For cbpotts (Cindy) : The Love of Friends Gen
Title: The Love of Friends
Author: ladysunrope
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: none
Rating: Genfic
Disclaimer: Not mine, this is all for fun and no profit.
Notes: For cindy (cbpotts), for the lotr_sesa 2008. You wanted happy hobbits celebrating, and I hope I delivered! The good luck gift is in fact the now sadly long gone Welsh custom of Calennig. Thanks to my beta, ismenin
Summary: Frodo has the flu and wants to forget all about Yule. Merry and Pippin have other ideas.
The Love of Friends
For Cindy
“Not another one?” Frodo’s anxious face peered round the smial’s front door.
Sam thanked the small hobbit-lad who had brought the message, and walked back up the path. The little one had seemed mightily relieved at finding Sam already walking round the garden, checking on the winter bulbs, and had stuttered out his message before Frodo had even answered Sam’s call. The thought of passing on an apologetic message bringing disappointment to the Master of Bag End, was, it seemed, far too large a task for one of such tender years, and those tiny legs were pounding their way down the lane before Sam had a chance to agree with his employer that, yes, it was indeed another one.
“It’s going to be a disaster, Sam. I had such high hopes, but now…” Frodo’s despondent expression pulled at Sam’s sympathies. He watched as Frodo wandered round the garden, kicking disconsolately at the edges of the lawn. Frodo Baggin’s first Yule feast since Bilbo had left had promised to be the social invitation of the season - at least where Hobbiton was concerned. Those with lesser hopes confined themselves to their own hearths. The occasional soul with connections, might, if they were very lucky, find themselves sampling the hospitality of those who lived in more auspicious surrounds, like Michel Delving. There were even one or two invited to the Took display of munificence. No one expected invitations to a Brandybuck family feast at Yule, because, well, if you were, you didn’t come from Hobbiton.
Yet, Bilbo, for all his strange ways - and Sam had to admit, he’d spent many a time defending his former employer’s manner from that very accusation of strangeness - Bilbo had always kept up the tradition of a Yule feast that was open to all who had made the previous year a decent one for the Baggins family. Granted, these feasts were larger, and more well-attended before Bilbo went off on his adventures, and they had become smaller still, since Frodo joined the Baggins household. For as Bilbo stated very firmly, there was no need to terrify the lad by meeting all the neighbourhood in one go when he could be equally terrified by meeting them one at a time during the year. When he said that, Sam, young as he was, had thought he was joking, but his Da had nodded wisely in agreement, and Bilbo had clapped the Gaffer on the shoulder, and called him a capital fellow, so it couldn’t have been a joke at all.
With Bilbo gone, Frodo, as Master of Bag End, could have abandoned the tradition completely, and no -one would have thought badly of him. In fact, they were expecting it, for after all, Bilbo’s leaving was a queer do, and no mistake, and having a feast in a smial already tinged with the hint of scandal and goings-on, smacked of pretentiousness ,and that wasn’t Mr Frodo’s way at all.
Sam smiled at the memory of Frodo’s plans for a Yule feast.
“I’m not going to abandon the idea, Sam, because to do that would feel as if I’m ashamed of Bilbo, and what he’s done. To hold a huge party, as we’ve had before, doesn’t seem right, for you know how so many will come merely to gloat, and say ‘I told you so’. There’ll be even some there looking to see if I’m ready to be the Master of Bag End, and I refuse to hold myself up for inspection. It will be an intimate feast of true friends who have helped me during my life, here. Yes, that’s how I’ll consider it.”
Frodo had penned the invitations himself, with that elegant script Bilbo had taught him, and Sam had offered to deliver them. He’d done so with a cheerful air, and a helpful addition to the opening conversation at each home he visited, about the intimacy and nature of the feast, so that each recipient felt he or she had been especially chosen. He made sure it seemed to slip out of his mouth like some overheard fragment from Mr Frodo himself. Some had flushed with pleasure, others had been pleasingly surprised, a few had positively preened, and some, rather closer to Frodo than others, like Mister Fredegar Bolger, had expressed their wholesale admiration at Frodo’s determination to carry on as before.
Sam didn’t consider his own contribution to be anything other than helping to make the occasion exactly what Frodo wanted. For that was something he knew, probably better than Frodo himself - how much Frodo wanted this whole occasion to be a success. Seating plans had cluttered up the desk upon which Frodo worked as soon as the acceptances rolled in, and now they lay upon the dining table itself. Menus had been compiled, and discarded, and endlessly discussed. Even Sam, loving food as he did like any right-minded hobbit, was fed up of hearing about light soup as opposed to broth, and a delicate glaze of honey traced over wine soaked fruit, instead of the glory that was apple crumble. Once he’d even yelled out in exasperation, “What’s wrong with a hearty mutton stew?” He’d apologised soon after, mainly because he felt guilty at the look of absolute horror on Frodo’s face.
Instead, he’d offered his, and his family’s, help in preparing, cooking and serving the assembled throng, and Frodo’s gratitude at such generosity had made his foot hairs curl with pleasure. The very best dining room had been emptied of all its clutter, and the floor swept spick and span. The table and chairs had been polished until they didn’t shine - they glowed. Fresh greenery had already been marked out for cutting to decorate the mantelpiece. The fire was dressed with fragrant logs, and ready for lighting. Even the heavy curtains along the walls had been taken out into the winter sun, and beaten into dust-free folds of pleasing scarlet and gold. As Frodo proudly declared - it was going to be a feast to remember.
Everything was ready - only fate had other plans.
Sam had already heard in the Green Dragon that the usual winter collection of coughs and sneezes had started, and thought nothing of it. Apparently, it was particularly bad in Michel Delving, but that was a particularly fast place, and to his mind if you lived life that way, it was only to be expected that your health might suffer. He’d made a comment to Frodo about it, but neither had given it much mind. Frodo had been too thrilled at the letter he’d had from the Tooks saying that Master Pippin would represent the family at his first Yule feast. The next day, he got one from Meriadoc Brandybuck as well, saying that even if he didn’t get permission off his father, he was coming, anyway. The thought of a Took and a Brandybuck at his first feast, and how that would be seen, made Frodo beam. That night, Sam had noticed how few folks there were at the Green Dragon, but couldn’t for a moment think of a reason why.
Frodo was now kicking broken clods of lawn onto the path. Sam winced, but didn’t interfere. This was going from bad to worse. Whatever the sickness spreading through the Shire was, it certainly laid hobbits low, coughing and feverish, and past usefulness for days and days. First one, and then another excusal, apology, plea for understanding because they were ill, or worn out, or contagious or all of those, until one by one the list of attendees got smaller and smaller. At this rate, Frodo would be having a Yule feast by himself.
