Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, some of the dialogue isn't mine, the settings are not mine, but I do like to work with them to come up with new designs and patterns.

I have been bothered for a long time by Beregond's hearing in "The Steward and the King" (The Return of the King). That pause, after Elessar pronounces judgment... I just couldn't see any good reason for it. Surely a Man of Aragorn's character would hardly keep Beregond hanging... and yet the way it reads, he did. How to explain it?

Not to digress, but that is a part of the background of this story, and the other part is this:

Awhile ago I started reading, with fascination, a series of gems, pieces of a story written by Rabidsamfan on that author's LJ. The story was called "The Errand Lad", and featured Bergil, Beregond's son, serving the hobbits in the days between the Coronation of King Elessar, and the trial of Bergil's father Beregond.

I quickly became hooked.

"The Errand Lad" is still a WIP, but well worth the read. RSF has a way with characters and descriptions and plot points and nuances. I keep hoping for more. Think good thoughts.

Lately RSF was looking for some Samfic. I cast about in the depths of my brain, coming out of a long desert stretch when I hadn't been able to write anything at all, and all of a sudden Sam popped up out of nowhere. And so this story was written, hastily because there was a deadline of sorts, but written all the same.

The final section of this story draws heavily (what information there is, anyhow) from "The Steward and the King" in The Return of the King and incorporates direct quotes. There is also material from "LifeWatch" and "Choices", both of which are undergoing editing and are not available on www.storiesofarda.com. (Once more, think good thoughts, if you wouldn't mind.)

I only realised recently that Beregond waited less than a week from the Coronation to his hearing. From the description in "The Steward and the King" it sounds as if Elessar might have been hearing cases and meeting with dignitaries and bestowing rewards for weeks, but the Coronation was on the first of May and the Rohirrim left on the eighth, after Beregond's hearing. So it was a little over seven* weeks from Beregond's "treason" to his hearing.

I have taken a small liberty with the original text, in the recounting of Beregond's hearing before the King, inserting a pause where there is none implied (though that does not mean that there was no pause--a passage can be read quickly or slowly and in different voices and only if the author reads it aloud does it reflect his desired shade of meaning, and even that can change over time), and also inferring that Faramir's reward, though mentioned after Beregond's hearing, might well have been bestowed beforehand. After all, it does say that Beregond came before the King "last of all", and JRRT does depart from his chronological telling in other places, most notably (to me, anyhow) in "The Scouring of the Shire" where his retelling does not follow in a straight line, chronologically speaking.

"Ansell" (who is mentioned briefly) is a character in rabidsamfan's "The Errand Lad", the first part of which may be found at http://rabidsamfan.livejournal.com/149289.html
Also taken from that story is the idea that Bergil was one of those chosen to run errands for the Ring-bearer and his companions, and that Elessar ran across Bergil after the lad had been weeping.

The description of the Hall of the Kings comes from the chapter "Minas Tirith" and Elessar's raiment during the trial is straight out of "The Steward and the King". As already mentioned, several speeches are taken word-for-word from that chapter as well, as are Beregond's reactions to what the King has to say. All the rest woven around that scene comes out of my imagination.

I don't know if Pippin will know of the date of Beregond's trial or not, in "The Errand Lad", as that story has not yet progressed that far, so I have written this to agree with "LifeWatch", in which Frodo and Merry have kept the knowledge from Pippin by Beregond's request.

(And thanks to Dana for speculating as to where Beregond's younger son, Borlas, might be during the events of ROTK. Borlas is mentioned in "Peoples of Middle-earth" but nowhere in ROTK.)

*Thanks to the alert reader who caught the math error in my recent calculations for this story. When I first started writing fanfic, I started with Beregond's story, for he fascinated me. I had done the math right at that time, but when revisiting the period for this story I left an entire month out of my calculations. Math has never been my strong point, and add to that an adverse reaction to some OTC medication and... it's a wonder that my brain works at all.

Chapter 1. For All the Good It Would Do 

The way was steep and dark and he was weary, but he'd walked a steeper slope, aye, and darker still.

The stairs of Men are not made for hobbit feet, and Sam felt as if he were in a tale of Mr. Pippin's, when the latter had told of being just a little lad, climbing the steps at the Great Smials, the ones that led to the Great Door, and having to stretch his short legs to match his father's grownup stride. But he was no hobbit-child, on his way to an aunt's birthday party, and his was no light task.

In the light of the torches his shadow preceded him, tall as a man of Gondor, bringing his thoughts unpleasantly to memories of another place, another time not yet distant enough in the past, so far as he was concerned. At the landing there was a clash of arms and a soft challenge, but as shadow gave way to its owner, the Citadel guardsmen relaxed, bringing their spears once more to the rest from their crossed and inhospitable state.

'O it is you, sir,' one of them said, bowing his head in reverent salute. The King had left strict orders that he was not to be disturbed... but then again, he'd left strict orders that any member of the Company of Nine Walkers was to have immediate access. That this was the Ring-bearer's companion, himself Ring-bearer for a short time, cleared every doubt from the guardsman's mind.

Sam blushed, still not used to the deference of tall and noble men. 'I've come to see Stri--' he said, catching himself in time, 'King Elessar, and they told me I'd find him here, in the Tower.'

'The hour is very late,' the second guard said, as if to turn the hobbit aside. 'If you have a message for my Lord, sir, I will be happy to convey it to him when he comes down...'

But the gardener had met greater opposition in the past, and not been turned aside. 'This is the sort of message that doesn't take to being conveyed,' he said, and seeing the second guard set to persuade him he held up a commanding hand, much as if the tall men were young hobbit neighbours wanting to sample the strawberries he was carrying to Bag End. 'I know it's very late, but dark hours are suited to dark business, or so they say.'

The guards exchanged glances. The King, it was true, had mounted the stairs earlier in the evening, after the business of the day was concluded, on his way to the chamber at the top of the Tower, where it was said the Lord Denethor had wrestled with the Dark Lord, and been conquered by despair. Anborn, the first guardsman, himself had seen the light flashing from the high window on one such occasion.

It was evident to him that the Halfling would not be turned aside. 'As you wish, sir,' he said, and hesitated before adding, '...only I say to you this: knock upon the door, and if there is no answer, then come down again.'

'Far be it from me to disturb the snores o' the King,' Sam said amiably. He knew about the Stone of Seeing, of course, from the tales the hobbits had shared in the days after their awakening, but if the guardsmen weren't going to mention it, well then, neither would he. The thought crossed his mind that he wouldn't mind a look in the Palantir, if it would give him a glimpse of gaffer and home, but then he thought of what he'd seen in the Lady's Mirror, and shivered.

'Cold is the night,' Anborn said. 'Methinks there is a touch of frost in the air, even this late in the Spring.'

'Good for the slugs,' Sam said, 'or bad for them, which is good for the garden, or so they say back home. But that is neither here nor there,' he added. He'd caught his breath in the little space of time upon the landing, and though his legs ached fiercely he was ready to tackle the last of the climb. 'I bid you good evening... or morning, more like,' he said with a nod.

The guardsmen, seeing his determination, returned the sentiment and then became as statues once more, guarding the peace of the King.

For all the good it would do. Samwise, toiling up the steps, was determined to do what he could to spoil that peace, shake things up as it were, give Strider a good talking to such as the man deserved, if idle talk could be believed.

Certainly the people of Minas Tirith were rejoicing in their new-crowned King. Certainly the talk was hopeful, and cheerful, for the most part. The King was wise in his judgments, and fair and just, they said. He'd brought Gondor through; he'd brought Middle-earth through, and the future shone glorious on the horizon.

But there were some things not to be stood, in Sam's mind, and while Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry had said there was nothing to be done, still, Sam could not stand by, silent, and let things take their course.

