#bergil

All children of Gondor were told the history of — or, at least, knew the history from books — the White Tree, and Bergil, son of Beregond, was no different. Of course, being only nine, Bergil had not yet seen the tree flower in his life; nor had most, if not all, of the people of Minas Tirith.

That was why it was quite the surprise when he saw the glint of something lighter amid the soil that surrounded the tree. Bergil thought himself to be an exceptionally cautious child, actually, especially given his age. Right now, though, while the cautious thing overall to do would probably be to leave the tree alone, he simply exercised caution by glancing around for his father, Beregond. No, the only soldiers around him right now were the ceremonial guards, and, well, how could they even see anything in their silver helmets, the wings extending out on the sides to an almost stupid degree?

Not caring of the fact that he was getting dirt under his fingernails, Bergil reached a hand into the soil, brushing the dirt away from that little slip of white. Then again, perhaps it wasn't quite white; more like ivory, yellowed with age. He held it up to the light of the sun; it was translucent, filament-thin. It could almost pass for a piece of ripped parchment, if it weren't for the faint crinkle to the surface and the barest hint of something that clung to it; dry, sweet, bitter.

Bergil took one last look around him. No one was watching, and so, thinking on the fly, he tucked the little dried petal into the pocket of his coat. Maybe he would give it to his father; then again, maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he wouldn't share it with anyone.

He liked that. A little piece of history — a little memory — all to himself.

***

"Well, what's this?" Ioreth murmured aloud, staring at the little snippet of a thing on the cobblestones. Her knees popped and her back ached painfully as she leaned down to pick it up, and she squinted at it.

There had been two things on the cobblestones, actually; one of them being a button, something that could have popped off a coat or a pocket. By all accounts, it was a nice button, if Ioreth was looking for a nice button, but she was not. It was the other object next to it that caught her attention.

It could have been a dead petal of one of the many flowers that surrounded her in the Houses of Healing, were it not for the color of it; a faded ecru, darker around the top edge as if dipped in beige ink. It must have been a brilliant white at some point in time, and that point in time must have been many years ago, judging by brittle quality of it — if Ioreth held it the wrong way, she knew, it would break. But that was what happened with aging things, wasn't it? Yes, that was the risk that came with having one and being one, and Ioreth knew that all too well.

Still, no matter the age of the petal, there remained the mystery of where it came from. Or maybe the age was the real matter with it, but despite having spent many of her decades in attending the Houses of Healing, Ioreth had never once seen a plant that could have flowered to something white as snow. Except, even though it must have been, it was not now the color of fresh snow; it was more the color of half-melted snow that lay on the ground, full of dirt and twigs. A memory of a bygone thing, faded too far into unrecognizability.

Someone called her name. She had been gone from work too long, and, straightening fully, Ioreth closed her fingers around the petal.

***

Cirdil had heard hoofbeats many a time — in fact, he was usually the one on the horse — and the sound was familiar to him, near-comforting. Something about hearing horses clack against marble reminded him of home, both coming home and leaving home. He had much experience with both the latter and the former, had learned to contain his smile upon returning, somehow, and had learned how to put on a brave face when leaving.

Yet again was he leaving today, and yet he could not muster a resolute expression. How could he, when the very mission he was going on was doomed to fail? The other men, not to mention Captain Faramir, knew that; even the civilians standing around him knew that.

He'd never seen so many people come to see them off, never been handed flowers that he had to solemnly accept while his vision blurred. He was a man of Gondor — a soldier of Gondor, at that — and he was afraid.

A little flower floated down onto his arm, then another; so many people were holding flowers out to him and the rest of the men, and now those very flowers were raining down upon him. But — that was odd. Amid all the sunset pink and purple and blue, a different petal landed on Cirdil's arm. It was so small and brittle that he might have mistaken it for the wing of some insect, and yet there was something decidedly unusual about it; maybe it had once been white, but it was now so dried and shriveled that it couldn't have been from any of the bystanders watching. Perhaps it had floated down from one of the higher levels? Didn't the Houses of Healing use all manner of dried flowers and herbs? Yes, that must have been where it had come from.

The winding cobblestones turned towards the gate, usually so imposing, and yet today, it looked simply grim. The entire city lacked any of the life that it normally had — no happy children, no talking adults, no merchants hawking their wares. No harm had come to them, and yet desolation had already come.

The soldiers in the front ranks passed through the gate as it creaked open. Then the men in front of him, and finally, Cirdil himself. The hoofbeats sounded different on the outside of the city. More hollow.