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I

As he strode across the courtyard, guards scattered before the Steward like dry leaves. “What is this foolishness, Faramir?”

Crouched under withered branches, the child held out a watering pot. His tunic was soaked and bedraggled with mud. “Maybe the Tree just needs water.”

Denethor closed his eyes for a moment then spoke as gently as he could. “I fear it has been too long. The Tree has been dead for years.”

“But I want it to live!” Faramir wailed, clutching the watering pot to his breast.

“So do I,” Denethor murmured as he gathered his son in his arms.

II

“What are you, little one?” Stiff and old, his back creaked as he leaned forward.

Many snows had crowned the mountain since last he saw his own kind, but he tried to recall their list of the trees—

Pine, hemlock, fir, cedar, holly...

Perhaps he had forgotten one. For this little sapling was none of those, with its leaves flashing green and silver in the wind, but since it was a tree, he took it under his care. Browsing deer scattered at his fierce trumpet call, and he piled rocks above to break the wild slide of snow and stone.

III

“The chronicles do not tell how they planted the last one, sire,” the loremaster said, while the orchardmen could not agree what to do.

“Look here,” Samwise spoke up. “White Tree or not, it’s still like any tree.”

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked. Unfortunately, his time in the woods had not involved taking care of them.

“Get some soil from up on the mountain. Same as the tree was growin' in. It liked that soil or it wouldn’t have got so tall.

“As my Gaffer says, people and trees need to feel at home before they’ll put down roots.”