Suddenly, Frodo burst out “It isn’t fair!” Sam had to agree but offered a small consolation.
“That last hobbit lad said he’d leave something by the gate. He was told to bring it for the feast, as a thank you for thinking of the family. I’ll go and see what he left.”
He leaned over the gate, and saw the glass jar of pears nestling in the long grass at the side. “This looks interesting!” he yelled back, and ignored the mutterings behind him about perhaps all the gifts could be sat at table instead. Sam opened the jar as soon as he had the gift in his hands, and sniffed appreciatively at the brandy fumes. Pears in brandy - now that was a sign of Yule, and a fine gift for the table.
Frodo wasn’t having any of it, and Sam gazed in dismay at the damage to the grass, and the mess of earth and pulled out roots on the path.
“I think I’d better get a brush to sweep this up.”
Frodo appeared puzzled at first, and then looked at the path in dawning embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean to…yes, I did but…it’s not going terribly well is it?”
Sam couldn’t help but agree. He swept the path clear, and politely but firmly asked the Master of Bag End to keep his feet away from his defenceless lawn. To Sam’s surprise, Frodo meekly apologised and went inside, his shoulders slumped in disappointment. It wasn’t like Frodo to be that interested in impressing hobbit society, but when he set his heart on something, he liked to follow it through.
Sam bit his lip. Mister Frodo Baggins was going to be a tetchy hobbit for a few days, until Yule was over. Sam wondered if there was some huge task needed for the maintenance of the smial that could be done this very moment. Anything that would keep him at a distance from Frodo, until his mood changed. No doubt there was something…anything.
He put his brush away, and drew his feet along the foot scraper to get the soil away from the soles, before he stepped inside when he heard something that made him groan.
Frodo was sneezing.
****
Frodo tossed and turned, wanted to complain, but his throat wouldn’t let him, wanted to sit up, but his head ached when he did, and when he coughed, his head seemed about to explode. Sometimes he was too hot, and sometimes too cold, but all the time he was definite about a certain fact - he hated being ill.
Sam was a patient hobbit, bringing linctus and cooling facecloths, for which Frodo was very grateful, and a concoction made with herbs that his Gaffer swore by, which made him not so grateful. Sam helped him out of bed, and Frodo grumbled. Sam changed the sheets, and helped him back, and Frodo grumbled again.
“I’m right sorry you’re feeling this way, Frodo, and that’s a fact. I’ve heard tell it’s a two day affair, but afterwards, you’re as weak as a newborn, so I’ll stay here at Bag End until you’re well enough. How does that sound?
Frodo expressed his gratitude, but rather spoiled the effect by announcing that he was cancelling Yule altogether, and would Sam see to it that everyone knew. Sam found the list of guests on Frodo’s desk, and spent a few hours dispatching young hobbit lads and lasses, eager to earn a coin or two passing on the news. At least this way Frodo would be spared the humiliation of sitting at a well-laden table with only himself for company, Sam thought. Sometimes there were advantages in the most dire circumstances, but cancelling Yule? Now that was a step too far. Yule was tradition, and part of the Shire, and important, not something to be cast aside like a worn piece of clothing. Yet, no matter how he tried to persuade Frodo differently, Mister Baggins was having none of it. Every time Sam tried to bring up the subject, as tactfully as he knew how, Frodo put the covers over his head, and from the depths of the linen, a muffled voice announced...
“I’m not interested.”
Still, there were things to be getting on with, and Sam made a list of everything he’d been putting off, mainly because Frodo insisted on taking note of what was going on, and becoming involved when he had no idea about what to do in the first place. Sam had every affection for his employer, but in his view, a hobbit stuck to what he was good at doing, rather than give advice where it wasn’t wanted. Now, with Frodo asleep more often than he was awake, Sam could make sure that every possible problem would be fixed before Frodo realised. That old glass forcing frame could be removed, the shed could be emptied, and maybe a wall or two painted. Cold weather didn’t bother him, and he’d already let the Gaffer know he might only manage to drop in for a glass or two to toast the season.
He gave a satisfied sigh, running his finger down the list to see if he’d missed anything, when he heard a knock at the door. When he opened it, his mouth dropped open in astonishment, and the words popped out before he could stop them.
“Oh my goodness, it’s you!”
It wasn’t the greeting they were expecting, but the heirs to the Took and Brandybuck lands took it in good grace, and to give them credit, Sam did note, even in his confusion, that neither made a fuss, but waited patiently on the step until Sam remembered his manners. Flustered, he couldn’t think of anything to say that would rescue the situation, and then he brightened.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here…”
Pippin scrabbled under his travelling cloak, and brought out a well- worn invitation. “We’ve had one of these,“ he said, helpfully.
Merry, on the other hand, was already looking suspicious. “You were expecting us, yes?”
Sam searched for the right words, a dignified way to tell them there was no Yule no matter what the invitation said, when Merry sniffed the air.
“Why does Bag End smell like an apothecary’s shop? Where’s the smell of food cooking, cakes baking, the sound of early arrivals chattering? In short , my dear Sam, where is everyone? Frodo? FRODO!”
He ended his words on a shout which galvanised Sam into action. Frodo was asleep, and no-one, not even Meriadoc Brandybuck, was going to disturb him.
“Hush, please! Mister Frodo is sick - oh not desperately so - but the Yule feast is cancelled. So many were ill, and now he is, too. Everyone was told, I sent the messages, I’m sure I told everyone, yes, except…oh dear…” Sam looked mortified with embarrassment.
“Except us,” Pippin added, “which could offend us very much, if we were that sort of hobbit, but seeing as we are not, you could invite us in, and since it seems to be a waste to have us here without a feast, we could have a feast anyway.”
It took a moment for both Merry and Sam to take in what Pippin suggested. Sam shook his head. “We could? How?”
Merry on the other hand, crowed with glee. “You have an inventive mind, dear Pip! We are here, and presumably there is food? Yes?”
Sam nodded.
“Then,” Merry continued, making his way into the hall, already unfastening his cloak, “today we plan and prepare, and tomorrow we have a Yule feast for the three of us, and Frodo. How difficult can it be?”
Sam stared at the two of them, already chattering about their favourite food. Masters Merry and Pippin were going to organise a Yule feast?
