The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

A voice whispers in the darkness.

A raw flame flickers distantly before his eyes.  He can hear his own ragged breaths in his ears.  He can hear the voice whispering.

“Ai, my love, what hast thou done?”  Dear and distant, but the sound of it sends shudders clawing down his spine. Lower, softer, “what have I done?”

“Please,” he croaks and does not remember what it is he is asking for.

“This is the last thing I will ever do for the Firstborn,” the voice remarks bitterly.  “I set thee free, and I will see thee no more.  And remember—”  Fire crawls along his throat, and he whimpers.  “If ever thou hast loved me, dear, keep thyself far from me, my lands, and my touch.  I feel His eyes upon me, and I am His, as I have ever been.  Thou art thine own.  So go.  Be free.  Forget.”

Cold and darkness claim him then.

* * *

The child peered round the door of the smithy, trying to see in.  There was a little crowd around the smith, a group of the older boys watching carefully as he raised his arm over and over again in a rhythmic pounding motion.  “Shape it,” Leptafinyo was telling the boys.  “You will have to keep shaping as it cools and then heat it again so that you can beat it into shape.  It takes practice, but you will see as you go on that it is not so difficult.”

The child wanted very badly to practice as well, like his brother, who stood near the front of the group of children.  He was well-liked, and he laughed and joked among them quietly as Leptafinyo continued the lesson.  Soon they would all get a chance to forge a blade.  

His brother glanced over to the door, and his eyes caught his little brother’s.  He slowly shook his head and then made a shooing motion.  The child made a pleading expression, but his brother shook his head again, more strenuously, too strenuously, and Leptafinyo followed his gaze this time.  He sighed.  “Boromir,” he said.  “Keep shaping this while I speak with your sister.  Míriel, come here.”  The child trudged into the room, feeling all eyes on him.  “What are you doing here again?” Leptafinyo asked.

The child knew it would do no good to explain, but he had never been able to stop himself.  “I want to make a sword,” he said.

“You’re too young, and a girl besides,” Leptafinyo said.  He was not unkind, only worried and a little sharp, but the child flushed.

“I—” he tried to protest, but he had not the gift of contradiction that his brother possessed, nor the gift of making people like him.  “Please?” he tried, after a moment.  Leptafinyo shook his head.

“I will ask your father when you’re older, but I do not think he will want a little lady like you making herself dirty in a forge like this.  You would not like that, would you?  Getting your skirts dirty, making your pretty hands all bruised and calloused?”

“I would not mind,” the child whispered, but he was not even sure if he was audible.

Either from the words or the expression on his face, Leptafinyo saw that he had failed to convince him.  “All right, when you are older, I’ll speak with your father,” he said.  “But for now, you must leave.”

The child felt too-easy tears pricking at the backs of his eyes, but he must not cry or they would think him even more girlish, so instead he stuffed the end of his pigtail into his mouth and trudged dispiritedly back towards the exit.  He slipped out into the high late morning sun shining off the white cobblestones of Minas Tirith.

“Young one,” said a gravelly, whispering sort of voice, and he looked over to see a bent-backed figure slumped against the wall, perhaps a beggar.  “Come here a moment.”

“Do you want some food?” the child asked, as he did as he was asked.  “I have my lunch, but it isn’t very much, or I could go back to the kitchens and get you some more.  They like me very much in the kitchens.”

There was a huffing, wheezing noise that he realized a moment later was the figure laughing.  “No, I am not hungry, lass.”

The child flinched slightly.

“Should that be lad?” 

Blinking, because it was the very first time anyone had noticed, much less drawn the right conclusions, the child looked up and nodded faintly, then shrugged.

“Lad it is.  You wish to learn to forge metal, is that right?”

“Yes,” whispered the child.  “I do.  But they say girls are not supposed to, and I am too young.”

“Well, you have just told me you are not a girl,” the strange figure said, and the child went closer, peering at him in some curiosity.  He seemed to be kneeling on a low cushion, and even in the heat of the day he wore a heavy cloak, of faded dull brown material.  Beneath it, the child could see that his face was mostly hidden by a featureless ceramic mask, surprisingly well-made, with wobbly runes carved into it.  Only one eye and the cheek surrounding it were not hidden, and the skin about it looked surprisingly smooth and unlined, while the eye itself was grey and quite sharp and fierce—but, the child thought, also rather kind.  It seemed to pierce right through him and see him in a way almost no one else did, except maybe his brother.

“Do you believe me that I’m not a girl?” he asked.

“If you say you’re not a girl, I have no reason to doubt you.  And in any case, that is no barrier to good smithwork.  Nor is your age.  I should think you would learn better starting now.  I was younger than you when I began.”

“Can you show me, then?” the child asked, suddenly hopeful.

“Ah, well—I cannot show you,” the strange man said.  “But I can teach you, if you’re willing to learn.”

“I like learning.  I like it very much.” 

“And I like to help people learn.”  The grey eye winked.  “You’ll have to get up terribly early, though.  I only have use of the forge in the hours before dawn.  But if you do come, we’ll welcome you.”

“ ‘We’?” the child asked.

“I call us the holly-folk.”

“The holly-folk?”

He could not quite tell what expression was in that eye now.  It was narrowed, and he could not tell if the mask hid a smile or a frown.“Because we’re prickly,” the strange man explained.  “It is me and a group of those who cannot get the regular smiths to teach them, so I teach them instead.”

“Who are you?” the child asked.  “And why can you teach people but not show them?  And why only very early in the morning?”

“Most of the folk call me Noltar, which means teacher in one of the old Elven tongues.  I can teach people but not show them because my arms have not the strength to lift the hammers.  As for why only very early in the morning, well, that is when Leptafinyo lets me use the forge, in exchange for my help with some odd matters that crop up from time to time.”

The child nodded slowly.  “I will get up very early,” he said solemnly.  “Thank you.”

* * *

He dragged himself out of bed the next morning.  At least he was well practiced in avoiding his ladies in waiting.  They probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone, anyway.  He slipped down through the darkened city, with the bright silver stars wheeling overhead.  He liked the way the wind whistled soft and clear.  It was one of the ways to feel alone but not lonely.

The forge was bright and alive when he entered, and Noltar was moving back and forth between different smiths.  This was not like the lessons that the child had been spying on that his brother had been attending.  This was chaos.  Hammers fell and sparks flew.  Laughter and song echoed from one side of the room to the other. 

Noltar moved very strangely, the child noticed, with a kind of awkward, lopsided gait, most of his body hidden beneath the same heavy brown cloak.  His motions were jerky, and often he seemed to move sideways instead of forwards, but he seemed purposeful, going from one student to the next with low words. The child took a deep breath and presented himself.  He had stolen his brother’s shirt and trousers.  They were too long for him, but it made him feel better, all the same, and he thought that perhaps—just perhaps—Noltar would not lecture him or send him off to change into a dress. 

Noltar looked him up and down.  “You’ll have to change,” he said, and the child bit his lip again with a sigh, but then he continued.  “It’s not safe to have your sleeves or trousers so long in a forge.  I think Níniel is about your size, and she brought a change of clothes with her.  Níniel, is it all right if the newest student borrows your shirt and trousers for now?”

“Yes, Noltar!” yelled one of the students working on the other end of the room, and the child felt like a great hand had squeezed him and then let him go.

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“Let me come.”

His brother looked over at him, and the child tried to stand up and look tall.  He had braided back his too-long blond-brown hair and traded Níniel ten loaves of bread from the kitchens to buy her shirt and trousers properly.  He had his very first blade belted at his side—Noltar had given him an old sheathe for it—and though he did not have a bow or know how to draw it, he hoped against hope his brother would teach him.

Boromir cast him a concerned look.  “Are you certain, Míriel?” he asked slowly.

The child bit his lip.  “I want to go with you.  I want to learn the ways of the land.  Please.”

Pacing back and forth in front of the window, a frown wormed its way down Boromir’s forehead.  “Our mother told me to take care of you, little one.  Father…would say it is not the proper occupation of a young lady.”  The frown drew down more.  “But I am a Man grown, and Father says I can make my own decisions.”  He sighed.  “Will you take care to listen to me?”

“I promise,” the child told him solemnly.  

“All right.”  Boromir nodded, then reached out and ruffled the child’s hair.  “I’ll get you a bow and arrow.  Let’s go out for a hunt.”

The child already knew how to school his emotions, but he smiled broadly and put out a hand for his older brother to shake.  “Thank you.”

Boromir pulled him into a quick bear hug, then pushed him back, looking a little embarrassed.  “Just come on,” he said gruffly.

It was a thrilling day.  The Sun was high in the arched blue sky, and the plains outside of the city gleamed with gold.  Boromir found him a training bow and taught him how to use it, after muttering, “Well, if you’ve made your own sword already, I’m not going to be able to stop you, and you’d better learn from someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Boromir shot three rabbits.  The child shot none, but he did successfully discover the trail of the third.  He was not certain how he felt about the killing—the poor rabbits!—but butchering them was easier, and he had to admit he enjoyed eating them.  The two of them made a fire together and roasted them, with a few herbs that the child had thoughtfully brought from the kitchen, and they tasted delicious.

When they were mostly finished, Boromir looked at him thoughtfully and said, “You said you weren’t a girl once.”

The child hadn’t thought his brother would remember that.  He looked down at the rabbit and shrugged.

“If you’re not a girl, what are you?  A boy?”

Before he could feel too afraid to admit it, he nodded.

“How do you know that?”

He raised an eyebrow at his brother.  “Are you a girl?”

“Well, no.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just—well, huh.”  Boromir tipped his head back.  “But you like—” he waved his hand.  “Poetry and singing and old stories.”

The child gave him a half smile.  “And you don’t?  You copied out the whole of Túrin and Beleg by hand.  And my handwriting’s better than yours, I don’t know how you even read it.”

Boromir actually blushed and passed a hand over his face.  “Well, you like cooking.”

The child shrugged.  “There’re men who cook things.”

There was a long pause, then Boromir nodded slowly.  “Sorry.  You’re right.  You must know better than me.”

The child swallowed.  “Really?” he said softly.

Boromir frowned.  “Let me tell you a secret,” he said, after a long moment.  “You have to promise not to tell anyone, all right?”

The child nodded solemnly.  “No one at all.”

“I don’t—I don’t want a wife,” Boromir said haltingly.  “And I, well, I should.  I mean, I’m going to have to have one.”  He shook his head.  “But I wish I didn’t have to.”

“You don’t want a wife?  Do you not want to be marr—”  He thought of Túrin and Beleg.  “You want a husband?”

A strange look on Boromir’s face, but he nodded with a jerk.  “That’s right.  There’s not much to be done about that, though.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m Father’s heir.”  Boromir waved a hand.  “Don’t worry about it, Mír—” He paused thoughtfully again.  “Míriel is a girl’s name.”

The child hunched his shoulders.  “I know.”

Boromir shouted with laughter.  “For a moment, you looked just like Father when someone tries to serve him garlic!  Ah—what name would you like to have, then?  I’ll call you by it, anyway.  Might be harder to convince anyone else, but I don’t mind.”

“I don’t know!  You’re not supposed to name yourself, are you?  And Mother…” He swallowed.  “She never knew I wasn’t a girl, so she can’t.”

“They say the Elves didn’t name their children until they were your age, don’t they?” Boromir said.  “But it—it should have been Mother, I think.  Well, if she can’t, then I’ll do it.  A brother’s got to be nearly as good, right?”

The child’s lip trembled.  “Really?” he said, after a moment.

“Of course.  I might need some help, because you’re better with words.”  Boromir frowned.  “Give me a little while to think.”

“Thank you, Boromir,” the child whispered.

He got another hair ruffle, and he didn’t even mind that it meant Boromir had gotten rabbit grease all over his head.

They spent the rest of the afternoon wandering about the fields and hills and woods.  As the Sun began to dip towards the horizon, sending long shadows and fingers of orange light across the landscape, Boromir looked up and said, “We should be getting back.”  He groaned.  “You’ve been out all day.  Your ladies-in-waiting are going to kill me.”  Then he frowned, squinting at the Sun.  “We came out Southeast, I think…”

“It’s that way.”  The child pointed back.  With the tall trees rising all around he could not see the white spires of the city, but he did not need to.

Boromir paused, sighted along his hand, and checked the sides of the trees.  “Huh,” he said.  “You’re right.”

“I know where I am,” the child told him delightedly.  

“That’s true, you always do.”  Boromir thought again, for a long minute, then strode over to a tree by the trail, with clusters of dark red berries nestling amid fern-like leaves, and broke off a branch, pushing it over to him.  “What’s the name of this in Elvish?” he asked.

“Faran, I think.”  The child wrinkled his forehead.  Noltar knew a great deal of Elvish, and he had been helping the child with his studies.  His tengwar was shaky, nearly illegible, and whenever he had to write out a word, his lips got thin and frustrated, but he knew more than anyone else the child had ever known, certainly more than the child’s tutors, and he seemed to understand how much the child needed to learn.  “Yes,” he decided.  “Faran.”

“It’s the wayfarer’s tree, you see,” Boromir explained.  “And, well, I think that’s how my name works, isn’t it?  Two pieces of Elvish put together.  I thought you might like a name that sounds like mine, but I wasn’t sure of the first part.  But that works, I think.  Faran-mir.”

“Faramir,” the child corrected him absently.  “Like in yours.  Boron-mir becomes Boromir, so Faran-mir would be—” He paused.  “It would be my name.  Faramir.”  He turned it over on his tongue.  “Faramir.  Ash-tree-jewel.”  He didn’t know if Boromir had really created the word right, but it might his heart swell in his chest to think about it.  “I—I like it.”

“Good.”  Boromir clapped him on the shoulder.  “Then let’s go home, Faramir.”