No, he'd taken this task upon himself, and he vowed to see it through, even though it did not concern him directly.

Come to think of it, the Ring had not concerned him directly--at least it hadn't seemed to, in the beginning--but he'd vowed to see that through, if you take my meaning, and so he had.

Chapter 2. (Not to) Let Sleeping Kings Lie

It was the snores as decided him. He'd hesitated a moment before the door, reached up to take the heavy iron ring in his hand, stood still as he felt the vibrations of the sounds coming from the little tower room. He'd never heard Strider snoring, not one night of that long journey, but then he doubted the Ranger had slept deeply at all, not even when Legolas with his Elvish sight and hearing took the watch.

Now with the world won, high in the highest room of the Citadel, with several pairs of guards between himself and the rest of Middle-earth, it seemed that Strider had given himself up to sawing logs at last.

He might have done in his proper bed, Sam thought, but perhaps a proper bed was still a bit foreign to such a one as had become King. Come to think of it, Sam himself had a proper bed that he wasn't in at the moment, or at least something more like a proper bed than he'd had in months. O' course he'd not slept all that well, not until Gandalf noticed and had them saw the legs off the hobbits' beds. Tall as Sam's bed had been to start with, it had been near as bad as going upstairs to bed. Be that as it may, Sam's bed was going wanting this night.

He pulled at the ring, a good hard pull, rather than knocking. As he'd said, he was not one to disturb the snores of a King, not even if the King were Strider. No, he'd go in and wait. Likely Strider wouldn't sleep long--from the sound of the snoring he'd wake himself up sooner than later, from the noise alone.

The door didn't budge, however. Too heavy, was it? Sam gave another, determined pull. He'd been strong enough to carry Mr. Frodo up that dratted Mountain, after all. He was strong enough to open a door, though it be heavy wood and shod in iron.

He stopped to consider. Could the door be bolted on the inside? Fancy a King bolting a door in his own Citadel!

It was only when he'd raised his fist to knock, snores or no snores, that he noticed. The hinges were not on this side of the door. Sam, you witless wonder! he muttered to himself, one of the Gaffer's rarer endearments, and taking a deep breath, he pushed with all his might.

Turned out, he didn't need to use all his might. The door swung easily, finely hung as it was on its polished hinges, not rusty at all, not like doors in other places Sam didn't want to think about, and he nearly ended in the lap of the man snoring there, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall.

The room was small, and spare. There was a thick but faded rug on the floor, woven in intricate patterns and soft under Sam's feet, something of a relief after all those cold stone steps. A heavy chair carved of dark wood stood next to a three-footed table carved to match. For all its fancy carving, the chair looked about as comfortable and hospitable as the thought of sleeping in a mail shirt. On the table, under a thick cloth, Sam could discern a round shape--but he was no peeping Pippin, to be drawn by the sight.

No, his business was with the man before him. He'd known Strider was tired; my word, but they'd all been weary, healing sleep or no healing sleep, what with the festivities after the Coronation, but for Strider it had been worse. Ever since the Coronation there'd been little or no peace for the man. There'd been this banquet and that important meeting with dignitaries from Harad and Far Harad and other places whose outlandish names didn't stick in Sam's simple head, and Strider had sat on the great throne in the Hall of Kings and pronounced his judgments, one after the other, all hailed as wise and fair; and many were brought before him to receive his praise and reward for their valour, many men of the City among them. It made Sam's head ache just to think of it all, the many decisions wrought and fair words spoken, and all written down by the scribes to be stowed away in that great Hall of Records, as if they didn't have more writings there than anyone could read in an hundred lifetimes!

Well, maybe an Elf. But Elves were more given to singing than reading, or so Sam had gathered in his time in Rivendell.

But that's neither here nor there, he muttered, and was rewarded by the sight of Strider stopping mid-snore to roll to his feet, knife in hand. Old habits die hard, and some are deeper engrained than others.

Truth be told, the King looked a mite sheepish, beholding the hobbit standing before him, and he slipped the knife quickly back into its hidden sheath and tugged at his velvet overshirt to straighten it. Silks and velvets as he wore now, but the face was the same face that Sam had known, and the eyes, blinked clear of sleep, were as keen.

'Samwise? What are you doing here...' swift glance at the stars peeping in at the high window 'at this time of night?'

'I might ask the same of you,' Sam said, planting his fists on his hips and craning his head back to meet the King's glance, eye-to-eye. 'Don't you belong in a bed?'

The man settled to the floor, to be on a level with the gardener, for all the world as if he sat by a campfire in the middle of the Wild. 'Did you come up here to scold me to my rest?' he said, quirking one eyebrow.

'I have bigger fish to fry,' Sam said, advancing on the King. It was left to him, after all.

Mr. Pippin was asleep, for they'd not told him, and Gandalf had spun stories until the lad nodded off, and then carried him to his bed. The previous day had been a day of rain and wind, and they could tell the weather had made the young hobbit's ribs ache--he'd not slept at all the previous night, or so Sam suspected, and so it was not such a surprise that he dropped off fairly quickly this night, with the hearth crackling its comfort and a glass of hot milk and Gandalf droning on.

They'd discussed the matter then, and Mr. Frodo had been sorrowful and Mr. Merry angry--no, more like he was frustrated. It appeared he'd already talked to Strider about the matter, some days past, and been put off. Sam had been with Mr. Frodo when the latter had spoken to Strider, and to Captain Faramir. It had been handy, finding the King and his Steward together in the King's study. Kill two birds with one cast of a stone, as they say in the Shire, but in the end it made no difference. The laws of Gondor might as well have been chiselled in that same stone, only instead of birds it was the life of a man they were discussing.

Sam refused to believe there was nothing to be done. Innocent life hung in the balance! Well, perhaps not quite innocent, but still the life of a man who'd tried to do right in a situation where every choice was fraught with wrong.

Anyhow, Mr. Merry had taken to kneading his right hand with his left as they talked the matter over, and when Mr. Frodo had noticed, and taken note as well of his cousin's whitening countenance, he'd put his foot down (in a manner of speaking) and marched Mr. Merry off to bed, leaving Sam to sit by the fire and stew.

He'd turned the matter over as best he could, what with being such a simple fellow and a ninnyhammer into the bargain, but he wasn't so wise and understanding as his betters and he simply could not let the matter go. The fire had burned down to coals, and then fallen to ash, and he'd sat there staring like a stone troll, until finally he could stand it no longer; and bringing his hands down upon his knees with a slap he'd risen from his low stool and gone in search of Mr. Frodo, to try and move him to take up the argument again. Surely the King and the people of Gondor would grant the Ring-bearer any boon, even this one, if only Mr. Frodo could be persuaded that it was righter to go against the long-established laws of Men than simply to sit back and let Strider be King.

But he found Mr. Frodo asleep, sitting there beside Mr. Merry, holding his cousin's hand, his head tilted back as if he'd dropped off mid-song while soothing his cousin to his rest. Sam had pulled the coverlet up over Mr. Merry and drawn a blanket about Mr. Frodo and added wood to the fire on the bedroom hearth, to warm them both, and then he'd peeped in at Mr. Pippin, by whose side Gandalf sat, smoking his pipe and evidently deep in thought.

But the black eyes sharpened as Sam peered around the doorframe, and the shaggy white head gave the merest nod.

It was up to Samwise.

Chapter 3. A Fate Worse than Death

Now that Sam had Strider where he wanted him, he was rather at a loss as to what to do with the man.

'Well then,' he said experimentally, wondering if more words would come. Sort of like the way the beans sprout, one time you look at them and there's nothing to see, and suddenly you notice a little bit o' green poking above the soil, and the next thing you know the bean plants is nigh on knee high and growing fast.

