Director’s Notes: This fic is the result of the seasonal collaboration of some wonderful authors. Each was asked to write a Yuletide memory for the Fellowship to tell, and here is the result. I’ve deeply enjoyed putting this together, for these fics are a true delight to read. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I have.

Happy Yule, and all blessings on your New Year.

Gayalondiel

Chapter One: First tale by Febobe: Second tale by Lindelea: Introduction and linking passages by Gayalondiel.

“Pippin!”

Merry’s anxious shout shattered the chill silence as his younger cousin disappeared down a bank. In a flurry of movement the other hobbits hastened after him, scrambling on hands and feet over the damp earth that had crumbled away under his feet. Within instants Merry was by his side, gripping his hand, while Frodo ran his fingers across his brow, calling his name. Pippin blinked two or three times before opening his eyes, only to scrunch them up again in discomfort.

“Pippin?” Frodo frowned anxiously. “Pip, are you alright? What hurts?”

“My head,” replied Pippin softly. “My head hurts, and my leg…” He broke off, hissing slightly as Aragorn joined them and ran his hands expertly around his ankle.

“Can you move your foot?” he asked, resting his hands lightly on the joint as Pippin obliged. After a few moments, he nodded in relief. “Nothing is broken,” he announced. “Just bruised, I think: you may be in pain for a few days, Pippin, but if we bind your leg properly you should have no trouble walking on it. How is the head?”

“Sore,” replied Pippin weakly. Aragorn ran his hands through the young hobbit’s curls, frowning again when he detected the large lump on the side of his head. Concerned, he performed the classic test for concussion, but Pippin’s prompt answer with the correct number of fingers held up allayed his fears. Satisfied, he looked up to Gandalf, who stood anxiously nearby.

“We can go no further today,” he replied. “Pippin is not seriously injured, but I must treat him before he can go further, and soon the light will fail us. I suggest we make camp now, and with luck we will have an early start tomorrow.” Ignoring the hobbits’ collective expression at the idea of getting up before the sun, he gathered Pippin into his arms and rose in search of a suitable campsite.

Although they were only five days from Rivendell, setting up camp had already become a swift and efficient task. Gimli set to the building of a small fire, and the hobbits alternated between gathering wood for him and helping Sam to prepare for the evening meal, while Legolas and Boromir ensured that the site was secure. Aragorn and Gandalf soon fell into the habit of using this time to discuss their path in hushed voices. Today, though, Aragorn was engaged in caring for Pippin, and the preparation of food was decidedly slower as the other hobbits were continually distracted by concern for their kinsman. Eventually, though, the meal was prepared and the Fellowship ate together, sitting close to the fire for warmth.

The meal was a quiet affair, punctuated only by occasional comments from Pippin, who had once again discovered that being injured was a fine way to coax his cousins into small favours and kindnesses – and extra food - that would normally have gone unanswered. Soon enough, though, the meal was over and a surprisingly sated Company sat back as comfortably as they could. The hobbits sat close, each striking up a light for their small pipes. Aragorn too was smoking, sitting close by Pippin, and Gimli and Gandalf were also wreathed in smoke. Boromir sat further away, still bemused by this odd pastime from the North, and Legolas sat perched on low branch nearby, giving him the dual advantages of a good line of sight and clear air.

“You know,” said Merry, leaning back and blowing a thin plume of smoke into the air, “it’s not surprising that Pip hurt himself today.”

“Thanks, Merry.” Pippin threw him a hurt look, followed by a leather-bound bundle of tobacco, which hit him neatly in the stomach. Merry huffed in surprise, and Frodo grinned.

“I know what he means,” he said. “Pip, don’t you know what day it is?”

“No,” said Pippin, a familiar pout shaping his lips. Sam, on the other hand, frowned as he counted the days in his head.

“Why, it’s First Yule!” he exclaimed suddenly.

“Exactly,” grinned Merry around another puff of smoke. “That makes it inevitable.”

“Oh, very well,” Pippin’s pout deepened. “I suppose so, if you put it like that.”

Aragorn exchanged a glance with the other members of the Company, all of whom seemed equally confused. “I don’t follow,” he said. “How does Yule make Pippin being hurt alright?”

“It’s not alright, exactly,” replied Frodo. “But something always happens around Yule; someone always gets hurt, or in trouble.” He glanced meaningfully at Merry. “It’s kind of a family tradition.”

Boromir stared at him, equally confused. “We celebrate Yuletide in Gondor,” he said, “but our traditions are of kindness and celebration, not of harm.”

Merry chuckled. “Neither are ours,” he said, “but somehow things just seem to happen around Yule.”

“Like what?” asked Gimli. Beside him, Gandalf smiled knowingly to himself. Their companions could not know it yet, but they had just opened themselves to a night of hobbit family history, for hobbits could tell tales long after any other race had tired of them. And these four hobbits in particular had plenty of tales for the telling. He refilled his pipe and settled back to listen as Merry, a bright grin on his face, straightened up and began what was likely the first of many stories.

As usual, Yule brought with it feasting - feasting until everyone was fit to pop. There were apple fritters, marmalade loaf, chamomile wine, mulled cider, chestnut soup, mincemeat parcels, spiced ale, shortbread, roast goose with sage and onion stuffing, mushrooms in cream, baked apples, baked onions, braised spinach, sweet peas with mint, salmon and raisin pie, stoved taters, faerie-cakes, eggnog, treacle bread, Yule cake, white wine, plum pudding, and all sorts of mints. . .and that just to name a few of the more traditional offerings, mind you, for hobbits could not possibly have a Yule feast without enough food to make the tables positively groan! Afterward, of course, the adults retired for naps upon couches and in arm-chairs. . .but two tweenagers in particular did not.

"I'm so stuffed I can't hold bite or sup more."

"Not even a sip of the Gaffer's best homebrew?"

Merry's eyes widened. "Frodo, you can't be serious!"

"Can't I?" Blue eyes sparkled mischievously. "Bilbo brought it up as a special treat. It's already been opened; no one will notice if we have just a bit. Grab a mug and come on!"

They hurried down to the cellar, moving as quietly as possible, lest anyone wake and catch them, mugs in hand, moving steathily until at last they reached the finely made keg. Frodo patted it proudly, nodding for Merry to put his mug beneath the tap, and filled his cousin's mug first, then his own.

"Bottoms up!"

And they drank. . .and fine homebrew it was, too, but some of their first, leaving both young hobbits blinking and sputtering, Frodo laughing and Merry choking, the two of them trying not to be heard, glad that Frodo had closed the door behind them.

A second mugful went down easier.

A third easier still.

It was then that Merry spotted the old barrel.

Perhaps if it had been after only one mug things might have been different.

But the tweenagers had had three each by then, and were stifling fits of wild laughter.

"Fro! Bet - bet you can't do what I saw this fellow do at the fair down in Bucklebury end of summer!"

"Oh, can't I?" At once Frodo pulled himself up to his full height, arching an eyebrow. "Careful who you're sassing, lad - you're s'posed to mind your elders!"

The two broke into fits of laughter.

"No! No, really!" Eagerly Merry indicated the barrel. "Balancing on it." At once he climbed on, forced to constantly move his feet as the barrel rolled this way and that, skittering about with him, finally depositing him in a most unceremonious heap.

Frodo snorted. "You're daft."

"You're chicken. See if you can stay on any longer."

"You're on!" At once Frodo steadied the barrel, clambering up and straightening cautiously. He stood still for a moment before the barrel swayed, forcing him to move, balancing with his feet as Merry did. Merry laughed, applauding. . .already his older cousin had managed longer on the barrel than he had.

But in that final moment. . .as Frodo turned to grin. . .the barrel careened into the wall, hurling Frodo to the floor so that his head struck an empty wine-rack, and his limbs fell limply as he crumpled.

The vibrations were enough to get the attention of sleeping adults upstairs even had Merry not cried out: within minutes the cellar was lined with Saradoc, Esmeralda, and a host of others, all chattering so much that there was no making out anything of scoldings or much else among all the chaos.

But then Bilbo made his way down the steps.

And his face was white as milk.

