Perhaps the Tower Guard could count themselves as fortunate to be out of range of the catapults. They did not endure the horrors of the soldiers in the lower circles did, but they could feel the trembling of the stone beneath from the precipice on which they stood.
What seemed and still remained so high an honour to be posted at the Tower now pained him, while other men in the lower Circles of the City raised sword and shield in defense against the breach of the Great Gate. Beregond found it difficult ease his misgivings and hold his post when he knew the regiments within Minas Tirith could only hold the walls against a siege of ten thousand orcs, Haradrim, and trolls for so long, but hold it he did.
If a Tower Guard abandoned his post, he would be a faithless man indeed.
This Beregond repeated to himself throughout the night. He itched to fight, to raise his sword against an orc, yet he was protected in his perch, high above the battalions below launching stone at the walls of Minas Tirith. There were rumors of unspeakable horrors, but most within the Citadel thought it better to never endure such events in the lower Circles. Beregond could barely sleep now, listening for a sign of Rohan's aid, now beyond hope, and thinking back on the last few hours.
"The Lord Faramir has been rescued! The Prince rode beyond the Great Gate and saw the lord safely into the City! They just took him into the Tower!"
Such was the call that woke Beregond in the afternoon. The guards made their rotations from their daily watch from the battlements. Most wept in joy at the return of their Captain, but happiness turned to bitterness at the news of Faramir's condition: he was no longer lost, but he was dying.
If one such as he could brave a futile assault in his father's name, only to be rewarded for his valor with deep-set wounds, a fever, and death, then how could they not despair? The days grew darker and the Enemy grew stronger. Hope burned away into to anger and denial. Denial whittled away into to despair. And now there was naught to do but wait. To stand and fight to the last for their Lord or be overcome by the dark armies of Mordor. Deep in mind, even within his heart, Beregond knew fortune would show her hand for the good or ill of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth.
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The Guard's Choice
FantasyThe choice of Beregond, Captain of the Third Company of the White Tower, is much overlooked. His judgment is the King Elessar's first ruling of many. In the dark days of the Siege of Gondor, Beregond must endure a war of his own, between head and he...
