#beregond

Beregond used to be a child. And like most young boys who lived under the flag of the White Tree, he had aspirations. And like his father before him, he wished to be blacksmith, to follow in the footsteps of the family trade and live a simple life. As simple as he could, anyway, when the shadow and gloom of Mordor crept ever closer towards Minas Tirith.

Beregond used to be a young man. As he grew older, growing with him was the knowledge, deep down, that he would not be able to follow in the footsteps of his forefathers. It was less of a sudden realization and more of a slower understanding over time, though that did little to soften the blow. Then again, young men all over the White City — and beyond that, Gondor as a whole — were having their dreams and hopes dashed.

The reason for that was something simple, something that didn't have the right to such a logical explanation. The reason was war. Or, more accurately, the threat of war. Was a terrible thing more or less terrifying when you were expecting it? Was it better for the horrors to creep up to you, catching you unprepared, or was it better to wait and prepare, and all the while your courage was fading?

Of course, when he and so many other young men his age were recruited to be soldiers or rangers, the full reality of his new life hadn't yet crashed down on him. Perhaps some part of him believed that this was some sort of dream, or, failing that, that this was only a temporary thing. Soon, he'd be able to return home to live, not just for the times he was on leave. Maybe his father would let him resume his apprenticeship at the family smithy. Just after everyone realized that there was no need to be so cautious. Then everything would be fine.

But as the years grew on, as Beregond matured and became an adult, the situation did not improve. In fact, it was the opposite. Orcs started to launch raids on border settlements; Ithilien and Osgiliath seemed to be their preferred targets. And while the forces of Sauron did indeed sustain heavy losses, it was not limited to only orcs. Many men of Gondor had given their lives to defend that very realm; some of the people Beregond had known since youth were gone, no more, their bodies either mauled by orcs or simply lost to all who would try to find them, buried under their enemies. The soldiers who had given their lives were denied their dignity in death. And for everyone who had tried to defend their homeland, it was a good death.

Except, was that truly right? Beregond was of the opinion that there was no such thing as a good death, only death. And had they truly given their lives? How many of them, on the ride out to countless sites of battle, had known that they would have been killed just hours later? And if they did, if they had some anticipation of it, would they have wanted it, or would they have fought it — trying their hardest to survive, to get back to their friends, their family? No. They hadn't given their lives. Their lives had been taken from them.

That was largely the reason why Beregond gave his duties his all. Consequently, he rose through the ranks of the soldiers quickly, faster than usual even for a time during which many men were being hastily promoted. Perhaps his raise in rank was to fill the position of someone who had recently left the position empty, but what of it? Beregond owed it everything, if only in honor of those who hadn't been as fortunate to have the chances he did. And not only to them, but to all the people now bereft of a son, or a father, or a brother. And if it was to be his own family deprived of a son, then ... well, at least they'd be told it was a good death. If that was such a thing.

Still, it was a surprise when Beregond found out that he was to be in the service of Lord Faramir. Well, technically, when he was first recruited, he had automatically been in the service of the Steward of Gondor, and thus by extension, his two sons. But to be assigned to be an actual member of the guard of Faramir was both a duty and an honor that he hadn't even dreamed of. Which meant that, now more than ever, Beregond had to put in the most effort. And if he was already doing that as he was — well, he would just have to raise his own standards.

As it turned out, Lord Faramir was just like the rumors. Kind, wise, and gentle, yet strong, too, when necessary. Those qualities alone would have made Beregond admire him, but even beyond that, despite the fact that Faramir was a captain and Beregond was only a soldier, Faramir respected his station; never once did he pull rank. As the weeks turned into months and the months turned in to years, it felt like, beyond respecting his knowledge and judgement, Faramir considered Beregond a friend. And who would Beregond be to deny him? After all, that was his duty; to remain loyal, both to Gondor and the White Tree, but to their people. He'd sworn an oath, after all; valour and fealty were essential.

And it was out of that place of fealty that he fought for Gondor, lived and breathed for Gondor, and the defense of it. When it was Mordor and not yet Rohan who went to the gates of Minas Tirith, it was Beregond who fought them back from the upper levels. But, as always, his service was to Faramir — and beyond him, it was to the Steward. At least, that was in times of peace — or at least, in times were they weren't directly fighting — and so it was with no small degree of desperation that he fled his post when the halfling told him that, against all odds, the Steward was burning his son alive.