Oh dear. He stuttered something about talking to Frodo first, but they weren’t listening. This was going to be an unexpected party, to be sure, and he wasn’t certain how Frodo in his current state was going to receive the news. Grumpy, tetchy or maybe downright rude Frodo could be the order of the day. It didn’t bear thinking about, and Sam really didn’t want to be the one to ask.
Then he had a rather excellent idea. He knew someone with a silver tongue, and persuasive ways, not so very far from him right this moment.
“Erm…gentlehobbits, I have a suggestion. Why don’t you ask Mister Frodo right now? Master Meriadoc, you’ve always had a way with words. I’m sure you’ll be able to persuade him.”
Merry accepted the challenge, and without hesitation, with Pippin at his side, marched up to the closed bedroom door, and knocked upon it. Sam, deciding he’d rather not brave the wrath of Frodo Baggins, Esq, in his current loathing of Yule mood, hung well back.
As his Gaffer always said, better safe than sorry.
****
Frodo was dreaming. He was dressed in his finest at the head of a beautifully presented table, The conversation was entertaining, and compliments rained down upon him about the food, the drink and the marvellous company. He’d done Bilbo proud, and glowed with the praise. Suddenly, everything vanished, and there he was still dressed for a celebration, but no one was there. Instead he could hear voices calling his name, laughing and joking - mocking him, no doubt - and for some reason, someone was tweaking his toe. Why would they do that? Irritated beyond measure, he kicked out.
“Ow! Is that any way to treat an honoured guest?”
That caught Frodo’s attention, right enough. He’d kicked a guest? What a terrible host he was! How could he…hold on, what guest?
He opened two bleary eyes, and stared at the bottom of his bed, where for some unfathomable reason, a crowd had gathered.
Merry and Pippin. Sam. All gazing at him.
“You always were a terrible patient, Frodo,” said Merry, fondly.
Frodo thought of a few suitable replies, but rejected them on the grounds of impoliteness, and settled for a mumbled “go away.”
“Oh, don’t say that, we’ve only just arrived, and we haven’t had supper.” Pippin came closer, and looked at Frodo in that beseeching way Frodo found hard to resist. “After all, Frodo, you’ve always told me you kept your promises, and you promised my family that I could have a Yule feast…and this is the first one I’ve been allowed to attend without nosey relatives looking at everything I do - and I’ve so looked forward to it…”
Frodo wondered from whom Pippin had inherited his dramatic flair, because so far his performance was not only playing with his heartstrings, but almost tying them in knots. Yet, he was feeling hot and sticky, not in the least Yule-like, and so he pushed himself up, folded his arms for good measure, and announced firmly,
“There’s no Yule feast. I’m not well.”
Actually, he felt somewhat better than he had done, but he wasn’t going to mention that fact. After all, a hobbit had some rights in his own bedchamber.
“You did forget to uninvited us. So here we are. You can’t turn us away now, can you?” Merry smiled his most charming smile, but Frodo decided to forget it usually worked. They were owed an apology, no doubt, abut the fact he’d forgotten to tell them there was no Yule this year at Bag End, and he did begin to create one in his head, until Pippin blurted out,
“Frodo, you look terrible. All sweaty, and your hair is every which way…and is that a stain on your night shirt?”
Frodo looked at the reminder of a particularly effective struggle against the dreaded concoction Sam swore would be good for him, and retracted the thought of any apology. So what if he was grumpy, and extremely lacking in festive cheer?
“Begging your pardon, Mister Frodo, I think you might want to listen to their idea. You might even like it.”
Frodo gazed at Sam’s face. Poor Sam hadn’t liked the idea of cancelling Yule, even if he would probably fill the time with fixing and mending. Sam was very much in favour of tradition, and even if he hadn’t questioned Frodo’s decision, he had felt the weight of Sam’s disapproval, nevertheless. “Very well, I’m listening but you tell me, Sam. These two seem to only want to insult me.” He glared at Pippin, with, he hoped, some amount of fierceness, but it had no effect. Pippin giggled instead.
Sam pushed himself to the front. “We’ve decided that the Yule feast will go ahead.”
Frodo raised an eyebrow, and Sam stuttered to a halt, suddenly realising what he’d said. “Well, I mean…if you want…that is.”
Merry clapped his hand on Sam’s shoulder in an encouraging fashion, and nodded his support. Sam perked up, and began again.
“Master Meriadoc and me, well we’ll be in the kitchen, seeing to the food and the like, and the entertainment, mummery and such will be organised…”
“By me!” Pippin beamed as if it was the most natural choice in the world.
Frodo was speechless for quite some time. The others, accepting they’d made their case, and failed, turned to leave.
“Wait!” Frodo said, hoarsely, “I’ve no doubt’s as to Sam’s skills in the kitchen, but Merry, what will you do? What do you know of kitchens?”
Merry shrugged. “Nothing, but I’m happy to declare here and now that Sam can be in charge all he wants, and whatever he asks, I will do. No matter how menial the task, Sam is the one who gives the orders.”
Frodo noticed the pride in Sam’s face, but privately wondered how long Merry could last being told what to do. “I suppose I’ve no choice, then. I’ll be holding a Yule feast, after all.”
“Oh no, Frodo, “ said Pippin most patiently, “That’s not it at all. You’ll be the host, yes indeed, but we are holding the feast for you. You’re our friend, and you’ve been looking forward to it, so it’s the least we could do.”
“Well said,” Merry and Sam chorused, and Frodo realised it was time to give in gracefully. “As long as there are no arguments,” he warned the collection of innocent looking faces.
“You’re sure?” Merry said, suddenly serious. “For all the joking, if you weren’t happy, then this would stop, here and now.”
Frodo looked at each one of them, as they waited for his reply. None of them willing to leave, until they were sure that he was happy with what they planned to do. Although, perhaps happy was too strong a feeling at this precise moment. Sam and Merry sharing a kitchen. Pippin in charge of entertainment. So much could, and would go wrong.
Yet, they cared; cared enough to try and give him what he secretly had wanted more than anything - a Yule feast of his own. Their caring warmed him, melting his irritation away, and he smiled at them all. As one, they relaxed.
“Good! That’s settled then!” said Merry, “Now, Sam, let’s think about supper!”
That night, Frodo slept like a hobbit babe. It was far too exhausting thinking about what could possibly go wrong.
****
“I’ve been thinking,” said Pippin the next day, helping himself to an apple.
“Well, don’t strain yourself,” said Merry impatiently, “you could, of course, roll up your sleeves like the rest of us, and get stuck in.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m waiting for Frodo’s hot water to become hot water, and besides, I can’t compete with the two of you - you are both…” here he waved the apple around, trying to think of the word, “…magnificent!”
