The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

For a Sweet Year

New Year’s Eve, 3018.

Everything was light and laughter.  The sky outside was dark and shrouded with clouds, as it had been all too often for the past months, and neither moon nor stars could be seen, but within one little room at Henneth Annûn all was bright and merry.  

Níniel had pinned sprigs of holly above the doors, and Díriel and Barahir had cut down a little birch tree, which the rangers and the holly-folk had decorated with bright ribbons and little wooden carvings.  In the window, seven candles in their ornate candle-holder flickered merrily against the dark.

Master Noltar had seated himself in the battered old chair in the corner and was watching from behind his gold-lined mask when Faramir finally returned from leading his patrol.  He was exhausted.  Atanalcar had, once again, questioned his every decision for no reason other than apparently general sourness or perhaps anxiety.  But Faramir could feel his foul mood melting away as he stood in the doorway, to see that Elemmirë had traveled up from Gondor somehow and was drinking with Níniel and casting obvious longing looks in her direction.

All that darkness outside seemed to have no power over this one little room.  

“Faramir!”  Níniel, tall as ever, strode over to him excitedly.  “El made honey-cakes for a sweet year, come and have one!”

For a sweet year, Faramir thought sadly, looking outside at the darkness.  With no word from Boromir, and the Darkness growing nearly by the hour.  And yet, within this one little room it was bright and cheerful, and everyone was laughing.  Noltar was leaning forward, pointing to something on Barahir’s shirt front, and when he looked down, Noltar made a snatching motion towards his nose as if they were both children.  Barahir stared at him, and then the two of them roared with laughter.

Well, it was better to hope for a sweet year than not.  The holly berries shone a determined crimson in the flickering golden candlelight.

“Shall I leave all of you to your merriment?” Atanalcar said sourly from behind him.

Faramir wanted, very badly, to let him go, to let him stride off and have a miserable evening drinking by himself to welcome in the new year.  He had never apologized to Noltar, as far as Faramir knew, never taken any kind of responsibility for baring his scars to the gawking eyes of the crowd, for shattering his mask upon the cobbles, for coming nigh to inciting a group of overeager Men to slaughtering him as an Orc.

But even then, years ago, Noltar had been—forgiving.  Still angry, but forgiving.  And there was light and laughter aplenty, and Díriel, at least, seemed to get on comfortably enough with Atanalcar, even if he had been a difficult companion for many years.

“Come in and have some honey-cakes,” Faramir said, and the effort did not even sound in his voice.

There was a pause.  “Oh—ah—thank you,” Atanalcar said almost personably, and then he followed Faramir inside.