"My Lady? Dame Berethil asks to speak to you." Faelivrin looked nervous and unhappy clearly something else had gone wrong.
Idril handed her ladle to another Woman and came out from behind the great kettles of soup and pottage under the shelter of the collonade to follow her maid in waiting across a courtyard crowded with Women and childen supping quietly at their bowls to the suite of apartments on the far side.
Pharinzil lay in the middle room, upon a dusty old day-bed and covered with a sheet. Dame Berethil, the healer bent over her. Idril frowned in sudden concern. "She is still unconscious?"
Berethil straightened to face her. "It is the Black Breath," she said flatly.
For a moment Idril could only gape at her then she got her breath back. "Impossible! Pharinzil was struck by falling masonry not a Morgul dart!"
"Yet she has fallen under the Shadow," the healer sounded both weary and discouraged. "Many, indeed most, of our wounded are so afflicted whatever the nature of their injuries. I cannot explain it, my Lady, but it is so."
Bitterness flooded Idril's soul. "Then they are doomed, Men, Women and children alike." Berethil looked like she wanted to disagree, but she could not. They both knew how terribly rare recovery from the Black Breath was.
'Why grieve?' Idril asked herself as she shook with shock and sorrow. 'All will die in any case, and the Black Breath is a kinder end than the Orcs will give them.' "Do what you can for her," she said tersely, turned and left.
The garden terrace behind the house was also full of huddled Women and children. It was surrounded by a high wall with niches for statues and three false gates framing landscape frescoes. Tucked away in a corner was a stair leading up to a rampart walkway. Standing on it Idril could see north and east over the Pelennor fields, now black with the enemy, and the first three circles of the city burning beneath her. She felt for the dagger her father had given her, it would be time to use it soon. Then she was struck by a sudden thought. Turning her back on the ruin of Minas Tirith she looked down at the women and children crowding the garden the garden and remembered all the others in this house and the other great mansions of the fifth and sixth circles. What would become of them? The best they could hope for was a quick death. Far more likely was a prolonged one as the sport of the Enemies creatures. Worst of all was to be taken captive and carried away into Mordor to serve the Dark Lord as his slaves.
Idril thought of all this and her mouth set in a grim line. She would not abandon her people to their fate as her father and brothers had. She could not save them but she would at least take them out of Sauron's hands forever.
…..
'Oh where is Gandalf? In the thick of things, I suppose, as usual. But where is that?' Pippin pushed his way against a tide of weary, stumbling soldiers. "Have you seen Mithrandir?" he demanded of each. "Do you know where he is?"Most didn't seem to hear him. At least they didn't answer. Those who did respond could only shake their heads. Mithrandir was somewhere here in the third circle, they said, but none knew exactly where. There was nothing for it but to keep looking - and hope when he finally found Gandalf it wouldn't be too late.
…
"You're mad. You've gone mad, my Lady." the Woman clutched her children, two small boys and a girl, to her skirts and stared at Idril in horror.
"Perhaps I have." said the Lady grimly. "But would you leave these to the mercies of Sauron?" she held out the knife. "Spare them that, and take a particle of the Enemy's victory from him!" she added almost gently, "I promise I will not give the word until all is truly lost and there is no other escape." The Woman bit her lip, wavered, and took the knife with trembling hand.
Not all needed persuading. Idril was unsurprised to discover other Women had had the same thought. Some indeed saw no reason to wait, but there she stood firm: "We must not. Not while the Men are still fighting lest they think they have failed us. I will see we have time enough." she told the impatient ones.
Only a few remained adamantly opposed; among them the healers Baradis and Berethil and their sister-by-marriage, a Mistress Hiril. "It is not lawful." the latter insisted. "In any case the city will not fall."
"I greatly fear you are wrong there," Idril answered evenly. "But if you are right there will be no need, and no harm will be done."
…..
The patter of Peregrin's bare feet on the stone steps to the lower circles died away but cries and sounds of destruction continued to float up the dark shaft to the Court of the Tree. Beregond didn't need to be told the city was breached. There was no hope now for Minas Tirith. Perhaps Denethor was right to take himself and his son out of this world before they could fall into enemy hands. A clean death by fire was far better than Sauron's mercy. It was not worth breaking the discipline of a thousand years to save a life that would be soon forfeit anyway - and far more cruelly. But poor Peregrin! poor innocent Halfling. Why had Mithrandir brought him here to die far from his peaceful northern home?
A breath of air, warm and smelling of the sea, brushed Beregond's cheek. Startled he looked westward and saw a band of grey night sky at the edge of Sauron's Dark. As he watched, disbelieving, it widened and stars appeared, including one brighter than the rest that did not flicker. "Earendil." he whispered in recognition. The star's pure rays fired the Man's spirit, not just with hope but with a purpose and authority that was quite alien to the humble man-at-arms he pretended be. Ignoring the law of the Fountain Guard he spoke aloud in the High Tongue of old, his voice ringing strongly through the Court:
"Aiya Earendil Elenion Orestel!" Behold Earendil, Star of High Hope. "Auta i lome, aure entuluva!" The night is passing, day shall come again!
His fellow guards stared at him in amazement and with some awe but none made any move to stop him as he left his post striding for the stair. A living Man mattered far more than a dead tree – even if that tree were Nimloth. The day had come and Faramir and his father must live to see it.
Beregond was checked at the door to the Hallow. "You have not the Steward's permission to enter." the Porter said stubbornly.
"I have news he must hear!" Beregond pleaded. "For the Lord Denethor's own sake let me pass!"
But the Man was unmovable. "Not without the proper authorization."
Beregond stared at him in disbelief then he saw over the Man's shoulder the key in the lock. He swept the porter aside with the haft of his spear and set a hand to the latch.
