The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

Scars

One thing that Faramir noticed as he grew older was that Noltar often looked out eastward, towards where the Sun would rise.  When he did, he often moved his hands and arms as if he were doing detailed smithing work, soldering together tiny pieces of metal.  Faramir had seen him solder once—a larger piece, one that required little precision, just to demonstrate how it was done.  His hand had shaken so badly he had still nearly failed, and it was one of the few times Faramir had seen all joy stripped from him entirely, his single visible eye slanted downward and creased unpleasantly.

He was moving his hand like that now, and for once he had forgotten to put on his gloves.  Faramir was curious—he was curious about everything—but he had not meant to look, because he understood very well the feeling of needing to hide, of not wanting to have to handle whatever it was everyone else saw when they looked on you.  But Faramir’s eyes slipped too quickly downwards for him to stop them, and all he saw were a pair of slender hands, as fine as any Lord of Gondor’s, well-shaped and shaking a little.

Noltar looked round and caught him looking.

“I’m sorry,” Faramir said softly, feeling as if he had trampled sacred ground.

He got a shrug in response, and Noltar looked down at his hands as well.  “He did not touch them,” he said, distant, far away, perhaps even half-dreaming, Faramir realized with a start.  “Everything else—and I have not the use of them—but he did not touch them.” Then he shook himself and seemed to find himself again.  “Faramir, would you fetch my gloves, please?” he said quietly.

“Of course,” Faramir said, and he did not ask any more.

* * *

The day Faramir finally came into the forge wearing an outfit with the White Tree embroidered upon it, to fit him, the look upon Noltar’s face made him want to weep for some reason, and he did not know why. “Look, Master Noltar!” he said.  “I—I am my father’s second son now.  He has given his permission.”

“If you will not be dissuaded from this foolishness, Míriel, then I suppose I may as well accept it.”

“Faramir, Father.”

“A name I gave him,” Boromir says, clapping his brother fondly on the shoulder, and their father gives Boromir a sharp glance but a thin smile.

“Well enough,” he says.  “You will be of as much use, I suppose, as a son, as have you been as a daughter, Faramir.”

“That is wonderful, Faramir,” Noltar said, and Faramir saw that his good eye crinkled in a proud smile. 

So proud that Faramir took a step forward, hopeful, and somehow found himself saying, “Do—do you think he will love me now?  Do you think I can be worthy of it?”

Something flickered in the depths of that grey eye.  “Come here,” Noltar told him, gesturing to the bench beside the forge, where he was slowly arranging some of the instruments for later use.  Faramir came, feeling foolish and a little treacherous for saying such a thing when of course his father loved him, had loved him since he had been born.  Perhaps not as much as he loved Boromir, but—oh, who could help loving Boromir the most? When he was so kind and courageous and everything a hero or a brother or a son ought to be.  “You are worthy of your father’s love,” Noltar told him, putting one trembling hand on his shoulder.  “I only hope he can be worthy of yours.”

For some reason this made the tears actually slip from his eyes, and Faramir trembled, reaching towards Noltar as well, but not sure if he could do as he wanted.  His father never welcomed the kinds of quick touches that Boromir did, and Noltar had such obvious pain in his movement—

“Do you want a hug?” Noltar asked, and Faramir nodded, tears still running down his cheeks.  “Come here, then.”

Infirm arms pulled him close, and Faramir sank with a grateful sob into an embrace that felt like he imagined his father’s would, if only he could ever earn it.  Noltar’s hand petted his hair almost steadily, though he could feel the neverending tremor of those poor muscles.  Perhaps a grandfather more than a father, Faramir thought, but his father’s father was dead and his mother’s father he barely recalled meeting, so this was a fine distinction that was not of much use.

“I am proud of you, Faramir,” Noltar whispered.  

“You—but, but why?  I haven’t done anything, I am not—I am not strong and good and brave like my brother.”

“You are, you know.”  Noltar withdrew a little and patted his arm.  “You are a child and not a Man grown, but you are still strong and good and brave.  There, you can cry if you need to.”  He patted Faramir again, and simply held him, and Faramir did not know how to feel, and he certainly did not know how to stop crying.

* * *

“You’ve been using my soldering station.”  Faramir looked up quickly to see one of the young guardsmen who worked with Leptafinyo during the day.  Faramir thought his name was Atanalcar.  He had been concentrating so hard he had not realized dawn was already streaking the sky as he finished readying the sword he was working on for tempering.  He frowned, looking to where the man was pointing.

“It’s not yours, it’s just a place to stand,” he pointed out.  “And I haven’t touched your iron.  We all use our own equipment.”

“You aren’t a real smith,” Atanalcar said, a vicious twist to his words.  “None of you are.  I don’t see why you’re allowed to use the smithy at all.”

“They’re allowed to use the smithy because I provide useful services to the Steward,” said a mild but firm voice from behind him.  Faramir decided he’d better finish shaping the sword tomorrow and reluctantly took it down from where he had been beating at it.

“Ah, yes,” sneered Atanalcar.  “The mysterious Master Noltar.  What is your real name, I wonder?”

“That is my real name here.”

“I’ll get out of your way, I’m sorry,” Faramir murmured politely, slipping over to Noltar’s side.

“And what is beneath your mask?”  Atanalcar reached forward, and Noltar ducked.

“Don’t,” he said shortly.

“What’s going on?” Faramir let out a breath as he heard his brother’s voice.

“I was just wondering why the mysterious smith never takes off his mask,” Atanalcar said, voice light but sharp-edged.

“It is my own business,” Noltar returned, just as lightly, just as edged.

“It is really his own business,” Boromir agreed.  Atanalcar snorted, but he did not try to stop Faramir and Noltar from retreating again.  Faramir took one extra look at Noltar’s featureless porcelain mask—he could not deny he was curious as well, but it didn’t seem like something Noltar wanted to talk about, so he bit his tongue.

Noltar’s eye smiled at him.  “It is only that my face is rather badly scarred,” he said softly to Faramir.  “Nothing will be gained by looking upon it.”

Faramir nodded and kept himself quiet, for the tremor in Noltar’s hands had grown fierce, and he did not think it would be kind to ask how his face had come to be so scarred that he kept it always hidden.