But his "well then" wasn't worth beans, so far as a conversation starter. And Strider was no help, sitting there looking polite, with that listening expression on his face.

'Be that as it may,' Sam added in explanation, but no more words came and the King's slightly puzzled expression didn't clear.

He tried again. 'But that's neither here nor there.'

'It certainly is not,' Strider agreed with him. 'What is this all about, Sam?'

Sam planted his hands on his hips once more and glowered at the thick-skulled man. 'That's what I'm tryin' to tell you, if you'd only not interrupt me just when I'm getting to the gist!'

'I beg your pardon,' the King said humbly, and waited.

'Begging your pardon, sir,' Sam echoed, and then he took his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his forehead. This was heavy going, and no mistake!

He straightened up. The dawning would be here soon, and doom, and it was his lot to try to set things right. 'It's not right,' he said, groping for the right words, '...not... fair,' and shook his head, for no, that wasn't the word he wanted. Life's not fair, he could hear old Hamfast say in the back of his mind, and if you're gonna sit around on your duff waiting for "fair" you'll gather more moss than a millpond!

It was one of those sayings of his father's that had never quite made sense to Sam, but he'd got the gist.

Gist...

'Not... just,' he said, finding the word he wanted with a sigh of relief.

'Not just what?' the King said reasonably.

Samwise lost his temper altogether. 'Not just to take a man's life for his saving a life!' he snapped, and then he rolled his eyes at himself and shook his head again, fool of a hobbit, but then the man was a King and oughter know better, he ought!

'Justice?' Elessar said, the light dawning.

Samwise suppressed a sigh of exasperation, as best he could. He must make allowances, he supposed, for the man's being too tired to see straight. 'Not just,' he agreed. 'Young Bergil's been waiting, and hoping, and... and waiting, if you must know, through all these hearings you've been having, and hearing how wise and fair your judgments, how just, and now the talk's gone about that you'll hear the last case tomorr--this day,' he corrected himself hastily, for the stars framed in the high window were dimming already. 'And that you'll take Captain Beregond's life, in punishment for saving Captain Faramir's! What sort of sense does that make?' This was an awfully long speech for the gardener to make, but the spectre of Bergil's stricken face rose before his eyes, and his voice grew stronger and more certain as he reached the awful conclusion.

'No,' the King said, and something like pity, mingled with regret, came into his eyes. 'Not in punishment.'

'Surely sounds like a punishment to me,' Sam said truculently, and he swallowed bile at the thoughts he was thinking. Nevertheless, he forced out the words. 'Hanging a man by the neck until he's dead, that's no walk amongst the roses!'

'He won't be hanged,' the King said, stiffening, and then forcing his muscles to relax once more. 'I've promised him a soldier's death, at least. He'll be put to the sword, a swift and honourable passing.'

'Whether you put his head in the noose or strike it off with a sword, it's all the same in the end,' Sam said, and right glad he was of his empty stomach, which was rather trying to tie itself into knots at the topic of conversation. 'What makes Men better than filthy Orcs?'

The King's lips tightened to a thin line, and his eyes flashed. 'There is a great deal of difference,' he said, gritting his teeth, 'as you, yourself, have found.'

'I don't know; I might be having a second thought about the matter,' Sam said, refusing to retreat. 'And maybe it's not such a good thing that the Stewards have given way; Captain Faramir showed his quality, he did, when he had us at his mercy in that waterfall place...' he stumbled over the name, 'Hen... Henneth Annun,' he said at last in triumph. 'And so I'd like to know, where's yours?'

'My quality?' the King said in astonishment.

'Your mercy!' Sam said. 'Do I have to say everything twice?' He began to understand some of his old gaffer's frustration at having to repeat himself when he'd given instructions and Sam's thoughts had been wandering down strange paths, seeking after Elves and other wonders.

'Mercy...' the King grated, and he lifted his hands and held them before the hobbit. 'You asked what makes us better than filthy Orcs.'

Sam nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

'Laws,' Elessar said at last. 'We have laws that bind us to our honour, laws that govern the way we live our lives, laws that establish order, yes, and fairness. Choices have consequences, and it is better if those consequences are set out by laws, that the King and Council be not capricious in their judgments. Orcs...'

Sam waited.

'Orcs have only might, and fear,' Elessar went on. 'They deal out death without any regard for life. The weaker obey the stronger, out of fear, their only aim to preserve their own miserable lives, and their only pleasure in destruction and pain--others' pain.'

Sam nodded. It seemed there was no need, at the moment, for him to contribute to the conversation.

'I take no pleasure in dealing out death,' Elessar continued quietly. 'Not even the deaths of such foul creatures as Orcs, for I remember what they once were. Beregond...'

And Samwise looked up at the apparent change of subject.

'Beregond knew the consequences of his actions,' Elessar said. His look grew far away, as if he were remembering something from years past. 'When love is not enough to keep a soldier at his post, when fear threatens to overwhelm him, then a greater fear may keep him, and turn the tide of battle.'

Sam, his eyes locked on the man's, shook his head slightly.

Elessar smiled, but it wasn't a smile, not really. 'Long has the law been established in Gondor,' he said softly, 'that it is death for a soldier to leave his assigned post, unless relieved or released. Beregond left his post, and his life is forfeit.'

'To save Captain Faramir,' Sam said stubbornly.

'His sword spilled blood in the Hallows, where that is forbidden, and of old, death was the penalty.'

'Of old...!' Sam protested. 'But Gondor's got a new King! Can't you...?'

Elessar was shaking his head. 'What if...' the man said. 'What if every time a new Mayor is elected in the Shire, he throws out all the tradition he doesn't like and tells everyone else how to live their lives? What would the Shire-folk do?'

'They'd throw him out on his ear, and rightly so!' Samwise said, and only then did the meaning of his words strike home to his heart. 'But this is not the same thing at all!'

'Is it not?' Elessar said.

'Is there no other way?' the hobbit cried desperately. Surely he was making things worse, rather than better, as if he were tying the rope around the doomed man's neck with his own hands. Or lifting Sting for the stroke... and then, at a flash of expression in the King's eyes, he grasped like a drowning hobbit at the slightest of hopes. 'What is it?' he said. 'There is another way?'

'There is,' the King said, slowly and reluctantly.

'Then you can save Captain Beregond!' Sam said. Beregond was not strictly a Captain. He'd been a plain man at arms, in the Guard, but after his "treason" he'd been barred from serving until his case was heard. Being a soldier, he'd been the logical choice to lead a company of men of the City to the battle that was Aragorn's last desperate attempt to draw the Dark Lord's attention from Frodo's near-hopeless journey.

The man had given up on his attempt to get Sam to call him by his name only, however, and submitted to the epithet with grace and not a little humour, grim though it might be.

'No,' the King said regretfully. 'No, it would not be a matter of saving him. More like going from the frying pan into the fire.'

'I don't follow you,' Sam said, sitting himself down with a sigh. At best he could envision keeping the King occupied in talk until the time of the hearing... perhaps if Elessar were to miss the appointed time, Beregond would be granted one more day of life before being torn from his family.

'Exile,' Elessar said shortly. 'Being publicly marched out of the City in disgrace, forced to kneel before the gates, a proclamation read over your head, declaring your banishment, while your family and all the people of the City look on.'

'Exile,' Sam echoed with a sinking heart. He tried to imagine himself leaving the Shire, never to return, and couldn't. Throughout this whole long and weary business, his heart had yearned ever homeward. Only his love for his master had kept him on course.

And that thought kindled a sudden dim light into the back of Sam's head, that flared suddenly brighter in understanding, and the beginning of hope.

