The two rangers stood in front of the White Tree, looking at the dead wood.

Beren motioned at the Fountain Guards. “I wonder why they are here, guarding a dead tree.”

Haldor shrugged. “Perhaps fear of vandalism. A pity we cannot ask them, nephew. I am sweating as I am. With all the black clothing and armour one might wonder at their mortality rate. Heatstroke would not be my choice of death.”

“I am sure Faramir knows, or one of his underlings.” Beren supplied helpfully. He laid a hand on his lips and sneaked passed the tree on silent feet. Haldor put a hand over his eyes and groaned softly, knowing what was coming. His nephew halted behind an unsuspecting guardsman and leaned to the side. “Buh”. The guardsman jumped and made a muffled noise behind the cloth that almost sounded like a shriek.

“What wonderful guards these people are,” Beren remarked to Haldor.

Haldor groaned again. “Tell me, how old are you?”

“Sixty-seven, uncle dearest.” He returned to the other.

“Behave your age.”

Beren laid an arm around Haldor's shoulders. “You have always been so grim, do enjoy yourself. Such ridiculous things are only to be found in Gondor.”