Merry, flour up his arms, in his hair and on his face, harrumphed his disbelief, and then said “Yes, Sam,” as Sam pointed out the potatoes that needed peeling. He began the task without a murmur. Pippin gaped in astonishment.
Sam looked around the kitchen. Already the Yule delicacies were ready, and the more traditional fare nearly complete. Merry had been as good as his word, and as obedient as any apprentice, even meekly redoing what Sam had felt was not up to standard.
Pippin reached for another apple, but Sam tapped the back of his hand with a spoon. “Water is hot enough now, go and take it to Frodo, its time he got ready.”
Off Pippin went, grumbling a little about bossy hobbits who had little consideration for those with large appetites. Sam took no notice, being too busy trying to picture what the table could look like. It was going to be a splendid sight, fit for any gentlehobbit decked in their finery, and then he blushed at his own presumption. He was a gardener, and occasional cook, not an invited guest. What was he thinking? He would finish what he had to do, and go home. He began to give Merry instructions about dishing up, and presentation until Merry halted the flow of his words with a floury finger to his lips.
“Sam, Sam, why tell me this? You’ll be the one in charge, you know what you are doing. I’m merely the help!”
Shyly, Sam explained but Merry would have none of it. “If the master of the kitchen does not attend, how can the apprentice? Believe me, I am most definitely the apprentice, here. You sit and eat with us all. Frodo would have it no other way. You know I’m right, and I’m not listening to any talk of you going home.”
Reassured, Sam mentioned there was one more problem.
“Only one?” Merry looked round at the bubbling pots, over-filled oven, and the mound of still to be washed plates, and dishes “I’m still amazed that all this will be ready at the right time. I can think of a host of problems!”
“That’s when we need to be dressed, ready to dress the table and eat while it’s hot. But all I have is these rough clothes, and I don’t think Frodo will have the strength to get fully dressed. He’ll be in a nightshirt and robe, and that can’t be right. What to do?”
Merry regarded him gravely. “Sam, you are a thoughtful hobbit, and Frodo is lucky to have you, but you worry too much. Does Bilbo have any clothes here, still, perhaps some of Frodo’s outgrown ones, as well? I have an idea.” He leaned forward, and began to whisper.
****
Pippin poured the water into a bowl, went back to get a hot buttered roll, and some tea, and then woke Frodo up.
Frodo surfaced to a world filled with Pippin energy, and the most enticing smells ever to drift into a hobbit’s bedroom. He realised he was hungry, surely a sign he was recovering, and gently begged Pippin to stop bouncing around, so that he could at least concentrate on what was going on around him.
“Oh Frodo! You need to dress, and quickly! It’s Yule!”
He tried, he really did, but no amount of support from Pippin could stop the realisation that dressing for the feast was going to be almost impossible, without him standing up for at least a little while, and when he did that, the world seemed determined to dance away from him.
“I think a crisp night-shirt and your best robe will do.” Pippin’s suggestion was very sensible, and so attired, Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. He really wasn’t ready for tightly fastened trousers, cravats and fancy shirts; and as for a waistcoat…
Pippin led him to the best sitting room, settled him down on the couch, and patted his hand like he was a grey-haired hobbit.
Frodo was going to say something, but before he could, the room burst into life. Sam bustled in, and checked the fire was drawing well. Merry and Pippin moved the table from the dining room, and then everyone was involved with china and glassware, cutlery and decorations. Frodo smiled to see how Merry listened so carefully to Sam’s instructions, how Sam kept thanking Merry for his help and how Pippin bobbed from one end of the table to the other, moving things simply because he could. Frodo began to laugh.
He pushed himself off the couch, and, to a round of applause, tottered to the head of the table, privately glad the chair had arms. Only then did he notice how they were dressed. All three were in night shirts and robes, Merry and Sam wearing some of Bilbo’s, and Pippin wearing a serviceable one Frodo had outgrown. No-one said a word, but kept on bringing in food, and lifting lids off tureens and dishes. Spiced apple cider was poured, and a greeting of ‘Blessed Yule!’ was said by all, as they sipped and smacked their lips appreciatively.
Frodo felt his throat tighten. All this for him. They had dressed that way for him. Such a loving thing to do, and yet they made no fuss, no attention drawn to the gesture.
“Thank you all,” he said, his voice shaky. Three sets of eyes looked up from their food. Three heads nodded, knowing exactly what he was referring to. Frodo began to have the first hopes that this Yule, after all, could turn out to be the best.
****
Sam could not believe that such rushing about, such lack of preparation, had resulted in a feast that seemed to please everyone. The capon was pronounced perfect, the roast potatoes just as all liked them, vegetables to everyone’s taste. The Yule puddings were not too sweet, and the savories not too salty. He accepted the praises of his fellows with a modesty his Gaffer would be proud of, and when Frodo mouthed a special ‘thank you’, just for him, he blushed to the roots of his hair. Merry made a toast in salute, and Pippin accompanied every mouthful with a symphony of noises that made sure everybody knew how much he was enjoying himself.
Although, if he had been asked to describe the highlight of the meal, he would have had to admit that it was something he had not expected. Frodo had said his hands weren’t too steady, and someone else would have to carve. Pippin looked horrified at the prospect, and Merry had said nothing, Sam felt proud that he would, of course, do the honours for the Baggins household. Yet Frodo had handed the carving knife to Merry, and for a moment Sam had found himself peeved at the idea that he could be so overlooked.
Merry, the tips of his ears pink at being thrust into an unexpected limelight, held the knife and carving fork awkwardly, tackling the fowl as if it was a rare jewel, something special. It was then that Sam realised that Frodo, in his wisdom, had given Merry responsibility for something he’d never been allowed to do before. Carving at the Brandybuck table was the duty of the head of the house, not his son. Merry had never carved before at a Yule feast. The first slice, somewhat ragged, fell on the plate, and all cheered. Two more, and Merry handed the implements over to Sam.
“There you are, Sam. We’ll all starve if you wait for me to finish!” Sam had taken over, but he would never forget that quiet glow of satisfaction from Merry, all the same.
Afterwards, when all was done, and the plates were being cleared, he remembered, that while Frodo had tasted from all the dishes, he had never cleared his plate. “You could go back to bed, if you are tired,” he suggested.
“And miss the entertainment? Never!” Frodo allowed himself to be led back to the couch, and waited for the fun.
****
As master of ceremonies, Pippin was ruthless. He did not accept a refusal.
“We are going to start with our favourite Yule songs!”