Chapter 4. All Tied Up and Nowhere to Go

'My hands are tied in this matter,' Elessar said, raising his hands from where they had drooped, wearily, in the discussion, and bringing them together as if in truth as well as by word his wrists were bound together. 'The law leaves me no choice in the matter: death or exile, and to a man of such honour as Beregond has proven himself, death would be the quicker and more merciful end.' He let his hands fall to his lap, lax, strangely impotent, palms turned upward as if in silent entreaty, as if he wrestled with this very dilemma, sought some equitable answer, and not for the first time.

'Merciful!' was forced out of Sam, and, 'So you say, but I wonder what Captain Beregond would have to say about the matter. Would he not want to spare those who love him the pain of that parting--when they could just as well go with him, if he had to leave the City. Why, I'd follow my old gaffer anywhere he wanted to go...'

And Sam's mouth twisted in a wry and humourless grin, for that was a safe bet. Hamfast was as bound to home as his name implied. It would kill him to have to leave Number Three, Bagshot Row, where he'd brought his new bride, where his children had been born, where he'd held his wife's hand as illness took her, where he maintained her garden in loving memory...

For the first time, albeit unwillingly, he felt the stirrings of doubt.

'Beregond did indeed have something to say about the matter,' Elessar said, turning his empty palms downward and laying them gently upon his knees.

Sam nodded for him to go on.

However, the King hesitated. It was a private matter, closely held and only himself, Faramir, and Beregond in the knowing. Yet he divined that Samwise was here in great part on Frodo's behalf, Frodo, whose hand like Bilbo's before him had been stayed by pity. Yet Frodo also drew back from laying a burden of obligation upon the people of Gondor and their new King, understanding somehow the fine line that Aragorn must trace, the narrow path he must tread, to establish his rule over the land in the hearts of his people, and with posterity in mind.

But staring into the honest brown eyes before him, he said at last, 'While you and Frodo were under the Eye, as small insects beneath his notice though he could crush you with a shaft of thought, crawling ever closer, the Captains of the West determined that we should draw his attention out of his own land, in...'

'I know,' Samwise broke in. 'It was all in that song the minstrel sang. He told how you all marched to the Black Gate to gain us time, and some measure of safety.' The wry twist returned to his mouth briefly, to grace the final word.

'After the decision was made, and the day before the armies were to march, Faramir came to me.'

Sam blinked a little. He wasn't sure what all this had to do with Beregond.

'Faramir, you see, offered to hear Beregond's case himself, after the army marched away, when none would question his authority to do so, with myself out of the City. He was of a mind to save the man, understandably...'

Sam snorted softly at this, and the King smiled for a brief instant of time before falling sober once more.

'And I agreed that if Faramir was of a mind to do this thing, I would not censure him for it on my return... should I return. We knew not, of course, if there was any possibility of victory at that point. It was a last, desperate gamble in a game where the odds were heavily against us. But it was all we could do.' He sighed. 'In any event, Faramir offered Beregond the choice of exile, and to be allowed to take his family with him, something uncommon, I assure you.'

'Uncommon!' Sam said, startled into speech.

'Cast out of the City, to be a homeless wanderer ever after, with every man's hand against you,' Elessar intoned, and Sam had the feeling he was repeating words he'd heard in some distant past.

'You...' Sam said, a question in his voice.

'Long ago, under another name, I was in the crowd of onlookers,' Elessar said. 'It is a sentence that never shall I lightly administer, nor even consider, ever after.' Indeed, he had known the life of a homeless wanderer, with every man's hand against him, and yet he'd always had hope before him, unlike the wretch whose expelling from Minas Tirith he'd witnessed, all unwilling. Unlike Beregond, should he grant the man exile instead of swift and merciful death.

'So he could leave, and take his family with him, and begin again somewhere else,' Sam said eagerly. 'In the Northlands, perhaps; there's plenty of land waiting there, good land, just waiting for the plough...'

The King's mouth tightened, and the hobbit's voice trailed off uncertainly. There was a short silence.

At last, Elessar said, 'Beregond earnestly persuaded Faramir that he had no wish to drag his family down with him in disgrace. He wanted a chance for his sons to grow to adulthood with their honour intact...'

Sam blinked again, but nodded for the man to continue.

'Faramir came to me once more, to ask me to grant the man a boon, for the sake of the life he owed Beregond, and when I heard it I agreed to hear his plea.'

'His plea...' Sam echoed.

'Beregond asked to join the armies of the West, to go to the Black Gate. He knew how hopeless was the cause. He asked to stand in the front rank of the battle, where the fighting was sure to be most desperate, and he vowed to give a good accounting of himself before he was cut down.'

'Cut down...!' Sam said. 'I've never heard such foolishness in my life! In the thick of it...!'

'Yes,' Elessar said, holding the hobbit's gaze. 'By his request, "in the thick of it". He wished to march to the battle, so badly that he offered to carry a burden and walk amongst the pack beasts if he could not be a soldier.'

'But Gandalf had set him to serve Captain Faramir,' Sam said. 'Whichwise is what I thought was what he was aiming to do all along, saving his life as he did. Why would he choose to leave his Captain then, and march away to battle, if he expected to be cut down and...?' His voice faltered again, and his breath came shallowly as he read the truth in the King's eyes.

He'd thought of such himself, after all, when Frodo had lain still and cold in Shelob's lair, and it seemed all was lost and nothing mattered anymore. There had been steep drops, and cold steel in his hand, and Orcs not far away, any number of possibilities. But in the end he'd chosen to go on, and a good thing too, as it turned out. His selfish choice would have spelled disaster for all of Middle-earth.

'It was not a selfish choice for Beregond,' Elessar said quietly, as if he could read what was in the hobbit's heart. 'He thought only of those who loved him. He would not take them into exile, nor would he have them watch him cast out alone. He would not have them bear the shame of his execution. He chose what he thought was the best way for all concerned. It was a chance to redeem a part of his honour, and save that of his sons after him, if the Darkness should be defeated somehow. Even then he had a glimmer of hope for the future.'

Samwise swallowed hard, and blinked again, this time not in confusion, but because the tears came all unbidden to his eyes. 'But he didn’t die in battle as he'd--hoped,' he whispered. "Hope" seemed a strange word to use in that context and not at all fitting, and yet it fit, in some terrible way.

'No,' Elessar agreed. 'Gimli's "knowing a hobbit foot when he saw one" was a boon to Pippin, and a disaster to Beregond, leaving him once more with the sure knowledge of his family's disgrace, and his own certain fate.'

'But would you not offer him the same choice that Captain Faramir did?' Sam said huskily. 'Would you not show him the same mercy?'

'I would not do him such a disservice,' Elessar said.

'How do you know he wouldn't have changed his mind in the meantime?' Sam challenged. 'I mean,' he stammered, under Elessar's steady gaze, 'now that the peace is won, and the Shadow is gone, and he can go anywhere... why, he could go to Ithilien,' Samwise went on, holding to his point as a dog might hold to the end of a bone when you try to pull it away from him, 'where Captain Faramir is to be Prince.' But the King shook his head, and Sam, startled at this reaction, strove gamely for an alternative. 'He could go to Lossarnach,' he said, an edge of desperation in his voice, 'for he told Mr. Pippin that his people went there, after they were forced from Ithilien...'

The King's eyes darkened with sorrow. 'If only it were so simple a matter,' he said. 'You do not understand, truly, what exile means, Samwise. To wander homeless, with every man's hand against him by decree...'

'I know something of the feeling,' Sam muttered, against his will, for hadn't that been Frodo's lot for much of their journey? The flash of inspiration was fading, but there had been something...

As he nearly grasped it again there came an urgent knock at the door, disrupting his thoughts, and the King rose swiftly to his feet. 'Enter,' he said.

The door opened to reveal Anborn, standing at attention. 'There's an emergency, my Lord,' he said, 'the Lord Faramir sends word that a damaged inn has collapsed in the Second Circle, and several workmen are trapped within…'

Faramir! That was it!

