Chapter 6.  Hope Blooms

Aragorn descended the snow-peaked mountain with a warm glow in his heart, cradling the sapling of the White Tree of Gondor in his arms.  The discovery of the White Tree kindled a hope within him that the line of Elendil would not end with his own passing. 

As he neared the City, a pleasant thought crossed his mind.   

Someone else would surely rejoice at the sight of this sapling, perhaps with even greater joy. 

He bade one of his guards ride ahead, bearing a message for the Steward to meet the King at the gate of the Citadel. 

When they arrived at the gate, Faramir awaited them. 

Faramir began to speak to greet them, but his words faltered as his gaze fell upon the sapling in Aragorn’s arms. 

His face lit with great joy and astonishment.  “A shoot of Nimloth, my lord?” 

“Aye, Faramir,” Aragorn replied.  “We found a sapling of the White Tree hidden in an unlikely place.” 

“Just as the line of Elendil lay hidden for many years, Sire,” said Faramir, still in awe. 

Then to Aragorn’s surprise, Faramir bowed low three times—first to the King, then to the White Tree, and lastly to the wizard who had been the mover of the great deeds of the West. 

They walked together into the Citadel, pausing before the dead White Tree.  The great tree, its once noble branches now twisted and bare, loomed in the centre of the courtyard, a shadow of Gondor's former glory. 

A guard fetched a spade, and Aragorn himself dug the earth on the far side of the Fountain, opposite the dead Tree.  The dark, rich earth yielded to his efforts, as though it sensed the great purpose of the task. 

Then he said to Faramir, “Let us place the sapling together, my Steward.” 

The King and the Steward planted the sapling, then covered the earth around it. 

When the task was done, Aragorn stepped back and turned his attention to the dead Tree. 

“No longer will the enemies of Gondor say that we shall wither like a dead tree,” he said.  

“What is your intention for the old Tree, my lord?” Faramir inquired. 

“We shall uproot it and treat it with honour,” Aragorn replied. 

“It had withered and died.  Yet it has not lost its worth, has it?” Faramir asked again. 

Aragorn turned to him.  It was then that he noticed the Steward’s pale face, a stark contrast to the joy he had shown upon seeing the sapling.  Faramir’s gaze was fixed on the dead Tree. 

“It was the seed of Nimloth the Fair, hallowed and noble,” Faramir spoke softly, more to himself than to anyone else.  “Perhaps it was blighted by some plague or evil too strong.  But it had stood proud and strong for many years, fulfilling its duty, before its dreadful end.” 

Aragorn exchanged a brief glance with Gandalf. 

“The old Tree has served its purpose, Faramir, even long after its death,” Gandalf reassured him.  “The sapling that you plant today will also wither and die one day.  That the old Tree was a witness to Gondor’s decay, and this sapling will be a witness to Gondor’s renewal, does not mean that the old Tree is less worthy.” 

“This old Tree is the third White Tree planted in Gondor,” Faramir said quietly.  “The Annals do not record the fate of the second Tree after its death.  Was it buried somewhere, or burned, or lost during the confusion of the Great Plague?” 

Aragorn placed a hand on Faramir’s arm.  “Look at me, Faramir,” he said.  “No one will burn this old Tree.  We will carry it with honour to the Tombs of the Kings.  There shall it lie, while the line of the Kings endures.” 

Faramir regarded him with gratitude. 

“And so shall the name of Denethor son of Ecthelion be recorded with due honour, while my line and yours endure,” Aragorn added, his voice firm.  “A dreadful end shall not erase a lifetime of service, if that is what troubles your mind.” 

“I agree with that,” Gandalf declared. 

Faramir’s expression softened, gratitude mingling with surprise, pride with sorrow.  Slowly, he began to open the formidable gate he had erected to master his emotions, allowing the sorrow within to surface. 

Then, with sudden abandon, he flung the gate wide open: he burst into tears, his shoulders shaking with the weight of his grief.  Aragorn had not seen him weep in such a manner before—not even during the ceremony honouring Denethor and Boromir. 

He placed his arm gently upon Faramir’s shoulders.  Gandalf stepped closer to Faramir, offering quiet reassurance.   

The following day, when they placed the dead Tree upon a table in the Tombs of the Kings, it did not escape Aragorn’s notice that Faramir reverently touched one of its dry branches.  The gesture struck him deeply, for it reminded Aragorn that Faramir had no remains of his father and brother to grieve over. 

... 

 

Planted with hope by the King and the Steward, tended by the green hands of Samwise Gamgee of the Shire, showered with admiration from men and women of Gondor; the sapling grew swiftly.   

In June, when summer grew to its full splendour, the tree bore its first fruit. 

It was fitting that Sam, a prince among gardeners, was the one who first noticed the fruit.  It was also fitting that the first person he alerted was Faramir.   

“No offence to you, Mister Strider, Sir,” Sam said afterwards to Aragorn, “you are the king, but Captain Faramir has been looking at a dead tree all his life.” 

One afternoon, Aragorn and Faramir stood together, admiring the White Tree. 

“How fare you, Faramir?”  asked Aragorn.  “Have you been sleeping better?” 

Faramir nodded. 

“Dark thoughts come less often than last month.  And it was the same thoughts over and over, without new sting—I have known the worst.”   

After a pause, Faramir added, “I slept soundly like a child, the first night after you found the sapling.” 

“You can speak with me whenever you need,” Aragorn said.  “No one should suffer in silence.” 

Faramir nodded.  “I am grateful, Aragorn.” 

After a moment’s pause, Faramir spoke again, his tone lighter.  “I read that one way to alleviate our sorrow is to care for others, rather than focusing on ourselves.” 

“From what I gather, you have always cared so much for so many, Faramir.” 

“Then, take my questions as my care and not idle curiosity:  I hear you ordered watchmen on the wall, Aragorn.” 

Aragorn could not stop himself from smiling.  “I am waiting for the arrival of a party.” 

He had not told anyone of his hope, not even his kin.  But recently his heart had almost burst with joy, and he wished to share it with someone. 

“The arrival of the party will assuage the Council’s concerns about my lack of heir,” he said. 

Faramir raised an eyebrow.  “Your lady is on her way here, with no party from Gondor to escort her?  And what of the preparations?  The Queen’s chambers are still being repaired, and I have heard no word of wedding plans.” 

Aragorn chuckled.  “If you are not careful, Faramir, you will end up worse than Húrin.  There is no need to worry.  No amount of luxury from Gondor’s vaults could match my lady’s worth.  And we have been waiting so long that the simplest wedding would be joyous enough.” 

Faramir’s brow furrowed.  “What has made you wait so long?  Did you take it upon yourself that you should only take a lady after you return to your crown?” 

“Did you not think the same, that you should not bind any lady to yourself while the war still raged?  And in my case, it was said that Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life’s grace for any Man less than the King of Gondor and Arnor.”  

A curious expression appeared in Faramir’s face, which reminded Aragorn of the minstrel of Imladris when inspiration struck him.   

“Your lady is of the Elder race?” 

At Aragorn’s nod, the curious expression turned to delight.   

“For little price do Elven-kings, their daughters give—for gems and rings, and thrones of old!” 

Aragorn chuckled.  “Little price indeed.  I pity the man who dares seek your daughter’s hand.” 

They laughed, marvelling at the joy that had visited their days. 

How strange it was, Aragorn thought, to stand here with an unlikely friend, beneath a blooming White Tree, speaking of children yet to come. 

Days would not always be golden, he knew.  New challenges would arise, and evil had left its seeds in many places. 

Yet each season has its beauty.  He would savour the joy and welcome the sorrow of each. 

... 

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