Gandalf escorted the two children to Minis Tirith and watched as a guard let them into the new room that had been prepared for them. He didn't miss the leer that the guard directed at the girl, however, and shot the man a stern glare. They were mere children and were not to be interfered with.
He sighed as he strode down the corridor to his meeting with Denethor. The children were no less of an enigma now than they had been when they were first found. He had taken more time to examine them while on the road, and the boy definitely had some sort of power, but it was a strange sort of magic and unlike anything he had ever felt. Neither of them felt evil to his heightened senses, but the boy was definitely on the darker side for a child. The white mage wondered sadly what had happened to the boy to make him feel so hardened inside.
It was an evil thing, what people did to their children at times. The carefully cultivated indifference that the boy showed at times, especially when confronted with scenes of violence, was such a direct contracts to his usual bubbly nature that it made Gandalf completely certain that something had happened to the boy to affect his mind. He should be grateful that it had made him withdrawn rather than violent, he supposed, but he could have dealt with violence as he had dealt with Théoden. He couldn't help the boy if every time he tried, reaching out with a soothing or sympathetic touch, the boy withdrew from him.
He felt so helpless to do anything with them. Maybe he'd find something out later, but until the war was over the mystery of the children would have to be postponed. If Sauron won then they would die, or at least he hoped they would. Living to undergo the Mordor-lords' torment would be much worse than the quick pain of dying, followed by the going on to the place Eru had set apart for them.
Perhaps the children would learn, hopefully they would survive, and if he was very lucky they would find some way to communicate while he fought the powers of Mordor, but he could not help them, not and fulfill his duties to the rest of the people. They were in a better position than most of the people of Gondor, if they but knew it. The two would be protected by the same guard who kept them secluded and confined, and nothing would be able to hurt them while they were in the care of Denethor.
Turning his mind to the war, Gandalf strove to renew his hope, but it was difficult. So many people were dying. There were so many lives that had been destroyed because of Sauron that whether they won or lost he was afraid that Middle Earth would never be the same again afterwards. The elves were fading, the wizards were either fading or being corrupted, the hobbits were, as always, barely aware of the rest of the world. He was afraid that the world would be turned over solely to men in the later days, and what they would do with that power was uncertain.
Men had always been capricious creatures. Eru had created them in such a way that while men were capable of great kindness and acts of mercy, that same man who had been a hero one minute could turn and strike a child the next and yet think no less of himself. It was so with all creatures, of course. People's capacity for self-deception had always astounded him, but it was more noticeable in men because of their short lifespan. If an elf turned to the darkness it happened over centuries; a man could be corrupted overnight.
Corruption. Gandalf's thoughts turned to Saruman's own corruption and subsequent betrayal. If there was one of the palantíri remaining, could there not still be more? And if there were, indeed, more of the palantíri remaining in the world to what use had Sauron turned them. What dangers could be set loose upon the world if Sauron was given the means to communicate with and destroy the minds of those who stood against him?
Gandalf came back to himself at the sound of the double doors opening in front of him, and he set his shoulders, stepping into the room to confront Denethor, the Steward of Gondor.