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One thing that Faramir noticed as he grew older was that Noltar often looked out eastward, towards where the Sun would rise.  When he did, he often moved his hands and arms as if he were doing detailed smithing work, soldering together tiny pieces of metal.  Faramir had seen him solder once—a larger piece, one that required little precision, just to demonstrate how it was done.  His hand had shaken so badly he had still nearly failed, and it was one of the few times Faramir had seen all joy stripped from him entirely, his single visible eye slanted downward and creased unpleasantly.

He was moving his hand like that now, and for once he had forgotten to put on his gloves.  Faramir was curious—he was curious about everything—but he had not meant to look, because he understood very well the feeling of needing to hide, of not wanting to have to handle whatever it was everyone else saw when they looked on you.  But Faramir’s eyes slipped too quickly downwards for him to stop them, and all he saw were a pair of slender hands, as fine as any Lord of Gondor’s, well-shaped and shaking a little.

Noltar looked round and caught him looking.

“I’m sorry,” Faramir said softly, feeling as if he had trampled sacred ground.

He got a shrug in response, and Noltar looked down at his hands as well.  “He did not touch them,” he said, distant, far away, perhaps even half-dreaming, Faramir realized with a start.  “Everything else—and I have not the use of them—but he did not touch them.” Then he shook himself and seemed to find himself again.  “Faramir, would you fetch my gloves, please?” he said quietly.

“Of course,” Faramir said, and he did not ask any more.

* * *

The day Faramir finally came into the forge wearing an outfit with the White Tree embroidered upon it, to fit him, the look upon Noltar’s face made him want to weep for some reason, and he did not know why. “Look, Master Noltar!” he said.  “I—I am my father’s second son now.  He has given his permission.”

“If you will not be dissuaded from this foolishness, Míriel, then I suppose I may as well accept it.”

“Faramir, Father.”

“A name I gave him,” Boromir says, clapping his brother fondly on the shoulder, and their father gives Boromir a sharp glance but a thin smile.

“Well enough,” he says.  “You will be of as much use, I suppose, as a son, as have you been as a daughter, Faramir.”

“That is wonderful, Faramir,” Noltar said, and Faramir saw that his good eye crinkled in a proud smile. 

So proud that Faramir took a step forward, hopeful, and somehow found himself saying, “Do—do you think he will love me now?  Do you think I can be worthy of it?”

Something flickered in the depths of that grey eye.  “Come here,” Noltar told him, gesturing to the bench beside the forge, where he was slowly arranging some of the instruments for later use.  Faramir came, feeling foolish and a little treacherous for saying such a thing when of course his father loved him, had loved him since he had been born.  Perhaps not as much as he loved Boromir, but—oh, who could help loving Boromir the most? When he was so kind and courageous and everything a hero or a brother or a son ought to be.  “You are worthy of your father’s love,” Noltar told him, putting one trembling hand on his shoulder.  “I only hope he can be worthy of yours.”

For some reason this made the tears actually slip from his eyes, and Faramir trembled, reaching towards Noltar as well, but not sure if he could do as he wanted.  His father never welcomed the kinds of quick touches that Boromir did, and Noltar had such obvious pain in his movement—

“Do you want a hug?” Noltar asked, and Faramir nodded, tears still running down his cheeks.  “Come here, then.”

Infirm arms pulled him close, and Faramir sank with a grateful sob into an embrace that felt like he imagined his father’s would, if only he could ever earn it.  Noltar’s hand petted his hair almost steadily, though he could feel the neverending tremor of those poor muscles.  Perhaps a grandfather more than a father, Faramir thought, but his father’s father was dead and his mother’s father he barely recalled meeting, so this was a fine distinction that was not of much use.

“I am proud of you, Faramir,” Noltar whispered.  

“You—but, but why?  I haven’t done anything, I am not—I am not strong and good and brave like my brother.”

“You are, you know.”  Noltar withdrew a little and patted his arm.  “You are a child and not a Man grown, but you are still strong and good and brave.  There, you can cry if you need to.”  He patted Faramir again, and simply held him, and Faramir did not know how to feel, and he certainly did not know how to stop crying.

* * *

“You’ve been using my soldering station.”  Faramir looked up quickly to see one of the young guardsmen who worked with Leptafinyo during the day.  Faramir thought his name was Atanalcar.  He had been concentrating so hard he had not realized dawn was already streaking the sky as he finished readying the sword he was working on for tempering.  He frowned, looking to where the man was pointing.

“It’s not yours, it’s just a place to stand,” he pointed out.  “And I haven’t touched your iron.  We all use our own equipment.”

“You aren’t a real smith,” Atanalcar said, a vicious twist to his words.  “None of you are.  I don’t see why you’re allowed to use the smithy at all.”

“They’re allowed to use the smithy because I provide useful services to the Steward,” said a mild but firm voice from behind him.  Faramir decided he’d better finish shaping the sword tomorrow and reluctantly took it down from where he had been beating at it.

“Ah, yes,” sneered Atanalcar.  “The mysterious Master Noltar.  What is your real name, I wonder?”

“That is my real name here.”

“I’ll get out of your way, I’m sorry,” Faramir murmured politely, slipping over to Noltar’s side.

“And what is beneath your mask?”  Atanalcar reached forward, and Noltar ducked.

“Don’t,” he said shortly.

“What’s going on?” Faramir let out a breath as he heard his brother’s voice.

“I was just wondering why the mysterious smith never takes off his mask,” Atanalcar said, voice light but sharp-edged.

“It is my own business,” Noltar returned, just as lightly, just as edged.

“It is really his own business,” Boromir agreed.  Atanalcar snorted, but he did not try to stop Faramir and Noltar from retreating again.  Faramir took one extra look at Noltar’s featureless porcelain mask—he could not deny he was curious as well, but it didn’t seem like something Noltar wanted to talk about, so he bit his tongue.

Noltar’s eye smiled at him.  “It is only that my face is rather badly scarred,” he said softly to Faramir.  “Nothing will be gained by looking upon it.”

Faramir nodded and kept himself quiet, for the tremor in Noltar’s hands had grown fierce, and he did not think it would be kind to ask how his face had come to be so scarred that he kept it always hidden.

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Faramir curled up beneath the soldering table, his body shaking with dry, wracking sobs that he could not quite stop.  He knew it was foolish, and he knew it was not manly, and he knew beyond all shadow of a doubt that if his father found out, Denethor would be even more disappointed in his second son than he already was.

“Faramir?”  It was Níniel, putting her head underneath the soldering table inquiringly.  “Oh dear.”

He shook his head, frantically trying to dry the tears.  “I didn’t think anyone would be here yet.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”  She shrugged.  “Nightmares.”  Níniel, like Faramir, sometimes had strange dreams from she could not escape.  It gave them something of a bond beyond even that of the rest of the holly folk.  “I’m not much use with crying,” she said awkwardly.  “But I’ll take you to Noltar?”

“Take me to him?”

“Do you think he lives in the forge?  Come on.”

Faramir suffered himself to be pulled in a rough but friendly manner out from under the table.  Níniel patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, not quite seeming to know what to do and staring at a point in the air over Faramir’s head.  But she led him without any further comment down several winding cobblestone streets and towards a little hut set back a bit from the stone buildings on either side, only a roof nailed in place with a scrap of curtain hiding whatever lay beneath it from view.  A series of cracked stone blocks led through tufts of wiry yellow-green grass towards it, and Níniel hopped along them, gesturing for Faramir to follow.

“Master Noltar?” she called out softly.

There was a moment, and then the curtain lifted, and Noltar peered out.  “Nightmares again, Níniel?”

“No—well, yes, but they weren’t so bad.  I’ve brought you Faramir.  He’s, um, he’s crying.”

Faramir swiped his hand across his face, feeling it heat up.  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, as he obeyed her summons and trudged through the grass to her side.

“It’s all right.”  Noltar put out an arm and, after getting a small nod, pulled Faramir into an easy, affectionate hug that made him tear up all over again.  “I’ll make some tea.  You can tell me about it.  Níniel, would you like to—”

“I’m going back to the forge,” she interrupted.  “Sorry, I’m just not good with crying.”

Faramir shook his head.  “Thanks,” he mumbled.  “It’s fine.”

“You did well,” Noltar told her, then ushered Faramir into his little hut while Níniel was still standing and stammering something about it not being any trouble.

The inside of the little hut was surprisingly cozy and neat.  There was a little wood-burning stove at the back, with a worn but soft round rug laid in front of it.  Although the hut did not have four walls, it did have a wooden floor made of carefully laid planks, and a soft pallet lay near the stove, which Noltar rolled up and set in one corner.  There was also a rocking chair woven of some light wood that Faramir did not recognize, which Noltar shooed him into as he began to light the stove and set the kettle on to boil.

“Don’t you need it?” Faramir protested. 

Noltar raised his one visible eyebrow.  “I may not have the legs I was born with, but I can stand just fine, lad.”

Suitably chastened, Faramir let Noltar tuck an impossibly soft blanket around his shoulders, pulling it tight around him, and then as Noltar went with shaking hands to put the kettle on, he found he could not keep silent anymore, and the words fell out.

“I found a mouse,” he said.  “His name was Ecthelion, at least, I thought it would be a nice name, because he was—he looked as if he had fought something far greater than himself, and I was thinking of the tale of Echthelion slaying the great fire demon.  But Father said—” He halted.  He was telling this all wrong.

Noltar only waited, his quiet presence somehow soothing.  After a moment, he said, “I think the Lord of the Fountain would have been quite pleased to hear you thought of him.”

Faramir hiccuped a little in amusement at the thought of a great Elf-lord caring what he thought, but he sniffed.  “Father thought I meant Grandfather, and he—”  He sobbed.  “I didn’t mean anything terrible!  I just wanted to heal his leg, but I did it all wrong, and he—he—he’s been drowned and what must he think, that I, that I took him to be killed—”

“Oh, lad.”  Master Noltar pushed a cracked, steaming mug into his hands.  “Hush.  No.  Were you not kind to him?”

“I, I, I tried to be,” Faramir wailed.  “I tried to be, but if I had just left him, he might have survived, or at least he wouldn’t have felt I’d betrayed him!”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”  Noltar put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder and squeezed.  “Kindness and mercy are the greatest gifts you can give to someone in pain.  Even if they don’t last.  Even if you are not strong enough to protect the ones you love, just to know that you cared—that in itself is no small thing.”

“Do you think,” Faramir whispered.  “I mean.  I can’t bury him because I don’t know where they took him, and I know he was just, just a mouse, but do you think I could build him a cairn?”

“Of course you could.”  Noltar brushed gentle fingers through his hair.  “And, Faramir—I do not know what your father has told you, but a mouse is worth just as much as any Elven warrior, and all those I have met would tell you the same.”

Shakily, Faramir sat back and sipped at his drink, starting to think and plan about where he might best put Echthelion’s cairn.  How funnily Noltar had worded that, he mused.  It almost sounded as if he had met Elves himself—well, perhaps he had.  It was not as if Faramir knew much of the old man’s past.

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Atanalcar was fast becoming a thorn in Faramir’s side.  He arrived earlier and earlier to the forge every morning and, while he did not expect to use it before dawn, he would stand at the doorway and watch everything that was done.  His eyes never seemed to leave Master Noltar especially.  It made Faramir uneasy, and the uneasiness made him short with Atanalcar, and that made Atanalcar sarcastic.  The tension mounted no matter how Noltar and Boromir and Leptafinyo tried to keep it from doing so.

And then came the day that Faramir overslept.  He rose at dawn, frustrated with himself for squandering his opportunity to spend a little time in the forge with Noltar and the rest of the holly-folk.  He thought he would at least go down to apologize and to greet them, but when he arrived, it was all chaos.

He never found out what had happened.  Whether Atanalcar had simply snapped, whether one of the holly-folk had said something to make him angry, or whether Noltar had made some slightly too-caustic remark in his hearing.  It hardly mattered.  What mattered was that when Faramir arrived, there was already a mob forming in front of the smithy.

Faramir had never seen the Men of Gondor like this.  He had heard, sometimes, a note as ugly as this in his father’s voice—usually quickly silenced—but this was a whole crowd stamping and calling for Noltar’s blood.  Calling him Orc and witch and sorcerer and worse.  Desperately, Faramir tried to push his way through the crowd, but he was small and too weak, and he could barely see what was happening over the shoulders of the Men surrounding Noltar, much less reach him.

“Orc,” spat Atanalcar.

“No,” Noltar said.  His head was lower than Atanalcar’s, because of the way he always stooped over, but he spoke calmly and bluntly, without a trace of fear, though there was a soft undercurrent of anger.

“If you are no Orc, then take that mask off and let us see your face.”

“Is it a crime now not to be pleasing to look upon?” Noltar demanded, and Faramir’s breath came out in a little sob.

“Let me through,” he pleaded, but no one was listening to him.

“If you are no Orc, then what is behind that mask?” demanded Atanalcar, grabbing Noltar’s arm and jerking him viciously forward.  Two more of the guards caught his hood, pulling it back.  Noltar struggled, but with the weakness of his arms and the unsteadiness of his gait, there was no way he would have been able to stop them.

“Stop!” Faramir shouted, his voice too thin and too high, and then Atanalcar reached forward and stripped the ceramic mask from Noltar’s face, throwing it downwards with enough force that it shattered against the cobbles below.  The crowd gasped.

“The Eye!” someone cried out.  Faramir stared in horror.

Apart from one ear and the bit of his face that was usually unmasked, no corner of Noltar’s countenance was unmarred.  Great ridged scars ran across his face in neat, grid-like rows.  His mouth was pinched and warped, the lips twisted as if someone had taken needle and thread and stitched his mouth closed.  Only half the ear on the hidden side of his head had survived.  And in the place where his left eye should be, there was instead a ruined, drooping socket and over it in clear inflamed scar tissue the unmistakable image of the Burning Eye of Mordor.

“See?” Atanalcar’s voice rang loud and outraged, but the crowd was suddenly still and silent.

