The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

Ecthelion

With thanks to BloodwingBlackbird for permitting me to use Ecthelion.

Faramir curled up beneath the soldering table, his body shaking with dry, wracking sobs that he could not quite stop.  He knew it was foolish, and he knew it was not manly, and he knew beyond all shadow of a doubt that if his father found out, Denethor would be even more disappointed in his second son than he already was.

“Faramir?”  It was Níniel, putting her head underneath the soldering table inquiringly.  “Oh dear.”

He shook his head, frantically trying to dry the tears.  “I didn’t think anyone would be here yet.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”  She shrugged.  “Nightmares.”  Níniel, like Faramir, sometimes had strange dreams from she could not escape.  It gave them something of a bond beyond even that of the rest of the holly folk.  “I’m not much use with crying,” she said awkwardly.  “But I’ll take you to Noltar?”

“Take me to him?”

“Do you think he lives in the forge?  Come on.”

Faramir suffered himself to be pulled in a rough but friendly manner out from under the table.  Níniel patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, not quite seeming to know what to do and staring at a point in the air over Faramir’s head.  But she led him without any further comment down several winding cobblestone streets and towards a little hut set back a bit from the stone buildings on either side, only a roof nailed in place with a scrap of curtain hiding whatever lay beneath it from view.  A series of cracked stone blocks led through tufts of wiry yellow-green grass towards it, and Níniel hopped along them, gesturing for Faramir to follow.

“Master Noltar?” she called out softly.

There was a moment, and then the curtain lifted, and Noltar peered out.  “Nightmares again, Níniel?”

“No—well, yes, but they weren’t so bad.  I’ve brought you Faramir.  He’s, um, he’s crying.”

Faramir swiped his hand across his face, feeling it heat up.  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, as he obeyed her summons and trudged through the grass to her side.

“It’s all right.”  Noltar put out an arm and, after getting a small nod, pulled Faramir into an easy, affectionate hug that made him tear up all over again.  “I’ll make some tea.  You can tell me about it.  Níniel, would you like to—”

“I’m going back to the forge,” she interrupted.  “Sorry, I’m just not good with crying.”

Faramir shook his head.  “Thanks,” he mumbled.  “It’s fine.”

“You did well,” Noltar told her, then ushered Faramir into his little hut while Níniel was still standing and stammering something about it not being any trouble.

The inside of the little hut was surprisingly cozy and neat.  There was a little wood-burning stove at the back, with a worn but soft round rug laid in front of it.  Although the hut did not have four walls, it did have a wooden floor made of carefully laid planks, and a soft pallet lay near the stove, which Noltar rolled up and set in one corner.  There was also a rocking chair woven of some light wood that Faramir did not recognize, which Noltar shooed him into as he began to light the stove and set the kettle on to boil.

“Don’t you need it?” Faramir protested. 

Noltar raised his one visible eyebrow.  “I may not have the legs I was born with, but I can stand just fine, lad.”

Suitably chastened, Faramir let Noltar tuck an impossibly soft blanket around his shoulders, pulling it tight around him, and then as Noltar went with shaking hands to put the kettle on, he found he could not keep silent anymore, and the words fell out.

“I found a mouse,” he said.  “His name was Ecthelion, at least, I thought it would be a nice name, because he was—he looked as if he had fought something far greater than himself, and I was thinking of the tale of Echthelion slaying the great fire demon.  But Father said—” He halted.  He was telling this all wrong.

Noltar only waited, his quiet presence somehow soothing.  After a moment, he said, “I think the Lord of the Fountain would have been quite pleased to hear you thought of him.”

Faramir hiccuped a little in amusement at the thought of a great Elf-lord caring what he thought, but he sniffed.  “Father thought I meant Grandfather, and he—”  He sobbed.  “I didn’t mean anything terrible!  I just wanted to heal his leg, but I did it all wrong, and he—he—he’s been drowned and what must he think, that I, that I took him to be killed—”

“Oh, lad.”  Master Noltar pushed a cracked, steaming mug into his hands.  “Hush.  No.  Were you not kind to him?”

“I, I, I tried to be,” Faramir wailed.  “I tried to be, but if I had just left him, he might have survived, or at least he wouldn’t have felt I’d betrayed him!”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”  Noltar put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder and squeezed.  “Kindness and mercy are the greatest gifts you can give to someone in pain.  Even if they don’t last.  Even if you are not strong enough to protect the ones you love, just to know that you cared—that in itself is no small thing.”

“Do you think,” Faramir whispered.  “I mean.  I can’t bury him because I don’t know where they took him, and I know he was just, just a mouse, but do you think I could build him a cairn?”

“Of course you could.”  Noltar brushed gentle fingers through his hair.  “And, Faramir—I do not know what your father has told you, but a mouse is worth just as much as any Elven warrior, and all those I have met would tell you the same.”

Shakily, Faramir sat back and sipped at his drink, starting to think and plan about where he might best put Echthelion’s cairn.  How funnily Noltar had worded that, he mused.  It almost sounded as if he had met Elves himself—well, perhaps he had.  It was not as if Faramir knew much of the old man’s past.