An Honest Man of Gondor
by Lullennye-mail: gutter2stars @ yahoo.com
Story notes: Wanting to thank Dana for procuring a LJ code for me, I asked her what she might like as a token of thanks. She said, "Well, I like Merry and Pippin stories," to which I replied, "Any other parameters?" and she said, "Strange and exotic."
Thanks to Teasel for the name Caoreth.
For all his casual and courteous speech, the halfling was exotic, and not only because of his stature. Beregond had misjudged Peregrin Took, and he was chagrinned to be so fooled, Guard of the Tower and honest Man of Gondor that he was. The halfling had less height than Beregond's ten-year-old son, not much more girth, and his features were sharp and clever, like a cunning child. Yet this 'child' spoke of such adventures as most Men could not count even one in their history. And when the Fell Rider darkened the skies as they took refreshment on the Wall, Beregond witnessed past horrors in the halfling such as warriors of many years sometimes showed. An expression too weary and drawn with silent pain filled his childish face. The dichotomy was disconcerting.
However, Beregond was a Guard of the Tower and an honest Man of Gondor; he confessed his mistake to Peregrin straightaway and from that moment treated him with the respect of a peer. His behavior was rewarded immediately by the quiet esteem his fellow Guards afforded him: the halfling, it was rumored, was a prince in his land; else why speak so familiarly with Mithrandir? Why speak so familiarly even with the Lord Denethor? But Beregond drew his greatest honor in the lively friendship he held with Peregrin himself, who evoked the merry energy of youth even as a shy, sad spark of wisdom glittered in his eyes.
War interrupted the small pleasures of companionship Beregond found with Peregrin. Lord Faramir, whom Beregond admired above all others, returned from his labors in Ithilien only to be immediately deployed by his father to shore up the defenses of Osgiliath. Beregond revered Faramir, whose grief for his brother's death radiated from him like a silent ache borne without complaint even as he performed the duties of two sons.
Beregond found greater empathy with the halfling when they welcomed Faramir through the gates of Minas Tirith, and Peregrin cheered with as much love and admiration as Beregond felt for this son of Gondor. Faramir was a lordly and kind Man who could master others because he could master himself. And when Faramir was struck down by a poisoned dart, Peregrin grieved, as touched as Beregond was by his quiet dignity even while in great pain.
Beregond knew Peregrin had the honor of tending Faramir as a servant of Lord Denethor, and when he began his sentry duty while battle raged at the gates of his city, Beregond was surprised to see the halfling dash towards him, hurrying on some errand. Pleased at the opportunity, he quickly asked about both the Lord Denethor and Faramir and the rumor of their recent travel though the city. The halfling's answer wounded Beregond with a terrible grief.
"Yes," said Peregrin, "they go to the Silent Street."
Rath D�nen, the Silent Street, where the dead rested. Beregond felt his eyes fill, and bowed his head, anguished. "They said that he was dying," he said, "and now he is dead."
"No," said the halfling, "not yet. And even now his death might be prevented, I think." He told of Denethor's burning madness that wanted expression in real flame. "I must find Gandalf at once."
Beregond turned his face towards the sounds in the lower city. "Then you must go down to the battle."
"I know. The Lord has given me leave. But, Beregond," he said, his brows drawn up in worry as he touched Beregond's hand, "if you can, do something to stop any dreadful thing happening."
"The Lord does not permit those who wear the black and silver to leave their post for any cause," Beregond replied stiffly, torn by the conflicting impulses of his heart, "save at his own command."
"Well, you must choose between orders and the life of Faramir," Peregrin said starkly. "And as for others, I think you have a madman to deal with, not a lord." He stepped away. "I must run," he said, and then promised, "I will return if I can."
With a flick of dark surcoat, he was gone, pelting away like a boy at the most earnest of games and leaving Beregond with a hard, simple truth delivered as bluntly as any trooper would: act out of true wisdom, or stand idly under the excuse of law. Beregond, Guard of the Tower and honest Man of Gondor, trusted Peregrin, Ernil I Pheriannath or no, and he ran from his station to the Silent Street, dashing as fast as a boy to serve his Lord Faramir.
*
His trust in Peregrin Took was placed truly, and though Beregond committed an unwilling act of violence when he killed the porter, he knew his haste was needful to reach Faramir's side and save him. Reach him he did, and kept Denethor's loyal servants at bay until Gandalf came and vied with Denethor for the life of his son, and won. Then madness claimed fully the Steward of Gondor. Denied his son, defeated by despair, he thrust a lit torch into piles of oil-soaked wood from which Faramir had been removed by Gandalf, lay down on the bier, and died.