Noltar looked up, and those terribly scarred lips smiled, bland and impersonal.  “Is this the countenance of an Orc, my friend?”  He ran one finger along the line of his intact ear, and for the first time Faramir registered that it was pointed, sharp—inhuman, but not the inhuman of an Orc.  

“You bear his mark, and you dare to—”

“I bear his brand.”  Noltar’s voice carried, clear and sweet, an orator’s voice, Faramir thought dumbly.  He could not draw himself  upright, but he seemed taller, somehow.  He seemed—tall and bright and noble, and Atanalcar seemed small and grubby in front of him, even holding him roughly by the arm like this.  “Do you believe this to be a mark of love?”

“W-Well,” stammered Atanalcar.  “I am not one to propose the Enemy’s reasons for such things, but I still do not see—”

The crowd was agitated, beginning to mill about, and Faramir finally saw his chance, darting through to Noltar’s side.

“He has done nothing wrong!” he said loudly, though his heart was thumping terribly inside his chest.

“The Steward’s son!” someone exclaimed, which at any other time would have warmed him down to his feet, but now he could only stand there and try to look brave.  What would Boromir do now?

“Are the people of Gondor so fearful that they would wish evil upon one of the Firstborn?” Faramir demanded, and he did not know where the words came from.  One of the Firstborn.  Noltar was no old man, but an Elf, though Faramir had never imagined an Elf so badly disfigured.  “And one who has suffered so greatly at the hand of the Enemy?”

Trembling, he stooped and gathered up the pieces of Noltar’s mask, collecting each one of them with as much care as he could, and then pressed them back into the forgemaster’s hands, wondering if he could ever look him in the face again.  He was no kind old man, but one of the magical folk of legend come to life, and Faramir was so awed he was not sure how he had not yet tripped over his tongue.

“Thank you, lad,” Noltar murmured, sounding just the same as always, his cracked and ruined voice bearing no indication of the truth of his lineage.

“He’s right!”  Níniel and Boromir appeared somehow, out of nowhere.  Níniel was panting hard, as if she had been exerting herself; Faramir later learned she had run to fetch Boromir in the hopes that he could calm the already thunderous crowd.  They dashed over to stand beside Noltar and Faramir, Boromir putting himself between the others and Atanalcar, his arms crossed.

“I’m—I’m sorry.”  Atanalcar took a half-step backwards, passing a hand across his face.  He looked bewildered and fearful.  “I’m sorry,” he said again, then turned and began to shoulder his way through the crowd.  Faramir gasped and let out a soft breath.

“It’s all right, little brother,” Boromir said, in a low voice.  “You did well.”

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“You must learn to assess situations before running into the middle of them.”

Denethor, Steward of Gondor—Faramir’s father—was not looking at him, but rather out of the high window of his study, staring down across the city he kept watch over.  His hands were clasped behind his back.

“Yes, Father,” Faramir said, feeling small and a little wistful.  It was a lesson, he told himself, and it was good that his father was willing to give him such lessons, even if he had been hoping, perhaps foolishly, for a drop of praise.

“It was courageous of you to go to the aid of one you believed to be a friend, but you must not let such notions cloud your judgment.”

It had been courageous, Faramir thought, and his heart swelled a little, again.  Still, he bridled at the implied insult to Noltar, and could not quite keep himself from arguing, “He is an Elf, Father—a true friend.”

“Elves have been traitors, too, my son.”  And had Faramir imagined that swift pause before the final word?  “Think of Maeglin.  Think of the witch of the Golden Wood.”

“He is a true friend, I think,” Boromir put in.  “He is scarred and ugly, but still he has helped our smiths, and he has been kind to our children.”

“You are both trusting,” Denethor said, his voice remote and a little sad.  “Well, you are both young.  But even an Elf who bears the mark of the Enemy must be watched.”

“He said it was no mark of love!” Faramir broke in, before he could stop himself.

A blinding stab of pain went through Faramir’s head, and he gasped, putting his hand to it.  When he looked up, his father’s piercing gaze was fixed on him.  “My men tell me he rather asked whether his attackers believed it was a mark of love,” Denethor responded.  “It may have been innocent, but it is a tricky answer.”  He sighed.  “You are softhearted, Faramir,” he said, and Faramir heard, a daughter, not a son, and flushed and went silent.

“He is young yet, Father,” Boromir put in earnestly.

Denethor looked to his eldest son and smiled, a smile Faramir wished he could earn.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “Yes, I suppose that is true.  Well—remember, both of you, that it is not always wise to make friends too easily, but I commend you both on your bravery.”

As they slipped back out of his study, Boromir said, in a worried tone of voice, “Perhaps you ought not to go to the forge so much, Faramir.”

“Perhaps I ought not,” Faramir agreed, giving him a bland smile.  He was shocked at how easy it was to speak the truth while leaving quite the opposite impression.  He thought of the little heap of stones he and Noltar had built for Ecthelion, and how Noltar had said only, “A friend should be mourned, whatever that means to you,” when Faramir asked him helplessly if it would be girlish to cry for the mouse again.

Perhaps his father was right about the way Noltar had responded to Atanalcar’s jibe, but Faramir did not care.  He could keep his secrets.

* * * 

Having waited a week for his father’s and brother’s attention to his comings and goings to die down—and wondering at himself a little for the deception—Faramir recommenced visiting the forge with little ceremony.  He went even earlier than usual, half-wondering if he would be the only one there, but he found Master Noltar stooped over the work bench, the pieces of his mask laid out beside him.  He had out two vises, in each one of which was one of the shards, and he was very carefully and slowly readjusting them to be pressed together.

“Master Noltar?” Faramir said quietly, and the old man—no, he wasn’t, Faramir reminded himself, he was an Elf—looked up, revealing that terribly scarred countenance, that awful ruin where his left eye should have been.  Faramir suppressed a wince.  It was nice, at least, that with the mask gone he could see the smile that passed swiftly over Noltar’s lips when he saw Faramir.

“Do you think you could lend me a hand, Faramir?” he asked.  “I’m afraid I have not really the fine control I need for this.”

“You’re mending the mask?”

“Mmm.”  Noltar nodded.

“What’s the rest for then?” Faramir asked curiously, for in addition to the vises and the sticky glue, there was a little ceramic vial of lacquer and another little pot of powdered gold.

“For part of the mending.  I’ll show you.”

Faramir made his way across the room and over to stand at Noltar’s shoulder.  “It’s a technique called kidizadzar that I learned from a very dear friend,” Noltar explained.  “It is to find the beauty in imperfection.  Not to pretend that something has never been broken, but to show that it is whole despite that.”

“An Elf?” Faramir asked curiously.  It did not sound like any Elvish lore he knew, but he was not so arrogant as to think he knew very much.

Noltar shook his head.  “A Dwarf,” he smiled.  “Elves do not spend much time thinking about…marring.  We ought to, though.  Now let me show you how to do this.”

“A Dwarf?”  Faramir asked as Noltar told him to begin by gluing the pieces together.  It made Faramir feel a little embarrassed at how quickly and easily he could do it, when it was clear that Noltar had been struggling for several days and had only managed to glue about three of the six shards back together, but as Noltar himself seemed unperturbed, Faramir decided to give up on worrying about it.

“She and I were companions in many adventures in the forge,” Noltar said with a fond smile.  “I still recall the screaming argument she had with my—” he stumbled for an instant, as if searching for a word, “—lover,” he said finally, after just a moment too long, and Faramir wondered what he wasn’t saying, “over this process.  He maintained that if one could mend something perfectly, one ought to, and she maintained that it was pointless to pretend the scars were not there.”  His trembling hands stroked across the final shard as he handed it to Faramir.  “As you can see, I favor her approach.”

Once the glue had dried, he talked Faramir through smoothing the edges and filling in the remaining little cracks.  “Then you will use the golden powder and mix it with this lacquer to paint along the seam.  It removes the jagged edges, reinforces the joining a little, and highlights the—scar.”

Faramir frowned at it and nodded.  “It will be striking.”

“The first time I did it, rather than watching my friend do it, it was on a vase she had shattered,” Noltar said cheerfully, as he began to mix the gold with the lacquer.  

“Was she clumsy, then, your friend?”

“She could be, but this was less clumsiness and more poor aim.”

“Poor aim?”

“She meant it to hit my lover’s skull, but he ducked and it hit the side of the forging table instead.”

Faramir choked halfway through arranging the paintbrush that Noltar had pointed out to him.  “I thought you said they argued!”

“Dwarves have rather direct methods of settling arguments, lad.”  He chuckled.  “Well, she was right.  I told Annatar so, but—” his scarred mouth twisted sideways, “—he did not want to listen, I suppose.”

“Anna-tar,” Faramir said, shaping his mouth around the words, trying to remember his Elvish lessons.  “Precious gift?  Was that his name?”

There was a sudden silence.  “Lord of gifts,” Noltar said, after a long, queer moment.  “Don’t worry about it, lad, that’s an easy mistake to make.”

Chapter End Notes

'Kidizadzar' is, of course, Neo-Khuzdul for kintsugi. I'm afraid I don't have notes on who helped me out with the linguistics on that one, they went down with AO3 >.<.

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Faramir had never been so thankful that he was a small boy and could fold himself right up beneath the forge benches so that he was not immediately visible.  He was not frightened, he told himself, over and over again, but there was a tearing, awful pain in his throat and his stomach, and his eyes would not stop leaking tears.

The first person into the forge, thankfully, was the person he had been waiting for, tying up her skirts at the threshold as she always did, her rather heavy-boned face screwed up thoughtfully.  “Níniel,” Faramir hissed as she entered.  “Pssst.”

She blinked as if coming out of a daydream.  “Faramir?  What are you doing under there?”

“Um.  I, I needed to ask you, because, because you’re a girl, and—”  His face was so hot, and he hated it, and did this mean he wasn’t truly a boy?  Was this even what it was?

She came over and squatted in front of him.  “Ask me what?”

“I’m bleeding,” Faramir said, in a small voice.  “It happened once, last month, and I thought it must be the first blood people talk about, but I’m bleeding again, and it won’t stop, and, and—is this a thing that happens to girls?  I’m not a girl, but, but—”

She flung her hands up.  “Uh, I don’t, I don’t know, I’m—didn’t you know?  I’m a girl the, uh, the way you’re a boy, I never had any blood…”

He shook his head.  “No, I didn’t know.”  The tears just couldn’t be stopped now.  He ran a hand over his face.  What was he going to do?  He knew Níniel didn’t know how to handle crying.

“I’ll get Elemmirë,” Níniel said rapidly.  “Her grandma is a healer.  I’ll be right back.”

He could feel the blood, sticky and hot, against the inside of his thigh.  He shut his eyes.  He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know.  He was the Steward’s son, he wasn’t supposed to be afraid.  He wasn’t supposed to need help.  Not even from the rest of the holly-folk.

Níniel returned with Elemmirë, who was a small and quite shy little girl.  She was very fond of her colorful skirts and ribbons, but she went down on her knees on the forge floor with no hesitation.  “It’s your monthly?” she said softly.

“I—I d-don’t know what that is,” Faramir chattered through too-frightened teeth.

“You don’t know what—” Elemmirë blinked at him.  “Boys are so stupid,” she said, long-sufferingly, and if Faramir hadn’t already been crying, he would have cried to hear her say it.  “All right.  Every month your body gets ready to have a baby—”

“A baby!” Faramir echoed in horror.  “But I don’t want—”

“Hush!”  Elemmirë rapped his knuckles with hers.  “You needn’t have one, of course, and I’ve never heard of a boy having a baby anyway, so I expect you won’t.  Your body gets ready, and then if you don’t put a seed inside—you know, just as you have to fertilize plants? well, as long as you don’t do that, you won’t have one.”  Faramir decided not to ask what you had to do to put a seed inside yourself.  He had enough of a notion, in any case.

“If you don’t have a baby, your body will get rid of the cradle it was going to use, so that’s all the blood.  There are some herbs that will make it hurt less, but it will happen every month if you don’t put a baby inside.”

Faramir relaxed a little.  “But…then what do you do about, about all the blood?” he asked helplessly.

“Oh, well, usually you use rags to stop it, my grandma has some.”

“I could give you a cup, if you would prefer.  I’ve known some men and women who did not like the cloth,” said a new voice, and Faramir looked up to see that Master Noltar had entered.  He went red, but Noltar seemed quite matter-of-fact about it.

“A, a cup?” he said, in a small voice.

“Oh, Grandma told me about those, but I’ve never seen one,” Elemmirë said.  “Can you show me how to make one, Master Noltar?”

“Certainly,” Noltar said.  “For now, though, perhaps you could fetch those rags for Faramir, and then we can start our daily lessons.”

“Yes, I’ll do that,” Elemmirë said.  “Don’t worry about the crying, Faramir, by the way, that’s just your monthly, too.  It’s ever so annoying.”

He sniffed and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve and, taking the hand that Níniel held out to him, let himself be pulled back into the quiet warm atmosphere of the holly-folk.

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Spring, 2999

The Sun was rising slowly over the white walls as Faramir paced back and forth before Master Noltar’s little hut.  He ought to have gone to the holly-folk to tell everyone, but he found he couldn’t, not quite.  It was hard enough to wait here for Noltar’s return, when the news that Faramir had made his stomach twist with something that might be fear, or it might be excitement.  

In a few minutes, Noltar’s familiar bent-backed figure appeared, toiling down the street, the sunlight glittering off the golden cracks of his mask.  He walked particularly slowly, which probably meant his back was bothering him, and as he often did, he used a walking stick to help maneuver down the sloped cobbles.  He raised a hand in greeting when he saw Faramir.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Faramir?” he asked.

“There is something I wanted to tell you,” Faramir said awkwardly.  “And—and perhaps ask your advice about.”

“Well, come in and have a cup of tea while we talk.”  He slipped inside, the cloth falling shut behind him, and Faramir followed.  

“I’ll make the tea,” he offered, and Noltar waved a hand in thanks, settling himself into his rocking chair.

