on his arms on the table, and Gilwyn's other hand soothed his back.

At the sound of Bergil’s foot, she looked up. Her eyes were swollen but dry. 'I must go soon to claim... the body,' she said clearly.

'I will come too.'

She shook her head. 'No, Bergil.'

'It is my right. He is my father. And I am not a child. I stayed behind when the children were carted off, remember? I did a man's work.'

She smiled.

'And father told me... whenever he left to go on duty, he told me to take care of you and Fargil.'

Fargil straightened defiantly. 'I don't need anyone taking care of me!'

Gilwyn's fingers soothed his shoulder. 'No, lad. I suppose I have good fortune, having two great lads to take care of me.' Bergil saw her face twist, but she regained control and did not weep.

'Who will speak at the memorial?' Bergil asked. It did not seem the right time, but there was no more time. This was the day. The sun was approaching its highest point, the traditional time for... he did not want to finish the thought.

'Oh, Targon, I suppose. They were ever side by side. I don't know if the Perian will be well enough. The news was kept from him, he had been so ill, and it may be too much of a shock. I hope that Faramir, as his Captain, will say a few words.'

'He ought...' Bergil muttered, but seeing the pain in his aunt's eyes he did not continue.

She rose abruptly from the table. 'Come, let us go then. It is time.'

***

People averted their eyes as the little trio walked through the streets. Gilwyn walked with her head high, and out of sympathy no one spoke to her, or to the boys, though men removed their hats as the mourners passed, and women nodded soberly before turning swiftly away.

They waited in the little garden set aside for families to receive the bodies of their dead, to take them to the final resting place. Birds sang, a spring breeze blew, the day promised to be fair.

Bergil stood straight. He would be strong. He had promised his father. A soldier did what he must do, and he did it with honour and courage.

Four small figures entered the garden, two supporting one as they walked and the fourth hovering solicitously. When he saw Gilwyn, Pippin shook off his cousins’ helping hands and straightened, though he hugged his chest a moment as if pain lingered there before he dropped his arms to his sides, to stand as proud as any of the Citadel guard. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Gilwyn's face was pale but calm. 'He didn't want you to know,' she said softly. 'He set great stock by your friendship. He would do nothing to jeopardize your recovery.'

'Can we do anything?' Frodo asked.

She shook her head and tried to smile. 'You can wait with us. You can honour his memory.' Her voice broke, and she turned away for a moment to compose herself.

Bergil slipped an arm about her waist and faced the hobbits. 'Thank you for coming,' he said soberly. It was his place, as head of the family. He’d be head of the family soon enough.

The stones of the City seemed remote and freezing beneath his feet, and he could barely bear to stand here. He wanted to run, run far and fast, as when he’d run messages, but there was no escape. No Rohirrim would come over the plain to save them from disaster this time. They would leave Minas Tirith. His father had spoken truth, as he always did. There would be nothing for them here, after this.

Gilwyn took Bergil's hand, and reached past Fargil, clinging to her other side, to hold out her other hand to Pippin. The four walked together to the little fountain and stood watching the water cascade into the bowl in a never-ending stream. The water sparkled in the sunlight and tinkled with soothing music. Bergil thought to himself he’d never find the sound of running water a comfort again. He tried then to think of something, anything else, other than what was transpiring at that moment in the Hall of Kings.

They’d go to Lossarnach, he thought disjointedly, or Ithilien. He’d heard much of Ithilien from the Halflings, and from his father...

A silver trumpet rang out above the City, and the mourners stiffened. They heard a great shout as if an entire Company of guardsmen raised their voices as one, but Gilwyn said only, 'His comrades honour his passing.'

Bergil bowed his head, fighting tears. There would be time for weeping, in private, when business had been taken care of. He was the head of the family now, and must put boyish things aside.

Fargil, younger by several years, wept openly and was gathered into his mother’s embrace.

Pippin stood with them, straight, soldierly, though he, too blinked away tears. The other Hobbits stood nearby, uncertain.

It was not long before they heard the sound of a cadence call and booted feet marching in the street outside the garden. They heard the company called to a halt. Gilwyn straightened and turned to the gate, her arm around Fargil. Bergil took a deep breath. It was time to claim his father’s body.

