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.