Gandalf directed events after that, and he bade Beregond to return to the Tower and report to the chief of the Guard, knowing he must be discharged from the Guard until his case could be tried, but to Beregond's joy, he also bade him to leave after he discharged his duty, go to the Houses of Healing with Faramir, and guard him. Peregrin accompanied him, for the chief knew not what else to do with a perian, now that the Lord Denethor was dead. Soon, the women at the Houses of Healing cleaned Faramir of oil, dressed him in clean, soft clothes, and settled him into a quiet room where he lay still on the bed. All the while, Beregond stood by the door, at attention, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
The ladies of the house seemed to have little respect for his arms, for they ignored him when they did not cast dark looks at him, and before long, they left. The last woman paused before she exited the room and said, "He's to have peace and quiet in here, so if you must stand guard, then be sure you stand quietly."
Peregrin wandered hesitantly to the bed and gazed at Faramir, his brow drawn up worriedly, and then looked up to Beregond. "The healers, they - they would not say much. Do you think--?"
The halfling looked very young, his tender mouth open just a little, unable to finish the question. Beregond held his doubt within, for though it seemed Faramir slowly lost a silent battle within, Beregond had faith he would not succumb, and he did not wish add to Peregrin's distress. Stoutly, he said, "They are the best healers in the land, and Lord Faramir is doughty. Lesser Men would have fallen from such a wound, but not Faramir. He can master his passions, and he can master his pain. He will master this wound."
"You admire him greatly."
"I do," said Beregond. "I strive to emulate his wisdom, and his restraint. He is a great Man."
Peregrin turned back to look at Faramir's unnatural stillness, uncomfortable. "I wish I could do something." His expression was soft, like the softness now missing in Minas Tirith since the women and children had gone. Beregond's son was safe in the kitchens of this very house, but his wife, Caoreth, was far away. His yearning for her bloomed suddenly, a rose thick with sweet thorns, and he craved her soft neck, her soft words, her soft pleasure cries in their bed.
"I wish I was with Merry," Peregrin continued.
Beregond cleared his throat, disconcerted. "Yes, to the battle. To fight the enemy; to fight for Gondor."
"Well, no," he replied. "Not really. I just want to be with Merry, be there with him. I -- I can only imagine he's as lonely and frightened as I was in the Silent Street." He sighed heavily, and the register of his voice lowered. "But he's probably more scared, so much more, even though he's very brave: he's the only hobbit out there, on a battlefield with all those Men. He has a sword, a good sword, much like mine, and he wields it better -- he's been practicing, and, and..." He swallowed hard and shouldered away from Beregond's concern to stand at the window. His back shook, and his hands came up to his face for long moments. Beregond could hear his breath labor against weeping.
Soon he mastered himself and lowered his hands, turning a little so Beregond could see only his profile, edged bright where tear-tracks caught light from the window. "I only wish I could be with him, even if only to keep him company when the Enemy's army killed us. And maybe - maybe they wouldn't kill us; we were faced with certain death many times, and survived, just..." He trailed off, drew in a quick breath, and then a soft, bitter laugh came from his twisted mouth. "We were always together, before. Now I don't know if he still lives or..."
A moment passed, and another, and the Man could find nothing to say. Peregrin's childlike appearance and gay manner moved Beregond to respond as a father, but the fear he expressed for his Merry was much like the fear Beregond felt in his worry for Faramir, yet not quite the same.
With a start, he recognized it was the same painful fear he harbored for his absent Caoreth, beloved wife out of reach.
Peregrin left the window. He took a sentry position next to Beregond, and as the slow hours passed, their hopes for those that lay dying waned even as their companionship grew, silently.
*
Though the city thrummed with ever-growing tension as the Lords of the West prepared for the next battle, Beregond found it hard to feel despair. The Lord Faramir was awake, and well, called back from his dark journeys near death by the King Elfstone, a Man whose lofty presence daunted Beregond, though Peregrin greeted him as a dear friend. Faramir regained his strength hour by hour, and soon he would go out as the new Steward and take over the ordering of the city. It was a day Beregond anticipated, and in the meantime, he waited on Lord Faramir, acting as his personal valet and assistant while the Steward remained in the Houses of Healing.
