Beyond Hope

Things of great sorrow and renown have come to pass. Shall we weep or be glad? Beyond hope the Captain of our foes has been destroyed, and you have heard the echo of his last despair. 

Gandalf, The Pyre of Denethor, Return of the King 

They tell me that the battle has turned in our favor; that Minas Tirith will not fall today; but my heart sinks with the slowly setting sun.  For I have fled my post, raised my sword in the Hallows and slain another  man, cast away standing, duty and honor this day.  And for what end?  The Lord Faramir is dying.  He burns in a fever that deepens with every hour, consuming him. 

It would have been worth it, if only my treachery had saved his life.  Faramir is a great lord, a great captain, and a great man.   To let him be burned alive was a horror I could not bear.  So I broke all law, and set myself against the order of the life I had known, to save him.

I saved Faramir just to watch him fall slowly towards a death that no one seems to be able to even forestall.  My name shall be stricken from the rolls of the Guards; and I am likely to be cast into irons and then slain for my crime.  What will become of my son and my wife when I am dead and my name a byword for dishonor?

I had to try; but my deeds this day seem bitter, ashes in my mouth. 

The nurse leaves his bedside with an armful of sweat-stained cloths.  I take her place and wet one of the few unused rags and use it to wipe Faramir’s face.  It’s an easy task; I’ve been watching her, and others, do it for hours.  I remember tending Bergil when he became ill as a small boy; thankfully his fever was never this bad.  I hope that it helps, but it does no harm, at least.  Faramir does not appear to feel either the fever’s heat or the wet cloth.  He’s beyond it, lucky man. 

They tell me that many others of the City have also been stricken with this Black Shadow as the healers call it.  Wraith-breath; some of the soldiers say.   Shall any of us be left alive when this battle, this war is done? 

I slump in the chair, all the weariness of this day dragging at my neck and brow.   I could use some ale about now, or wine.  I do not wish to trouble the healers, they are working hard enough caring for the hundreds of wounded and sick.

Then the sound of footsteps rouses me.  Mithrandir enters, as he has many times these last hours.  “No change, then?” he asks, glancing sadly upon Faramir.  Poor old man looks dead on his feet.

He looks me over, and there is suddenly no weariness in his gaze.  He looks straight into the heart of a man, does Mithrandir; just like Faramir.  Behind him comes the nurse, carrying a basket of fresh linens.

“Come with me, Beregond,” the wizard says.  It is not a request.  “You can leave your captain,” he adds, seeing where my eyes are straying.   I have become used to watching over Faramir.  Having done what I did this day for him, I at least want to be there when he dies, to see him through until the end and give what comfort I can. 

I don’t want to think about how my boy will grieve for Faramir; and then to lose me as well… I had better not think any more about that, but it is hard not to fret, for my doom waits above me like a sword over my head.

I follow Mithrandir, knowing that the nurse will watch every twitch of Faramir’s fevered limbs. 

Please let me not run into any of my comrades in the Guard, not now. 

He leads me into another chamber.  There are two beds, and it is a surprise to see who lies in them, pale and murmuring in the grip of the Wraith-breath:  A halfling, very like Peregrin but grey-faced; and a woman in the other bed; not a woman of Gondor either, but one of Rohan, young and fair and golden-haired, poor stricken lady. 

And there is Peregrin himself, nestled in a chair at the other halfling’s bedside, gripping the poor little fellow’s hand as if he will never let it go.  “Hullo, Beregond!” Peregrin says, managing a tired smile.  “This is my cousin Merry.  How is Faramir?”

“Still alive.” I wish I had better tidings. 

“He is, and he may yet live,” Mithrandir tells me.  “Yield not to despair, Beregond.  Look well upon these two warriors and remember what I told you when we brought Faramir here.”

Warriors?  The fair woman and the halfling?  I had heard tales of shield-bearing maidens among the Rohirrim, but had discounted them.  Still, the Rohirrim are valiant.  It might be true.