How long it took or exactly what happened no one really remembers to this day: Frodo lay as if dead, and Merry was too panicked for anything to be more than a blur as the doctor was called for and Frodo carried upstairs to bed, cradled in a weeping Bilbo's arms. They laid him down and undressed him, revealing areas already turning purplish-bluish-greenish from bruising. But he began to stir, at least, and finally opened his eyes for Bilbo, who looked as if Gandalf had just stopped in with a magic bag that refilled itself with seed-cakes whenever emptied.

And then the news improved.

"He'll be fine," the doctor said. "Watch him carefully; he's likely to be a bit sick from that knock, probably have quite the head-ache, but he's a hard-headed lad, it seems. . .in more ways than one! Keep him on liquids and in bed for a few days; if he's feeling well in three days' time, it should be safe to let him sit up for short periods, then get up for a bit with close supervision. . .from an adult, mind you! And - " - he added with a sniff - " - it might be - ahem! - prudent - to see about a good lock for the cellar."

One might note that Merry was, of course, forced to explain the situation. . .over a bowl of peppermint egg soup, at least, to ease his upset stomach.

And Frodo?

Well. . .Frodo somehow managed to avoid getting off with as harsh a scolding, no doubt because of his injuries. He threw up a few times, mind you, and it took some doing for the peppermint egg soup to stay down him; his stomach did not settle as well as Merry's, thanks to hitting his head. . .but once it did, Bilbo coddled him with little silver-iced cakes and cream of chicken with mushroom soup; apple, carrot, and chicken stew; special little sandwiches made up for picnics in Frodo's room; candies from Bucklebury Sweets. . . .

Merry, meanwhile, had to go without dessert throughout most of Yule, much to his chagrin. . .though to be fair, Frodo was unaware of this fact until he was much recovered, and when he learned of it, began slipping a share of his treats to his younger cousin.

There were other Yules the two spent together, both before and since, but if ever one needed proof that Yule with the Bagginses was never a dull affair, this might well be remembered as it. . . .

“What rubbish,” replied Frodo amiably. “Pip, you know full well that you’re the worst of all of us, and your wide innocent eyes have saved you many a time. Merry’s the one that gets in trouble.”

Pippin looked around at the grinning faces that watched them. “That’s not true…”

“Oh, it is so true,” replied Merry, “and if I know Frodo, he’s about to give us a very good example.”

“He can’t,” said Pippin confidently. “He’s implicated in all our stories.”

“Not this one,” Frodo beamed at him. “I wasn’t there, but Aunt Lalia told me all about it…” Ignoring the sudden horrified look on Pippin’s face, he took one more puff of his pipe and began to speak.

‘Teatime, young hobbits!’ a jovial servant said, shooing them away. ‘We’ll gather in the great room at teatime to enjoy the blessings promised by the New Year. Teatime and not before!’

The large doors were firmly shut, and the little hobbits stared at the doors in vain for a time, feeling that teatime would never come. A group of tweens swooped upon them and organised a grand game of “I hide and you seek me” in the winding and branching tunnels of the Great Smials.

Merry kept returning to the great room as a moth is drawn to the candle, hoping for a glimpse of the bright promise within. One of these times he met his younger cousin Ferdi, evidently with the same purpose. Luck was with them this time, for one of the doors opened slightly, showing a flustered Pearl. ‘O Merry!’ she cried, seeing the lads. ‘I’m that glad to see you!’

She looked about, but no one was to be seen. Preparations had been concluded some time before, and Eglantine had volunteered to watch over the presents, with her eldest daughter happy to help. The great room was growing dim and shadowy as the light from the high windows began to fade. The lamps had not yet been lit. Noise and laughter was to be heard from the kitchens on the far side of the enormous hall as final preparations were made for tea. Silver gleamed at the ready-laid places on the snowy tablecloths, and platters of food were covered with dampened cloths that bulged with promise. It seemed that teatime must be at hand. Indeed, the young hobbits heard calls echoing in the tunnels, mothers summoning young ones to wash and change in final preparation for the festive gathering.

‘I’m glad to see you,’ Pearl repeated. ‘Mum went to fetch something and hasn’t come back, and I need to...’ she bit her lip and blushed, then rushed on. ‘In any event, could you come in and watch over Pippin? He’s asleep on a blanket, and I don’t want to waken him, taking him up, and I don’t want to leave him...’

‘I’ll be happy to!’ Merry said promptly, and Ferdi chimed in to say he’d help.

‘O good,’ Pearl said, and scurried away.

The lads crept into the great room and eased the tall door closed behind them, hardly able to believe their good fortune. Dutifully they went at once to look at the peaceful babe, but Pippin didn’t seem to need much watching and so they turned to the mountain of presents in the centre of the room. Merry saw some familiar paper, part-way up, and he pointed. ‘Those are ours!’ he said proudly.

‘They’re not!’ Ferdi countered. ‘I saw my mother wrapping that present particularly! It’s a doll for my sister!’

‘I’ll prove it to you!’ Merry said, and moved with purpose towards the towering heap.

‘What’re you doing?’ the younger hobbit hissed, but his cousin merely smiled in a superior manner.

‘Merry!’ Ferdi warned, furtively looking towards the kitchens. Surely a grown-up would appear at any moment!

‘I’m climbing a mountain,’ Merry said. ‘Look! I’m Bilbo!’

‘And I’m a dwarf,’ Ferdi said sceptically, but his eyes lighted as the game caught his imagination, especially since the carefully-stacked presents didn’t tumble down at once under Merry’s assault. He stepped forward to join the wondrous climb. ‘Bet I can beat you to the top!’

‘Bet you cannot!’ Merry retorted, and the race was on. It was a cautious race, of course, for a pile of presents is not quite so easy to climb as a precipice.

Unknown to the lads, baby Pippin had wakened and was looking about himself in wonder. Where was Mother? She’d just been here a moment ago. He opened his mouth to send up a demanding wail, when motion caught his eye.

He’d noticed the bright paper and ribbons earlier, but sister Pearl had kept him happily occupied in games of peek-boo and other delights. Now no sister was nearby to distract him. The papers were not quite so bright in the dimming light, but ribbons still glinted in a fascinating way.

He’d learned to roll over recently, much to the delight of his sisters. The first time he’d rolled from tummy-to-back, Pearl had clapped her hands and called the rest of the family to see this new achievement. She’d placed him on his tummy once more and encouraged him to roll—which he did! Again and again he demonstrated his new skill, laughing into the doting faces above him, until Eglantine finally put a stop to the game, to nurse him and put him down for a nap to recover from his exertions.

Rolling from back-to-tummy was a little more difficult, but at last he mastered the trick. He lifted his little head and strained towards the bright ribbons, so tantalisingly close. Lifting arms and legs from the floor, he rocked on his round little tummy but came no closer. He was ready to wail his frustration when a bright idea struck him.

It was no work at all, really, to roll from tummy-to-back again, and he was that much closer to the prize! Working at it for all he was worth, soon he’d rolled to the bottom of the pile and was able to grasp the nearest curling ribbons, pulling them to his mouth in an ecstasy of delighted exploration... when there was a shout of alarm, and paper and ribbon and boxes showered down around him.

A cook’s assistant, hearing the youthful shout, was there at once, picking up Merry and scolding like a magpie. ‘How did you get in here, and what do you think you’re doing?’

Upon discovering Ferdi amongst the wreck her fury was doubled. With a young hobbit ear gripped firmly in each hand, the cook’s assistant dragged the miscreants to the doors and cast them out with a stern warning not to return until teatime! And they had better make good use of the time, and wash!

Pippin had been startled by the noise and confusion, and though he’d been ready to cry, he was overcome by curiosity and excitement to be surrounded by so many bright ribbons and enticing paper that crumpled and tore with satisfying sounds and sensations! He rolled further into the fallen heap and found himself enveloped in softness. He rolled once more, fetching up against the inside bottom of an upset box, as he wrapped the softness round himself. Pulling the soft folds of the lovely knitted shawl against his cheek with one hand, he found his mouth with the thumb of the other hand and resumed his interrupted nap.

