The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

The Rangers of Ithilien

Spring, 2999

The Sun was rising slowly over the white walls as Faramir paced back and forth before Master Noltar’s little hut.  He ought to have gone to the holly-folk to tell everyone, but he found he couldn’t, not quite.  It was hard enough to wait here for Noltar’s return, when the news that Faramir had made his stomach twist with something that might be fear, or it might be excitement.  

In a few minutes, Noltar’s familiar bent-backed figure appeared, toiling down the street, the sunlight glittering off the golden cracks of his mask.  He walked particularly slowly, which probably meant his back was bothering him, and as he often did, he used a walking stick to help maneuver down the sloped cobbles.  He raised a hand in greeting when he saw Faramir.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Faramir?” he asked.

“There is something I wanted to tell you,” Faramir said awkwardly.  “And—and perhaps ask your advice about.”

“Well, come in and have a cup of tea while we talk.”  He slipped inside, the cloth falling shut behind him, and Faramir followed.  

“I’ll make the tea,” he offered, and Noltar waved a hand in thanks, settling himself into his rocking chair.

The familiar action of putting the kettle on soothed him, and Faramir soon finished making two steaming mugs.  “Do you need any kingsfoil?” he asked, as he got ready to serve them.

“Please,” Noltar said, wincing slightly.  He was often in pain, and the weed that sometimes grew through cracks in the white stone seemed to alleviate it, at least a little.  It had a pleasant smell, and Faramir had often noticed it seemed to calm his own thoughts when he came in contact with the steam, so he rather gratefully caught a couple dried leaves, crushed them, and stirred them into the herbal tea, before taking it over to Noltar and sitting himself cross-legged on the hearth in front of him.

“What is it you wanted to tell me, lad?” Noltar asked as the two of them settled.

“I want to apprentice with the Rangers of Ithilien,” Faramir said, all in one swift breath.  “I met one of them—Díriel, he said his name was, and he is a few years older than I am—while my brother and I were out hunting.  He said I would be very valuable there, that he thought I would be able to learn to fight the Shadow well.  And—” he swallowed.  “And I am not sure that I could ever become a soldier the way Boromir is.  I know he rides to captain the rangers sometimes, but it isn’t quite the same, and—I do not know if my father’s sufferance would stretch so far, but this—he might disapprove, but I think he will let me go.”  He would probably disapprove, Faramir thought sadly; he never seemed able to make a choice that his father approved of.

“What I have heard of them is good,” Noltar said.  “I think if that’s what you want to do, you should do it, Faramir.”

He had known that Noltar would say that; he had been almost sure, but still to hear that swift and unconditional support made warmth well up tightly in his chest.

“You are also not the only one with such a plan,” Noltar continued, sounding amused.  “Níniel tells me she believes the rangers will take her on, though I must warn you that the word among the holly-folk is that Atanalcar is considering it as well.”

“Atanalcar,” Faramir replied stupidly.  “But surely he wishes to be a guard or a soldier of the city?”  Faramir had spent the last two years studiously avoiding him in every endeavor, but he thought he still sometimes drank with Boromir and some of the other nobles’ sons.

“I do not know his reasons for certain,” Noltar said mildly.  “He has, I think, always been a more than competent hunter.  As for anything else, well, people often do have their reasons.”

“Well, I wish he didn’t,” muttered Faramir.  “I don’t like him.”

“There is no reason you ought to.”  Noltar adjusted his mask carefully.  “I am not terrifically fond of him myself.”

“Somehow I thought you would be more—forgiving,” Faramir said slowly.

“I am very forgiving,” Noltar told him.  “Forgiveness has never stopped me from being angry.”  He sighed.  “Sometimes all we can do is be patient with our emotions.”  He patted Faramir’s shoulder.  “Sometimes that isn’t easy,” he added, and Faramir saw that he was fingering a place high up on his thigh.  He wondered whether there was some significance to it, but he did not think now was the time to ask about it.

“Well, I don’t know if I’m going to forgive Atanalcar,” he said finally.  “But I am going to join the rangers.”

“Good for you,” Noltar replied with a smile.

* * *

The brothers were out fishing when Faramir told Boromir he was going to join the Rangers.  Boromir, who had been frowning down at a hook thoughtfully as he baited it, now somewhat less thoughtfully drove it into his own thumb.  The next several minutes were occupied with profanity, blood, and some of the first aid that Faramir was becoming quite practiced in simply from being near Elemmirë.

“Why would you do that?” Boromir asked, sounding baffled and a little angry as Faramir finished binding up his thumb.

“I’m not the one who put the fish hook through my thumb,” Faramir retorted irritably.  “What do you mean?”

“Why would you leave?” Boromir asked, shoving Faramir’s shoulder in a particular irritable brotherly fashion.

“I want to fight,” Faramir told him, shoving him back, and then reaching for the fishing rod.  Boromir took it and held it out and away from him, and his arms were still longer, though Faramir had been growing of late.  The height, he approved of, though his limbs seemed too long for his form.  The rest he did not; it was painful and tender and the weight sat wrongly on him.

“You can fight here,” Boromir told him uncomfortably, but after a moment, he handed the rod back.  

“I can’t,” Faramir said, hoping his voice sounded matter-of-fact.  “Besides, I’m good at wayfinding.  It would be silly not to use that.”

“But who am I going to tell bedtime stories to?” Boromir asked plaintively, despite the fact that Faramir had not required a bedtime story in five years, at least not if you didn’t count stories told around the campfire, which Faramir most emphatically did not.

“You will just have to tell bedtime stories to the rest of the guards under your command,” he retorted coolly.  “You can order them to listen.  I’m sure they’ll be much better at it than your wriggly little brother ever was.  Besides, it’s not as if you never come to Ithilien.”

He had meant to lighten the mood, but it did not quite work.  Boromir did not insult him in response, but instead lapsed into a moody silence that left Faramir frustrated and a little unsure what to say or do.

“You know I love you and I’m proud of you?” Boromir said at length, long enough that they had been fishing for perhaps three-quarters of an hour since the last words were exchanged, and this time it was Faramir who nearly drove a fish-hook into his thumb.

“Yes, of course,” he said irritably, to cover his confusion.

“Good,” Boromir said awkwardly.  “Anyway…that’s always going to be true.  And I think you’ll be a wonderful ranger.”  Faramir’s throat pinched with pain, and he hunched his shoulders in an attempt to cover his confusion, but—Master Noltar would say it was the sentiment that mattered, wouldn’t he?  And however clumsy he could be, when Faramir thought about it, he did believe it.

“I love you, too,” he said, looking up.  “Please don’t stab yourself with a fish-hook again.”

“Hush, runt,” Boromir told him, and peace was thankfully restored.