The familiar action of putting the kettle on soothed him, and Faramir soon finished making two steaming mugs.  “Do you need any kingsfoil?” he asked, as he got ready to serve them.

“Please,” Noltar said, wincing slightly.  He was often in pain, and the weed that sometimes grew through cracks in the white stone seemed to alleviate it, at least a little.  It had a pleasant smell, and Faramir had often noticed it seemed to calm his own thoughts when he came in contact with the steam, so he rather gratefully caught a couple dried leaves, crushed them, and stirred them into the herbal tea, before taking it over to Noltar and sitting himself cross-legged on the hearth in front of him.

“What is it you wanted to tell me, lad?” Noltar asked as the two of them settled.

“I want to apprentice with the Rangers of Ithilien,” Faramir said, all in one swift breath.  “I met one of them—Díriel, he said his name was, and he is a few years older than I am—while my brother and I were out hunting.  He said I would be very valuable there, that he thought I would be able to learn to fight the Shadow well.  And—” he swallowed.  “And I am not sure that I could ever become a soldier the way Boromir is.  I know he rides to captain the rangers sometimes, but it isn’t quite the same, and—I do not know if my father’s sufferance would stretch so far, but this—he might disapprove, but I think he will let me go.”  He would probably disapprove, Faramir thought sadly; he never seemed able to make a choice that his father approved of.

“What I have heard of them is good,” Noltar said.  “I think if that’s what you want to do, you should do it, Faramir.”

He had known that Noltar would say that; he had been almost sure, but still to hear that swift and unconditional support made warmth well up tightly in his chest.

“You are also not the only one with such a plan,” Noltar continued, sounding amused.  “Níniel tells me she believes the rangers will take her on, though I must warn you that the word among the holly-folk is that Atanalcar is considering it as well.”

“Atanalcar,” Faramir replied stupidly.  “But surely he wishes to be a guard or a soldier of the city?”  Faramir had spent the last two years studiously avoiding him in every endeavor, but he thought he still sometimes drank with Boromir and some of the other nobles’ sons.

“I do not know his reasons for certain,” Noltar said mildly.  “He has, I think, always been a more than competent hunter.  As for anything else, well, people often do have their reasons.”

“Well, I wish he didn’t,” muttered Faramir.  “I don’t like him.”

“There is no reason you ought to.”  Noltar adjusted his mask carefully.  “I am not terrifically fond of him myself.”

“Somehow I thought you would be more—forgiving,” Faramir said slowly.

“I am very forgiving,” Noltar told him.  “Forgiveness has never stopped me from being angry.”  He sighed.  “Sometimes all we can do is be patient with our emotions.”  He patted Faramir’s shoulder.  “Sometimes that isn’t easy,” he added, and Faramir saw that he was fingering a place high up on his thigh.  He wondered whether there was some significance to it, but he did not think now was the time to ask about it.

“Well, I don’t know if I’m going to forgive Atanalcar,” he said finally.  “But I am going to join the rangers.”

“Good for you,” Noltar replied with a smile.

* * *

The brothers were out fishing when Faramir told Boromir he was going to join the Rangers.  Boromir, who had been frowning down at a hook thoughtfully as he baited it, now somewhat less thoughtfully drove it into his own thumb.  The next several minutes were occupied with profanity, blood, and some of the first aid that Faramir was becoming quite practiced in simply from being near Elemmirë.

“Why would you do that?” Boromir asked, sounding baffled and a little angry as Faramir finished binding up his thumb.

“I’m not the one who put the fish hook through my thumb,” Faramir retorted irritably.  “What do you mean?”

“Why would you leave?” Boromir asked, shoving Faramir’s shoulder in a particular irritable brotherly fashion.

“I want to fight,” Faramir told him, shoving him back, and then reaching for the fishing rod.  Boromir took it and held it out and away from him, and his arms were still longer, though Faramir had been growing of late.  The height, he approved of, though his limbs seemed too long for his form.  The rest he did not; it was painful and tender and the weight sat wrongly on him.

“You can fight here,” Boromir told him uncomfortably, but after a moment, he handed the rod back.  

“I can’t,” Faramir said, hoping his voice sounded matter-of-fact.  “Besides, I’m good at wayfinding.  It would be silly not to use that.”

“But who am I going to tell bedtime stories to?” Boromir asked plaintively, despite the fact that Faramir had not required a bedtime story in five years, at least not if you didn’t count stories told around the campfire, which Faramir most emphatically did not.

“You will just have to tell bedtime stories to the rest of the guards under your command,” he retorted coolly.  “You can order them to listen.  I’m sure they’ll be much better at it than your wriggly little brother ever was.  Besides, it’s not as if you never come to Ithilien.”

He had meant to lighten the mood, but it did not quite work.  Boromir did not insult him in response, but instead lapsed into a moody silence that left Faramir frustrated and a little unsure what to say or do.

“You know I love you and I’m proud of you?” Boromir said at length, long enough that they had been fishing for perhaps three-quarters of an hour since the last words were exchanged, and this time it was Faramir who nearly drove a fish-hook into his thumb.

“Yes, of course,” he said irritably, to cover his confusion.

“Good,” Boromir said awkwardly.  “Anyway…that’s always going to be true.  And I think you’ll be a wonderful ranger.”  Faramir’s throat pinched with pain, and he hunched his shoulders in an attempt to cover his confusion, but—Master Noltar would say it was the sentiment that mattered, wouldn’t he?  And however clumsy he could be, when Faramir thought about it, he did believe it.

“I love you, too,” he said, looking up.  “Please don’t stab yourself with a fish-hook again.”

“Hush, runt,” Boromir told him, and peace was thankfully restored.  

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T.A. 3013.

Faramir squinted into the clear pre-dawn light, sighting along the horizon.  There was a rider approaching swiftly, silhouetted black against the pale clear blue rapidly shading to gold at the base of the horizon.  He did not think the horse carried only one, but they were not close enough for him to be able to tell for certain.

“Is all well?” Díriel ducked out from the tent behind.  It was not quite time for his watch yet, but he had likely woken early.  Perhaps, Faramir thought with amusement, his particularly conscientious second-in-command had simply sensed Faramir’s faint uncertainty.

“It’s fine.  Were we expecting someone returning?”  Then he answered his own question.  “Níniel ought to have returned from Gondor by now, but that horse looks as if it is carrying two.”

“Hm,” said Faramir.  “Well, be on your guard, but that is no warg or Orc-rider, even if we are not sure who it is.”

As the rider drew nearer, it became clear it was Níniel, riding astride her horse Rochallor, but she had another person tucked before her, hunch-backed and curled over the horse’s front.  Faramir’s heart lifted as he saw the sprig of holly pinned at the front of the ragged cloak the second rider wore, and he gave a cry of welcome, springing forward.

Rochallor cantered into the yard, and Master Noltar raised a hand in greeting, his visible eye curling into a smile behind the porcelain mask.  Faramir put out his arms as Níniel reigned Rochallor in, and Noltar awkwardly slung one leg over to slip off the horse’s back.  They embraced deeply, Noltar’s too-thin, oddly-shaped body fragile in Faramir’s arms.  He must have been tall, Faramir thought, with the sudden clarity of not having seen someone in several years.  He must have been taller again than even Boromir, but he stood folded over now, and Faramir had never seen him straighten up properly.

“It’s good to see you, Faramir,” Noltar said, pulling back to clap Faramir on the shoulder.  “Níniel told me some of the newer rangers don’t know a hammer from a pair of tongs and asked if I could come and—what was it you said, Níniel?”

“Make holly-folk of the Rangers of Ithilien,” she laughed, leaping lightly down from Rochallor as well.

“I cannot stay too long this season,” Noltar said.  “I am needed in Gondor.  But perhaps another season, since your need is so dire.”

“Please stay,” Faramir said.  “It’s—it’s good to see you, too.”

It had been too long.  It was not that Faramir never returned to Gondor, but that he had so little time when he was in the city, and he was often occupied taking reports to his father.  But he felt rather small and shamed to think for how long he had let his visits lapse.  “I shall take you back myself, when you need to go,” he said.

“Thank you.”  That curl of a smile in his eye, the way he stood somehow sturdy despite the faint tremor of his limbs: all of it made Faramir feel safe as he never did otherwise.  Some quiet, treacherous little voice wondered if other folk had such feelings about their parents.

“What is all the noise happening out here?” demanded a rough voice, and Faramir looked over to see Atanalcar stumbling out of his tent.  His eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark shadows beneath them. 

Faramir stepped between them, shooting him a warning look. It had been over a decade, and he still neither trusted nor particularly liked Atanalcar.  “We have a visitor,” he said coolly.

Atanalcar stared, shaking his head; after a moment he looked away. “Just don’t talk so loudly.”

Faramir spread his hands, biting down on a retort involving the amount of alcohol Atanalcar had imbibed the night before.  “I am sorry if we woke you,” he said neutrally.

“Is your head paining you, lad?” Noltar asked, his voice a little too knowing.

“What if it is?” Atanalcar snarled.

“Then sit down, and I’ll make you a cup of tea that will sort it out,” Noltar told him, voice calm but edged with steel.

Faramir readied himself for an argument, but either Noltar’s voice brooked none, or Atanalcar was too surprised or too tired.  He walked over to the fire that Faramir had made a little while before and sat down beside it.

“Get the kettle, will you, Faramir?” Noltar asked.

Faramir obeyed mutely, fetching a thick cast-iron kettle from one of the supply tents, along with a tin of tea-leaves, in case it was desired.

“No, I think this will do instead.”  Noltar put the kettle on, and pulled a bundle of kingsfoil out of a pouch belted as his side.  He tore off some of the leaves and put them into the bottom of a cracked mug, also removed from the belt.  After the water boiled, he poured it across them.  The strong, sweet scent of kingsfoil filled the air, and Faramir breathed a deep sigh as the tension began to bleed from his limbs.

Noltar held the mug out to Atanalcar, who took it, awkward and almost furtive.

“Thank you,” he said, after a moment, and sipped at the tea surprisingly meekly.

“I think it will help with the headache,” Noltar said mildly.   “Níniel was telling me that some of the newer rangers have been struggling to mend their gear, and she insisted I visit to help correct their technique.”

Níniel, who had just returned from rubbing down Rochallor, shoved him.  “You old fraud,” she said.  “As soon as I said anything, he was champing at the bit to get out here, Faramir.”

Faramir grinned.  “Either way, I’m just glad you’re here.”

“I think I will have to stay for some time, if none of you even know how to make a remedy for too much drink,” Noltar said wryly.

As the Sun rose higher, Faramir sat quietly beside him and considered what it might feel like, to bring the holly-folk and the rangers together.  It was a good feeling, a hopeful one.  Somehow, Faramir thought, that was what Noltar seemed to do wherever he went—bring hope with open hands.

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New Year’s Eve, 3018.

Everything was light and laughter.  The sky outside was dark and shrouded with clouds, as it had been all too often for the past months, and neither moon nor stars could be seen, but within one little room at Henneth Annûn all was bright and merry.  

Níniel had pinned sprigs of holly above the doors, and Díriel and Barahir had cut down a little birch tree, which the rangers and the holly-folk had decorated with bright ribbons and little wooden carvings.  In the window, seven candles in their ornate candle-holder flickered merrily against the dark.

Master Noltar had seated himself in the battered old chair in the corner and was watching from behind his gold-lined mask when Faramir finally returned from leading his patrol.  He was exhausted.  Atanalcar had, once again, questioned his every decision for no reason other than apparently general sourness or perhaps anxiety.  But Faramir could feel his foul mood melting away as he stood in the doorway, to see that Elemmirë had traveled up from Gondor somehow and was drinking with Níniel and casting obvious longing looks in her direction.

All that darkness outside seemed to have no power over this one little room.  

“Faramir!”  Níniel, tall as ever, strode over to him excitedly.  “El made honey-cakes for a sweet year, come and have one!”

For a sweet year, Faramir thought sadly, looking outside at the darkness.  With no word from Boromir, and the Darkness growing nearly by the hour.  And yet, within this one little room it was bright and cheerful, and everyone was laughing.  Noltar was leaning forward, pointing to something on Barahir’s shirt front, and when he looked down, Noltar made a snatching motion towards his nose as if they were both children.  Barahir stared at him, and then the two of them roared with laughter.

Well, it was better to hope for a sweet year than not.  The holly berries shone a determined crimson in the flickering golden candlelight.

“Shall I leave all of you to your merriment?” Atanalcar said sourly from behind him.

Faramir wanted, very badly, to let him go, to let him stride off and have a miserable evening drinking by himself to welcome in the new year.  He had never apologized to Noltar, as far as Faramir knew, never taken any kind of responsibility for baring his scars to the gawking eyes of the crowd, for shattering his mask upon the cobbles, for coming nigh to inciting a group of overeager Men to slaughtering him as an Orc.

But even then, years ago, Noltar had been—forgiving.  Still angry, but forgiving.  And there was light and laughter aplenty, and Díriel, at least, seemed to get on comfortably enough with Atanalcar, even if he had been a difficult companion for many years.

“Come in and have some honey-cakes,” Faramir said, and the effort did not even sound in his voice.

There was a pause.  “Oh—ah—thank you,” Atanalcar said almost personably, and then he followed Faramir inside.

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March 7, 3019. Faramir’s limbs felt weak, but he was almost elated as he left the curtained-off alcove that the Halflings still resided in.  He felt as if he had been tested, and he had passed the test.  And Boromir—oh, Boromir.  He should not have gone, Faramir thought, in frustrated sorrow; he should have let Faramir go instead, but he never would have.  And who was to say Faramir would not have done as he had done, under the circumstances that Boromir had found himself?

He strode a few paces outwards—and nearly tripped over Noltar, who sat, head tipped back, on the floor of the cave.  “Master Noltar?” Faramir said uncertainly.

That single grey eye opened and looked up at him.  “The Ring,” Noltar said, his voice totally devoid of any emotion.  Faramir felt his joy drain away, as something in the vicinity of his chest tightened.  “The One Ring.”