Servants moved into the great room to light the lamps and try to undo as much of the damage as could be undone in the short time before the Tooks would assemble. Tumbled packages were righted, crooked ribbons were smoothed, torn paper hastily pasted together. A lovely knitted shawl was tucked back into the box that had fallen over, the box put right-side-up, the top of the box replaced and a new ribbon tied in place.

Eglantine found Pearl just coming out of the rooms assigned them. ‘There you are!’ she said briskly, pulling a brush from her bag and going over her eldest daughter’s curls. ‘I went back to the great room and you weren’t there! But of course...’ She was interrupted before she could thank her daughter on bringing the babe back to their rooms, to sleep in a cradle under a servant’s watchful eye whilst the rest of the family celebrated at the festive tea.

‘Eglantine! Pearl! Paladin sent me to find you...’ Esmeralda Brandybuck said, swooping upon them and taking them by the arm. ‘Come along now; the bells have rung already and tea’s about to begin. It wouldn’t do to be late!’ They joined the last of the stragglers on their way to the great room, and indeed had barely taken their places when Mistress Lalia swept into the room on her son’s arm.

‘Well now!’ Lalia said grandly, after being bowed to by all the guests. ‘Let the feast begin!’

The little hobbits, of course, could scarcely eat for excitement, seeing the somewhat lopsided mountain of presents in the centre of the room. Their elders, however, made sure that the platters of sandwiches and fresh and pickled vegetables and fruit and cakes and biscuits were well-dispersed before the mountain could be mined for its riches.

At last, after an eternity of eating, it was time. Thain Ferumbras rose from his seat and moved to the mountain. Taking up an armload of packages, he began to call out names, and hobbits came forth to claim their prizes and carry them back to their places. The presents would be distributed, a time-consuming process, and all would be opened at once when the last gift found its owner, prolonging the agonies the young hobbits were suffering.

Mistress Lalia laughed at the large box her son carried to the head table and set before her. ‘My goodness!’ she said. ‘You’ve brought me the largest present!’

‘And the heaviest!’ Ferumbras said. ‘It seems to have gained weight since I wrapped it up for you! Perhaps little fairies have added their treasure!’

The Mistress smiled broadly and hauled herself to her feet. Breathless, the little hobbits waited. ‘Cousins!’ Lalia said grandly. ‘May the New Year bring to all peace, prosperity, and plenty!’

‘And plenty!’ the gathered hobbits echoed, and as one they began to tear away paper (if younger) or carefully loosened the paper from their presents so that it might be folded and stored away to be used again (if older).

There were murmurs of appreciation and exclamations of delight all around the room.

At the head table, Mistress Lalia lifted the lid from the large box and said, ‘Ah, but you spoil me, Ferumbras!’ Her eyes feasted on the snowy shawl even as her hands caressed the softness. ‘This must be wool from Paladin’s sheep, for there is none finer in all the Shire!’

‘Paladin’s sheep indeed,’ Ferumbras said, even as Paladin uttered his thanks for the compliment.

Reaching further to lift the shawl from its wrappings, Lalia remarked, ‘But there is treasure within, indeed! What have you done, my clever lad? Wrapped up something... but what...?’

She lifted the shawl and the folds fell away to reveal the blinking baby, who rewarded her with a bright smile.

‘Well now!’ she said in astonishment. ‘What’s this?’

Little Pippin crowed his delight and reached to pat the soft wrinkled cheeks.

‘Treasure indeed!’ Ferumbras laughed, while Paladin and Eglantine stared, open-mouthed. ‘You weren’t thinking of giving the lad away, were you?’

‘I—I—I don’t know how—’ Eglantine began, but Pippin, hearing mother’s voice, turned and held out his arms to her with a little chirrup of joy.

Of course she rose to go to her little one, taking him from the Mistress with a stammered apology.

‘No need to apologise!’ Lalia said brightly. ‘Why, it’s the nicest Yuletide surprise I’ve ever had!’

And indeed it was.

TBC

Chapter Two: First tale by Pippinswolf: Second tale by Ariel: Linking passages by Gayalondiel.

As the laughter descended amid a cloud of smoke, a deep gruff voice coloured with amusement rang through the forest clearing.

“I too have a Yuletide tale to tell,” announced Gandalf unexpectedly. Several pairs of eyes turned to him in surprise, but Frodo’s bore only apprehension. The wizard smiled kindly at him, but there was a glint in his eye as he explained: “One cannot go long in the company of Bagginses before encountering many of their eccentric ways.”

“Bagginses are not eccentric,” objected Frodo sulkily. “We’re just… Tookish.”

“Their Tookish ways, then,” Gandalf conceded. “The tale I have to tell concerns an infant – Frodo Baggins.”

Frodo buried his face with a groan, but the rest of the Company lit up with smiles and settled once more as Gandalf began his tale.

“It was the Yule season of 1369, and I decided to pay a visit to my dear old friend Bilbo. I arrived just before teatime to find that he already had company; his Cousin Drogo and his wife Primula had brought their fifteen-month-old son all the way from Brandy Hall for his first visit to Bag End.”

Frodo squirmed. “Um, Gandalf, I don’t know if this is the story you should tell, if it’s the one I think you’re going to tell…”

Gandalf pretended not to hear him and continued his story. “They were both so proud of him, and insisted that I hold him before I had a chance to remove my snowy cloak. Well, I reached for him, and Frodo took one look at me and started to scream, seizing a handful of my beard in the process. Quite a grip he had, too- it took both his mother and Bilbo to pry his fists loose.”

Frodo buried his face in his hands and groaned while his two cousins laughed and even Sam’s mouth twitched.

Gimli snorted with laughter. “The wee lad must have been afraid of your beard,” he said.

Gandalf nodded. “Likely so, because hobbit males don’t grow beards and the little fellow had never seen one before. However…the worst was yet to come.” He wiggled his eyebrows in a mock threatening fashion. Pippin, Merry and Sam were all leaning forward with rapt attention, and in the shadows, Legolas, Gimli, Aragorn and Boromir were all chuckling.

“Finally, little Frodo was placated and tea was served. He saw all the prettily frosted cakes and biscuits on the plates and of course he wanted one. He had no teeth yet and so could not have one, but he set up a mighty howl when he did not get what he wanted.

‘I don’t know what’s gotten into Frodo, he is usually such a good baby’, his mother apologized. Bilbo had the solution; he asked the one of the servants to bring a cup of custard in a bowl. The bowl and spoon were brought, and Primula prepared to feed him.

Then Frodo began eagerly reaching for me, indicating that he wanted to sit on my lap. This was puzzling to us all because Frodo had been mortally terrified of me just a few moments before, but I willingly took both Frodo and his dessert. I set Frodo on my knee and held the bowl in one hand and started to take a spoon from the table with my free hand. Well…those wide blue eyes just gleamed with mischief, and next thing I knew, Frodo had grabbed two big handfuls of custard and thoroughly smeared it into my beard, laughing the entire time.”

Pippin and Merry were rolling on the ground with laughter, Sam stared at his master with a mix of wonder and amusement, and even the Men could not restrain their merriment any longer.

Frodo was mortified. “I was hoping that would not be the story you told,” he said weakly.

“I know,” smiled Gandalf. “That is precisely why I told it. Someone had to come to poor Pippin’s defence.”

Frodo gave a huffing noise, but smiled through it nonetheless. “This is getting dangerous,” he said. “We had best finish with the family history, if we wish to be on speaking terms tomorrow.”

“Please, go on,” said an unexpected voice, and the hobbits turned in unison to Legolas, who was regarding them with curiosity. “I should love to hear more of your customs,” he explained. “In Mirkwood we do not celebrate as you do: time is more fleeting to us, and the times of renewal are less.”

“Oh,” Merry blinked, taken aback. “I think it’s your turn again, Frodo; Pip and I don’t really do serious.”

“Isn’t that just the truth,” muttered Sam, just loud enough to be heard. Frodo snorted, and a good-natured chuckle ran around the group at the indignant expression on Pippin’s face. “Mr. Frodo,” Sam continued before he had finished sputtering and retorted, “won’t you tell that story you told me when I was young?”

