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.