But even as Samwise strove to collect his scattered thoughts from where they'd blown at the door's opening, the King had taken his hasty leave, and Sam's spluttering protest came too late.

Chapter 5. If the Shroud Fits...

Faramir had ordered horses made ready, and was waiting as Elessar emerged from the Seventh Circle into the brightening day, leapt into the saddle and took up the reins. The guardsman holding the reins of the King's horse released his hold and stepped back, and Steward and King swung their horses' heads around and set off at a quick pace, clattering along the stone streets, the shoes of the horses striking sparks from the stones as the riders passed through the shadows cast by the taller buildings.

The few people who were about their business were warned by the sound of their approach, and these scattered to leave the middle of the way clear for the hurrying horsemen, turning to stare when the riders passed, not the usual messenger but King himself, with Steward at his side!

Thus they quickly reached the Second Circle, riding through the gateway and along the way to the scene of the disaster.

The damage left by the onslaught of the Dark Lord's forces was more evident here than in the upper levels, though of course the Second Circle was not so devastated as the First Circle, where many buildings had fallen to the torch, and even some of the thick stone walls of the houses had fallen in when supporting beams and struts had burned away with the roofs and wooden floors.

The inn in question was a large building that fronted the street, facing out over the Pelennor here where the street curved abruptly, passing directly under the looming wall, leaving room for buildings only on the inmost side. The building looked rather forlorn and toothless, the glass of its many windows shattered or damaged by the heat of the inferno in the lowest Circle, only a wall away, for the hungry flames had climbed high into the air and the heat and smoke had blown heavily over this part of the City.

The upper parts of the thick walls of grey stone were streaked with soot, and in one place the walls themselves had been shattered by the impact of an enormous missile, flung by one of the war machines that had stood outside the walls during the Siege. One could see through the hole, into the building, as if the sides had been purposely cut away to reveal the stories within: a bed made ready for an occupant, ewer and bowl standing on a dressing table, curiously intact, a dividing wall and in the next room the bed half-hanging into the void, linens tattered and fluttering in the light morning breeze...

'Sir,' a dust-covered workman said, stepping up to catch at the bridles of the dancing horses, 'My Lords!'

'What has happened?' the King demanded.

'The Lord Dorion had come to inspect the foundations, my Lord,' the workman said, naming the King's chief engineer in building and structural matters. 'There was some question as to whether the building might be saved, and disagreement between the chief foreman and the engineer with the charge of this project... they came at dawn to make a determination, and... We are digging now, but it is a slow and painstaking business, lest we bring down more of the structure on the rescuers' heads.'

'Saved,' Faramir echoed in startlement, and the workman turned to him with a quick bow.

'Yes, my Lord,' he said, gesturing towards the gaping hole. 'On the front, here, none of the main supporting structures was destroyed by the impact, though of course we must be wary of cracks and strains... '

'I should say so,' Faramir said under his breath, but the King spoke at the same time.

'There are trapped and injured,' he said. 'Where?'

'The north wing, my Lord, though at the moment we cannot reach them, for the ceilings and part of the wall have come down,' the workman said, 'where a great iron-shod stone dropped from the heavens and crashed through the roof in the midst of the storm.'

'A murderous hail indeed,' Faramir muttered.

The workman nodded and added, 'In any event, there can be no hurry in digging them free. We must wait for the Lord Dorion's chief assistant to be summoned from the Causeway. If you wish to see the damage it would be safest to go through the entrance into the rear courtyard, between the wings. There'll be someone watching for you there, to guide you in relative safety.'

Up the wide steps, onto a welcoming wide porch that ran the width of the building, benches waiting to receive weary guests, flower boxes fixed to the railing still sporting a few early blooms despite the wrath of the battle that had raged.

Into the dark foyer, lit by a single lamp on the desk of polished wood, overlaid with some weeks of dust accumulation, and through the doors leading into the green yard between the wings, one seeming untouched and the other partly fallen in. The courtyard was half in shadow at this early hour, and there a workman waited, covered in dust, a bright crimson smear on one side of his face shining in contrast.

'You're injured,' the King said, going to him, but seeming not to know the King, he shook Elessar off and pointed to the damaged wing.

'In there,' he said, and commenced to crawl through a window, where someone's cloak had been laid to cover any jagged glass left in the frame. Faramir followed as a matter of course, and Elessar went after, though the latter rather suspected that the royal engineers would be horrified at the prospect.

Men were bracing the walls with sturdy beams, and others were pulling stones and debris from the collapsed section, where a foot protruded from the rubble, a boot of soft leather, such as a nobleman or one of the higher-ranking artisans might wear. I know the look of a hobbit's foot when I see one rang in his mind as Elessar knelt to take the boot in his hands. This was no hobbit's foot, but it was likely that of the chief of the royal engineers.

' 'Ware, sir; the wall is not stable here,' one of the workmen said, straightening from his task.

'I should say so,' Faramir repeated, again under his breath, and the workman turned, his eyes widening.

'Sir,' he said, 'you ought not to be here--certainly, we expected you to come, but to observe from the safety of the greensward...' He took the Steward by the arm as if to lead him out again, adding, 'The healer, of course, may stay, but you...'

Elessar had worked the boot free from the foot, and shook his head at his findings. 'This heart beats no more,' he said, leaving off his hold and rising again. 'How many are trapped?'

Faramir easily shook himself free of the workman's grasp as the man, belatedly recognising the King, stiffened.

'My Lord!' he said. 'You ought not to be here. If you please, my Lord.'

Faramir, taking advantage of his restored freedom, moved to where the workmen were pulling debris out, working slowly and cautiously, with many a nervous glance to the wall and the remnant of ceiling above them. 'How many?' he said, bending closer.

'The crew had just started working when the Lord Dorion entered,' came the answer. 'The foreman called him to examine the wall, there in the next room, where he thought there might be a crack leading down into the foundation. Up until now they had thought the foundation sound, and that is what they'd based their calculations on, when planning the work to repair...'

'A costly miscalculation,' Faramir said, for he thought he knew the owner of the fine boot that lay empty beside the cold foot.

'Look out!' came the shout, and the Steward looked up to see the wall before them bulging ominously. With an effort he pulled the nearest workman to his feet, shoving him out of the way, and then there was a sudden roar, as if all of the City were falling about his ears.

The dust in the air made him cough, and there was much coughing and confusion surrounding him, and breathing dust was altogether an unpleasant sensation... though it was better than the alternative. At least he was breathing. He'd felt himself pelted with falling matter, and yet he'd somehow ended in the clear--well, relatively clear. He was sure he'd find bruises, when he removed his dust-soaked clothes, but for the moment he was numbed with shock and feeling no after-effects of collapsing wood and stone.

It was a moment, indeed, before he felt the hands clutching at him, but the dust was settling, and soon he saw Elessar beside him, still holding him in an urgent grasp, and he had a sudden realisation.

'You've saved me, once again,' he said.

'It is getting to be a habit,' Elessar agreed, his casual tone belying the tightness of his jaw. It had been a very near thing, for the both of them. A part of his mind wondered just what Gondor would do if Steward and King were both wrenched away in the same instant. 

'What ever am I to do, when I'm gone to Ithilien, without you or Peregrin to watch over me?' Faramir said, straightening and brushing all too ineffectually at his clothes, caked in a thick layer of dust and debris. His head was clearing, but he didn't protest as workmen seized both himself and the King and propelled them from the building.

Elessar was a sight to be seen, white with dust, his eyes shining out from a pale mask of a face, his mouth strangely red in contrast when he opened it to issue orders.

More crews were arriving from other worksites in the damaged parts of the City, and healers from the Houses of Healing, and it wasn't long before King and Steward were feeling themselves superfluous.

