The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

The Lidless Eye

Atanalcar was fast becoming a thorn in Faramir’s side.  He arrived earlier and earlier to the forge every morning and, while he did not expect to use it before dawn, he would stand at the doorway and watch everything that was done.  His eyes never seemed to leave Master Noltar especially.  It made Faramir uneasy, and the uneasiness made him short with Atanalcar, and that made Atanalcar sarcastic.  The tension mounted no matter how Noltar and Boromir and Leptafinyo tried to keep it from doing so.

And then came the day that Faramir overslept.  He rose at dawn, frustrated with himself for squandering his opportunity to spend a little time in the forge with Noltar and the rest of the holly-folk.  He thought he would at least go down to apologize and to greet them, but when he arrived, it was all chaos.

He never found out what had happened.  Whether Atanalcar had simply snapped, whether one of the holly-folk had said something to make him angry, or whether Noltar had made some slightly too-caustic remark in his hearing.  It hardly mattered.  What mattered was that when Faramir arrived, there was already a mob forming in front of the smithy.

Faramir had never seen the Men of Gondor like this.  He had heard, sometimes, a note as ugly as this in his father’s voice—usually quickly silenced—but this was a whole crowd stamping and calling for Noltar’s blood.  Calling him Orc and witch and sorcerer and worse.  Desperately, Faramir tried to push his way through the crowd, but he was small and too weak, and he could barely see what was happening over the shoulders of the Men surrounding Noltar, much less reach him.

“Orc,” spat Atanalcar.

“No,” Noltar said.  His head was lower than Atanalcar’s, because of the way he always stooped over, but he spoke calmly and bluntly, without a trace of fear, though there was a soft undercurrent of anger.

“If you are no Orc, then take that mask off and let us see your face.”

“Is it a crime now not to be pleasing to look upon?” Noltar demanded, and Faramir’s breath came out in a little sob.

“Let me through,” he pleaded, but no one was listening to him.

“If you are no Orc, then what is behind that mask?” demanded Atanalcar, grabbing Noltar’s arm and jerking him viciously forward.  Two more of the guards caught his hood, pulling it back.  Noltar struggled, but with the weakness of his arms and the unsteadiness of his gait, there was no way he would have been able to stop them.

“Stop!” Faramir shouted, his voice too thin and too high, and then Atanalcar reached forward and stripped the ceramic mask from Noltar’s face, throwing it downwards with enough force that it shattered against the cobbles below.  The crowd gasped.

“The Eye!” someone cried out.  Faramir stared in horror.

Apart from one ear and the bit of his face that was usually unmasked, no corner of Noltar’s countenance was unmarred.  Great ridged scars ran across his face in neat, grid-like rows.  His mouth was pinched and warped, the lips twisted as if someone had taken needle and thread and stitched his mouth closed.  Only half the ear on the hidden side of his head had survived.  And in the place where his left eye should be, there was instead a ruined, drooping socket and over it in clear inflamed scar tissue the unmistakable image of the Burning Eye of Mordor.

“See?” Atanalcar’s voice rang loud and outraged, but the crowd was suddenly still and silent.

Noltar looked up, and those terribly scarred lips smiled, bland and impersonal.  “Is this the countenance of an Orc, my friend?”  He ran one finger along the line of his intact ear, and for the first time Faramir registered that it was pointed, sharp—inhuman, but not the inhuman of an Orc.  

“You bear his mark, and you dare to—”

“I bear his brand.”  Noltar’s voice carried, clear and sweet, an orator’s voice, Faramir thought dumbly.  He could not draw himself  upright, but he seemed taller, somehow.  He seemed—tall and bright and noble, and Atanalcar seemed small and grubby in front of him, even holding him roughly by the arm like this.  “Do you believe this to be a mark of love?”

“W-Well,” stammered Atanalcar.  “I am not one to propose the Enemy’s reasons for such things, but I still do not see—”

The crowd was agitated, beginning to mill about, and Faramir finally saw his chance, darting through to Noltar’s side.

“He has done nothing wrong!” he said loudly, though his heart was thumping terribly inside his chest.

“The Steward’s son!” someone exclaimed, which at any other time would have warmed him down to his feet, but now he could only stand there and try to look brave.  What would Boromir do now?

“Are the people of Gondor so fearful that they would wish evil upon one of the Firstborn?” Faramir demanded, and he did not know where the words came from.  One of the Firstborn.  Noltar was no old man, but an Elf, though Faramir had never imagined an Elf so badly disfigured.  “And one who has suffered so greatly at the hand of the Enemy?”

Trembling, he stooped and gathered up the pieces of Noltar’s mask, collecting each one of them with as much care as he could, and then pressed them back into the forgemaster’s hands, wondering if he could ever look him in the face again.  He was no kind old man, but one of the magical folk of legend come to life, and Faramir was so awed he was not sure how he had not yet tripped over his tongue.

“Thank you, lad,” Noltar murmured, sounding just the same as always, his cracked and ruined voice bearing no indication of the truth of his lineage.

“He’s right!”  Níniel and Boromir appeared somehow, out of nowhere.  Níniel was panting hard, as if she had been exerting herself; Faramir later learned she had run to fetch Boromir in the hopes that he could calm the already thunderous crowd.  They dashed over to stand beside Noltar and Faramir, Boromir putting himself between the others and Atanalcar, his arms crossed.

“I’m—I’m sorry.”  Atanalcar took a half-step backwards, passing a hand across his face.  He looked bewildered and fearful.  “I’m sorry,” he said again, then turned and began to shoulder his way through the crowd.  Faramir gasped and let out a soft breath.

“It’s all right, little brother,” Boromir said, in a low voice.  “You did well.”