Chapter 8. Duty

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

(from a lullaby of Gondor)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

'I will come too.'

She shook her head. 'No, Bergil.'

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

She smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

'Can we do anything?' Frodo asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'By rights...' Gilwyn said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Let the celebration begin,’ Faramir said.

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