"Oh no you don't!" the other Man regained his balance, drew his sword and thrust.
Beregond blocked and before he could think his reflexes had countered countered the blow and his spear sunk deep into the Porter's breast. He pulled the blade free, watching in horror as the Man sagged to the ground, face empty in death. "The
first blood I ever shed, and it is that of a fellow soldier," Beregond whispered bitterly. "Valar forgive me." But there was still Faramir and his father to be saved. He went on.
The great galvorn doors of the House of the Stewards were shut and barred. Beregond struck them with his spear haft and the bars shattered at his will. The great doors swung open revealing gentlemen in waiting and guards ranged in a ring around the pyre and one Man holding a torch within a breath of lighting the oiled wood. Denethor stood atop the pile with his back to the doors and his son's body at his feet.
"My Lord Steward!" Beregond cried, not just with his voice but with all the power that lay dormant within him. The tension holding the Men inside shattered like a glass bowl. The guard with the torch jerked back his hand his face white with horror at what he'd so nearly done. Denethor whirled to glare savagely at the intruder.
"What is this, my Lord?" Beregond asked his voice ringing off the polished stone vault. "The houses of the dead are no place for the living. Would you abandon your people in their last need?"
"Since when has the Lord of Gondor been answerable to such as you?" the Steward snarled.
"Since the realms were founded, and before." Beregond answered and saw the words go home in a way he had not intended. He had meant only that a Lord was answerable, always, to his people. But he saw in Denethor's glaring eyes both the memory of his, Beregond's, remote royal descent and of the allegiance the House of Hurin owed to the House of Anarion.
Suddenly the rage went out of the Steward's face leaving it ravaged and full of sorrow. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his grief. "Battle is vain," Denethor said, almost pleadingly. "Why should we not go to death side by side?"
"Battle is not vain!" Beregond answered urgently. "The wind has changed, my Lord, it blows now from the west and pushes back the darkness. There is still hope. Your people cry for you, do not fail us."
Denethor wavered. Beregond saw the nobler side of his spirit battle with his pride and despair. For a short moment it seemed that the better part was like to win then the light went out and Denethor's face twisted again into a mask of fury. He laughed with a note of madness in his voice and Beregond knew he was lost.
The Steward stooped and lifted a swathed bundle lying at his feet and swept off the coverings. Beregond recognized the palantir of Minas Tirth, its glassy blackness lit by a red inner fire. Denethor laughed again, wildly. He sprang down from the pyre and advanced on the guardsman with the seeing stone extended before him.
"Your hope is but ignorance," he sneered. "Go forth and fight? Vanity! Against the Power that now arises there is no victory. Even now the wind of your hope cheats you and wafts up the Anduin a fleet with black sails. Look, Man! See for yourself."
Unwillingly Beregond did look and saw, as the Steward had said, black sailed ships small but clear within the globe. But he saw also bright sky in their wake. He raised grey eyes shining with a pure and silvery light to Denethor's maddened gaze. "I trust my own heart, Lord, over a thing made by craft." he said quietly. "And my heart tells me there is still hope. Help is coming, my Lord, I know not who or how, but it comes. And if we hold fast it may not be too late." But even as he spoke he knew it was no use. Denethor had shut mind and heart.
"Hope on then," The Steward said bitterly. "The Ancalimonioni were always fools.(1) The West has failed. It is time for all to depart who would not be slaves." He turned to the nearest guard. "Give me the torch."
Beregond leveled his spear. "Stand where you are."
The Man hesitated, eyes darting between the two. "You dare?" Denethor breathed, unbelieving. How long had it been since any had directly opposed his will? "You are sworn to my service, Guardsman, whatever blood may be in your veins!"
Beregond shook his head. "No I am not. You yourself released me from my oath when I joined the Fountain Guard. I am sworn to the service of the King. As are you, Steward."
Denethor glared at him, face working and shouted to his guards: "Slay me this renegade!"
Guards and gentlemen exchanged dazed and frightened looks like Men caught in a nightmare but none moved to obey. Denethor's hold on their wills had been broken and they would not connive at the murder of a sick and helpless Man.
"What, are you all recreant? Then I will slay him myself! I can still wield a brand!" With that Denethor cast aside both the palantir and his fur lined robe to draw the sword at his side.
…
1. The Ancalimonioni is the name of Beregond's line, descended from Prince Ancalimon son of Elemmacil second son of Narmacil II.
See Note below.
Note: The Law of Hyarmendacil II
By this statute it became a crime punishable by loss of lands and place in the succession to 'pollute' the Blood Royal by mixing it with that of 'Lesser Men'. The Kings of Rhovanion, because of their supposed kinship with the House of Hador, were not counted among 'Lesser Men', (which was most convenient for Hyarmendacil!) but non-royal Northmen were as were descendants of the Mountain and Vale folk who'd occupied the land before Gondor was established also all Men not of Gondor; the Haradrim, the Easterlings and the like; and Men of mixed blood. Men of common birth were also barred, even if of Gondor, as they were unable to prove 'purity of blood'.
In justice to Hyarmendacil he made this law not out of bigotry and pride of race but to secure Gondor against another Kinstrife. And it proved very useful to Princes of the Blood seeking to escape suspicion and surveillance by the current occupant of the throne.
Ancalimon was one who availed himself of this protection. He chose to wed the very beautiful daughter of a humble tanner. This lost him his rank but did wonders for his military career as his royal uncle and cousin no longer feared to employ his skills. As Captain-General of Gondor he was responsible for the victories of King Calimehtar before finally falling in the Battle of Dagorlad. Beregond is his direct descendant. His wife Hiril and her brother Iorlas are also of the blood of the Kings through a different line.