Targon, his father’s oldest friend, entered alone, and the mourners walked to meet him. The grizzled guardsman held out his hands to Gilwyn. 'The King's justice has been done,' he said flatly, and she nodded.

Bergil found he could still breathe, if he breathed shallowly. He forced himself to look up into Targon’s face, as Targon looked intently into Gilwyn’s eyes. 'The verdict was not death,' Targon said.

Bergil felt as if a fist had suddenly buried itself in his middle. Not death! But...

He heard Gilwyn catch her breath, heard her demand with horror in her tone, 'Exile?'

His hands tightened to fists as he thought of it. Exile... to be cast ceremoniously out of the City in shame and disgrace. He had heard his father talk on the subject: to Beregond this fate was worse than quick death by sword. The boy straightened defiantly. He would walk proudly at his father’s side as they were escorted out of the Gate, and he’d never look back at the White City to see her shining in the sun in all her glory. She would remain forever at his back, forever tainted with the shadow of injustice.

Targon shook his head, and to their wondering eyes, began to smile. 'No, lass, not exile. The King has shown justice, and mercy, and infinite wisdom.' He turned, and behind him they saw Beregond walk into the garden. Gilwyn gasped, broke free of Targon, ran to Beregond. Bergil stood as if turned to stone, staring.

Beregond smiled down at Gilwyn. 'I told Targon to break it to you gently,' he said. 'I didn't want it to be too much of a shock to you, when we all expected the worst.' The sound of his father’s voice released Bergil from thrall, and he stumbled forward, Fargil following.

'By rights...' Gilwyn said.

'By rights, I'd be dead now,' Beregond said. 'By justice... I am appointed Captain of the White Company of Ithilien, guard to Faramir, prince.' He held his arms open, and Bergil, Fargil and Gilwyn hugged him all at once in a glad throng. He looked past them to Pippin. 'Well, Master Perian,' he said. 'It seems our friendship has not been cut short after all.'

'Beregond...' Pippin murmured. 'I don't know what to say.'

'You, speechless?' Beregond laughed. 'This is an historic occasion!' He gave a last hug to his family, then gently shook them free. 'Come, let us leave this place,' he said. 'We don't belong here.' He looked at Pippin. 'Master Perian, are you still sick of celebrations, as I heard you say the other day?'

'No, I think I could manage one more,' Pippin answered.

The guardsman grinned. 'Good. We have something to celebrate after all.' His gaze encompassed the other hobbits. 'Bring your friends, we'll show them how we guardsmen make merry.'

The tears he’d so manfully suppressed were running down Bergil’s cheeks as his father turned to hug him once more. He ran his sleeve across his eyes and straightened. ‘All is well, sir,’ he said smartly, bringing his heels together and lifting his chin. All is well. It was the standard reply of a guardsman on watch to the man relieving him. To his astonishment, he saw tears on his father’s face.

 ‘All is well, indeed,’ Beregond answered huskily, and he held his son a long time, a long time indeed, before he released him.

Bergil closed his eyes briefly as his father’s arm settled on his shoulder, a feeling he thought he’d never know again. His arm went around his father’s waist and he held tight, and then he felt Gilwyn’s arm rest on his own even as she drew her own son close on her other side. The Halflings fell in behind them as they walked slowly to the little gate, where Beregond’s company waited to raise another cheer.

They emerged into a grand jumble of congratulations. Finally the entire mass began to move slowly down the City towards the Second Circle, spreading the joyous news as they went. Citizens waiting at the sides of the street to honour Beregond in his last journey saw him walking at the head of the procession, surrounded by his family, and raised a cheer.

King Elessar, standing at the top of the City with Prince Faramir, followed the guardsmen’s progress down the circles of the City by the sound, knowing when the parade had reached the Second Circle and Beregond’s house at last by the resulting roar of the guardsman’s friends and neighbours. Those who’d waited to drink to his memory now stayed to drink to his reprieve and promotion.

‘Let the celebration begin,’ Faramir said.

Elessar smiled and answered. ‘There is much to celebrate.’