Walking in the garden one day, Faramir grew chilled and requested his cloak; Beregond fetched it gladly, heartened by how his Lord's face gained color in the outside air. After he brought the cloak, Faramir asked to be left alone. Beregond bowed, but he chanced a hidden glance and saw Faramir look in the direction the beautiful Lady of Rohan had passed by, and he smiled, pleased his liege sought such earthly joys. His union with Caoreth was a sweet gladness that brightened his days and only grew stronger because she had borne him his son, Bergil. After having been burdened with terrible grief and despair, perhaps Faramir would find his life lightened by the Lady �owyn. The thought pleased Beregond, and he departed from Faramir with a glad heart.
Rather than return to the Houses of Healing, he decided to explore the park that surrounded them, and as he penetrated further into the peaceful trees, he could almost forget the troubles still gathering for Gondor. When the war ended, he would bring his family here, and he would stroll hand-in-hand with Caoreth while Bergil would tip at bushes with a long stick.
He heard a familiar voice then: Peregrin's. Beregond felt a quick stab of guilt, for once Faramir had been recalled from his dark delirium by the King, Beregond had not left his side, not even to check on Peregrin and his kinsman. He paused, curious. Peregrin was softly singing.
There is an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old gray hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
one night to drink his fill
A sharp tinkle of fork and plate told him that Peregrin ate, and the words faltered, muffled, but he continued to hum the tune brokenly. Sometimes a syllable would come out, or an odd phrase: "and up and down he runs his bow, hm hmm-mm hm, hm hmm-mm low."
The melody was old and well known, but the words were such as he had never heard. And though the tune had a rollicking pace oft pealed tipsily in taverns, Peregrin sang slowly, his voice hazy, nonsense about dogs and jokes. His voice gained a little strength, and Beregond heard a low laugh at the same time:
He cocks an ear at all the jests
and laughs until he chokes.
"Wait, sing that part again," said a voice Beregond did not recognize.
Peregrin obliged, and Beregond shook his head a little, ashamed to realize he listened like a thief while Peregrin continued his whimsical song of cows and queens, dishes and spoons. Peregrin and Merry were enjoying the park just as he was, taking some meal picnic-style, though Beregond wondered what meal that could be at the second bell past noon. He smiled indulgently. Peregrin placed great importance and invested much pleasure in his food; it must be a trait shared by all halflings.
He should call on his friend, thought Beregond, and he should introduce himself to the other halfling, Merry, and discover his proper name; he found using a designation so obviously a nickname felt disrespectful. And perhaps there was more value to the indulgence of good food and good friends than he ascribed, for both halflings sounded happy and content even in the midst of a city preparing for a terrible battle.
The Man in the Moon was drinking deep
and the cat began to wail;
A dish and a spoon on the table danced,
The cow in the garden madly pranced,
and the little dog chased his tail.
"Watch the wine," exclaimed Merry.
"It'll wash with a bit of cold water. Here, just get it out of the way, and it won't get stained." Peregrin, that, sounding a bit huffy before he picked up the thread of his song.
Beregond could not see them. He cast about, puzzled, for he could hear them clearly. He almost called out but did not want to admit that he could not find two foreigners in the confines of a tame city park. The land sloped down a bit to the right, and he saw how a gully sank deep beyond some bushes thick with spring leaves. He pushed through quietly, determined to find his own way.
Where before it sounded as if the halflings were at his very feet, now they sounded as though they were above, but Beregond could not find them. He tracked all around the gully, and then at last he saw a small movement up on the bank. There was an overhang so that none could see a small clear patch from above, and the thick vegetation screened it from below, but Beregond could just see the top of a curly head come above the leaves and disappear again. Pleased he had found them he cut away to take advantage of a diagonal approach, for the pitch of the slope was steep.
The song devolved once more into hums that rose into laughter and fell back into tuneful hums again. It was a sound of unfettered joy, and Beregond smiled in response as he heard it. He stepped up high enough to see into the tiny clearing nestled so secretively on the side of the gully, and his smile froze, only to melt slowly away, for he felt bespelled, seized as if in an unnatural grip of elvish magic.
The halflings lay together in a patch of sunlight unaccountably bright. Every detail of their intimacy burned brilliantly. Merry, for it could be no one else, measured his length along a rumpled blanket on the grass, reclined on his elbows. His pale yellow shirt was open and fell away from his shoulders. The cords of his neck stood out; he was straining to push his face upward, into a passionate kiss that Peregrin granted from above, humming all the while.
Beregond saw the muscular heave of tongue, pink, part Merry's lips. Peregrin's upper body was bare, he lowered himself onto Merry, tilted his head, and his jaw moved slowly so their mouths sunk into each other and Beregond had a giddy thought that Merry risked choking. He saw Peregrin's back work, the shoulders broad and straining, his waist slender and pale, rising like a stem from the black trousers of his livery.