That was easy. Soon, all four voices were raised in praise of the passing of the year, in thanks for good fortune, the blessings of hearth and home, and love of the Shire. Pippin became most enthusiastic during the choruses, and Frodo had to beg him to keep still, because it was making him dizzy.
“Next comes storytelling!”
Pippin started this with his most embarrassing moment of the year. It was amusing, with voices and actions, and soon everyone realised that their first thoughts of sympathy and understanding were misplaced. Pippin really wasn’t embarrassed at all.
“Do not tell your family we laughed like this,” Frodo said, wiping his eyes,” They’ll think we encourage you.”
“And so you do,” said Pippin, pleased at the reaction to his story. “I always learn from my elders, which is why I blame Merry every time.”
A well-aimed cushion hit him a glancing blow at that, Merry rubbing his hands in gleeful satisfaction.
Sam told the tale of his first Yule as a child, when he smuggled the pudding into his room, wanting it for himself, and everyone had to hunt for it. It had become a family tradition ever since, and he hastily assured Pippin that no, it was not the same pudding, and now not a real one, because that was a waste, and his Gaffer couldn’t abide waste.
It seemed to fire Pippin’s imagination, because the youngest hobbit began to plan to start a similar tradition of his own, which caused some alarm, until Frodo threatened dire consequences if he even tried such a thing in the Took household.
Merry then stood up, and began the tale of Wrestling the Pig, which was a tried and tested favourite - only this time, Merry had dressed one of the pillows up as the pig, and much hilarity ensued, as Merry wrestled, and the pillow won. It was so comical, Frodo had to ask that some quieter entertainment take place, because his stomach hurt from so much laughter.
“I’ll tell some jokes! I’m not up to many riddles yet, but I’ve learned some standard ones for parties, and suchlike,” announced Pippin.
“Uh-oh.,” said Merry, “It helps if you know how to tell them.”
Frodo waved Merry to silence, and was prepared to give Pippin the benefit of the doubt.
“Why did the hobbit cross the street?” asked Pippin, seriously.
“I don’t know, why did he cross the street?” Frodo supplied.
“Because he did!” Pippin said, immensely proud of his newly acquired talent.
Merry groaned, falling onto the floor dramatically, and burying his head under the pig pillow.
Sam looked puzzled. “Was that a joke?”
“No,” said Merry, ”Believe me, they never are.”
Pippin looked at Frodo, his lip beginning to quiver. “Wasn’t it a tiny bit funny, Frodo?”
Frodo prodded Merry with his foot, in an effort to stop Merry making mock whimpering noises.
“Yes, Pip,” he stated firmly, “It was a tiny bit funny, a very tiny bit.”
Sam leaned over Merry, appearing to offer him a hand up, “You will have to teach him some jokes for next Yule,” he whispered.
****
Later , when the mood had mellowed, helped by a generous helping of hot mince pies and cream, Pippin stated he had a final gift to give, as part of the festivities. No-one could think of what it could be - even Sam when he was thanked for his help in making the gift.
“All I did was find three stout twigs.”
Still, when Pippin clapped his hands for silence, they obeyed willingly, and with a great deal of curiosity.
“I have a gift for our host, Frodo Baggins.” He pulled out a large stuffed apple, on three twig legs. It looked like a child’s version of a milking stool, only with an apple in place of a seat. Carefully he lifted it, and placed it in Frodo’s hands. The pleasing aroma of candied peel, cinnamon, apple and raisins filled Frodo’s nostrils.
“In my family, dear Frodo, a successful Yule feast is followed by the giving of a good-luck apple. It’s meant to be given as a thank you to the host, and kept safely until the next Yule. The youngest hobbit in the Thain’s hall presents, it with all the customary blessings.”
Pippin added softly, “I’m meant to sing, too, but you don’t have to have that part.”
Frodo smiled, as sweet a smile as Sam had ever seen, and said “Yes, I do, Pip. You do me great honour, and if a blessing is called for, you must give it.”
Pippin came into the centre of the room, and stood alone. He seemed even younger than his years, and Sam saw Merry slowly cross his fingers, in the hope that Pippin would do it well, and thinking it might help, and certainly never hurt, he did so too.
****
Pippin’s eyes never left Frodo’s face as he sang, and Frodo kept his own gaze steady in return, willing him on with every note. The first note quavered, and Frodo heard Merry’s quick intake of breath, but Pippin recovered, and soon the notes came clear and true, reaching into their hearts, binding them together.
This is the gift, of which I sing,
Free from my heart, this gift I bring
For all that you give, your brightest and best,
May you without fail, be blessed.
Thank you, dear host,
Thank you dear friend
For sharing life’s fortune until this year’s end
For all that you give , no matter the test,
May you, without fail, next year be blessed.
At the end of the song, into the silence, came Merry’s gentle “So say we all”, and Sam’s “That’s the truth of it!” and because, they knew Frodo wanted time to recover himself, and wipe away the wetness now gracing his cheeks, they clapped, and patted Pippin’s back, until Frodo was ready to pronounce Pippin as the finest Yuletide performer in the Shire.
It seemed fitting, then, to end the evening, but no one wanted to be the first to break away, and instead, as Frodo dozed, the other hobbits brought in covers and eiderdowns, pillows and bolsters, arranging themselves in front of the dying fire. Sam waited for Merry and Pippin to settle, then got up, preferring to sleep sitting in a worn leather chair, facing the couch.
****
It was the unfamiliar noise that pulled Frodo from sleep, and the strange flickering on the ceiling that made him wonder if he was in a dream. Then he remembered about the couch, and how it had always been a place of refuge when he was ill, how he had felt less isolated hearing the rustle of pages turned as Bilbo read silently, while he kept watch. Not that Bilbo would admit to being worried, but kept watch, nevertheless.
Frodo shifted under his covers, as he tried to contain his sigh as those thoughts about Bilbo and his journey crept, like traitors, back into his mind. He’d sworn that while he had guests, he’d be a model host. No regrets about times past, no recalling of someone dear, now gone, but the very model of jollity and festive wellbeing. Only his illness had put paid to the wellbeing, and the jollity had been supplied by…and then the unfamiliar noise broke through his thoughts, and he raised himself on one elbow to try and fathom what in the Shire could be the cause.
There on the floor, lay two hummocks, illuminated by the embers of the fire. Peeking out from both were two well loved faces, deep in sleep. The noise came from Pippin, muttering in some dream. He wasn’t distressed, but whatever was going on, he was very earnest about it. Frodo imagined, with great fondness, how the coming morning’s breakfast would be adorned with the lively retelling of Pippin’s dream. The other hummock moved, and suddenly, the sound of light snoring filled the room, and Frodo had to press the covers against his mouth to stop the rising urge to giggle. Merry snored on his back! Hardly the sophisticated action of a scion of Brandy Hall, and Frodo could see the prospect of a great deal of gentle teasing when next Merry began boasting about his latest escapade.
