The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

Hope with Open Hands

T.A. 3013.

Faramir squinted into the clear pre-dawn light, sighting along the horizon.  There was a rider approaching swiftly, silhouetted black against the pale clear blue rapidly shading to gold at the base of the horizon.  He did not think the horse carried only one, but they were not close enough for him to be able to tell for certain.

“Is all well?” Díriel ducked out from the tent behind.  It was not quite time for his watch yet, but he had likely woken early.  Perhaps, Faramir thought with amusement, his particularly conscientious second-in-command had simply sensed Faramir’s faint uncertainty.

“It’s fine.  Were we expecting someone returning?”  Then he answered his own question.  “Níniel ought to have returned from Gondor by now, but that horse looks as if it is carrying two.”

“Hm,” said Faramir.  “Well, be on your guard, but that is no warg or Orc-rider, even if we are not sure who it is.”

As the rider drew nearer, it became clear it was Níniel, riding astride her horse Rochallor, but she had another person tucked before her, hunch-backed and curled over the horse’s front.  Faramir’s heart lifted as he saw the sprig of holly pinned at the front of the ragged cloak the second rider wore, and he gave a cry of welcome, springing forward.

Rochallor cantered into the yard, and Master Noltar raised a hand in greeting, his visible eye curling into a smile behind the porcelain mask.  Faramir put out his arms as Níniel reigned Rochallor in, and Noltar awkwardly slung one leg over to slip off the horse’s back.  They embraced deeply, Noltar’s too-thin, oddly-shaped body fragile in Faramir’s arms.  He must have been tall, Faramir thought, with the sudden clarity of not having seen someone in several years.  He must have been taller again than even Boromir, but he stood folded over now, and Faramir had never seen him straighten up properly.

“It’s good to see you, Faramir,” Noltar said, pulling back to clap Faramir on the shoulder.  “Níniel told me some of the newer rangers don’t know a hammer from a pair of tongs and asked if I could come and—what was it you said, Níniel?”

“Make holly-folk of the Rangers of Ithilien,” she laughed, leaping lightly down from Rochallor as well.

“I cannot stay too long this season,” Noltar said.  “I am needed in Gondor.  But perhaps another season, since your need is so dire.”

“Please stay,” Faramir said.  “It’s—it’s good to see you, too.”

It had been too long.  It was not that Faramir never returned to Gondor, but that he had so little time when he was in the city, and he was often occupied taking reports to his father.  But he felt rather small and shamed to think for how long he had let his visits lapse.  “I shall take you back myself, when you need to go,” he said.

“Thank you.”  That curl of a smile in his eye, the way he stood somehow sturdy despite the faint tremor of his limbs: all of it made Faramir feel safe as he never did otherwise.  Some quiet, treacherous little voice wondered if other folk had such feelings about their parents.

“What is all the noise happening out here?” demanded a rough voice, and Faramir looked over to see Atanalcar stumbling out of his tent.  His eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark shadows beneath them. 

Faramir stepped between them, shooting him a warning look. It had been over a decade, and he still neither trusted nor particularly liked Atanalcar.  “We have a visitor,” he said coolly.

Atanalcar stared, shaking his head; after a moment he looked away. “Just don’t talk so loudly.”

Faramir spread his hands, biting down on a retort involving the amount of alcohol Atanalcar had imbibed the night before.  “I am sorry if we woke you,” he said neutrally.

“Is your head paining you, lad?” Noltar asked, his voice a little too knowing.

“What if it is?” Atanalcar snarled.

“Then sit down, and I’ll make you a cup of tea that will sort it out,” Noltar told him, voice calm but edged with steel.

Faramir readied himself for an argument, but either Noltar’s voice brooked none, or Atanalcar was too surprised or too tired.  He walked over to the fire that Faramir had made a little while before and sat down beside it.

“Get the kettle, will you, Faramir?” Noltar asked.

Faramir obeyed mutely, fetching a thick cast-iron kettle from one of the supply tents, along with a tin of tea-leaves, in case it was desired.

“No, I think this will do instead.”  Noltar put the kettle on, and pulled a bundle of kingsfoil out of a pouch belted as his side.  He tore off some of the leaves and put them into the bottom of a cracked mug, also removed from the belt.  After the water boiled, he poured it across them.  The strong, sweet scent of kingsfoil filled the air, and Faramir breathed a deep sigh as the tension began to bleed from his limbs.

Noltar held the mug out to Atanalcar, who took it, awkward and almost furtive.

“Thank you,” he said, after a moment, and sipped at the tea surprisingly meekly.

“I think it will help with the headache,” Noltar said mildly.   “Níniel was telling me that some of the newer rangers have been struggling to mend their gear, and she insisted I visit to help correct their technique.”

Níniel, who had just returned from rubbing down Rochallor, shoved him.  “You old fraud,” she said.  “As soon as I said anything, he was champing at the bit to get out here, Faramir.”

Faramir grinned.  “Either way, I’m just glad you’re here.”

“I think I will have to stay for some time, if none of you even know how to make a remedy for too much drink,” Noltar said wryly.

As the Sun rose higher, Faramir sat quietly beside him and considered what it might feel like, to bring the holly-folk and the rangers together.  It was a good feeling, a hopeful one.  Somehow, Faramir thought, that was what Noltar seemed to do wherever he went—bring hope with open hands.