The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

A Homecoming

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.