The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

Less Lore and More Wisdom

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.”