“Very well,” replied Frodo, getting to his feet once more. After gazing for a moment into his pipe to gather his thoughts, he began to speak.

"There was a tale my mother told me, when I was very young. She said it was a story that had come from a time even before the Shire was settled, but that when she heard it, it was attributed to the brothers Marcho and Blanco, they who first crossed the Brandywine.

"In that first year, the winter came upon our kindred sudden and fierce. Our people had not had time to dig their smials deep and they suffered greatly from the cold and hardship. Some suggested they looked to returning to the eastward lands, for the new country, while fruitful, seemed also cruel and cold. Few thought hobbits would be able to survive there and some even whispered that the land itself scorned their attempts to colonize it. Indeed, it seemed the very days were shorter in the Shire than they had used, as if the sun was reluctant to show her face in these northern climes.

"The days got shorter and the nights longer, and all the while, the hope of the hobbits of the new Shire waned. Some even began to believe that the days would simply continue to shorten until night swallowed all and covered the lands in blackness and that the spring would never return.

"As these words of dissent grew, Marcho bundled up in his heaviest overcoat and scarf and pulled a wool cap over his head.

'I am going out to think,' he said, and then he was gone into the gathering dark.

"That night was the longest of all and the hobbits gathered in the largest smial they had been able to dig, huddled together, in sorrow, for they had loved this land and it smote their hearts to think it did not love them in return.

"Late in the night came a knock at the door, and Blanco opened it to readmit his brother carrying a small fir tree. He had affixed a pot to the bottom and set the little plant into the center of the crowded smial.

"'I've brought this bit of green back so that we may remember that spring will indeed come again, as it always has. Let us now take our finest ribbons and decorate the boughs and light little candles to fill

the smial with light and warmth, music and dance, in hopes of that gentler time. Do not turn away from this gift! This Shire was blessed before we came here, and it will be long after we are gone. If we are wise and remember that we are but stewards of this land, we will flourish here in peace and prosperity for as long as we may wish.'

"And all night long they danced and sang and made merry, till at last the sun rose, and then the hobbits went to sleep around their celebrated tree. The next day, and the rest of the week, they did honor to the little fir, remembering its promise, and it filling the smial with the smell of good cheer and good food and . Slowly but surely, the night gave way, until at last even the dourest of the hobbits had to admit that the days were again growing longer. The people began to feel hope in their heart. Spring would indeed come again, as Marcho had said.

"Sometimes we still bring a tree into our smials for Yule, but more often it is a bough for the mantle or wreath for the door. It is our promise in midwinter that we have not forgotten our love for the land, and her vow that she will reawaken in spring. We may be out in the wilds now, but the signs are even here for those with eyes to see. The frost nipped bud, the seed strewn ground, the cedar and the spruce, still green with promise." And there he faltered, looking down at his pipe again. Sam smiled up at him.

"Yes, sir, that's how my folk tell it too - that the merest little bit of green is a promise that spring'll come again. No matter how dark the road gets, it's always there if you look for it."

At that Frodo smiled, warmly, but still with a faraway cast to his eyes. "Yes, that was how my mother ended the story too." He looked out across the empty land and sighed, a bereft and lonely sound, and went to sit beside Pippin again.

TBC

Chapter Three: First tale by Dreamflower: Second tale by Periantari: Linking passages by Gayalondiel.

“You know,” boomed Gimli, his voice cutting through the silence that hung at the end of Frodo’s tale, “Hobbits are not the only people who celebrate Yule.”

“No indeed,” replied Aragorn. “Many Men keep the Winter Festival, including the fine folk of Gondor.” He inclined his head to Boromir with these words, and received a gracious smile and nod in return. “But I have never heard that Dwarves kept the feast.”

“Most do not,” replied Gimli. He leaned back against a large rock and took a few puffs on his pipe, sending little wisps of smoke aloft, to be tattered by the wind. Only a Wizard could manage smoke rings in such blustery cold. “Dwarves are not much for the kinds of annual holiday celebrations you hobbits go in for.” He continued. “We do have our special days, but they are not something that just occur on the same date every year. But one year in the Lonely Mountain, some of us did give a hobbit-style Yule a try.”

Pippin twisted around, his green eyes wide, earning a reproachful tug from Aragorn, who had decided that tending a fidgety Took was not all that easy. “Whatever do you mean, Gimli?”

Frodo smiled. “Yes, Gimli, I think I too would like to hear about this. Why would Dwarves want to celebrate a Shire holiday?”

The Dwarf chuckled, and cleared his throat. “I think that you can guess that it was Bilbo’s fault entirely. It happened not quite twenty years ago--in fact it was the year before Bilbo’s famous party. Dori and Nori, accompanied by two of their young kindred, Nuri and Borin, sons of Nain made a stop at Bag End. They had delivered some gifts that Bilbo had commissioned. Most of them were for his coming birthday--his one hundred and tenth--but some were also for Yule. Bilbo loved to plan elaborate gifts, and always ordered them well in advance, so they were delivering them in the spring.”

The hobbits all laughed delightedly. Frodo grinned. “We remember that visit only too well!”

Merry blushed and buried his face in his knees. Pippin blushed as well, and might have tried to hide his own red face if not for Aragorn’s firm grip.

“Those two were so excited over the visit. Pippin sat on Dori’s lap and played with his beard, and then that night he and Merry tried to eavesdrop on Bilbo when he was talking to the Dwarves.”

“Well, be that as it may, Master Baggins, you and your kin made a mighty impression on Nuri and Borin. It was their first journey away from Dwarven strongholds, to folk who were not Dwarves. They were quite charmed by the Shire and by Bilbo Baggins. On their return to the Lonely Mountain, they talked about little else for weeks on end, until many were ready to run in the other direction when they saw them coming.”

He paused a moment, to puff on his pipe once more. Aragorn had chuckled at the picture he imagined, of the two enthusiastic young Dwarves. Gandalf shook his head, a twinkle in his eye. He had heard about this before. Boromir sat forward, and looked quizzically at Gimli.

Even Legolas, who was again on watch, cocked an ear to hear what was being said.

“Yet there were many of us younger Dwarves who were impressed with what they told us. One of the customs of hobbits that especially intrigued Nuri was that of Yule. Perhaps it was because he had made many of the Yule gifts that Bilbo had commissioned. He came up with the idea that we should try to hold ‘Yule’ there at the Lonely Mountain. Dáin was amused at the idea, and did not oppose it, though he refused to decree it an official holiday. He said those who wished to participate were free to do so, but he would not put a royal command on any.

This was quite sufficient for Nuri to make plans. Most of the older Dwarves thought it a waste of time; some, like Dáin, were merely amused. But a great number of us younger folk embraced the idea with enthusiasm.”

“But--” interrupted Merry, “--how did they know how hobbits celebrate Yule?”

Gimli grinned. “Ah, Master Meriadoc, there you have put your finger on the problem.”

Dori stiffened at his workbench. It was Nuri again.

“What do you want this time?” he grumbled.

“I was given to understand that you have a copy of the calendar of the Shire. I would like to see it.”

The older Dwarf sighed. The lad’s enthusiasm for all things hobbity was beginning to wear a bit thin. Perhaps he had been too young for the journey. He was only seventy-two, after all--of age for barely twenty years.

Without saying anything, Dori pulled open a nearby drawer. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Make a copy and bring it back. Don’t lose it. I need it to keep track of when we need to deliver Master Baggins’s work.”

“Oh thank you, Uncle!” He practically snatched the calendar from the older Dwarf and took off with it.

Dori heaved a deep breath. Fond as he was of Bilbo, that dratted hobbit had a way of stirring things up. Even from hundreds of miles away.

Armed with the calendar, Nuri hurried back to the rooms he shared with his brother Borin. Also there were several other friends: Gimli, Buri, Farin, Sturri, Narvi, Kali, Sudri, and a few others. All of them were quite excited over the notion of a hobbit holiday.

“Let’s see this calendar,” said Gimli. “We’ll have to compare it to our own.”

Borin rummaged in a cabinet, and drew out a large roll; placing it on the table, they spread the Shire calendar next to it. After a bit of discussion, it was finally decided that the hobbit’s date of Yule basically corresponded to the winter solstice. They were dismayed to discover how little time this gave them to prepare for the celebration.