“Even as we bore Faramir out from Rath Dinen to this House, the battle raged upon the Pelennor.  The Witch-King of Angmar, captain of Mordor and lord of the Nazgûl, harried the Rohirrim.  He attacked and fatally wounded Théoden King.  The brave warriors of Théoden’s guard could do naught, so great was the terror that the Black Captain had unleashed upon them.  Then one arose to face the Nazgûl lord.  It was this maiden, Éowyn, niece of the king, having donned men’s armor to ride unknown with the Rohirrim, who raised shield and sword against the wraith.  And when the halfling, Meriadoc, who had come South with his kinsman Peregrin here, but had taken service as an esquire of Rohan, saw the lady’s peril, he put aside his terror to aid her.  A halfling and a maiden, both unused to battle, destroyed a demon of ancient sorcery, the most dangerous of all of Sauron’s captains.”

The Witch-king was dead?  Slain by this slender lass and a halfling?  I scratched my head.  I would not have believed the tale if it had not been told by Mithrandir.  He was known for bringing tidings of danger, but never falsehoods.  “Wondrous,” I said, having no other reply for this news.

“Truly wondrous,” the wizard went on.  “And that is what we must hold to now.  This day has brought such deeds as I never foresaw or even could have anticipated.  I had thought that I would be the one to drive the Witch-king from the field, or, with good fortune, slay him.  Denethor himself knew me to be well-matched against the Black Captain.  Yet a maiden faced the Nazgûl lord when no one else on that field could even rise, and, with the help of a halfling esquire, slew him.  And if such things could happen, then perhaps other wonders will yet come to pass and Faramir, Éowyn and Meriadoc and all others laid low by the Shadow will not perish, but will awake and be well.  For this is a day of wonders, a day when the lost shall be found; and a wonder out of legend returned to Gondor.  And the day has not ended yet. “

My head was spinning with all this talk of wonders.  I wished I could see some myself. 

“You’re just confusing him, Gandalf,” Peregrin piped up, more pertly than I would ever have dared.  “Don’t worry, Beregond; it will be alright.  You should have seen all that Merry and I went through to get here, even after Gandalf brought us through Moria and fought the Balrog and—“

“Pippin, enough.”  Mithrandir cautioned.  “Beregond has enough to think of without hearing the entire tale of your adventures.

Peregrin made a rude noise, then smiled again.  “I know. But Merry will be alright; and Faramir and the Lady Éowyn too; they have to be.  We’ve all come so far and done so much, it can’t all end here.”

“I pray that your kinsman lives, Peregrin, and this lady,” I answered.  “Yet I still fear that Faramir will die.  He has been ill for nigh on three days; I know not how much longer even a man of his strength can last.  And if he dies, I will have dishonored my oath and shed blood in the Hallows for naught.”

“No, Beregond, not for nothing,” Mithrandir said, his dark eyes sad but kind.  “For whether Faramir lives or dies, you have accomplished a great deed today.”

“How?” I ask, trying to keep the anguish from my voice.  I freely chose to do what I have done; I will not push all my sorrow onto the already burdened wizard and the halfling who clings to his dying kinsman.

“Because you held back the bringers of fire long enough for help to come, Faramir did not burn on Denethor’s pyre.  You have preserved at least some of the honor of the Steward of Gondor.  When men speak of Denethor in days to come, they may speak of a great lord over-shadowed to his own ruin by the force of Sauron’s will; but they will not speak of a man who burned alive his helpless, wounded son.  Your courage spared Denethor that one hideous consequence of his madness. Be proud, Beregond!  Though you had to forfeit the honor of laws and rules, you have upheld the honor of Gondor, assuring that its Steward did not become a kin-slayer. And you stopped a father from slaying the son he loved.“

I thought of my own lad then, and for the first time in hours, felt at least a little better.  Not hopeful, not proud, but able to bear the knowledge of what I had done.   For when we have gone beyond hope, we must find other things to bear us up, be it duty, or honor, or the knowledge that we did what was right, whatever the cost.  I pray that I never yield to despair. 

I will hope for exile rather than execution, and stand ready for either punishment.  But for now, I still have a lord to guard, a son who lives, and a city that has not fallen.  I have not seen the wonders that the wizard described, save to look upon the living bodies of the Witch-king’s unlikely slayers.  Still, it is enough to know that they exist, and that more may come.