The winter had been long, fraught with fear and worry. But spring, they’d heard, had reached Ithilien, and would soon touch Minas Tirith too. Then, the gardens spread between layers of harsh stone would bloom anew and some of the grimness that filled the city would be lifted, all hoped.
All except the weary man who from a high tower in the citadel gazed down at a barren courtyard where stood the skeletal remains of a long-dead tree.
To him, the new season seemed destined never to arrive.
In his hands he held the broken shards of an ancient horn.