Farin shook his head. “I don’t know, Nuri. This only gives us a few weeks to get ready. What will be involved in all this?”

“Aye,” said Gimli, “we shan’t have time for anything elaborate.”

Nuri and Borin looked at one another. They had hoped to have time to write to Master Baggins for some of the details, but obviously they would never get a reply in time for this year. And Nuri did not want to wait another year, as he was afraid the enthusiasm would wane. Rather than admit that his own notions of the holiday were rather sketchy, he answered with what should be obvious to anyone who had ever met a hobbit.

“Well, there is feasting, of course. With hobbits there is always feasting--I think at celebrations they have a very bountiful feast.”

There were several grins at this. While Dwarves did not eat so often as hobbits, they were also enthusiastic at the table, and quite fond of their victuals.

“I recall,” said Borin, “young Master Frodo telling me that they decorate the rooms with branches of evergreens.”

This drew a few raised eyebrows. Putting plants inside? Even cut ones? It seemed more than a bit odd, but of course they were hobbits, and that would explain it.

“And” added Nuri, “little Master Pippin told me that they give a lot of sweets to the children.”

“Yes,” put in Borin, “I got the impression from him that the youngest children were allowed to have as many sweets as they wished on Yule.”

“Oi, Pippin! That’s rich! What was that? A bit of wishful thinking?” snorted Merry.

“I don’t remember saying that! Ow! Strider, that smarts!”

“You don’t want an infection, do you?” He grinned at the older hobbits. “Do you mean to say that wasn’t true?”

This put the other three into a positive paroxysm of laughter.

“I should say not!” said Frodo, wiping tears from his eyes. “Especially for Pippin. When he was small, his sweets were carefully rationed, even at Yule. It was a danger to life and limb and every breakable object in the smial otherwise.”

“Not much different now,” said Merry.

Pippin turned a hurt and affronted look at his cousins, and then looked up at Aragorn with sad reproach. “Aragorn, they’re picking on me.”

He gave a mock stern look to the other hobbits, and in a mild tone, said “Stop picking on Pippin.”

This of course just made them laugh more.

“What else did your friend know about Yule?” Sam asked Gimli finally.

The other Dwarves nodded. That made sense. Some of them had actually worked on a few of those rather extensive orders.

Borin added “We also know that they have music and dancing and games.” That was fairly safe to say--any celebration would have such.

It was decided that Nuri and Sturri would go and tackle old Bombur the toymaker. Gimli and Borin would go to the women’s quarters and talk about the children. Buri and Farin were put in charge of finding the decorations. Sudri and Kali would talk to the cooks in the kitchen about the feast.

Unwed Dwarf women lived and worked in freedom among the males, but once they wed, they were sequestered for their protection, especially once they became child-bearers. For that reason, many Dwarf women chose not to wed at all, as it meant giving up their freedom.

At this time, there were less than thirty wives in residence in the women’s quarters, and fewer than four dozen beardless bairns, as they called the children under twenty. There were perhaps sixty more between the ages of twenty and forty. Adolescents moved out of the women’s quarters, and dwelt with their fathers until coming of age at fifty-two.

Gimli, as the older of the two, asked the attendant at the door for an audience with Dáin’s Queen, Thora daughter of Fundin.

In a few minutes, they were ushered into her presence. The queen was accompanied by Gimli’s mother, Gerd, and two other women whom they did not know. The only difference between the women and the men was that the women wore their hair in two braids rather than one, with their beards worn loose and unbraided, and the elaborate embroideries on their garments, which were otherwise the same. Thora wore a beautifully crafted circlet of mithril.

Gimli and Borin bowed deeply, and as the elder, Gimli spoke. “Your Majesty,” he said, and then nodded at Gerd, “Mother.”

“Gimli, son of Gloin,” said the queen, “what would you have of me?”

Gimli cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, there are plans afoot to hold a special celebration at the winter’s Solstice, called ‘Yule’--” the queen nodded. Dáin had told her of this with much amusement. “--since this celebration is for entire families, and especially for children, we needed to speak to you about it. Would you grant your permission for the wives and children to attend the feasting? And there are to be special gifts and sweets to be distributed to the children.”

“This sounds most interesting, young Gimli, tell me more…”

Bombur walked over to his visitors, rubbing his hands. “Well, laddies, what can I do for you?”

Nuri nervously explained his mission. He was more than a little nervous, as he knew most of the other older Dwarves did not wholly approve of this ‘Yule business’. He needn’t have worried. Bombur was delighted. He had over the years sent many of his most marvelous work west to the Shire at Bilbo’s behest. The idea that their own beardless bairns would also now benefit was only too welcome to him. Of course, as there was no real profit to be made, he could not afford to give of their best work, but--

“I know just the thing, lads! I have hundreds of apprentice made toys in storage, most of them nicely made, but of course I can’t sell them…”

“What do you want?” He asked brusquely, turning to gesture furiously with a wooden spoon to an assistant who must have been doing something wrong.

Nervously, Sudri explained about the feast. “The hobbits of the Shire always have very abundant and elaborate feasts--”

“What do I have to serve?” he interrupted.

The two younger Dwarves looked at one another. Kali shrugged.

“Whatever you so please, so long as it is festive. And it is customary to gift the bairns with many sweets.”

The cook grinned. Free rein. This could be interesting…

“How do we do this, Buri?” asked Farin.

Buri shrugged. “Let’s just chop down half a dozen and haul them into the Mountain.

“Good day, Gimli,” said Thora. “The women and I have been talking, and were wondering about how we would distribute the promised sweets to the children. We can’t just pass them out without them quarreling. Your mother came up with an idea. We will take from each child one of his or her stockings, and those can be filled with the treats. Then they will have whatever is in their stocking…”

“And what, pray tell, is so funny, Master Hobbits?”

“Oh, Gimli!” said Frodo breathlessly “whole trees? Inside?”

Sam shook his head. Just like Dwarves to cut down perfectly good trees and drag them indoors. Why, if they insisted on doing that, they should have just dug them up and planted them in barrels. Hobbits were content with a few branches of spruce or holly, and some sprigs of mistletoe.

Pippin looked interested. “It’s a shame hobbits don’t wear stockings--a stocking full of sweets would be splendid!” His green eyes glittered at the thought of that many sweets.

“You would say that,” grinned Merry.

“Harrumph!” Gimli cleared his throat. “If I may continue?”

“By all means, Master Dwarf,” said Gandalf, his delight well hidden beneath his gruff tone. He had heard this story from Dáin himself--but it was quite amusing to hear it from a different point of view. “pray continue your tale.” He took a puff on his pipe, and blew out a wisp of green smoke that resolved itself into the shape of a large evergreen tree, before dissipating in a burst of color. It was gratifying to hear the appreciative “ahhs!” of the hobbits as they watched.

The Queen came in, leading the wives and mothers, as they ushered in the children, beardless bairns and older youngsters as well. The stockings full of treats had been laid out in rows beneath the trees, and the children, at a gesture from their mothers, raced each to find his or her own. There was no wait to begin greedily gobbling down the contents of the stockings either, and the Dwarven women began to feel stirrings of dismay.

Then Bombur entered. He was dressed in a fine outfit of red, and carried over his shoulder a large bag full of the promised toys. Behind him came half a dozen of his apprentices with the same thing. They were nearly overrun by the little ones as they rushed up to claim their surprises. No child got fewer than a dozen presents, as well as some of the sparklers and crackers.

At first the Dwarves were all charmed to see the delight of the children. But many of the toys were of the noisy kind: horns and drums and bells and whistles, not to mention the crackers; and some of the children became quarrelsome as they saw some other child with a toy they coveted more.

The Hall was beginning to dissolve into chaos; one child drew too near the trees with his sparklers, and they were set alight. Gimli and Nuri moved quickly to douse the fire, but it had certainly subdued everyone, and an ominous calm descended.

But just then, Grerr appeared to announce the feast. Now everyone took their places at the tables, for once wives and children sitting with their husbands and fathers--something very rare under the mountain.