'I want a full report,' Elessar said in parting to Dorion's chief assistant, as he and Faramir stood out on the street once more. They'd look like wraiths, riding back to the upper levels, but that couldn't be helped.

'Yes, my Lord,' the man said with a bow, and turned back to the work at hand.

'I'll have to bathe before Beregond's hearing,' Elessar said, settling into the saddle with a grimace as the grit that had worked itself under his clothing scraped against his skin.

'There's time,' Faramir agreed, glancing at the angle of shadows. 'I am glad you won't put him off; he's waited long enough already, and is ready to make an end of the miserable affair.'

'I'm sure that he is,' Elessar said, regret in his tone. If only...

Later, perhaps, when he'd established himself as King, he could find more leeway between the letter of the law, and the spirit thereof, but with the whole City watching and judging his every move, he felt constrained at the moment to show he was no tyrant, ruling at whim, no upstart or usurper, but the true King, placed in the position in accordance with history and tradition.

He saw Faramir's shoulders rise and fall in a sigh, and added his own silent exhalation, his shoulders heavy with the responsibility that lay before him this day.

Chapter 6. For Whom the Silver Trumpet Sounds

'If you please, my l--,' Anborn said, stopping himself not quite in time. Sam was roused from his dismay by the sight of the tall guardsman trying to reel back in the forbidden "lord", a word Sam had rejected with some vigour the last time the man had tried to bestow it.

'Sam,' he said, forcing himself to speak pleasantly, 'or Samwise, if you prefer.'

The guard shook his head. 'Mithrandir has forbidden...' he began.

'Forbidden? The use of my right name?' Sam said, not knowing whether to be more startled, or bemused.

'He said that "Sam" was allowed, or if we wished to honour you and risk your wrath at the same time, we might address you as "Master Fullwise" or even "Ring-bearer"…' The guardsman's voice trailed off at the expression on Sam's face, and he clearly decided to stop while he was ahead.

Sam was thinking that Gandalf's sense of humour certainly seemed to have returned to its pre-Birthday Party levels, but in the next moment he noticed the dawnlight flooding in at the high window and remembered the urgency of his errand. 'The King...' he said. 'We weren't quite through...'

'There was an emergency in one of the lower circles, serious enough to require his attention; after which he is likely to go to the Hall of the Kings,' Anborn said. 'I am sure he'll make time to see you again, when he has finished with the hearings for the day.'

'Finished...' Sam said desperately, and grasped at the man's hand. 'But I must see him before, I must, without fail!'

'I am sorry, my l--Sam,' Anborn said. 'I am afraid that will not be possible.'

'The Nine Walkers are to have access to the King at any time,' Sam reminded, but the guardsman shook his head. The custom was observed, so much as possible, but it wasn't always practical. Frodo had refrained from bursting in on a meeting with the ambassadors from Harad, for example, when Pippin had exhibited signs of fever, choosing instead to send a written message, which languished in its folds until well after luncheon.

Samwise tried to imagine himself marching up the centre of the Hall of the Kings, shouting demands to call a halt to Beregond's hearing, but in the end he couldn't, nor could he imagine any of the other hobbits doing so, not even in a body. It was as Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry had said: bad as the business was, it was the business of Men, and not a thing where hobbits could have any influence.

Sam thought rather resentfully to himself that hobbits had had a great deal of influence in the affairs of Middle-earth, lately. But it was hardly Anborn's fault, and so he allowed the guardsman, who had swept the room with a glance--including the round stone hidden under its covering, to lead him from the room, closing the door firmly behind them, and escort him down the stairs again.

He could scarcely meet Frodo's eye when he appeared at the breakfast table of the comfortable house they shared with Gandalf. Frodo sighed and turned his attention to his bacon and eggs, though he pushed them around the plate more than he ate of them. Merry entered, droplets of water still clinging to his curls from his morning ablutions. 'Well,' he said. 'What is the plan for today?'

Frodo opened his mouth, but before he could speak Pippin entered, his eyes bright and a bounce in his step. 'I haven't seen hide nor hair of that young rascal, Bergil,' he said, 'and I had promised him especially the end to the story I was telling him, the day before yesterday. I know he was off duty from running errands yesterday, but...'

'He's off duty this day as well,' Frodo said, his tone so matter-of-fact that Sam stared in astonishment at the half-truth. But Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry had sworn to Captain Beregond that they would keep Pippin away from the hearing that would culminate in the Captain's death, him (and themselves as well) not wanting Pippin to stand witness thereto. 'Ansell is here in his place--I believe he's brewing more tea at the moment. Did you want anything, besides to tell the rest of that story?'

'No,' Pippin said, lifting the lids of each of the chafing dishes in turn on the low benches that served as hobbity sideboards, and helping himself at last to eggs, bacon, toast, marmalade, apple compote, and beans.

Frodo lifted his serviette from his lap and dabbed at his lips. 'Well then,' he said, 'You're rather belated, Pippin! I wanted to do a fair bit of writing today, and so... first to the Houses of Healing, to talk to old Ioreth about the Siege and the healing of Faramir, Eowyn, and a cousin of mine, and afterwards to the Hall of Records...'

Pippin sighed. Strider had assigned him to escort Frodo unless specifically summoned to attend the King, and on days like today the business promised to be perishing dull. He did not know that Frodo had requested this arrangement, that he might keep his young cousin under his eye and out of mischief when Pippin wasn't occupied with service to the King. The only bright spot was the regular appearance of trays bursting with food, to tempt the Ring-bearer's appetite. Frodo was very generous in sharing with those around him.

The morning proceeded much as Frodo had predicted it would. Merry went off to see to Eomer, promising to join them later. Ioreth produced a quantity of sweet cakes for Frodo's companions, which soothed Pippin's boredom wonderfully well as the old woman droned on about events during the Siege. Merry arrived near the end of the narrative, accompanied by the expected trays of food, and they made a good meal, and even persuaded Ioreth to join them, though it was "between-times, why I only broke my fast a matter of bare hours ago!"

Pippin ate more than his share, to fortify himself against the boredom of the Hall of Records, though the eldest of the keepers of the records had a taste for sweets and was always pressing the hobbits to try this treat or that, and discussing the antiquity of the recipes that his wife stirred up, for he often copied these out of the old records during the long, slow times when no one required his services.

Eventually the four hobbits were strolling down a corridor on the way to the Hall of Records, when they heard brisk footsteps approaching behind them. They turned to see Beregond, his friend and closest comrade Targon marching by his side, the Captain of the guard behind them as if an escort. For the first time since Denethor's death, he was dressed in full uniform, wearing the black surcoat with the Tree broidered in silver on the front, instead of the plain black surcoat he'd worn to the Black Gate and back again. He had not been allowed to wear the uniform of a guardsman since that terrible night when he abandoned his post to save Captain Faramir from the flames. However, once again he was the picture of a Guardsman of the Citadel from head to polished boots, his helmet under his arm, silver wings gleaming. The only thing missing was his sword from its scabbard.

Pippin greeted him with delight. 'Beregond! You're a guardsman again!'

As Pippin moved to walk with the men, Merry pulled him back by the arm. 'Pippin, no!'

Pippin tried to shake him off, but Sam saw Merry's fingers whiten as he tightened his grip, and the older cousin said, 'Pippin, you mustn't, you don't know what is happening.'

'What's the matter with you?' Pippin demanded.

'Pippin, he's going to his execution!' Merry said bluntly as Frodo took Pippin's other arm.

'What do you mean?' Pippin cried out. 'No, I don't believe it! Beregond!' He stared after the three guardsmen, who did not break stride nor look back at his shout.

'He didn't want you to know,' Merry said, looking as wretched as Sam felt. 'He was hoping we would leave for the Shire before this, and you would never know.'

