The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

The Last of the House of Fëanor

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.”