Yet, where was Sam? Surely he hadn’t made his way home at this hour? Frodo sat up, reluctant to leave the cosiness of his makeshift bed, but concerned that Sam would not presume to stay unless Frodo personally invited him.
“Is everything all right, Mister Frodo? You wish for something?” The whisper carried across the room from Bilbo’s old chair where Sam now sat, wrapped in a quilt and watching him.
He was going to say, no, he was fine, he was going to wish Sam a Happy Yule, and settle down, but instead he said, with all tenderness, “Thank you, Sam, for this, and for everything.”
He sensed Sam’s acceptance, and appreciated the reply of “It was a good evening, indeed it was.”
“Ahem.” Two other voices came together as one. Not sleeping as he first thought, then.
Frodo laughed softly. “Thank you, Merry, thank you, Pippin.”
“Don’t mention it…any time.” came the sleepy reply.
“Thank you all for persuading me, for I’ll happily admit it was the best of Yules. What could be better?”
There was simply the sound of gentle snoring once more. Those he held most dear, content in his home.
He listened, as he drifted into sleep.
“May you, without fail, next year be blessed, my dear, dear friends,” he murmured.
Yule night, surrounded by the love of friends. There truly was no better gift.
Author: ladysunrope
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: none
Rating: Genfic
Disclaimer: Not mine, this is all for fun and no profit.
Notes: For cindy (cbpotts), for the lotr_sesa 2008. You wanted happy hobbits celebrating, and I hope I delivered! The good luck gift is in fact the now sadly long gone Welsh custom of Calennig. Thanks to my beta, ismenin
Summary: Frodo has the flu and wants to forget all about Yule. Merry and Pippin have other ideas.
The Love of Friends
For Cindy
“Not another one?” Frodo’s anxious face peered round the smial’s front door.
Sam thanked the small hobbit-lad who had brought the message, and walked back up the path. The little one had seemed mightily relieved at finding Sam already walking round the garden, checking on the winter bulbs, and had stuttered out his message before Frodo had even answered Sam’s call. The thought of passing on an apologetic message bringing disappointment to the Master of Bag End, was, it seemed, far too large a task for one of such tender years, and those tiny legs were pounding their way down the lane before Sam had a chance to agree with his employer that, yes, it was indeed another one.
“It’s going to be a disaster, Sam. I had such high hopes, but now…” Frodo’s despondent expression pulled at Sam’s sympathies. He watched as Frodo wandered round the garden, kicking disconsolately at the edges of the lawn. Frodo Baggin’s first Yule feast since Bilbo had left had promised to be the social invitation of the season - at least where Hobbiton was concerned. Those with lesser hopes confined themselves to their own hearths. The occasional soul with connections, might, if they were very lucky, find themselves sampling the hospitality of those who lived in more auspicious surrounds, like Michel Delving. There were even one or two invited to the Took display of munificence. No one expected invitations to a Brandybuck family feast at Yule, because, well, if you were, you didn’t come from Hobbiton.
Yet, Bilbo, for all his strange ways - and Sam had to admit, he’d spent many a time defending his former employer’s manner from that very accusation of strangeness - Bilbo had always kept up the tradition of a Yule feast that was open to all who had made the previous year a decent one for the Baggins family. Granted, these feasts were larger, and more well-attended before Bilbo went off on his adventures, and they had become smaller still, since Frodo joined the Baggins household. For as Bilbo stated very firmly, there was no need to terrify the lad by meeting all the neighbourhood in one go when he could be equally terrified by meeting them one at a time during the year. When he said that, Sam, young as he was, had thought he was joking, but his Da had nodded wisely in agreement, and Bilbo had clapped the Gaffer on the shoulder, and called him a capital fellow, so it couldn’t have been a joke at all.
With Bilbo gone, Frodo, as Master of Bag End, could have abandoned the tradition completely, and no -one would have thought badly of him. In fact, they were expecting it, for after all, Bilbo’s leaving was a queer do, and no mistake, and having a feast in a smial already tinged with the hint of scandal and goings-on, smacked of pretentiousness ,and that wasn’t Mr Frodo’s way at all.
Sam smiled at the memory of Frodo’s plans for a Yule feast.
“I’m not going to abandon the idea, Sam, because to do that would feel as if I’m ashamed of Bilbo, and what he’s done. To hold a huge party, as we’ve had before, doesn’t seem right, for you know how so many will come merely to gloat, and say ‘I told you so’. There’ll be even some there looking to see if I’m ready to be the Master of Bag End, and I refuse to hold myself up for inspection. It will be an intimate feast of true friends who have helped me during my life, here. Yes, that’s how I’ll consider it.”
Frodo had penned the invitations himself, with that elegant script Bilbo had taught him, and Sam had offered to deliver them. He’d done so with a cheerful air, and a helpful addition to the opening conversation at each home he visited, about the intimacy and nature of the feast, so that each recipient felt he or she had been especially chosen. He made sure it seemed to slip out of his mouth like some overheard fragment from Mr Frodo himself. Some had flushed with pleasure, others had been pleasingly surprised, a few had positively preened, and some, rather closer to Frodo than others, like Mister Fredegar Bolger, had expressed their wholesale admiration at Frodo’s determination to carry on as before.
Sam didn’t consider his own contribution to be anything other than helping to make the occasion exactly what Frodo wanted. For that was something he knew, probably better than Frodo himself - how much Frodo wanted this whole occasion to be a success. Seating plans had cluttered up the desk upon which Frodo worked as soon as the acceptances rolled in, and now they lay upon the dining table itself. Menus had been compiled, and discarded, and endlessly discussed. Even Sam, loving food as he did like any right-minded hobbit, was fed up of hearing about light soup as opposed to broth, and a delicate glaze of honey traced over wine soaked fruit, instead of the glory that was apple crumble. Once he’d even yelled out in exasperation, “What’s wrong with a hearty mutton stew?” He’d apologised soon after, mainly because he felt guilty at the look of absolute horror on Frodo’s face.