'But why?' Pippin cried miserably, and then sagged in his cousins' grip. He knew why. He knew very well.

'Pippin?' Frodo asked gently.

The younger hobbit shook his head. 'It's my fault,' he said brokenly. 'If I had not stopped to talk to him that night, he'd never have left his post.'

'Faramir would have died,' Merry said softly.

'No,' Pippin said, still shaking his head. 'No, I could have found Gandalf, he could have been in time.'

'Faramir would have died,' Merry repeated. 'You know that, Pippin. It was Beregond's life... or Faramir's. Beregond made that choice. You must respect that.' He didn't have to like the laws of Men, but he could understand that they were better off to have laws to live by.

Sam stood by, tongue-tied, feeling as useless as a pair of boots in Bag End.

'Come, Pippin,' Frodo said. 'You need to sit down.'

'I don't want to sit down!' Pippin protested. 'I want...' he sagged still further and looked as if he was about to faint. 'I want...' he said more softly, then, 'I don't know what I want...' He took a few sobbing breaths and straightened again.

Sam stiffened as a guardsman came up to them, but he brushed past the gardener and touched Merry's shoulder.

The Man seemed ill at ease, but said, 'So you know about the hearing...'

'Yes,' Frodo said quietly.

'It is tradition for this sort of execution to take place at midday. When the silver trumpet sounds...' the Man looked grimly at Pippin. 'Are you well, Sir?'

Pippin laughed without humour. 'As well as can be expected.'

Sam saw that Merry was as surprised at the question as he was himself, but the guardsman continued, 'There is a garden, where the friends and family wait to receive the body.'

Pippin nodded.

'Beregond charged me to find you, to tell you, if you were still in the City when his hearing was called.' He gave them directions to the garden, saluted, and marched away.

They found Beregond's older son and the rest of his family waiting in the little garden set aside for families to receive the bodies of their dead, to take them to the final resting place. The younger son had been taken away in one of the wains when the City had been evacuated before the Siege, and with things as they were Beregond had determined to leave him with his grandfather in Lossarnach after the victory. There was no use in tormenting so small a lad by giving him to his father for a span of hours or days, and then snatching him away again.

Birds sang, a spring breeze blew, the day promised to be fair.

Merry and Frodo supported Pippin as they entered the garden, and Sam hovered solicitously, helpless to do more. Pippin shook off their hands and went to greet Bergil and the widow Gilwyn, whom the guardsman might have married under different circumstances, and her son Fargil.

'I'm sorry,' Pippin said, but could find no other words to add.

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. '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.

Bergil's arm still about her waist, Gilwyn took Fargil's hand, and held out her other hand to Pippin. The four walked together to the little fountain, stood watching the water cascade into the bowl in a never ending stream.

Frodo and Merry stood together, and Samwise a little apart, his failure a bitter taste in his mouth. A silver trumpet rang out above the City, and the mourners stiffened.

The hobbits wondered as a great shout was heard, but Gilwyn bowed her head and raised it again, saying only, 'His comrades honour his passing.'

A/N: The cartwheeling sword is something I've seen in reality. Amazing, how someone could do that, and make it seem so easy and casual. (Do not try this at home.)

Chapter 7. To See Justice Done

The Hall of the Kings was packed full when the new-crowned King arrived, suitably attired for such a solemn occasion, in the black mail girt with silver that he'd worn to be crowned, and the White Crown upon his head, the pearl and silver of its wings sparkling in the bright noonday sun that shone through the deep windows, and the white of the Crown glimmered and his mantle glowed bright, as if the King were clad in light itself. The Hall was crowded, indeed, and with more than the solemn figures of stone that stood between the black pillars upholding the vault. Many were crowded there, from doors to dais, as many as the great Hall could hold, though guardsmen held the centre aisle clear, and just before the dais a double line of soldiers were drawn up in splendid array, gleaming black and polished silver and standing at stiff attention. These were the men of the Third Company, Beregond's comrades at arms to witness the consequences of his actions, as tradition demanded whenever discipline was to be administered. These stood looking straight before them, and statues would have stood less still as Elessar was bowed into the Hall by the onlookers crowding both sides of the aisle.

Faramir rose from the black stone chair that sat on the first and broadest step of the dais; he took up the white rod of office that had been lying across his lap as he awaited the King, and he stood straight and proud and grim.

Elessar nodded to acknowledge the Steward's greeting, noting with sour amusement that Faramir's hair was damp from recent washing, as was his own beneath the White Crown. A hasty bath it had been, and he could still feel some of the grit against his scalp, pressed down by the Crown's weight. He climbed slowly up the many steps to the high throne, turning to seat himself before the image of the gem-flowered tree carved in the wall, under the canopy of marble carved to the likeness of a crowned helm, crown upon Crown, bearing down upon his spirit with more than its considerable physical weight.

An herald stepped forth to unroll a scroll, wherefrom he began to proclaim something-or-other. Elessar scarcely listened. He'd spoken with Beregond; he'd interviewed all who had survived that nightmare time in the Hallows; he'd combed the records and set scribes to combing the records and spoken extensively with the keepers of the records to discover all precedents relevant to this matter, only to find the jaws of tradition inexorably closing upon himself and Beregond, with no means of escape. The man was marked for death from the moment he left his post, it seemed, and spilling blood in the Hallows had sealed his certain fate. Quick death by sword, or slow death by exile, those were the choices that stood before the King, and he found himself wishing for the first time that this responsibility would pass to another.

But no. He owed Beregond the honour of having his case judged by highest authority, no matter if the conclusion were foregone.

The herald ended and stepped back, re-rolling the scroll. Faramir held out his hand to receive the record of charges against Beregond, and so he stood, veritable death warrant in one hand, clenched at his side, and the rod of his office in the other. Once the King pronounced the man's doom, Faramir would lift the rod in signal, and when he let it fall, so would the sword to end Beregond's life.

The door opened, and complete silence fell. Three men marched in perfect cadence up the long aisle: Beregond, another soldier of his company, Targon, and the captain of the Tower Guard.

Elessar arose and descended the long stair, timing his steps such that his arrival on the dais coincided with Beregond's.

Beregond and Targon stepped onto the broad first step, and the captain of the Guard moved to stand opposite the Steward in silent witness. Beregond fell to his knees before the King, his face devoid of expression, but his eyes filled with--was that a look of relief?

'Stand before the King,' the captain of the Guard intoned.

Beregond arose, to stand eye-to-eye with the King. There was no fear in his eyes, only a weary resignation. He had known, from the moment he'd made his choice to leave his post, that his doom was sealed. Had Denethor been recalled to his senses by the words of Mithrandir, Beregond would have died on the spot, likely by Denethor's own hand. His fate had been delayed by the desperate struggle against the Dark Lord, but it had never been in doubt. He waited now the pronouncement of his doom, with only the white knuckles of his hand clenching his helmet at his side to betray the depth of his emotion.

Elessar opened his mouth to speak, and hesitated. Every eye was on him, but all his attention was for the soldier before him. Beregond was breathing shallowly, his gaze locked with that of the King, and his mouth opened slightly as if he would urge the King to speak, to get it over with.

Somehow the King found the words, though each was heavy, leaving bitterness on his tongue. 'Beregond,' he said, 'by your sword blood was spilled in the Hallows, where that is forbidden.' The man nodded slightly. Elessar knew that this fact had tormented him over the days following that terrible night; his own sister's son had been one of those who'd fallen to his sword. He had shouted as he parried their sword thrusts, desperately trying to reason with men maddened by fear and grief and enspelled with awe of the Lord Denethor. Who will slay me this renegade?