Beregond found himself staring as he discovered anew the small differences between Men and halflings that had snagged his gaze the first time he saw one: the feet, of course; they had been covered in boots since he took up livery of the Guard, but now they were again bare as a boy's in a carefree summer and furred even to the heels with thick curls like the stuff on his head; the long, deft fingers that were dug into the grass on either side of Merry, nimble and strong as an elf's; and the points of his ears, which should seem more elvish than his hands but seemed neat rather than elegant and indefinably fitting for that boyish face.
Except now he looked nothing like a boy. He settled himself into his companion's length so their hips pressed together, and Merry's legs fell to either side, lax at first, and then one came up and twined round one of Peregrin's, his heel digging into the inner hinge of knee so hard the fur was pulled straight against the fabric. Peregrin lifted one hand from the grass and pushed it between their bodies, his head bowed to watch what Beregond could not see but guessed at when the back of his black trousers loosened, and dipped lower.
His buttocks were shapely, and lean, and they tensed and relaxed in a feral rhythm as Beregond watched, dumbfounded, and Peregrin sang, breathless now, and closer to the tune's usual swift tempo.
Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;
the dog began to roar,
The cow and the horses stood on their heads;
The guests all bounded from their beds
and danced upon the floor.
Merry made a noise that could have been laughter and choked out, "You sang that bit before."
"With a ping and a p-pang the fiddle-strings broke!" Peregrin gasped, all melody gone and every muscle in his back trembling hard, "the cow jumped, jumped, oh, juuuuhn...!"
His head dropped, his mouth opened on Merry's, but their joined cries overflowed, harsh and guttural as the clash of mortal effort in battle. Peregrin's flanks heaved as he hauled in gulps of air as if they were nets heavy with fish. Merry flopped gracelessly to the ground. He tugged at Peregrin's hand and brought it to his mouth and suckled the wet fingers. Peregrin raised his head to stare down at this display, his expression satisfied.
"Warm," Merry said softly. "I haven't felt warm for so long, and now I do."
"My brave Merry," replied Peregrin. "Those clumsy Men, leaving you behind. They don't understand what's really important." He rolled off Merry to one side, revealing them instantly like opening a shockingly illustrated book.
Their maleness was undeniable and, in both cases, still hard and gleaming, framed by the twin Vs of their opened trousers and nestled in thick curls, damp now. Neither had hair on his chest, but both had ruddy nipples, and the fur at their groins trailed up in paths that ended at their navels. With the hand that Merry had laved inefficiently, Peregrin reached across his companion to pluck a slice of meat from the platter that lay near, and then settled once more as he tore a bite with his small pearly teeth. His eyes closed in carnal pleasure as he chewed. His lashes feathered his cheek, like a girl's. His mouth was still red and wet.
Beregond, Guard of the Tower and honest Man of Gondor, backed away, grateful beyond words for the spray of leaves that hid him from view, for he had judged Peregrin the Halfling wrongly again, and he was afraid.
He had witnessed a debauch as lewd and uninhibited as the gods might have created, such that mortal eyes shouldn't see. Peregrin and his countryman coupled like animals would, if animals could reason. Their passionate straining had been vulpine, sinuous and deft, violent and quick. Beregond could not imagine that sort of abandon in his own bed, nor could he envision his dear Caoreth writhing in such pleasurable oblivion. Yet they joked, the halflings, and sang sweetly, and smiled with such innocent joy with their soft mouths.
They partook of food, and speech, and sleep. They bled; they could be hurt. They opposed the Enemy. They loved, deeply and well, and were loved in return by wizards, it seemed, and kings, and elves and dwarves: such folk as were perilous to ordinary Men like Beregond, and Beregond recalled suddenly and bitterly that he was an ordinary Man and a Guard of the Tower no longer, though until that very moment he had felt so in his heart.
But Beregond's heart foundered then, out of its depth, and he fled, back to the Houses of Healing to wait for his master, the Lord Faramir, in whom he saw restraint, gentility, wisdom, and a noble heart: all things he could accept. Beregond may never entirely understand such a lofty lord, but he would never feel fear in his presence, either, for in Faramir, Beregond saw a fellow Man.
Beregond, when he next saw Peregrin, hid the mortification he felt for having witnessed such an intimate moment. He did not confess his folly this time, however, and when he met Peregrin's eyes steadily, as an honest Man of Gondor should, he could do so for only a moment.