A parade of cooks and waiters appeared, bearing dish after dish. The tables were groaning with the weight of the food, and the wine began to flow freely. No sooner had the assembled Dwarves begun to make headway with the dishes already before them, than the next remove was announced, and more food began to appear…

Before the evening was ended, the tables were not the only thing groaning.

The next morning was an unusually quiet one under the Lonely Mountain. Dwarven healers, who were themselves suffering, found themselves only too busy with the hangovers and bellyaches of others. The remains of broken toys littered the floor of the Hall, and the smell of the burned trees lingered. In the women’s quarters, cross mothers were dealing with children still far too full of excess energy from all the sweets…

“Oh,” said Pippin, “that’s too bad.”

“I don’t know, Pip,” said Merry. “Seems to me like only hobbits have the stamina for a proper Yule.”

Gandalf burst out laughing, and soon the others joined in. For several long minutes they enjoyed quiet mirth, but true to his Tookish heritage, Pippin’s curiosity proved insatiable and he sat up straight once more, belatedly remembering his damaged ankle.

“Ow,” he groaned dramatically, earning himself sympathetic looks and a renewal of attention from his cousins. Assuaged, he looked up again and caught Boromir’s eye. “Aragorn said you celebrate Yule too, Boromir?”

“We do,” he replied.

“Tell us a story?” Pippin assumed his pleading face; the one with wide innocent eyes and a hopeful expression. The one that had never failed to date, despite his age. Boromir squirmed.

“Yule has been… complicated for my family,” he said at length. “I will tell you a tale of my brother, Master Pippin, for the Winter Feast is for us a time for family.”

“Oh, good!” said Pippin approvingly, settling his head against Merry’s shoulder.

The wind blew fiercely against the windowpane which young five-year old Faramir was staring out of. Faramir was not that content about the Yule season so far. Father had been unnaturally quiet about the whole holiday coming up, and Boromir did not help in easing the pain of the first Yule without Mother. He had scarcely remembered the tragic event that happened close to that of last Yule, for he had not been allowed to see Mother in the last days of her life because of fear that her illness would spread.

Faramir cupped his hands in his face and pouted. He wanted a big feast and presents too despite the lingering feelings of melancholy regarding Mother.

Young Faramir was so entranced with the falling snow outside and his own thoughts that he did not see that Boromir had stepped into the room to see him.

“Hey, Faramir!” Time for the big Yule feast that you’ve been looking forward to,” said Boromir as he swooped done upon his younger brother and picked him up.

“We really are going to have it, Boromir?” Faramir asked excitedly. I had thought that Father didn’t want to do anything this Yule other than to be sad and grumpy,” replied Faramir with a smile.

“Father didn’t want gifts to be delivered, but I do not think he means not have a Yule feast… The feast had always been Mother’s favorite part of Yule …” Boromir trailed off, but continued holding onto Faramir closely.

“Come, let’s see if the feast is ready… I do not think it’ll be as great as last year or the year before, but I’m sure Father did not choose to get rid of this tradition… Mother would not be pleased with that,” said Boromir.

Boromir and Faramir went quickly downstairs to the great dining hall of the Citadel. There lay many plates of chicken, roast beef, potatoes, fish, cakes, and fruit. Denethor sat at the main seat of the great table and grinned at his sons when they appeared.

“The cooks have prepared quite a feast for us. We’ll have a Yule feast in commemoration of Mother for I know that she would want us to be well fed during this season,” said Denethor with a dry smile.

Boromir and Faramir looked at each other with expressions of happiness. They could not believe what they saw in front of them. They quickly ran to embrace their father, who rarely showed any happy feelings the whole year since Finduilas’ illness and subsequent death.

“Now, now my sons, do not forget to say your prayers to your Mother before indulging and also remember that she too loves you very much,” said Denethor.

After Boromir and Faramir had said their prayers, Denethor spoke up once again.

“There are many stories to be told about your dear Mother during Yuletide. One happy story I must tell you all is the first time I met her was during Yule time. It was during a Yule party that I had attended and the first time I saw her was one that I would never forget. Your beautiful mother had on a blue mantle cloak, which complemented her beautifully because of the blue ribbons in her hair. We spoke to each other during that party, and I realized that she had qualities of gentleness, forgiveness, and caring beneath her lovely and fair face. It had been such a great twelve years with her, and I feel extremely blessed that she bore me two sons. She would want you, Boromir, to become a great steward of the realm of Gondor…” Denethor’s voice faded as tears came upon his eyes.

“Now… yes… more stories about your mother later… this day and this feast are for you to enjoy as well,” said Denethor.

Boromir and Faramir ate in silence, savoring the delicious food that Father had told the cooks to prepare. Boromir missed his mother a lot as well and had thought about what Yule would mean without her. He could understand his father’s somber mood and his reluctance to celebrate with all the Gondorians this year. However, he was also in the mood to have happier stories be told about Mother. Like the time that Mother had taught him about the names of the constellations of stars in the sky or the time in which she had sown one of the most elaborately conceived coats that she had spent a lot of time making. In order to be fair, she had always made sure that what he had, Faramir would always get something similar as well.

“I have memories of Mother as well,” Boromir said out loud. “So very many. I remember her many stories that she told Faramir and me before bedtime. I remember especially the one about what would happen if I did not engage in my studies and equestrian lessons… that every common peasant in Gondor would outpace me in learning all that is relevant to maintaining the city and country.” Boromir chuckled. “She said many stories that said how I will eventually become if I were not motivated enough.”

“Mother sang me lullabies,” said Faramir with a mouth full of potatoes. “I liked that about her a lot.”

Denethor and Boromir laughed. They could barely hear what Faramir was saying but he was funny with the gurgle of sounds that came out of his mouth.

“Yes, Findulias was a great mother, a caring wife,” said Denethor. “But there’s another story about her that must be mentioned and he meaningfully looked at Boromir when saying this. “When you marry, older son, you are to give your wife that beautiful blue mantle that so complemented your Mother. I would love to have it be given for good use for the future stewardess of Gondor.”

“But one must realize what Yule is about. It’s about being together with the family you have and sharing moments with them while you still can. Yule will never be quite the same without your dear mother, but I know that we can adapt and perhaps bring back all the other traditions that are associated with this time of year.” Denethor paused.

“Ah, but you are both young still, and I still feel the weight of grief close to my heart. But you young lads must remember what Yule means in light of this great tragedy that has happened to us… oh my dear Finduilas…” Denethor’s voice drifted once again as tears gathered in his eyes.

“We ate the rest of the meal which had only dessert left, but we ate the fruits in utter silence. Faramir and I understood what Father had meant, but it seemed hard to ingrain in his mind what Yule means.”

“ The reason why I tell this Yule story is because of the significance of our trying to recover from Mother’s death. It had been hard for Father the whole year, and that Yule would be the only one in which he would hold a small Yule feast, surprisingly for he grew more reserved and quiet ever since 2989. I do not know if Faramir remembers much of that first Yule, but I gave Mother’s blue mantle cloak for him to keep as a keepsake of her. Faramir reminds me of her, with his actions and his pity towards others. He cares more for music and lore like Mother did as well. Faramir is dear to me and to have seen him smile because of the plentiful food at Yule is an image I would never forget.”

With those last words, Boromir stopped his story. “It is another’s turn to share a Yuletide story. I know mine was not the most cheery, but it is one that had much meaning in my life…” He glanced over the hobbits, and saw that their faces were bright with a mixture of sympathy, kindness understanding and something else… love? Could it be that these little ones bore love for the comrades they had known so fleetingly? They were indeed a people to be treasured.

TBC

Chapter Four: First tale by PathvainAelien: Second tale by Gentle Hobbit: Linking passages and ending by Gayalondiel.

“Well,” Merry said, “that’s everyone, isn’t it? I mean, we’ve had hobbits, Men, Dwarves, and Elves don’t celebrate Yule…”

“I beg to differ,” said Aragorn with a grin. “There was at least one occasion where Yule was held as a feast in Rivendell.”

“Really?” Frodo’s eyes widened. “When was that? And why?”