Elessar steeled himself and added, 'Also you left your post without leave of Lord or of Captain. For these things, of old, death was the penalty.' He glanced to the side, to Faramir's set face. Faramir... And in his mind's eye, he seemed to see a diminutive figure standing at the Steward's side. He blinked, and saw only Faramir. Faramir... but Beregond was waiting. Do not keep him waiting any longer. Do not stretch this out, do not prolong the man's dying. 'Now therefore I must pronounce your doom.'

Targon, his lips set in a thin line, drew his sword from his scabbard. It caught the light streaming through the windows, gleaming with deadly promise. In a moment Elessar would say the fatal words, Beregond would fall to his knees, the sword would rise, and Faramir would lift his rod of office.

And it would be out of Elessar's hands. He need not decree the moment of death; Faramir would do that.

And when it was all said and done, they'd wrap what remained of Beregond in his black guardsman's cloak and carry him to where his loved ones waited, and from there to the dark and silent grave.

Elessar opened his mouth for what was to be the final moment of Beregond's life, but before he could speak he seemed to hear Gandalf's voice in his ear. But pity stayed his hand.

And in his mind's eye a kaleidoscope of images whirled then: Denethor's stern, proud face, dim in his memory; young Bergil's dirty face, streaked with tears; Samwise Gamgee's pleading face, his hands held out in supplication, his eyes filled with mingled confidence that Strider could set things right, and fear that he couldn’t; and Faramir.

He would choose life for this soldier who had given his all without thought of himself. Surely they could bend the rules: perhaps the words of exile could be pronounced in the dark of middle night, and Beregond could depart Minas Tirith in relative peace, and take his family with him if he could be so persuaded. The Northlands were broad and empty and full of promise...

'All penalty is remitted for your valour in battle, and still more because all that you did was for the love of the Lord Faramir. Nonetheless you must leave the Guard of the Citadel, and you must go forth from the City of Minas Tirith.'

He saw the look of shock on Targon's face; the grizzled soldier gasped, his sword hanging loosely in his hand. Beregond had been holding his breath, and now he exhaled sharply as his face lost all colour and life, and he bowed his head. From the corner of his eye, Elessar saw Faramir swallow hard; Beregond's Captain could take no joy in this, not even if it saved him from sealing the moment of Beregond's death.

And the King's heart was stirred with grief, and he remembered his years of wandering with only a dim hope before him, and Beregond stood before him with no hope whatsoever.

And pity stayed his hand, Gandalf whispered in his ear, and Elessar, listening, saw again in memory Frodo beside the wizard, as they rested in the dark depths of Moria, and Samwise sitting just beyond them, listening, his brow clouded as if he struggled to understand, and then the image of Faramir, white-shrouded with dust just an hour or two earlier; and suddenly he understood what that humble gardener had tried to say.

He raised his chin slightly, and his voice rang with confidence, aye, and something of the joy that was rising in his heart. 'So it must be, for you are appointed to the White Company, the guard of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and you shall be its captain and dwell in Emyn Arnen in honour and peace, and in the service of him for whom you risked all, to save him from death.'

Beregond stood a moment, as if at first the words did not sink in. He raised his head to meet the King's eyes. Elessar smiled, indeed, his face glowed with pleasure. Still Beregond stared, unbelieving, until the King nodded. Joy sprang up, lighting Beregond's countenance, and he dropped to his knees to kiss the hand of the King, and Elessar gladly suffered the gesture. The silver trumpet rang outside, its noontide call wafting over the heights.

Targon shouted and threw his sword high in the air. It cartwheeled and came down again to his hand. The Third Company erupted into a great cheer, and the captain of the Guard swept his sword from its sheath to wave it in triumph, and Faramir raised his white rod of office aloft, no longer a portent of death but now in celebration of mercy and justice and restoration.

It seemed as if Beregond might stay there forever, kneeling before the King, taking deep breaths as if the air around him were suddenly sweet and bracing. Elessar reached out and took hold of him, raising him from his knees. 'You are dismissed,' he said, his voice lost in the jubilation sweeping the grand Hall.

But Beregond read the thought in his eyes, or on his lips, and he nodded, bowed, and turned on his heel to march down the aisle, the captain of the Guard and Targon falling in behind him, and at a sharp and merry call the Third Company pivoted and marched out in his train.

Eyes shining with joy, Beregond marched out, the captain of the Guard, and Targon, and then the rest of his company falling in behind him.

***

Samwise stood awkwardly, feeling himself superfluous and wishing himself elsewhere, anywhere else... well, nearly anywhere else, anyhow.

Gilwyn had broken down at last, sobbing softly, her arms about Bergil and Fargil, her face buried in the lads' hair as they stood with their heads together, embracing in their mingled grief. Pippin had stepped away, tears streaking his own face, and Merry and Frodo had moved to sandwich him in between them, supporting him each with an arm around him.

It was not long before they heard the sound of a cadence call and booted feet marching in the street outside the garden, and then the company called to a halt. Gilwyn straightened, wiping at her cheeks with shaking hands, and turned to the gate.

A grizzled soldier entered alone, one who had come to the house in search of Pippin and had been greeted as "Targon", or so Sam remembered, though the names of the men of Gondor were outlandish to his ear and inclined to slip from his memory. The mourners walked to meet him, Gilwyn and the lads flanking her, Pippin breaking away from Frodo and Merry to walk at Bergil's side. Frodo held his hand out to Sam, and with a grateful nod Sam took hold and allowed himself to be drawn to his master's side, and forward, though he was reluctant to see the sight that awaited them. They'd not see the blood, of course, through the black wool of the cloak, but just seeing the cloak, rolled around its former owner, hanging heavy with the weight of death in the grasp of its bearers... what had been, an hour before, a man who lived and walked and breathed and loved, and was still loved, even though he had passed beyond the Sundering Seas.

Targon held out his hands to Gilwyn. 'The King's justice has been done,' he said flatly, and she nodded, taking tentative hold. Sam swallowed down the sickness that rose in his gorge, and his last meal, the substantial second breakfast taken with Ioreth, sat uneasily upon his stomach. The soldier looked intently into Gilwyn's face; Sam wondered if he thought the woman might swoon, though as it turned out, he rather felt like swooning himself at the man's next words. 'The verdict was not death.'

Gilwyn gasped, a harsh sound against the singing of the birds, delicate tinkling of wind chimes, never-ending fall of water. 'Exile?' she demanded, her voice laced with horror.

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, and ran to him, and the boys followed immediately behind her, to stop and stand in wonder short of reaching Beregond, gaping as if they beheld the spirit and not the man in truth.

Sam had not wept; his heart had felt stony within him from the moment the silver trumpet had sounded, but now his vision dimmed, and blinking he felt the tears spill down his cheeks as he saw Beregond smile down at Gilwyn, and then look from one lad's shining face to the other's. 'I told Targon to break it to you gently,' the man said. 'I didn't want it to be too much of a shock to you, when we all expected the worst.'

'By rights...' she whispered, and Sam took a shaky breath, for it had never been right to him, what they'd all expected.

'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 Gilwyn and the boys 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, as one in a dream, his face still pale and his eyes blinking as if they did not believe the sight before them. 'I don't know what to say.'

'You, speechless?' Beregond laughed. 'This is an historic occasion!' He gave a last hug to his family, and then he 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, managing a chuckle. The colour was returning to his face, and suddenly he laughed, a high and joyous sound. 

The guardsman grinned. 'Good. We have something to celebrate after all.' His gaze encompassed the other hobbits, and he smiled as wide as a man can smile. Sam realised he was grinning like a lunatic, but it didn't seem to matter. Beregond gave him a friendly nod, and said to Pippin, 'Bring your friends; we'll show them how we guardsmen make merry.'

And this was a lesson in the ways of Men that somehow, Samwise thought, would be something worth learning.