Written for the "Births" challenge at Tolkien_weekly.
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“Our Enemy breeds his servants from darkness. He is a most powerful wizard.”
“Nay, Lord Denethor, he is not a wizard, though indeed he is akin to us.” The old man leaned down to take a small, grey stone from the path. At a whispered word, it puffed up and opened into a mushroom.
“Why do you not conjure me an army, Mithrandir?”
The wizard held out his hand. The mushroom was a grey stone again. “Why will you not understand, my lord? He creates nothing but merely bends the world to his purpose.”
“Then indeed you are close kin.”