Gandalf chuckled. “You, of all people, should be able to guess that, Master Baggins,” he said. At a bewildered look from Frodo, mirrored by the hobbits either side of him, he lowered his dying pipe and once more began to speak.

"Highly unnatural of him, indeed."

"Should I…?

"I think I shall."

The two voices, one deep and sort of grumbly and the other neither high nor low, but infinitely pleasant, eyed Bilbo Baggins from a distance. The old and wizened Hobbit face was bent low, as always, over a journal. However, Gandalf and Elrond could both see that his eyes were misty, as if caught in some memory, and as a further testament to his daydreaming, his blue feathered quill was being absently twirled between two fingers.

Seeing Bilbo lost "with his head stuck in the clouds" (as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would have snapped) was not at all unusual. The oddness of it came from the downward-drooping mouth, the sadness in his eyes, and the further wrinkling of the space around his eyes. Gandalf the Grey hefted his staff, adorned his pointy hat, and began walking the short distance towards Bilbo and the bench he occupied.

He, too, was lost in his thoughts, struggling to remember the last time he had seen Bilbo looking this depressed. And especially in Rivendell, of all places! Gandalf scratched at his long grey beard, and then the penny dropped with him. Perhaps being in Rivendell was the problem after all-after all, besides short journeys now and then, Bilbo typically lived in Bag-End with his "nephew," Frodo Baggins. Hobbits are a cheery sort of creature, but they do require several things that are necessary for their contentment-ample food and drink, pipe-weed, peace and quiet, and most importantly, family. Even strange old Hobbits such as Bilbo (as half of the Shire would have thought of him) needed to be around family around Yuletide, and this was to be Bilbo's first away from the Shire. 'Yule was only three weeks away,' Gandalf thought. "Too bad they don't celebrate that here," he muttered.

Bilbo almost dropped his quill as Gandalf abruptly sat beside him. He clutched at his chest in a sort of mocked fright.

"Gandalf! There you go again, sneaking up one me. You should announce yourself properly before you scare an old Hobbit half to death!" But despite his seeming ire at being startled, Bilbo grinned widely at his old friend.

"Perhaps you should pick a better spot to drift off," Gandalf returned as he patted his pocket down for a pipe, only to remember that he was currently out of Old Toby. He was due for a visit to Hobbiton soon, best stock up on it then. With a sigh, he returned the fine wooden pipe to his pocket.

"Drift off? I'll have you know that I was thinking up a passage for my book," Bilbo said indignantly. As Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows, Bilbo sighed. "All right. I might have been thinking about the Shire," he finally said. He looked out over the vastness of Rivendell, at the beautiful waterfall over sharp rocks. He loved being here…truly he did. But he was the only Hobbit in Rivendell, and he sometimes missed certain traditions, as well as certain people.

"Is it Frodo you're worried about, or the fact that this will be the first Yule you've spent without Old Toby and the Gaffer's home brew?" Gandalf asked, hoping for a smile. He got one, a thin one, but a smile nonetheless.

"I do miss that stuff," Bilbo joked thoughtfully. Gandalf stood, and offered Bilbo a hand. Bilbo grasped it, then closed his journal and picked up his quill. Gandalf walked him into the dining Hall, then declined a late (and second helping of) lunch.

"No, no, must be off. I have something that needs seeing to," he demurred. Bilbo, already in the middle of eating a scone, looked at him suspiciously.

"What are you up to, Gandalf?" At Gandalf's surprised (and guilty) look, Bilbo huffed. "I may be old, but I am a Baggins," he said, as if his lineage made him ever so much cleverer than the other families of the Shire. Gandalf thought of some of the other families and figured that Bilbo might have a point.

"Well, I suppose you will just have to act surprised, Mr. Baggins," Gandalf rumbled as he strode from the hall, leaving Bilbo smirking behind him.

Exactly three weeks later, on the eve of Yule, Gandalf galloped his horse back from the Shire. He had been cutting it close, but after all, what were friends for? A few hours after his arrival in Rivendell, the Dining Hall was filled with Elves. They were a bit dubious about this Yule tradition, but were willing to try anything to cheer Bilbo up. That, and if Elrond and Lady Arwen were going to celebrate, they might as well see that the fuss was about.

Minutes after the final preparations, a blindfolded Bilbo was led in by Elrohir. When he was at last allowed to look, he beheld a wonderful site-a Hall full of Elves, surrounded by the unmistakable scent and sight of pipe-weed smoke. Bilbo looked at Gandalf in bewilderment, and Gandalf was hard-pressed to hide his mirth. When Bilbo spied the Gaffer's home brew-in extremely large amounts-being drunk with apparent relish by the Elves, he could hold out no longer. Bilbo and Gandalf laughed heartily together. As Bilbo turned to thank him, Gandalf held something out to him. Not the Gaffer's brew, not Old Toby, something even better. Bilbo's eyes widened in his astonishment as he took in Frodo's clear, carefully written script. However brief it was, it warmed his heart-and moistened his eyes.

Dearest Uncle,

Gandalf seems to think that you are in need of cheering up. We were under short notice, but have tried to make your first Yule away from home more than satisfactory. Sam persuaded his Gaffer into making up some of his home brew, and Merry and I procured the pipe-weed. Pippin says to tell you that he helped too, and if you should see another dragon and need any help, that he is a stout little Hobbit indeed. Have a merry Yule, and we all hope to see you again soon.

All my love,

Frodo Baggins

Bilbo wiped his steaming eyes as he pocketed the parchment-the best Yule present he believed he had ever received. He then, with a blooming smile, accepted a draught of home brew from Gandalf, and a pouch of Old Toby from Elrond.

"Happy Yule," he said to them, and they both smiled back.

"Meriu sa haryalye alasse no vanyalye Ambdrello," said Elrond immediately, with a smile.

Not a bad Yule after all, all things considered. He had-and always would have, a truly wonderful Yule gift: all of Frodo's love.

“We weren’t at Bag End that year, were we?” Pippin frowned, gentle guilt creeping across the years to whisper in his ear. “I remember, we had family stuff… we did worry about you, Frodo. That was an alright year for you, wasn’t it?” He looked anxiously at his cousin, but Frodo was somewhat choked by unshed tears for Bilbo. He smiled a watery smile at Pippin.

“Beggin’ your pardon,” said Sam, “but that year was just marvellous. If I may?”

If they were lucky (and they usually were), the young hobbits were invited into the warm, and given a hot drink to sip by the fire. And then, with inexhaustible energy, off they'd go again to the next smial.

A favourite place to end up (this commonly agreed upon by all the young folk) was Bag End, the richest, largest and most comfortable hobbit-hole in all of Hobbiton. Old Mr. Bilbo never failed to bring out hot mulled cider and just-baked cakes and biscuits. It was heavenly to toast one's frost-nipped toes by the roaring fire at Bag End and to gaze about at all the odd knick-knacks and foreign things that covered shelves, the mantlepiece and indeed any surface within reach. There was always a story or two in the offing, should any of the young well-wishers desire it -- and they usually did.This year, however, was the first Yule in which the new Master, young Mr. Frodo, lived alone at Bag End. He was an unknown quality and the children felt a thrill of excitement (and just a hint of apprehension) when at last they wended their way towards the familiar round green door. They knew Frodo, of course. Everyone did. But the question in the minds of every lad and lass was -- would Mr. Frodo Baggins' generosity in the giving of sweets match his uncle's?

Mr. Frodo Baggins lit the last of his candles and carefully placed it, just so, in the kitchen window. Satisfied, he turned and lit a taper.

The round green door gave its usual comforting creak as Frodo opened it wide. He stepped outside and snuffed the night air appreciatively. It was crisp and clear. Stars glittered in beauty overhead, and frost rimmed the hedges and grass before him.

High voices drifted up from below the Hill and Frodo smiled. It had begun, then. Lifting the wrought iron lids carefully, each in turn, he lit the two candles within the stained glass lanterns that he had hung earlier that day on either side of the door. As the wicks caught and settled into a steady glow, the lanterns' rich colours of red, blue, green and yellow shone brightly. He blew out the taper then and stepped out into the laneway.

