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Frantic pleading didn't work. Ominous predictions fell on apathetic, weary ears. Even well-aimed kicks at the Gondorians' shins wouldn't stop them from taking Frodo, Sam, and Gollum to Minas Tirith. A wise hobbit would have eventually given up and conserved his energy.
But Samwise Gamgee was known for pruning, not prudence. He kept ranting about the evil of the Ring as Faramir and his men led the captive hobbits and their guide through the White City. "Let Mr. Frodo go!" he wailed, thrashing as much as his bonds and weakened state would allow. His throat was parched from screaming, but he figured if he screamed enough, it might tear open and bleed. Then at least it would be wet again.
When they reached the uppermost level and looked out over the ravaged eastern regions of Middle-earth, Faramir smiled grimly. "I shall indeed let your Mr. Frodo go—directly to my father, to present the Ring as a gift to both the Steward and to Gondor." At Faramir's command, half his contingent led Frodo away. The other half went back to the lower levels of the city, with Gollum in tow. "You, Mr. Gamgee," he added, imperious voice echoing around them, the only people left in the courtyard, "shall provide another gift."
"I don't have anythin'! I swear it! Naught but these pots and . . . ." Sam knew he had other items of value, be they large or small—the seasonings from the Shire, his Elven cloak, the gift from Lady Galadriel—but doubted they'd be of much worth to a city under siege, no matter how highly he esteemed them.
Faramir turned the hobbit around so quickly that Sam fell to the stones, sputtering and scared. "Oh, but you do. You are a gardener, are you not?" Sam nodded nervously, keeping his eyes downcast. "Then you should be able to provide Minas Tirith with the mightiest gift of all." His voice was terse but laden with sadness, so intense that Sam was compelled to look up.
And his frightened gaze fell on the withered White Tree of Gondor, descendent of Yavanna's greatest works, the Trees of Valinor. The trunk looked so frail that it might collapse into ashen dust and kindling if touched; the branches reached out greedily, like starving beggars—but no amount of rain or sunshine would slake their hunger. Speechless, Sam tore his gaze from the tree and looked up at Faramir.
"Make her bloom again, Master Gardener," Faramir asked softly, desolately, with a subdued yet regal desperation—hoping against all reason. "My father craves the Ring, but I cannot fathom a greater gift, a better boon, than to have the White Tree in her bloom once more."