The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

Kidizadzar

“You must learn to assess situations before running into the middle of them.”

Denethor, Steward of Gondor—Faramir’s father—was not looking at him, but rather out of the high window of his study, staring down across the city he kept watch over.  His hands were clasped behind his back.

“Yes, Father,” Faramir said, feeling small and a little wistful.  It was a lesson, he told himself, and it was good that his father was willing to give him such lessons, even if he had been hoping, perhaps foolishly, for a drop of praise.

“It was courageous of you to go to the aid of one you believed to be a friend, but you must not let such notions cloud your judgment.”

It had been courageous, Faramir thought, and his heart swelled a little, again.  Still, he bridled at the implied insult to Noltar, and could not quite keep himself from arguing, “He is an Elf, Father—a true friend.”

“Elves have been traitors, too, my son.”  And had Faramir imagined that swift pause before the final word?  “Think of Maeglin.  Think of the witch of the Golden Wood.”

“He is a true friend, I think,” Boromir put in.  “He is scarred and ugly, but still he has helped our smiths, and he has been kind to our children.”

“You are both trusting,” Denethor said, his voice remote and a little sad.  “Well, you are both young.  But even an Elf who bears the mark of the Enemy must be watched.”

“He said it was no mark of love!” Faramir broke in, before he could stop himself.

A blinding stab of pain went through Faramir’s head, and he gasped, putting his hand to it.  When he looked up, his father’s piercing gaze was fixed on him.  “My men tell me he rather asked whether his attackers believed it was a mark of love,” Denethor responded.  “It may have been innocent, but it is a tricky answer.”  He sighed.  “You are softhearted, Faramir,” he said, and Faramir heard, a daughter, not a son, and flushed and went silent.

“He is young yet, Father,” Boromir put in earnestly.

Denethor looked to his eldest son and smiled, a smile Faramir wished he could earn.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “Yes, I suppose that is true.  Well—remember, both of you, that it is not always wise to make friends too easily, but I commend you both on your bravery.”

As they slipped back out of his study, Boromir said, in a worried tone of voice, “Perhaps you ought not to go to the forge so much, Faramir.”

“Perhaps I ought not,” Faramir agreed, giving him a bland smile.  He was shocked at how easy it was to speak the truth while leaving quite the opposite impression.  He thought of the little heap of stones he and Noltar had built for Ecthelion, and how Noltar had said only, “A friend should be mourned, whatever that means to you,” when Faramir asked him helplessly if it would be girlish to cry for the mouse again.

Perhaps his father was right about the way Noltar had responded to Atanalcar’s jibe, but Faramir did not care.  He could keep his secrets.

* * * 

Having waited a week for his father’s and brother’s attention to his comings and goings to die down—and wondering at himself a little for the deception—Faramir recommenced visiting the forge with little ceremony.  He went even earlier than usual, half-wondering if he would be the only one there, but he found Master Noltar stooped over the work bench, the pieces of his mask laid out beside him.  He had out two vises, in each one of which was one of the shards, and he was very carefully and slowly readjusting them to be pressed together.

“Master Noltar?” Faramir said quietly, and the old man—no, he wasn’t, Faramir reminded himself, he was an Elf—looked up, revealing that terribly scarred countenance, that awful ruin where his left eye should have been.  Faramir suppressed a wince.  It was nice, at least, that with the mask gone he could see the smile that passed swiftly over Noltar’s lips when he saw Faramir.

“Do you think you could lend me a hand, Faramir?” he asked.  “I’m afraid I have not really the fine control I need for this.”

“You’re mending the mask?”

“Mmm.”  Noltar nodded.

“What’s the rest for then?” Faramir asked curiously, for in addition to the vises and the sticky glue, there was a little ceramic vial of lacquer and another little pot of powdered gold.

“For part of the mending.  I’ll show you.”

Faramir made his way across the room and over to stand at Noltar’s shoulder.  “It’s a technique called kidizadzar that I learned from a very dear friend,” Noltar explained.  “It is to find the beauty in imperfection.  Not to pretend that something has never been broken, but to show that it is whole despite that.”

“An Elf?” Faramir asked curiously.  It did not sound like any Elvish lore he knew, but he was not so arrogant as to think he knew very much.

Noltar shook his head.  “A Dwarf,” he smiled.  “Elves do not spend much time thinking about…marring.  We ought to, though.  Now let me show you how to do this.”

“A Dwarf?”  Faramir asked as Noltar told him to begin by gluing the pieces together.  It made Faramir feel a little embarrassed at how quickly and easily he could do it, when it was clear that Noltar had been struggling for several days and had only managed to glue about three of the six shards back together, but as Noltar himself seemed unperturbed, Faramir decided to give up on worrying about it.

“She and I were companions in many adventures in the forge,” Noltar said with a fond smile.  “I still recall the screaming argument she had with my—” he stumbled for an instant, as if searching for a word, “—lover,” he said finally, after just a moment too long, and Faramir wondered what he wasn’t saying, “over this process.  He maintained that if one could mend something perfectly, one ought to, and she maintained that it was pointless to pretend the scars were not there.”  His trembling hands stroked across the final shard as he handed it to Faramir.  “As you can see, I favor her approach.”

Once the glue had dried, he talked Faramir through smoothing the edges and filling in the remaining little cracks.  “Then you will use the golden powder and mix it with this lacquer to paint along the seam.  It removes the jagged edges, reinforces the joining a little, and highlights the—scar.”

Faramir frowned at it and nodded.  “It will be striking.”

“The first time I did it, rather than watching my friend do it, it was on a vase she had shattered,” Noltar said cheerfully, as he began to mix the gold with the lacquer.  

“Was she clumsy, then, your friend?”

“She could be, but this was less clumsiness and more poor aim.”

“Poor aim?”

“She meant it to hit my lover’s skull, but he ducked and it hit the side of the forging table instead.”

Faramir choked halfway through arranging the paintbrush that Noltar had pointed out to him.  “I thought you said they argued!”

“Dwarves have rather direct methods of settling arguments, lad.”  He chuckled.  “Well, she was right.  I told Annatar so, but—” his scarred mouth twisted sideways, “—he did not want to listen, I suppose.”

“Anna-tar,” Faramir said, shaping his mouth around the words, trying to remember his Elvish lessons.  “Precious gift?  Was that his name?”

There was a sudden silence.  “Lord of gifts,” Noltar said, after a long, queer moment.  “Don’t worry about it, lad, that’s an easy mistake to make.”

Chapter End Notes

'Kidizadzar' is, of course, Neo-Khuzdul for kintsugi. I'm afraid I don't have notes on who helped me out with the linguistics on that one, they went down with AO3 >.<.