Instead, he’d offered his, and his family’s, help in preparing, cooking and serving the assembled throng, and Frodo’s gratitude at such generosity had made his foot hairs curl with pleasure. The very best dining room had been emptied of all its clutter, and the floor swept spick and span. The table and chairs had been polished until they didn’t shine - they glowed. Fresh greenery had already been marked out for cutting to decorate the mantelpiece. The fire was dressed with fragrant logs, and ready for lighting. Even the heavy curtains along the walls had been taken out into the winter sun, and beaten into dust-free folds of pleasing scarlet and gold. As Frodo proudly declared - it was going to be a feast to remember.
Everything was ready - only fate had other plans.
Sam had already heard in the Green Dragon that the usual winter collection of coughs and sneezes had started, and thought nothing of it. Apparently, it was particularly bad in Michel Delving, but that was a particularly fast place, and to his mind if you lived life that way, it was only to be expected that your health might suffer. He’d made a comment to Frodo about it, but neither had given it much mind. Frodo had been too thrilled at the letter he’d had from the Tooks saying that Master Pippin would represent the family at his first Yule feast. The next day, he got one from Meriadoc Brandybuck as well, saying that even if he didn’t get permission off his father, he was coming, anyway. The thought of a Took and a Brandybuck at his first feast, and how that would be seen, made Frodo beam. That night, Sam had noticed how few folks there were at the Green Dragon, but couldn’t for a moment think of a reason why.
Frodo was now kicking broken clods of lawn onto the path. Sam winced, but didn’t interfere. This was going from bad to worse. Whatever the sickness spreading through the Shire was, it certainly laid hobbits low, coughing and feverish, and past usefulness for days and days. First one, and then another excusal, apology, plea for understanding because they were ill, or worn out, or contagious or all of those, until one by one the list of attendees got smaller and smaller. At this rate, Frodo would be having a Yule feast by himself.
Suddenly, Frodo burst out “It isn’t fair!” Sam had to agree but offered a small consolation.
“That last hobbit lad said he’d leave something by the gate. He was told to bring it for the feast, as a thank you for thinking of the family. I’ll go and see what he left.”
He leaned over the gate, and saw the glass jar of pears nestling in the long grass at the side. “This looks interesting!” he yelled back, and ignored the mutterings behind him about perhaps all the gifts could be sat at table instead. Sam opened the jar as soon as he had the gift in his hands, and sniffed appreciatively at the brandy fumes. Pears in brandy - now that was a sign of Yule, and a fine gift for the table.
Frodo wasn’t having any of it, and Sam gazed in dismay at the damage to the grass, and the mess of earth and pulled out roots on the path.
“I think I’d better get a brush to sweep this up.”
Frodo appeared puzzled at first, and then looked at the path in dawning embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean to…yes, I did but…it’s not going terribly well is it?”
Sam couldn’t help but agree. He swept the path clear, and politely but firmly asked the Master of Bag End to keep his feet away from his defenceless lawn. To Sam’s surprise, Frodo meekly apologised and went inside, his shoulders slumped in disappointment. It wasn’t like Frodo to be that interested in impressing hobbit society, but when he set his heart on something, he liked to follow it through.
Sam bit his lip. Mister Frodo Baggins was going to be a tetchy hobbit for a few days, until Yule was over. Sam wondered if there was some huge task needed for the maintenance of the smial that could be done this very moment. Anything that would keep him at a distance from Frodo, until his mood changed. No doubt there was something…anything.
He put his brush away, and drew his feet along the foot scraper to get the soil away from the soles, before he stepped inside when he heard something that made him groan.
Frodo was sneezing.
****
Frodo tossed and turned, wanted to complain, but his throat wouldn’t let him, wanted to sit up, but his head ached when he did, and when he coughed, his head seemed about to explode. Sometimes he was too hot, and sometimes too cold, but all the time he was definite about a certain fact - he hated being ill.
Sam was a patient hobbit, bringing linctus and cooling facecloths, for which Frodo was very grateful, and a concoction made with herbs that his Gaffer swore by, which made him not so grateful. Sam helped him out of bed, and Frodo grumbled. Sam changed the sheets, and helped him back, and Frodo grumbled again.
“I’m right sorry you’re feeling this way, Frodo, and that’s a fact. I’ve heard tell it’s a two day affair, but afterwards, you’re as weak as a newborn, so I’ll stay here at Bag End until you’re well enough. How does that sound?
Frodo expressed his gratitude, but rather spoiled the effect by announcing that he was cancelling Yule altogether, and would Sam see to it that everyone knew. Sam found the list of guests on Frodo’s desk, and spent a few hours dispatching young hobbit lads and lasses, eager to earn a coin or two passing on the news. At least this way Frodo would be spared the humiliation of sitting at a well-laden table with only himself for company, Sam thought. Sometimes there were advantages in the most dire circumstances, but cancelling Yule? Now that was a step too far. Yule was tradition, and part of the Shire, and important, not something to be cast aside like a worn piece of clothing. Yet, no matter how he tried to persuade Frodo differently, Mister Baggins was having none of it. Every time Sam tried to bring up the subject, as tactfully as he knew how, Frodo put the covers over his head, and from the depths of the linen, a muffled voice announced...
“I’m not interested.”
Still, there were things to be getting on with, and Sam made a list of everything he’d been putting off, mainly because Frodo insisted on taking note of what was going on, and becoming involved when he had no idea about what to do in the first place. Sam had every affection for his employer, but in his view, a hobbit stuck to what he was good at doing, rather than give advice where it wasn’t wanted. Now, with Frodo asleep more often than he was awake, Sam could make sure that every possible problem would be fixed before Frodo realised. That old glass forcing frame could be removed, the shed could be emptied, and maybe a wall or two painted. Cold weather didn’t bother him, and he’d already let the Gaffer know he might only manage to drop in for a glass or two to toast the season.
He gave a satisfied sigh, running his finger down the list to see if he’d missed anything, when he heard a knock at the door. When he opened it, his mouth dropped open in astonishment, and the words popped out before he could stop them.
“Oh my goodness, it’s you!”
It wasn’t the greeting they were expecting, but the heirs to the Took and Brandybuck lands took it in good grace, and to give them credit, Sam did note, even in his confusion, that neither made a fuss, but waited patiently on the step until Sam remembered his manners. Flustered, he couldn’t think of anything to say that would rescue the situation, and then he brightened.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here…”
Pippin scrabbled under his travelling cloak, and brought out a well- worn invitation. “We’ve had one of these,“ he said, helpfully.
Merry, on the other hand, was already looking suspicious. “You were expecting us, yes?”
Sam searched for the right words, a dignified way to tell them there was no Yule no matter what the invitation said, when Merry sniffed the air.