“You…overheard?”

He had expected Noltar to be in the forge, in the small cramped place they had set up by a fire for the forging and repair of weaponry.

“I heard it whisper.”  Noltar looked up at him, and the brilliant light in his one remaining eye was cold and dim, like the last dying ember of a forge-fire.  Faramir felt a chill run down his spine. 

He put out a hand.  “You are not well,” he said, softly.  “Come with me, Master Noltar, I will take you for some water.”

The gold-lined mask turned towards him; the head tilted.  It did not tilt the way Faramir thought it should.  He had not thought Noltar’s muscles could bend that way.  “Am I not well…?” Noltar said, and his voice did not sound like the cheerful Elf Faramir knew as well as his own father.  He reached out and grabbed Faramir’s wrist, leaning forward.  “Do you know where that Ring should have been?” he hissed, and though his grip was weak, the nails dug painfully into Faramir’s wrist.

“Hush, hush.”  Faramir put an arm around his shoulders, trying to get him up and usher him away from the room where the Halflings lay.

Noltar raised a trembling hand.  “Upon…upon…” He made a horrible noise, almost like a twisted growl.  

“Come along.”  He was trying to resist Faramir, but he was no match for him.  He was too small and stooped, too light, his muscles too weak.  An Elf, yes, Faramir knew, but more like an old man—an ancient man.  Half the time he forgot Noltar was not human.

Now he was struggling, squirming in Faramir’s grip, and it felt horrible. “Give him back,” Noltar whispered, making that awful noise again, and Faramir realized suddenly it was a sob.  He was sobbing and mumbling something Faramir could barely here.  “Give him back to me, please—please—I cannot tell you, I cannot—”

“Forgive me,” Faramir whispered, and he lifted Noltar bodily to carry him away.

“Defiler!” spat Noltar.  “Ai—ai, no, Annatar, my love, I did not mean it, I did not—please, please do not—”  He screamed, but his too-soft voice would not let him make a sound much louder than a whisper.  Faramir thought he might throw up.  

He carried Noltar all the way down the narrow stone staircase, and Noltar struggled and fought like a tiger the entire way, his words going from anger to pleading and back until Faramir thought he must be sick to hear the words dropping from the mouth of someone he loved so.  He carried him all the way out to the little pool at the base of the waterfall, and only then did Noltar go limp, shuddering, as Faramir set him down beside it.

“Master Noltar?” Faramir asked, and though he did not mean for it, his voice trembled terribly.

One of those slim, too-young hands reached up, stripped off the mask and flung it to the grass.  Noltar bent forward and splashed the water of the pool across his face.  “I am sorry,” he said in a low voice.  “I cannot—I am so sorry, Faramir.”

Had it done this to Boromir, Faramir wondered sickly.  Had the thought of that pretty gold glinting in his mind turned him into a broken, maddened creature?  But he had overcome it, and as Noltar swallowed the cold water of the pool, it seemed that he must have as well.

Faramir knelt beside him in concern.  His words seemed insufficient, but not speaking of it seemed monstrous.  “Do you need anything from me?” he said at last.

Slowly, Noltar shook his head.  “You know—I was taken,” he said after a moment.

“Yes,” Faramir agreed.  “You have said as much.  And your eye—”

“No one escapes,” Noltar said softly.  “No one has ever escaped.  You die there, in that black pit—or you are rescued.”

Faramir licked his lips.  He did not know what to say to that.  He was not sure if any words could help.  He put a careful hand on Noltar’s, very gently, ready to take it away again if Noltar flinched, but he took the hand and held it as he continued to speak.

“I was rescued,” he murmured.  “As my uncle before me, I was taken from that terrible place by my lover.  But the touch of the Shadow never left him, and he remained there.”  He took a deep, shuddering breath.  “I think perhaps I had better sleep outside for tonight.  Until the Halflings move on.”

“I will get you a tent,” Faramir said, but Noltar shook his head.

“I—no, just a bedroll, please.  I must sleep beneath the stars.  If I woke to darkness, I—” he choked the words off.  “I’m sorry.”

“Do not be sorry.  How often have you held me while I cried?” Faramir said gently.  “I will fetch you a bedroll.”

When he returned, he found that Noltar had stripped off his legs and was dangling the stumps of his knee and calf in the cold water, staring upward at the stars.  “I think I should return to Gondor tomorrow,” he said slowly.  “It will be best if I have no knowledge of the direction the Halflings take.”

Faramir nodded, taking his hand gently.  “Níniel can take you; she is our bravest rider but our worst swordfighter.”

“I hope she will not find me too much of a burden,” Noltar said, then shook his head and patted Faramir’s hand.  “Never mind me, Faramir.  It has been a difficult trial, but I have faced worse.”

“You would rather be alone?” Faramir asked, handing over the bedroll.

“Thank you.  Go back and guard the Halflings well.”

“I will,” Faramir said.  When he paused at the entrance and looked back, Noltar had lain back on the bedroll with his hands behind his head and his mask off, scarred face tipped up to the starlight.  Faramir wondered what it was he was thinking of.

* * *

In the morning, once the Halflings had left, Faramir went down to find Noltar again.  He was almost where Faramir had left him, staring down into the waters of the pool, odd and faraway.  He did not look up at all; finally, Faramir took off his shoes and sat beside him, dandling his legs in the water.

“Master Noltar?” he said softly.

“Hm?”  Noltar stirred, as if waking from a dream.  He was looking down at his hands, clasped loosely in his lap.  “Ah, I’m sorry, Faramir.  Is all well?”

“Yes.  How are you feeling?”

Noltar gave him a strange sidelong glance.  “Not so poorly this morning as I was last night, I think,” he said, finally.  “And yet—” He sighed.  “I wonder if he will—” He broke off and raised his hand, and Faramir realized he was brushing a tear from his eye.  “I will not see him again.  But it was still more than I thought I would ever have again.”

He was still far away, Faramir realized, still half caught in whatever he had been dreaming of, so he waited.  They sat together as the Sun rose higher, and Noltar blinked to something more like wakefulness.

“I think you must go back to Minas Tirith,” Faramir told him.  “Níniel can carry you.”

“Yes,” Noltar agreed, and now he reached over to pat Faramir’s hand.  “I will be safe enough, at least until no one is safe any longer.”

“The dark will come very soon, won’t it?” Faramir whispered, feeling for an instant like a child again, fearful of the things he was certain dwelt beneath his bed.

Noltar turned and embraced him tightly.  “It will,” he said.  “And you will be ready for it, just as you were last night.  And no matter what happens, know that I am so proud of you.”

“I know,” Faramir choked.  An hour later, he watched as Níniel and Noltar rode away and wondered if he would see either of them again.

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March 10, 3019.

It was dark.  Níniel sat up with a gasp, looking around her.  Her dreams had been terrible, she thought, but they had all fled from her mind in the instant between sleep and waking.  She had only a fleeting impression of a bloody banner flapping in the wind, and a sense of dread and anguish.  

“Noltar?” she said sharply, before catching herself.  Why should he have to wake in the middle of the night because of her foolish dreams?  But his voice spoke from the dimness, unclouded by sleep, “Good morning, Níniel.”

“Morning?  But it’s—”

“Dawn did not come,” Noltar said quietly.  She squinted in the dimness and saw that he was seated on his bedroll, cross-legged, or as close to it as he could get, looking out at a dim blurred glow on the horizon.  It was nothing like the light of the Sun, and Níniel shuddered and looked away from it.  “Atanalcar has gone to gather a little firewood, though I am not certain if a fire is safe.”

Atanalcar.  And why had he come with them, Níniel wondered?  At the last moment before they left, he had simply ridden up and said he would accompany them.  “Did Faramir send you?” Níniel had asked sharply, and he had only shrugged.  

“Let him come,” Noltar had said, so they had.  He had said little, but he had been surprisingly solicitous of Master Noltar, so Níniel had tried to avoid fighting with him at least.

“I’m back.”  Atanalcar strode up, dumping a bundle of dry twigs onto the ground nearby.  Then he turned to Noltar abruptly and said, “I—owe you an apology.”

“What,” said Níniel, blankly.

“Accepted,” Noltar replied, with a half shrug.

“Wh—no!  It isn’t!  That isn’t good enough!” Níniel exclaimed, getting to her feet.  “He hounded you and for years he said nothing of it, and now he only offers an apology and no explanation?”

“Well—” Noltar began, but Atanalcar cut him off with a swift, sharp nod.

“I don’t have a good explanation,” he said, the words coming out clipped and short.  “I—have always wanted to be a hero,” he said suddenly.  

“And what has that to do with—” Níniel began fiercely, voice rising, but Noltar put a hand on her leg.

“Let him finish,” he said softly.  “It’s all right.”

“I was named for a hero,” Atanalcar continued, looking at Níniel from under brows drawn angrily together.  “My grandmother used to tell me stories of the great Atanalcar, the child of an ancient king, and she would say that’s what I should be.  A hero, like him.  But of course I was not a hero—Boromir was the hero, he has always been the hero.  The Steward’s great son, brave and good and kind and—” He snorted, then settled.  “He is—was, I—I suppose,” he said jerkily, and Níniel saw real raw grief in his eyes, so she shut her mouth with a snap.  “But—but when I was a boy—or not that young, I suppose—I thought it unfair.  And I thought, if I could save his little brother from an evil wizard, then I might be a hero too.”  

He spread his hands wide.  “But it all went wrong.  I was wrong.  Of course I was.  And then I thought, well, I could become a hero among the rangers of Ithilien, surely, where they did not know what a foolish thing I had done.  And then Faramir came, as I did, and I could not be a hero even here, because he was more of a hero even than his brother had been.  And I was rude about it—oh, I know I was, I was quite awful.  No wonder you all hate me so.  But—” He strode back and forth as if in agitation.  “Despite all that, Faramir asked me to join you at your New Year’s celebration.  And you—welcomed me.  So—” He spread his hands.  “So I thought, well, I will never be a hero, but at least I can do something for you and Faramir, so I came to make sure you would not be hurt.”  He took a long breath and looked away.

“So I accept his apology,” Noltar said, sounding amused.

“Well, I don’t!” Níniel snapped.  “He wanted to be a hero, so he exposed you to a crowd that might have ripped you to pieces?”

Noltar chuckled.  “You need not accept it,” he pointed out.

“I don’t think you ought to either,” she muttered.

“Ah, well, I am too old to be in the business of holding grudges,” Noltar said, sounding a little wistful.  “Besides, I have forgiven much, much worse.”

Atanalcar shuffled awkwardly.  “Shall we make the fire?” he asked, not looking at Níniel.

“A small one, perhaps,” Noltar said.  “Foul things must be at work in this darkness, for it must have taken a great deal for the Enemy to blot out the very Sun herself.  If he went to such trouble, then his plans are close to fruition.”

Níniel shuddered briefly, but turned to make the fire herself, shooing Atanalcar away.  “I’ll do it.  I’ve far more experience with fires than you do, Sir Hero.”

Atanalcar grunted and seemed about to respond angrily, but Noltar cut in, “I know why you wish to be a hero, and I think it kind of you to give up on it for the sake of something you view as more important, but—it is not such a great thing as you think.  It’s an unpleasant business, being a hero.”

“It never sounded so in my grandmother’s tales,” Atanalcar said, squatting beside him as Níniel coaxed a spark to light to dry grass with her flint.  

“It sounds much better in some of them,” Noltar agreed, a twist of some sorrow in his voice.  “Others, I think, are more true.  What is that rhyme that Elemmirë’s grandmother is so fond of, Níniel?”

Níniel squatted back on her heels as the fire caught and the flames began to lick greedily at the twigs.  “The one that made her ask you why you like holly so much, when it portends sorrow and disaster?” she asked dryly.

He chuckled.  “Yes.”

She tilted her head back and looked up at the relentless blackness of the sky above them, dark and dead, and then she recited,

Open gates and holly trees;

Stone star’s sky.

Where are the folk of Hollin now?

Beneath the earth they lie.

They burned to save Three bright jewels

Under the flaming Eye.

“But they did save the jewels, didn’t they?” Atanalcar asked in a small voice.  “I know little of that story.”

“They did.”  Noltar sighed and scooted closer to the fire.  “But that is much more what being a hero is like.  Either you die, or you watch everyone else die, which is worse.”

“But sometimes someone writes a grand tale about you afterwards,” Atanalcar protested.  “And that seems to my mind to be a wonderful thing.”  He was pensive, though, and Níniel wondered if his mind went, as hers did, to Boromir, who had died with his quest unfulfilled, and sent only sorrow back to his little brother.

“The tales can be grand, it’s true,” Noltar agreed.  “But moreso, I think, if you were not there to witness them.”

Níniel, who was not at all certain she wanted to hear more, cut in and asked, “Should we try to ride under cover of darkness, or remain here?”

Noltar shook himself and blinked.  “I’m sorry, I am being far too grim.  I think we should wait; it will be safer, and I do not think even his power will stretch so far as to plunge the world into such darkness for long.  The Sun cannot be devoured, only hidden, and the greatest danger will be when he is bending the greatest of his power towards that concealment.  Better to wait, at least for a little while.”  His eye crinkled in a smile at her.  “Let us have a song—a quiet one, for safety’s sake, but something a little more cheerful than this discussion, perhaps?”

Níniel nodded, realized she was trembling, and scowled, trying to make the trembling stop.  

“What song?” she asked.

“I think I will sing you one of my uncle’s,” Noltar replied, and he began.

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March 11, 3019.

The streets of Níniel’s home felt vast and empty, somehow.  Not only empty of people—there were guards and warriors in them, at least, though the children and elders and many of the women had been sent away—but empty of laughter, of sunshine, of joy.  And she did not go on any joyful errand, either.