From each window of Bag End, flames of three candles flickered merrily. Once again Frodo smiled and then he returned indoors.

It was his first Yule as Master of Bag End. If truth be told, while he was looking forward to this night, he also regretted his determination to play his new role as Master. He was alone in the smial. Both Merry and Pippin had invited him to their respective homes and festivities, but Frodo had turned them down, if somewhat regretfully. Fredegar and Folco were busy helping their families in festival duties similar to Frodo's own and so, in turn, had just as regretfully refused Frodo's invitation to spend the evening at Bag End.

The voices were still a good distance away, and so Frodo pondered. What should he do? All was ready in the smial and so there was nothing that needed to be done. Suddenly a look of remembrance and delight came over his face and he turned and went into his study.

Very slowly and deliberately, he set upon his desk several items: a piece of thick vellum, wooden tweezers, a stick of stone with a smooth, rounded and oval end, and a small box. He covered the bottom half of the vellum with a thin paper and then laid two long and flat stones over each end. He took up the box and carefully removed the lid.

Inside, there could be seen a glint of gold. What lay within looked fair and pure. Frodo gazed at it for a moment and then reached in a finger and touched it ever so softly. But then he shook his head and frowned. He withdrew his finger and reached for the tweezers with his left hand.

Once again he reached into the box, but this time he took hold of the object with the tweezers and gingerly drew the thing out. It shimmered and gleamed in the candle light and Frodo held it up before his face, marvelling at its beauty. And then, very slowly and carefully, he draped the thin, curling sheet of gold leaf across one spot on the parchment.

Briskly, he took up the metal stick with his right hand and, bent low over the desk, he began to press the smooth oval end over one tiny corner of the leaf. Meticulously, he rubbed the stick in tiny circles and, slowly, gold was pressed into the vellum.

At last he put down the stick and carefully put aside the unused leaf. He held up the parchment. He angled it this way and that. Candlelight shimmered on pressed gold.

And then he hesitated. He laid the sheet down. Slowly, he reached into his breeches pocket and drew out yet another golden thing. Candle light shone on this too as he held it up before his eyes and turned it this way and that. Unlike the gold leaf, this was solid and round, and it was smooth and cool to the touch.

He touched it with a fingertip -- stroking it slightly along the outside curve. He didn't quite caress the inside curve -- something held him off from that -- nonetheless, he marvelled at the flawless surface and how light played along the edge and around, and reflected in on itself.

A loud banging broke the stillness and Frodo jumped. Hastily, he pocketed the ring and its chain once more and hurried to the front door. The children! And he had not even heard their voices as they came up the lane.

He flung open the door and there stood the younger children of the Cotton and Gamgee families, with Tom and Samwise shepherding them from the back. High voices rose in a clamour, wishing Frodo a Merry Yule, and bells were shaken with much enthusiasm.

"Come in, come in!" said Frodo delightedly. And as Sam and Tom made sure that cloaks were hung up and feet wiped carefully dry on the mat, Frodo scurried about in the kitchen.

Soon the children's hopes were realized, for the rich little cakes and piping hot biscuits were every bit as good as Mr. Bilbo's, and the milled cider was as sweet and spiced as ever it was.

Sam looked at Frodo with a smile. "What were you doing when we came, if I may make so bold, sir? I'll warrant you never heard our voices for all we shouted."

Frodo looked at him blankly. "Why... I don't know," he said after a moment. And then his face cleared. "Ah, yes. I was working on a bit of a project."

But at the sound of a "grown-ups'" talk beginning, an anxious young voice piped up. "But....aren't you going to tell us some stories?"

"I'll do better than that," and Frodo rose to his feet. "Wait a moment."

He returned a moment later with the page of vellum carefully cradled in his hands. The children crowded around and Sam craned his neck to see over the tops of heads.

Careful lettering in black ink stood crisply on the page. Around the first large letter (a 'B'), many loops and knots twined together. Touches of colour showed leaves and flowers and even occasionally a little animal. But what caught the children's attention most of all was that the inside of that letter shimmered golden in the firelight.

"May I touch it?" asked one child, and soon a clamour rose from all the res. Sam looked at Frodo in consternation.

"Don't worry, Sam," Frodo said laughing. "Just let me get something to clean their hands with."

And as soon as each small hand was wiped clean and patted dry, one by one the children touched the gold leaf. The youngest of them all, Nibs Cotton, giggled. "It's so warm and smooth!" But Sam just gazed at the writing and the leaves and flowers.

"It's beautiful, Mr. Frodo," he said in awe. "And you did this!"

"It's for Bilbo," Frodo answered. "It's for his book of tales that he was working on before he went away. It will be the first page."

Sam frowned at this. "Beg your pardon for asking this, but how will you give it to him?"

"I don't know," Frodo said with a shrug. "But one day I shall see him again, and I'll give it to him then."

A small hand tugged at Frodo's wrist. "Please, Mr. Frodo, mightn't we have a story -- one like Mr. Bilbo used to tell us?"

Frodo and Sam looked at each other and smiled. Tom grinned.

"Of course you may," Frodo said, secretly delighted to be sought after for tales.

And so much of the evening passed with Frodo sitting on the floor amongst rapt faces and shining eyes as he wove story after story. New groups of children arrived and they joined the throng. The pressed gold leaf of the vellum shone in delicate beauty and the children thought it a tantalizing glimpse of far-off stories and mysterious folk...

...while a far more mysterious golden thing lay forgotten in a pocket.

For it had no place amongst such comfort and cheer, and could not possibly compete against what its bearer yearned for this night: friendship, sharing and joy.

No. At this Yule time, it had very little power at all.

“One thing more,” he said. “It is an oddity among hobbits, that the giving of gifts is so very special to them. It is the very essence of their nature, in fact; in all hobbits, at least in all I have known, there is the ability to give far more than they expect to receive, for no greater reward than a warm bed and a hot meal at the very end of all.” He paused, noting as he did so that the four hobbits with him were busily looking down, or away, or intently examining their fingers; anything to prevent their having to meet the eyes of anyone else.

“One hobbit in particular is especially giving,” he continued. “He wished to come with us, you know. He longed to, but his body has tired while his mind is yet bright, and he had to remain behind. He did not, however, forget his role, for one amongst you hobbits had to be the one who remembered, amid all this dreadful haste, that hobbits you are. And to that end… this!”

Suddenly in his hands appeared four small parcels. None could say quite how they had got there, whether he had reached beneath his cloak or into his bag or whether they had just appeared out of thin air, but before anyone could stop to wonder he had knelt and distributed them to the four hobbits.

“Old Toby!” Merry cried, ripping the paper from his small bundle. “Finest reserve… oh, this is hard to get… that silly old hobbit.” He beamed around at the other, a smile that said this fine treat would be rationed and shared out amongst the smokers of the group.

“Oh!” Pippin shouted, if it were possible, even louder from his recumbent position. “Oh… it’s North Farthing Whiskey… single malt… very good year…” He hugged the bottle to him happily. “You wait ‘till you taste this!” he crowed to the Fellowship at large. “There’s nothing finer!”

“There certainly isn’t,” agreed Sam, unwrapping his parcel and carefully folding the paper. He beamed. “Why, it’s a new cookpan!” he cried. “My smallest was holed, I had to leave it behind. He’s right kind, is Mr. Bilbo, bless him.”

All eyes turned to Frodo, as he carefully unwrapped his own gift. Delicately he pulled back the paper to reveal a small bundle topped with a silk handkerchief embroidered “B.B.” Laughing as he remembered how Bilbo had dashed out of Bag End without a pocket handkerchief on his very first adventure, he opened it out, only to find another, tiny gift within.

It was a small pin, bearing a single white jewel – a diamond? – on a plain silver setting, nestled upon a note. Frodo fastened the pin carefully to his waistcoat before opening the paper to find his uncle’s familiar scrawl.

Dear Frodo,

This was a gift to me from the Dwarves, when I started my journey home. The stone is a diamond, the setting is Mithril; they gave it to me “to guide my way home”.

Now you are on your great adventure. I cannot come with you, but this little piece of me I may send along with you. And may the stars guide you home.

FIN