Of all the wonders that Minas Tirith had to offer, this was the one he most wanted to see. It stood beside a fair fountain and was more closely guarded than even the Steward himself by wing-helmed guards.

Thorongil had heard of this scion of Nimloth from those who had beheld the tree’s venerable ancestors. This withered symbol was all that remained in Gondor of Elendil’s glory?

    He drew near and felt like weeping before the long dead tree, the branches bleached like bones.

Thorongil turned away, trying to envision it renewed. Could sap ever flow again through these dry branches? It seemed impossible, as impossible as his love for Arwen.

And yet…had not Beren returned from the Halls of Mandos? Had not the line of Isildur survived against all the odds? Maybe somewhere in Arda’s vast reaches, some shoot or seed of the White Tree lived too?

He closed his eyes and suddenly he envisioned a living tree covered in blossoms, which he stood beneath with his lady. Upon his head was the Winged Crown of Gondor.

Was this the foresight, or but a dream? There was always hope.

  The White Tree might be dead, but Elendil’s heir lived!