Elemmirë met her at the forge, face somber.  She caught at Níniel’s hands and then her neck, small hands sliding into her hair, and suddenly they were kissing, awkward and terrified.  Níniel hadn’t done much kissing before, and she wished they had more time.  Elemmirë was so small and sweet; Níniel’s hands nearly fit around her waist.  But she was fierce, too, her hands twisting in Níniel’s hair, and she panted into Níniel’s mouth as she bit at her lower lip.

“I wanted you to know,” she said, pulling back a moment later.

“I—I did.  I do.”  Níniel caught her and pulled her close.  “I must speak with Master Noltar now, though.”

Elemmirë pressed her face into Níniel’s chest for a moment, then nodded.  “He’s inside.”

Over the years, Leptafinyo’s use of the forge had waned.  Eventually, he had moved to a new forge, and the holly-folk had taken over this one almost entirely.  A fat little holly bush sat in a pot by the door; Elemmirë and little Uirebeth had taken over tending it, and it was getting so large that they might soon have to move it from its pot and plant it in the earth.  If there was anyone left to do it, Níniel couldn’t help thinking.

Hand in hand, they went into the forge.  Master Noltar was sitting on a high stool, head on one side, directing the rapid forging and mending of a series of swords and shields.  He looked up, and his single eye crinkled in a smile as the two of them approached.  He didn’t say anything, but Níniel could feel how pleased he was all the same.  Any other day, she might have been ecstatic and embarrassed, but today she had something else she needed to say.

“Master Noltar,” she said somberly, and the smile vanished as he heard her voice.  Elemmirë squeezed her hand.  “I went to—to look for Faramir, as you asked me to.”  She swallowed. “He has ridden to Osgiliath.”

“Osgiliath!” Noltar’s eye sought her face.  “There is something you are not saying.”

Níniel squirmed under that suddenly piercing gaze.  “They say—they say there is no hope,” she whispered.  “They say Faramir rode because the Lord Denethor bade it of him, but that the remains of the city are sure to fall no matter who tries to hold it.”

Noltar staggered, and she thought he would have fallen if she had not put her hand beneath his elbow.  Great sorrow, she knew, or fear—both of those could have such an effect.  But then Noltar looked up, his grey eye meeting hers, and there was a flame of anger burning in it she had never seen in the gentle forgemaster.

“Would that he would make a pyre for himself and rid us all of the trouble!” thundered Noltar, in a voice Níniel had never heard him use.  He turned, wrenching his arm away from her, and snatched at the nearest liftable item, which turned out to be one of the soldering irons, and flung it into the heart of the fire.  Níniel jumped back at the crash it made, and Elemmirë gave a little cry.  The others working in the forge turned at the noise.  Noltar stared, breathing heavily, at the dancing flames.

“After all of it,” he said bitterly.  “This is the true legacy of Númenor, of the Noldor, the Doom that has passed down for generations: that a father’s love must be earned and never freely given.”  He passed a trembling hand over his face, rubbing wearily at his eye.  “I am sorry,” he said, with an effort.  “Thank you, Níniel, for bringing me news.  I—I am weary, I think.  I must rest, alone.”  Somehow his eye curved up in a smile.  It was awful.  Níniel did not know how he did it.

A tear glittered at the very edge of it, and she was still no good with tears, and yet she wished she were.  “Is there anything we can do?” Elemmirë asked timidly.

“I am afraid not,” Noltar sighed, and weariness seemed to seep into every line of his form.  “I will be all right,” he said.  “But for now—I must be alone.”  He groped, almost blindly, for the door.

Níniel found that she wanted to cry, as well, and she pressed her hands to her face as he left.  Elemmirë’s arms encircled her waist, and she tried not to think of anything else.

March 15, 3019.

Níniel tightened her grip on her sword, ripping at her skirts with frantic haste and tying them up.  Outside, the sound of crashing metal grew closer.  “Master Noltar,” she said tersely, and then halted, because she didn’t know what to say.  

He looked up at her from beside the fire, the golden lines knitting his mask together glittering in the low light.  “I’ve fought this battle before,” he said, and she could not read his voice.

“And—and how did it—end?” she asked, though she thought perhaps she should not.

Noltar glanced to the side, to the knot of anxious children and adolescents clustered about their anvils.  “In flame and blood, I am afraid,” Noltar said.  “But I will keep you safe if I can.”

He crabwalked with his peculiar sideways gait over to the door and glanced back.  “Everyone under twelve, hide,” he told them.  “The rest of you may choose, to hide with them or to take up a sword.”

“Should we not go out the back?” said Uirebeth, her voice only shaking slightly.

“I am afraid not, dear one,” said Noltar.  “I think you are safer if they overlook you—and they may.  We will hope the tide of battle will pass by us.”

Níniel took up one of the swords she had made herself—stars, only a week ago, it seemed far longer, and she had been so proud—and went to stand by him.  “Should you not hide as well?” she said awkwardly.  “You are no warrior.”

He canted his head at her.  “True,” he agreed.  “But I will not stand aside when my folk have need.  Could you fetch me a poker?  Preferably one that’s still hot.”

She blinked at him.  “Um, yes, Master Noltar,” she said, after a moment.  

“They won’t like it,” he told her, with an amused tilt to his voice.  “Nor will they much like what I am going to rig up the door to do.  Make sure everyone hides well back from it.”

“Yes, Master Noltar.”

The preparations took perhaps ten minutes.  Noltar called all the ones who had chosen to fight to the door and pulled them through.  “You should hide in the shadows around the front,” he instructed them.  “Then you will be able to fight if need be, and otherwise as I said—perhaps they will pass us by.”

“Where will you be?” Níniel asked him.

“On the steps of my forge,” Noltar told her.  “Where I belong.”

“Then I will stand with you,” she said simply.

He gave her a quick, sideways glance and nodded.  “The rest should hide, though.  Otherwise we may attract the very attention we seek to avoid.  Níniel, seat yourself so you are less—tall.”

She gave him an amused grin.  “All right.”

They waited as smoke rose in a lazy crawl into the dark sky, and Níniel tried not to hear the screams and pleas that grew ever closer.  She wondered if it would hurt to die.  She wondered if they would be tortured first.

“Here.”  Master Noltar slipped something into her hand.

“What is it?”  She looked down to see glossy leaves and red berries.

“Call it a good luck charm.” 

The sound of battle neared and finally broke into the square where the forge lay.  Níniel’s sweaty hand tightened on her sword, and her body vibrated like a drawn bow-string as the battle spilled over.

Orcs.  The Orcs had come, bearing fire and steel.  Níniel trembled, abruptly frozen in place.  Noltar shifted slightly, his breathing changing, just a little.

“Look here,” said a twisted, growling voice, and a torch was raised, spilling orange-yellow light across the steps of the smithy.  “An old man—what do you think he’s guarding?  Something valuable?” Yellowed, twisted teeth gleamed in the dim light.

“Get thee gone from my gate,” Noltar said, voice miraculously steady.  “If thou hast a care for thy life.”

For an instant, Níniel breathed again, and then there was a smattering of laughter through the ranks of the Orcs, and her breath caught, fear twisting in the pit of her stomach in a way it never had before.  

“You think to defy us?”  The first of the Orcs stepped forward.  He carried a wicked-looking billhook, and he laughed, loud and awful.

Noltar raised his poker.  His hand shook so that the point described a shaky symbol in the air.  “I am Celebrimbor of Hollin!” he cried, voice ringing across the stony square.  “And for the second time I say to thee, get thee gone from my gate, foul things!”

Níniel’s eyes widened.  She had known that he was an Elf—they all had, after Atanalcar’s stupid actions, but—wasn’t there only one name for every Elf? Elemmirë’s voice sounded in her head, Where are the folk of Hollin now? Here?  They couldn’t be.

Scattered laughter went across the square.  The first of the Orcs leapt up the steps.  “I’ll kill you and eat the flesh off your bones, old man!”

He raised the billhook, and Noltar slipped awkwardly to the side as it came down, bringing up not the poker but his other hand.  Firelight flashed on a dagger in it, and it snapped out, scoring the Orc high in his shoulder, a tiny injury.  A few drops of black blood spattered across the stone.

“Hold still,” the Orc said, still laughing.  “You squirmy little—” He stopped, his words cut off, for no reason Níniel could discern.  He made a soft, surprised choking noise, and then he dropped his billhook with a clatter, and went to his knees, hands grasping at his throat.  There was white foam bubbling at his lips, and his body jerked and convulsed.

There was dead silence for an instant, and then a roar went through the Orcs.  They flung themselves forward, and Noltar was grabbed by many hands, too many.  The dagger flashed, and flashed again—two more Orcs went down, but there were more, many more—Níniel’s breath froze in her lungs, and no matter how she tried, she could do nothing but crouch there and watch as they dragged him upright, ripped his hood back and tore off his mask—

“He is an Elf,” one of the Orcs said.  “Not a very pretty one, though.”  Noltar cursed at them roundly in a filthy-sounding tongue.

“And he’s got a mouth on him,” someone else said.  “How does he know how to say that?”

“If he is who he says he is—”

“That’s impossible, he died an Age past, our ancestors marched beneath his broken body.”

“He’s certainly had some attention from The Eye before, look at this.”  Though Noltar struggled, his head was dragged back, and the firelight played full on the horrible brand over his left eye.  A series of murmurs went through the crowd.

“If he is—we should take him back.  We’d be well rewarded.”

“We’ll be well-rewarded anyway, for an Elf, even an ugly one.”

Noltar laughed, a little wildly.  “If thou believest his reward will not be thy swift deaths, thou art a fool, Orc.”  His smile was like a gash across his face, and he gave a little cry as the Orc backhanded him hard enough to snap his head backward.

“Hold him,” he snarled.  “Maybe I’ll give him another pretty scar for his collection.  Make the other ear match the first one.”

He grabbed Noltar’s face, as if he were a horse, shoving those ugly fingers into Noltar’s mouth.  “What about a kiss, not so pretty Elf?”

The other Orcs laughed, and Níniel suddenly found she could rise, because all her fear had been replaced by sheer anger.  

“Let him go!” she shouted, and she had her sword raised and brought it down, cleaving through Orc flesh surprisingly easily.  She had fought them before, on occasion, during scuffles in Ithilien, but nothing like this.  Nothing like this, with tens of Orcs to each of their one, perhaps more.  It was chaos: the clash of metal on metal, the shriek of metal of stone, her own breath hot and harsh in her lungs.

“The doors!” Noltar cried, but Níniel could not get to the doors, not with the press of bodies around her, not with the Orcish hands still laid upon Noltar.  “Never mind about me!”

“I won’t leave you!”  Níniel reached for him, and then cried out in pain, because a terrible weight had come down upon her shoulder.  Darkness blurred before her eyes for a moment, and then she was on her knees beside Noltar, and it was not enough—they were going to die—

“I’m sorry,” she gritted out, around the pain.

“No,” Noltar said steadily.  He put a hand on her face.  “Never say that.  You were brilliant, yeldya.”

Another cry rang out then, and the nearest Orc was torn away.  More of the holly-folk, Níniel realized, dizzily, and leading them—Atanalcar.

“For Gondor!” he cried, and the holly-folk surged up from behind the Orcs, pinning many of them against the steps.

Noltar bit out a sound, and then he was gone, moving swifter than Níniel had ever seen him.  She blinked, vision still muzzy with pain, looked up to see that he was at the doors, trembling hands playing with something that seemed to glitter for an instant.  “Everyone away!” he called, and after a moment, Níniel realized he had spoken in Elvish, a few simple words that the holly-folk would know but the Orcs would not. Noltar cried out, and he straightened, as much as he could.  Níniel stumbled a few exhausted steps down onto the cobbles.  Noltar was smiling, and it twisted up his cracked and ruined lips.

Orange flame blossomed behind him, and then there was a swift-moving black figure outlined against the red, and then light burned through Níniel’s eyes, a terrible roar drowning out the petty clashing noises of battle.

Light and dark smeared across her eyes, painful and terrible.  She wondered if this was death.  Her shoulder hurt terribly, though.  It would be unfair, she thought, if the mythical Halls forced her to retain that splintering pain.  She blinked, and her vision steadied a little, though sound remained distant and muddled, as if her head were under water.

Black smoke drifted upward from the forge to merge with the darkness of the night above.  The doors were gone.  The front of the forge was gone.  There was nothing left but splinters.  The golden light from the inside of the forge spilled out and down, over cracked and broken stone steps, and for an instant, it did not look like their forge at all.

For an instant, Níniel felt as if she stared into a pool of deep water, and what she saw was Noltar upon his knees upon the steps of a far grander edifice, his face unscarred but the mark of a red handprint melted into the flesh of his neck, and behind him a figure of terrible beauty.  Somewhere, distantly, Níniel heard a voice she did not recognizing calling out, Jewel-smiths of Hollin, your lord is taken!

She blinked, and it was gone.  Nothing but the shattered steps remained, foul with pieces of ichorous flesh.  Somehow, she was on her feet and moving, because she must find him, she must find her—Master Noltar, no matter how the earth seemed to move oddly beneath her feet.

At the base of the steps, she found him.  He was moving, blinking, dazed.  Atanalcar lay atop him.  Níniel went to her knees and pulled him into her lap, thinking she must take the weight from Noltar, thinking Atanalcar would thank her, perhaps, when his eyes opened.  Her hands were hot and sticky.

Atanalcar’s eyes blinked, dazed.  His lips moved.  Níniel strained to hear him.  His head fell back.

“What did he say?” Noltar demanded, voice rough and terrible.  He had gotten to his knees, too, it seemed, crawling towards them.

“‘I suppose it is an unpleasant business, but I would not have the holly-folk lose their father,’” Níniel echoed.  Her own voice sounded faint and tinny and like it was someone else’s altogether.  Her face was wet, and she did not like it.  She had never been good with tears.

