20 Blotmath, SR 1252

“These are troubling times indeed, my friend.” Gandalf sat closeted with the Thain, puffing seriously on his pipe. His smoke-rings did not go this way or that as was their usual wont; they merely floated up and dissipated, as smoke-rings usually would. Gerontius eyed Gandalf warily.

“What is it you are about, Gandalf? I take it from your sudden visit it has naught to do with my new daughter, or with my youngest son’s faunthood; or even with my Hildifons, fond though you are of him.” The lads in question, in fact, sat nearby. Hildibrand was playing on the floor, and Hildifons working at a small table by his father’s desk. Hearing his name, the eight-year-old gifted the adults with a sunny smile. He was studying his letters, and piped, “Gandalf! I learned all the letters already! I can say them for you!”

“That’s just fine, lad!” Gandalf forced a smile. “And so you shall; but hold a bit, for I still have quite serious business to discuss with your father. Perhaps you might try your numbers next?” Hildifons nodded, and bent his head over his paper. “As I was saying, Gerontius, the situation away South has grown quite serious indeed. The White Tree, the tree of the Kings, has perished!”

Gerontius’ eyes opened wide. He knew somewhat of Gondor, for Gandalf had told him many tales, and he knew, too, what the Tree had meant to the southern Kings of old. “Oh, Gandalf! That sounds quite serious!”

“Tree died?” Hildibrand looked at Gandalf anxiously. “Can plant new one?”

“I am afraid not, Brand my lad,” Gerontius said gravely; he didn’t believe in shielding his sons from truth. “That is a very special tree indeed, the southern Kings will need it. It cannot be easily replaced. But it is not your worry, little one.” 

Not, of course, that there has been a King in a while, Gandalf thought, but he saw no need to confuse young Brand. Hildifons was already looking at him, puzzled, and he thought the older lad at least might recall his tales of the Ruling Stewards. But if the King is ever to return...

Hildibrand considered his father's answer, and he pulled an acorn out of his pocket. He had picked it up that morning while hunting for his First Gifts, and forgotten about it. “Here!” he said brightly, holding it out to Gandalf. “Plant tree for Kings!”

Gandalf accepted the acorn with a grave nod. “Thank you, lad; I do believe I shall,” he said. “It will at least afford Gondor some beauty in her time of trouble.”

“Beauty is indeed precious, old friend,” Gerontius agreed, thinking of his new daughter. Just a few rooms away, the infant Belladonna slept in her cradle, heedless of the events being wrought in the Outside World, and what her very existence would mean for the lands of Men in days to come.