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