Noltar’s voice spat a rough and awful word, as if he were forging and had dropped a hammer upon his thumb.  His head dropped to his breast.  Then he looked at her.  “Come, Níniel,” he said, and she was surprised at how gentle his voice was.  “We must find the other holly-folk.    The day—” his voice shook, and suddenly he was laughing.  “The day is breaking. Utúlie’n aurë, indeed, ah—”

There was light behind the black smoke, she saw.  “Yes,” Níniel agreed, then sucked in her breath.  “Elemmirë—Elemmirë—”  Her voice was quiet, too quiet, no one would hear her, where was her best friend?  Where was the woman she—

“I’m here.”  She pulled herself upright from the dimness near the steps, slim and small, but whole.  Her face was smudged with black mud or ash, and there was a daub of red blood on her cheek, but she stood without aid and came over to Níniel.  She clucked.  “I think your shoulder is broken.  Could you not have been more careful?”

Níniel, who hated tears, heard herself sob, and then she flung an arm about Elemmirë’s waist and cried as she never had before, deep, rattling, terrible sobs from the base of her very soul.  Elemmirë laid a hand upon her head.  “Hush,” she whispered.  “Hush, it will be all right.  See how the Sun is rising?”

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Most of the holly-folk were not hurt, though the forge itself was shattered.  It made Elemmirë cry to see it, as if a living thing had been ripped open and lay bleeding with its insides strewn across the once-white cobbles of the street.  Níniel shivered at her side.  She was hurt, her shoulder badly fractured.  Noltar was curled over his knees and trembling, and Elemmirë could not tell if he had been injured or not.  Atanalcar was dead.

Elemmirë had never been a particularly loud-voiced person.  She did not like being in charge; she much preferred to make things happen quietly and without a fuss.  But Níniel was sobbing into her waist, and Noltar seemed lost in his own little world.  The rest of the holly-folk were cautiously making their way out between the rubble.

“We must get to the Houses of Healing,” Elemmirë said, and her voice was so quiet that not even she could hear it.  She cleared her throat and tried again.  “We must get to the Houses of Healing!”

This time, the words came out.  Noltar raised his head and blinked at her, as if coming out of a trance.  His mask had been lost, and the ugly scars ravaging his face were in full view.  “Yes,” he croaked.  “Yes—Narvi.  Thank you.”  He staggered to his feet.  “I am not—not much hurt, I think,” he said.  “So I suppose that is—that is well, but—”

He was shocky, Elemmirë realized, or worse.  He did not know who she was.  He was struggling to stand and kept failing, his balance giving out.  “Uirebeth!” Elemmirë called, spotting the little girl crawling out from behind the overturned anvil.  “Come here, won’t you, and help Master Noltar?  We must go to the Houses of Healing!”  Her voice was becoming louder as she used it more for this kind of instruction, she noticed.

“Yes, Elemmirë,” whispered Uirebeth.  She pulled herself to her feet, frizzy dark hair escaping from the crowned braids she pinned to her head every day.  She moved quickly to Noltar’s side, putting an arm under his shoulder just as Elemmirë had seen her do to help her own grandfather, who sometimes forgot things and had trouble standing or moving alone.

“No, no, I’m all right,” Noltar said, still sounding dazed.  “Narvi?  Where is Annatar?  I thought—I thought he was—”  His mouth was trembling.

“Master Noltar,” Uirebeth said, voice clear and miraculously steady.  “Can you tell me how to tell the difference between wrought iron and cast iron?”

Bless the child.  He had been teaching the latest group of holly-folk about spark testing just a few weeks ago.

Noltar blinked again and began to describe the different shapes the sparks made.  His voice wavered terribly at first and then began to strengthen.  Elemmirë couldn’t tell if he knew where he was, but he was at least able to get onto his feet with Uirebeth’s help, though one of the prosthetics looked as if it had been damaged, because he was limping, canted a little to the side.

“Níniel, dearheart, can you stand?” she murmured, putting a hand in Níniel’s hair and stroking it.

“If—if—if you ask it of me,” Níniel managed between great, gasping sobs.

Elemmirë hated to push her, but that shoulder needed more attendance than she felt able to provide here, and she wanted very badly to get away from the ruins of the forge.  “I ask it of you,” she said steadily, and Níniel groaned with pain and then got to her feet, swaying, head held low, half-leaning against Elemmirë.  She was tall and heavy, but Elemmirë would not for the world have dropped her, and at least she was holding most of her weight herself.

They made a little motley crowd, as they slowly dragged their way down the street, Elemmirë in front, keeping an eye on all of them.  It should not have taken them more than an hour to reach the Houses of Healing, but they were all weary, and they had to move slowly to begin with.  Then, several times, they heard sounds that might be Orcs, and Elemmirë led them to hide in alleys or other little alcoves.  

Each time, Níniel was very quiet, and Noltar sat with his head between his knees, murmuring to himself in liquid Elvish or sometimes the uglier language he occasionally used to spit profanities and oaths.  Elemmirë had not known there was so much you could say in it; she had rather thought it was nothing but the occasional blunt, ugly word, very useful for when you knocked over the soldering iron or splashed yourself with a spatter of molten metal.  But it sounded like more than that, now.  Noltar sounded almost as if he were having a conversation with someone, but it was certainly no one here.

The Sun crept up the walls, its light watery and half-seen through the clouds.  They crept as slowly through city streets that were at first too loud and then too quiet.  Elemmirë did not know how late it was when they began to approach the Houses of Healing, finally.  Uirebeth, her small, dark face ferocious, her tight frizzy curls escaping from her braids, held Noltar’s hand and stepped out carefully into the street before the rest.

There was a patter of feet and a sudden shout.  Uirebeth yelped, and then she was going over onto her back, and Níniel was swearing and trying to get at her sword with her good arm.

“No, no, it’s all right.”  After the first shock, Elemmirë realized that it had not been an attack, just an unfortunate collision.  The boy who had nearly run Uirebeth over was struggling upright now.  She thought she knew him—one of the guardsmens’ sons, perhaps—?

“Bergil!” Uirebeth blurted.  Bergil, that was his name.  “Why aren’t you looking where you’re going?”

“Need—kingsfoil,” Bergil gasped.  “The, the king sent me.  It’s for Lord Faramir, he’s dying, and he needs—”

Elemmirë did not know what he meant about the king, but Lord Faramir is dying was like a hand shoved straight into her chest and squeezing.  

“Kingsfoil.” Noltar had spoken, and his voice had not trembled.  Elemmirë looked over at him, and his eye was clearer than it had been for hours.  He had opened one of the pouches dangling from his waist, and the clear, sweet scent was already wafting out.  “Here, lad.  This is the freshest you’ll find in the city, though it was plucked more than two weeks ago, I’m afraid.  There hasn’t been much time for foraging, of late.”

Bergil put out his hand, trembling a little.  “I’ll take it to them,” he said breathlessly.  “I’ll see that they get it.”

“Run, lad,” Noltar said, “and we’ll come after.”

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Faramir stood knee-high in dead grass, with ash falling down all around him.  Or was it snow?  It was white and cold, but it did not melt or sting when it touched his skin, only sent feather-light brushes of sensation across him.  They hurt, but he did not quite know why.

Before him was a series of low, rolling mounds where the dead grass stretched away towards a featureless dark plain.  Faramir felt a chill run down his spine as a black metal tower seemed to rise up out of some dark smoke or mist along the horizon.  It loomed high above him and yet he knew somehow that it was many miles away.  A greenish yellow light glimmered sickly near the top.

“Faramir!” his father’s voice called, and he turned away from the tower, seeking the source of the sound.  Denethor stood in the shadow of a line of immense mountains, one hand outstretched towards him.  Faramir took a step towards him, blinking and shaking his head.  His eyes were stinging, and he realized, as he took another step, that grey smoke was rising all around him.  His throat and skin hurt more than ever, but there was a plea in his father’s eyes he had never seen before, so he tried to go towards him.

It hurt.  It was like walking on blades, and the mountains before him wavered as if in a heat haze.  “Help me,” he croaked.

“Yes, yes.”  His father hurried towards him.  “I will not let you go, my son,” he whispered, and it was the words that Faramir had always wanted to hear, but his breath was burning in his lungs, and when his father put a hand upon his shoulder, it seemed to burn more even than the snow or ash that was falling thicker than ever.

“It hurts,” he whispered, as if he were a child again, curled up in bed and sick with a fever.

“I will not let you go,” his father repeated, and Faramir wished he wouldn’t.  He didn’t want to leave his father, but he was in pain, and he wanted, suddenly, terribly, not to be in this awful place, but to be in Noltar’s little hut, with Noltar’s gentle hands upon him, his gentle voice murmuring that it would be all right.

“It hurts, Father, can’t you help?” Faramir tried to say, but he broke down in a coughing fit.

His father’s gaze paused on his face, and then he looked over Faramir’s shoulder.  “No!” he cried.  “You will not take my son from me!”

A harsh white radiance fell across the land then, turning the murky grey grass into a stark pattern of black-and-white bars.  A voice boomed out words too loud for Faramir to comprehend, and he fell to his knees, shielding his ears with his hands.  The white light grew brighter yet, and it was fearful, but somehow it eased the burning pain a little.  Faramir sobbed and curled up around his knees.

He did not know how long he lay there, with the world seeming to sway dizzily around him.  A great wind arose and swept across him, warm and wet, and his breathing eased.  The wind howled and sang a song that sounded like a lullaby, but Faramir could not discern any words no matter how he tried.

He opened his eyes and saw that the world was changing around him.  The high, dark mountain peaks went from a charcoal black to the white of new snow.  The terrible dark clouds began to peel back, layer by layer, and rain fell on the side of the mountain.  The dead grey grass took on a greenish hue, and tiny white star-like flowers emerged from the ground.  Winter was fading and giving way to spring.  

On the side of the mountain, brown and drear, little vegetation grew, but there was one gnarled, stooped tree that must yet live, for Faramir saw its tight-furled leaves burst into bud and then balls of ethereal white flowers appeared upon it, as well.  Mountain ash—he would know it in his bones.  Dimly, he thought that it was too early for it to blossom, but it did so resolutely anyway.

As he watched, as the wind sang, he saw a hint of movement in the grass at the base of the foothills.  As the little disturbance wended its way closer, Faramir saw that it was a cat—a scrawny thing, with its orange fur missing in great patches and only a single remaining eye.  It looked quite pitiable, as it halted beneath the stooped-over mountain ash.  Poor thing, Faramir thought, and as he stretched out towards it, the ash seemed to do so as well.  Petals and leaves fluttered down upon the tiny scrap of living creature.

The cat looked up at the tree and made a soft little mewling noise, then curled up in the shelter of the tree’s roots, which were nigh pulling free of the muddy, churned-up ground in a few places, and flopped on its side, deeply asleep.  Faramir thought it might not wake again, and he wondered whether he ought to stay by its side, as he had stayed by Ecthelion’s as long as he could.

He felt strange, heavy and light at the same time, as if he were floating free in this odd spring on a windswept mountainside, while his limbs were trapped, cold and heavy, in a place of winter far away.  The cat slept fitfully; Faramir heard it making sad little noises.  At the same time, he heard the murmur of distant voices.

It is kingsfoil, but not fresh, I fear.

It will serve.

A wild and fresh scent was carried to him on the wind.  The heaviness and lightness began to fade, and the mountaintop blurred like a watercolor painting beneath an onslaught of rain.  The cat seemed to wake, its limbs moving, its single eye suddenly alert, and then the scene was swept away, and Faramir lay upon his back in a soft bed, his lips shaping the word Ada, but when he opened his eyes, he was looking at a stranger.

* * *

There was light in the western sky, and it gave Aragorn hope in his weariness.  The war was by no means over, but Minas Tirith stood, and the enemy was repelled.  He was exhausted with healing, but he did not flag; he had learned long ago from Elrond how to pace himself, even if he had to continue healing for hours.  

The flood of folk seeking healing was slowing to a trickle when one of the healers gave an exclamation and called out to another little knot of people wending their way carefully and slowly down the street.  An exhausted looking woman—quite as tall as Aragorn—walked with her head drooping beside a slim, slight form that the healer was waving to.  Beside her was an old man, stooped with weariness and walking in an odd almost sideways gait, with a little girl beside him, helping him.  Beyond them came another group of children and youths, each one of them wearing a sprig of holly in their hair.

A second look as they made their way wearily up the wide and shallow stairs to the Houses of Healing made him pause, for although one of the old man’s ears was ragged and scarred close to his head, the other was thin, pointed and delicate, and in his sole remaining eye twinkled a strange silver-gold fire that Aragorn had only before seen in the Lady of Lórien and in Halbarad’s chosen vagabond.  He was no Man, it seemed.

“Grandmother!” The young woman whom the healer had called out to waved a hand.  “Grandmother, Níniel’s shoulder is broken, and Master Noltar—”

“How is Faramir?” the Elf asked.  As he came nearer, the wan sunlight fell on his face, and the reason for his odd movement became painfully clear.  A hush fell over the crowd.

“He lives,” Aragorn replied, and the Elf took a long, shuddering breath and nearly tripped on the first of the steps.  “Who…” Aragorn swallowed the question.  “You are welcome here, of course,” he said.  “All of you are welcome here, and there will be healing for all who need it.”

“I only wish to see my—to see Faramir,” the Elf said quietly.

“Don’t listen to him,” put in the young woman.  “He’s hurt and must see the healers as well.”

“You shall see Faramir and also the healers.” Aragorn put out a hand. 

“You can stop looking so fearful, young woman,” said a new voice.  “If he has not died yet, I do not imagine he is going to start now.”

It was Gandalf, though Aragorn had no idea where he had been, nor how he had suddenly appeared at the top of the steps, looking down, an odd, kind expression on his face.  The Elf, limping up the stairs with the girl’s help, sighed.  “And I took such pains to avoid you every other time you came to Minas Tirith,” he said, sounding rueful.  “Though I never thought you would know me on sight.”

“The last of the House of Fëanor?” Gandalf said gently.  “How could I not?”

