The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

Where are the folk of Hollin now?

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?”