The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

Noltar

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.