Aragorn, too busy trying to comprehend the last of the House of Fëanor, almost missed the flinch followed by a glance that passed between them, but the Elf dipped his head.  “Oh,” he said, softly.  “Yes, I see.”  He drew himself up, though clearly he was no longer capable of unfolding to his full height.  “Take me to Faramir,” he said, and his eye flashed suddenly.  “Celebrimbor of Hollin would see his son.”

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Though he was awake and his mind was largely clear, Faramir found that there was a lethargy in his limbs that he had not realized in his first moments that still clung to him.  He had lost so many in Ithilien, and though he could see the light in the sky from the open little chamber in the Houses of Healing in which he had awakened, it seemed paltry and weak compared to what he was used to.  He could not help wondering if he had woken now only to wait and follow Boromir when the Dark Lord finally overtook Minas Tirith.

Little had been said to him of the situation, and he could not tell whether it boded well or ill.  He wanted to hope.  Noltar would tell him to hope.  He tipped his face up into the wan sunlight.  “Was I ready enough for the Shadow, I wonder?” he said aloud.

“Ready enough that you have survived it, yonya.”

He had not heard the sound of the door opening. Faramir turned          at the soft of the soft, rasping voice, his throat seizing up.  “Ada,” he choked without thinking, though he had never called him so, and Noltar hobbled across the room, his face drawn tight and grey, and gathered Faramir into his arms.

“You came back,” he whispered into Faramir’s ear.  “You came back despite all of it, and I am so proud of you and so grateful.”

He was shivering, Faramir realized, and at first he thought it was simply reaction.  Faramir thought he was probably shivering a little as well.  Then he felt moisture and pulled back to see that Noltar’s face was pale and drawn with pain.  “You’re hurt!” he exclaimed.

“I have been hurt far worse,” Noltar told him.  “This is—”  He stopped whatever he had been to say at the sight of the look Faramir gave him.  “I needed to know you were all right,” he said softly.  “I suppose I had better let the healers take a look at it now.”

He had come to Faramir perhaps before he came to anyone.  Faramir felt his eyes fill with easy tears.  “Please, Ada,” he whispered, and the word did not sound unfamiliar to his tongue at all.

“Don’t worry,” Noltar told him, his trembling voice full of fondness.  “Don’t worry, it will be all right.”

* * *

The light was so pale and watery, Éowyn thought, the Sun barely visible through the heavy clouds.  She touched her fingers to the glass of the window and startled when she found that it was cold.  Somehow she had half expected her hand to pass through it entirely.  She ought to be a ghost.  She felt enough like one.

Besides, she ought to have died when Theoden did.  She would have died a hero and a warrior, her tale ended neatly, the skald’s voice dying away as the crowd cheered and clapped.  How she had loved such stories when she was a child; how she had begged Éomer and Theodred to act them out with her, over and over again.  

They had often squabbled over who was to play the hero in this night’s particular story, though Éowyn insisted on getting all the parts who were not, strictly speaking, Men, because, as she often angrily pointed out, the minstrels were so ready to ignore the deeds of anyone else that otherwise she would never have any parts at all.  This meant shield maidens, of course, but also Elves and Dwarves, when they were spoken of.  Éomer and Theodred rapidly learned better than to take those parts from Éowyn, and once they grew a little and sometimes began to act such stories in a larger group of mostly boys, the two of them defended her right to them.

So why was she still alive?  Well, that might yet be mended, she supposed, if Sauron triumphed in the end, and if the Dark Lord’s forces came for Gondor in the end, she supposed she could take up a sword and die fighting.

The door of the little reading room opened with a click, and she looked up listlessly to see a stooped and ancient-looking figure.  As this was Éowyn’s first day outside of her bed, she did not know the occupants of the Houses of Healing particularly well.  “Can I help you?” she asked frostily, assuming another one of Ioreth’s coterie of twittering nursemaids.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” said a rasping voice.  “I was looking for Faramir.”

“Whoever Faramir is, I have not seen him.”

“Ah, well.  Do you mind if I wait?  He often spends time here.”

Éowyn shrugged.  “Suit yourself, I cannot stop you.”

She realized in the next moment that she had been terribly rude and braced for the scolding, but the old man did not seem particularly bothered by her sharp words.  He chuckled.  “You could ask me to leave,” he said, with a shrug.  “But perhaps that would be too much trouble.” 

He hobbled across the room with a peculiar sideways gait, and it occurred to her that perhaps he was not one of the healers but also one of the patients.

“Who are you?” she asked, a dull spark of curiosity lighting in her breast.

He shrugged.  “Most folk here know me as Noltar, but Celebrimbor has been my name for much longer.”

Why did that name sound so familiar? After a moment, Éowyn laughed, sharp and brittle.  “I used to play Celebrimbor as a child—the Elf, I mean.  I was just thinking about that when you came in.”  She was surprised at herself; it was more words than she had said the whole time.

The old man’s breath caught.  “Did you?”

“Wasn’t he fortunate?” Éowyn asked bitterly.  “He got to die a hero in the end.”

“Ah.”  There was a moment of silence.  “Well.  Stories have a way of getting the details wrong.”  He put up a pair of oddly young-looking hands and drew back his hood.

Someone made a soft little noise, like a squeak.  This was no Man.  Éowyn was shaking, and she realized she was laughing.  “Am I still dreaming, in my fever?” she said.

“I am afraid not, my lady.”  He paused.  “Many of those close to me did die heroes.  My cousin—my uncle—”  He cut himself off, and his scarred mouth drew to the side.

Again, a little spark of some emotion surfaced.  “So did mine,” she whispered.  “I could not save him.”

“And I could not save mine.”  He looked over at her.  “You cannot keep a count of those you did not save, lass; it will drive you mad.”

The door opened again.  Éowyn sighed sharply.  “Is all the Houses of Healing to intrude upon me in my grief?” she demanded, looking up again to see a fair, thin-looking young man with a mane of fluffy hair falling about his shoulders, who gave a guilty start.  He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Éowyn cut him off in her frustration.  “Are you a great hero as well?  An ancient Elf lord’s great son, perhaps?”

“Ah—”

Celebrimbor snorted with laughter at her shoulder, and Éowyn looked over in confusion.  He waved a hand at her.  “This is Faramir,” he said.  “And, well, perhaps not by law, but…” He drew himself up as much as Éowyn supposed he could.  “The son of Celebrimbor of Hollin.”

“What is this jest?” The young man named Faramir asked.  “I have been hearing this all over the Houses of Healing.  I came to ask you about it, Noltar.”

“You would not account yourself my son?” Celebrimbor asked, in a tone of voice Éowyn could not read.

Faramir clucked his tongue impatiently.  “That is not the jest to which I referred.  The Lord of Hollin—”

Celebrimbor spread his hands.  “Hollin is no longer.  Gondor remains.  I am afraid I was rather outspoken in my anger when the Orcs came to the door of the holly-folk’s forge.”  He sighed.  “But Celebrimbor is the name I was given when I entered Beleriand.  Before the Sun rose, I was Telperinquar Silmencë.”

There was a long silence.  Then Faramir said, in a small voice, “Oh.  I see.”

“I did not mean for anyone to know,” Celebrimbor said, rather apologetically.  “It does not mean anything.  I am who I am.”

A faint nod.  Éowyn began to realize she was watching something momentous.  Faramir took a long, strange breath.

“And so am I,” he said, after a moment, and then he smiled a rather weak, crooked smile at Éowyn.  “I am Faramir, the Steward of Gondor, and—and apparently the great son of an ancient Elf lord.”

The smile did something quite strange to Éowyn’s insides, and before she knew it, she found that she was smiling back.

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Midyear’s Day, 3019.

The cat was very tired.  The cobbles beneath its feet felt rough, and walking was painful.  It had ridden here within the cart of a farmer and her ex-warrior, and something about it knew that the hands it was traveling toward would chide it for slipping away from them, but it could not help itself.  Its soul ached and burned, and there was only one person who could soothe that ache.  Besides, it might go back.  They had treated it—well.

Many people had treated it well.  For some reason, that made it ashamed.

It picked its way along narrow streets that were scored with the evidence of recent battles.  It did not know why it could read these signs, even with its murky, blurred, half-obscured vision, but here was the mark of an axe that had bitten deep into the stone; there was a smudge where fire had stained the wall, imperfectly washed away.

War had touched this place.

The cat sat down for a moment and licked at its paw.  It reminded itself it had once scratched the hands it was fleeing to.  It reminded itself that it would probably be sent away or perhaps killed, and that it deserved it.  It told itself that it would survive on its own, that it did not care.

That was a lie, a dangerous one.  It had told itself this before, and it could still see red blood trickling from the scratches.  It paced back and forth on painful feet.  Should it go, then, back to the farmer and the rough hands of her companion?  Should it not trouble the one whose presence was so close now?

But he would have said to try.  He would have said to hope, the fool.  The cat lashed its tail in agitation, and then it was running, dodging between the legs of all these people—so many people, all lined up in the streets, laughing and singing and cheering, for some reason.

The cat had to dodge around stomping feet and on one occasion actually claw someone to avoid being stepped on.  The hair prickled on the back of its neck, but it could feel now, how close it was, finally—after a journey of many days, and some terrible gulf before them that it could not recall.  Its feet and face and ribs were sore, but still it made its way.

It smelled him before it saw him, a sweet, clean scent mixed with a tinge of hot metal, like the forge upon a rainy day.  It called for him, but it could not make itself heard over the din, and finally, finally, wriggling between a few more standing legs, jumping over a pair of extremely muddy boots, it saw him, wearing a dull grey-green cloak and speaking with two women, one tall, the other short.  It was not much interested in either of them.

Wearily, it padded the final little distance and brushed up against his legs, putting the remainder of its strength into a soft little plea.

“Noltar,” the tall woman said.  “I think you’ve made a friend.”

It did not touch flesh, but cold metal, and it wondered why it felt such shame at that, why it sat down and put its head back and cried sadly, until it heard a soft intake of breath and those hands finally—finally—caught at its sides, and it was being lifted up and held.

“You,” breathed a terribly familiar voice.  The cat looked into a single grey eye brimming with moisture, and it purred at the gentle touch of those hands.  “You stinking, foul creature, I thought you dead and gone.”

His voice was gentle—angry, but gentle.  It was not quite forgiven for scratching him, the cat deduced, but it thought it would be.  Perhaps quite soon, if it continued to purr, which seemed to be pleasing to him.

* * *

Celebrimbor was not where Faramir had left him.  It was strange how much that frightened him, even now; his hand went tight in Eowyn’s, and she turned swiftly.  “What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s—” There was Níniel, so where was Celebrimbor?  He let go of Eowyn’s hand to run towards her, having a single moment where his mind seemed to fill up with recriminations—he should not have left him, even for a moment; it was not safe, even now; what would he do if some nameless terror had reached into Minas Tirith on the king’s wedding day and taken Faramir’s father from him?—and then he saw him, as the crowd parted before him.

He had not actually moved from where Faramir had left him; he had only sunk down into a seated position, cradling something in his arms, a bundle of orange fur that moved feebly.

“Ada?” Faramir called, and Celebrimbor looked up, his single eye brimming with tears.

“Look,” he whispered.  “Look.”

Faramir paused to let Eowyn catch up, gave her hand an apologetic squeeze, and then led her over to Celebrimbor’s side.  He blinked in surprise as he looked down, for he thought he recognized that scrawny, muddy, half-dead-looking cat.  He had seen it in a dream once, on the slopes of a blooming mountain, covered in petals drifting down from a rowan.  He had thought it would die there, but it seemed that it had not.

“A cat…?” Eowyn said, sounding confused.

“This…monster,” choked Celebrimbor, his fingers teasing across the long, draggled hair on the cat’s belly.  “How dare he come back to me after all this time, I thought him dead.”  The cat rolled its head back across Celebrimbor’s arm, and Faramir saw that it had only one eye and that where the other should have been there was a ragged, eight-pointed scar, almost like a starburst.  It purred, sounding very satisfied, and wriggled in Celebrimbor’s arms.

Puzzled, Faramir looked at it.  He had never known Celebrimbor to have a cat, and while he knew he did not know everything about him, it seemed hard to imagine when he could have come by one and lost it again without Faramir knowing.  The cat’s single eye caught at Faramir’s, a queer gold with a hint of some darker red.  It was like putting his hand just a little too close to the fireplace.

“He came to me,” Celebrimbor said softly, and when he looked up there was a weary smile reflected in his eye.  “He returned to me.”  He snorted with a sort of quick half-laugh. 

“What is it?” Faramir asked.

“Oh, just an old wager,” Celebrimbor said, heaving a sigh.  He sat back, and the cat made a pathetic little noise as Celebrimbor’s hand left his belly.

“Poor thing,” Faramir said, sympathetically, looking at the expanse of white belly being presented.  He put out a hand.

“Oh,” said Celebrimbor.  “I wouldn’t—”

Faramir’s fingers brushed warm fur, and then he yelped as claws and teeth sank into his hand.  “Nghk,” he said faintly.  The cat blinked unrepentantly.

“Let go, you treacherous thing,” Celebrimbor scolded, and the cat blinked apologetically and opened its jaws.  Faramir snatched his bleeding hand back.

“Vicious, isn’t he?” Níniel said.

“Oh, cats are like that.”  Éowyn took Faramir’s hand in hers.  “Let me see that, love.  That, I think, will cure you of touching cats’ bellies.  Have you never had one before?”

“No,” Faramir said, as the stinging pain began to subside.

“No, he’s vicious,” Celebrimbor said grimly, tweaking at the cat’s ear.  “And he will have to learn better, won’t he?”

The cat made an apologetic noise, got up, went over to Faramir and began to rub against his legs, making a soft rusty purring sound.  Faramir eyed him suspiciously.  “Well,” he said, after a moment, putting his unmaimed hand down for the cat to sniff and receiving for his troubles no further maiming, “He will have the best teacher, I think.”

Celebrimbor looked up, took his mask off, and smiled from ear to ear.  

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