Chapter 8. Choices

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'When?'

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

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

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

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

'Treason?' spoken in a tone of outrage.

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

Bergil held his breath now, trying to hear better.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

'Sit down, Bergil,' he commanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh, Father...'

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

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

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

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

Bergil wept until he had no tears left.