Untitled - BoG-Archive

"Do the young men of Gondor think of nothing but war?" Mithrandir
growled, half to himself. Perhaps it was not to be wondered at; Minas Tirith was,
after all, within sight of the Shadow. In such a place, people thought constantly of
danger and praised those who defended their city. Still, the boy he remembered
had been a promising student of the arts of peace. It would be a sad loss if he too
had learned to prize warfare above all else.
“Alas, sometimes it seems that we must,” Faramir answered ruefully. “But
now that you are here, I hope you will teach me about other things, as you used
to do! You promised once, long ago, to tell me of the time you visited the Elven
havens and saw the harbor where their ships sail for the West.”
The wistfulness of his tone eased Mithrandir’s mind. Perhaps, he reflected,
it was not only the need to find information which had brought him to the city
this winter instead of searching for Gollum immediately, as he had originally
planned. Perhaps some power understood that this young man was in need of his
teaching and had directed him here.
"I shall make sure to spare time for that," he promised. "But do you not
have duties to attend to?"
"Sometimes," Faramir replied. "If there are more orc-raids, I may be called
to go out with the city guard or the Rangers of Ithilien, as my father pleases. He
says it is important for me to learn something of the duties of all Gondor's
companies. He does the same with Boromir – he is home now for year's end, but I
think Father intends him to serve at Cair Andros for a time."
They turned a corner and emerged at the edge of the Court of the Fountain.
The paved paths had been swept clean of snow, but an unmarked layer of it
covered the grass around the White Tree. The tower doors, standing wide open to
welcome guests, flooded the courtyard with warm, golden light. Glittering stars
studded the clear night sky. The two men's backs were to the east, shutting out
the pitiless Shadow rising there.
Though he had not visited Minas Tirith as often as the north, Mithrandir
had walked this path many times before. The first time had been a brilliant spring
day when the Tree was in blossom, already an ancient symbol of Gondor then,
though still strong and healthy. Its white blossoms were each the size of a man's
fist, their perfume strong enough to fill the Citadel and yet delicate enough not to
cloy even when one paused beside the fountain, as he and Faramir did now.
Water played around the base of the Tree despite the cold weather, for it was
warmed deep underground before emerging here.
Faramir gazed at the bare branches furred with a coating of snow, and a
smile played about his lips. "I like the Tree best in winter," he commented in a
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