“Why does Bag End smell like an apothecary’s shop? Where’s the smell of food cooking, cakes baking, the sound of early arrivals chattering? In short , my dear Sam, where is everyone? Frodo? FRODO!”
He ended his words on a shout which galvanised Sam into action. Frodo was asleep, and no-one, not even Meriadoc Brandybuck, was going to disturb him.
“Hush, please! Mister Frodo is sick - oh not desperately so - but the Yule feast is cancelled. So many were ill, and now he is, too. Everyone was told, I sent the messages, I’m sure I told everyone, yes, except…oh dear…” Sam looked mortified with embarrassment.
“Except us,” Pippin added, “which could offend us very much, if we were that sort of hobbit, but seeing as we are not, you could invite us in, and since it seems to be a waste to have us here without a feast, we could have a feast anyway.”
It took a moment for both Merry and Sam to take in what Pippin suggested. Sam shook his head. “We could? How?”
Merry on the other hand, crowed with glee. “You have an inventive mind, dear Pip! We are here, and presumably there is food? Yes?”
Sam nodded.
“Then,” Merry continued, making his way into the hall, already unfastening his cloak, “today we plan and prepare, and tomorrow we have a Yule feast for the three of us, and Frodo. How difficult can it be?”
Sam stared at the two of them, already chattering about their favourite food. Masters Merry and Pippin were going to organise a Yule feast?
Oh dear. He stuttered something about talking to Frodo first, but they weren’t listening. This was going to be an unexpected party, to be sure, and he wasn’t certain how Frodo in his current state was going to receive the news. Grumpy, tetchy or maybe downright rude Frodo could be the order of the day. It didn’t bear thinking about, and Sam really didn’t want to be the one to ask.
Then he had a rather excellent idea. He knew someone with a silver tongue, and persuasive ways, not so very far from him right this moment.
“Erm…gentlehobbits, I have a suggestion. Why don’t you ask Mister Frodo right now? Master Meriadoc, you’ve always had a way with words. I’m sure you’ll be able to persuade him.”
Merry accepted the challenge, and without hesitation, with Pippin at his side, marched up to the closed bedroom door, and knocked upon it. Sam, deciding he’d rather not brave the wrath of Frodo Baggins, Esq, in his current loathing of Yule mood, hung well back.
As his Gaffer always said, better safe than sorry.
****
Frodo was dreaming. He was dressed in his finest at the head of a beautifully presented table, The conversation was entertaining, and compliments rained down upon him about the food, the drink and the marvellous company. He’d done Bilbo proud, and glowed with the praise. Suddenly, everything vanished, and there he was still dressed for a celebration, but no one was there. Instead he could hear voices calling his name, laughing and joking - mocking him, no doubt - and for some reason, someone was tweaking his toe. Why would they do that? Irritated beyond measure, he kicked out.
“Ow! Is that any way to treat an honoured guest?”
That caught Frodo’s attention, right enough. He’d kicked a guest? What a terrible host he was! How could he…hold on, what guest?
He opened two bleary eyes, and stared at the bottom of his bed, where for some unfathomable reason, a crowd had gathered.
Merry and Pippin. Sam. All gazing at him.
“You always were a terrible patient, Frodo,” said Merry, fondly.
Frodo thought of a few suitable replies, but rejected them on the grounds of impoliteness, and settled for a mumbled “go away.”
“Oh, don’t say that, we’ve only just arrived, and we haven’t had supper.” Pippin came closer, and looked at Frodo in that beseeching way Frodo found hard to resist. “After all, Frodo, you’ve always told me you kept your promises, and you promised my family that I could have a Yule feast…and this is the first one I’ve been allowed to attend without nosey relatives looking at everything I do - and I’ve so looked forward to it…”
Frodo wondered from whom Pippin had inherited his dramatic flair, because so far his performance was not only playing with his heartstrings, but almost tying them in knots. Yet, he was feeling hot and sticky, not in the least Yule-like, and so he pushed himself up, folded his arms for good measure, and announced firmly,
“There’s no Yule feast. I’m not well.”
Actually, he felt somewhat better than he had done, but he wasn’t going to mention that fact. After all, a hobbit had some rights in his own bedchamber.
“You did forget to uninvited us. So here we are. You can’t turn us away now, can you?” Merry smiled his most charming smile, but Frodo decided to forget it usually worked. They were owed an apology, no doubt, abut the fact he’d forgotten to tell them there was no Yule this year at Bag End, and he did begin to create one in his head, until Pippin blurted out,
“Frodo, you look terrible. All sweaty, and your hair is every which way…and is that a stain on your night shirt?”
Frodo looked at the reminder of a particularly effective struggle against the dreaded concoction Sam swore would be good for him, and retracted the thought of any apology. So what if he was grumpy, and extremely lacking in festive cheer?
“Begging your pardon, Mister Frodo, I think you might want to listen to their idea. You might even like it.”
Frodo gazed at Sam’s face. Poor Sam hadn’t liked the idea of cancelling Yule, even if he would probably fill the time with fixing and mending. Sam was very much in favour of tradition, and even if he hadn’t questioned Frodo’s decision, he had felt the weight of Sam’s disapproval, nevertheless. “Very well, I’m listening but you tell me, Sam. These two seem to only want to insult me.” He glared at Pippin, with, he hoped, some amount of fierceness, but it had no effect. Pippin giggled instead.
Sam pushed himself to the front. “We’ve decided that the Yule feast will go ahead.”
Frodo raised an eyebrow, and Sam stuttered to a halt, suddenly realising what he’d said. “Well, I mean…if you want…that is.”
Merry clapped his hand on Sam’s shoulder in an encouraging fashion, and nodded his support. Sam perked up, and began again.
“Master Meriadoc and me, well we’ll be in the kitchen, seeing to the food and the like, and the entertainment, mummery and such will be organised…”
“By me!” Pippin beamed as if it was the most natural choice in the world.
Frodo was speechless for quite some time. The others, accepting they’d made their case, and failed, turned to leave.
“Wait!” Frodo said, hoarsely, “I’ve no doubt’s as to Sam’s skills in the kitchen, but Merry, what will you do? What do you know of kitchens?”
Merry shrugged. “Nothing, but I’m happy to declare here and now that Sam can be in charge all he wants, and whatever he asks, I will do. No matter how menial the task, Sam is the one who gives the orders.”
Frodo noticed the pride in Sam’s face, but privately wondered how long Merry could last being told what to do. “I suppose I’ve no choice, then. I’ll be holding a Yule feast, after all.”
“Oh no, Frodo, “ said Pippin most patiently, “That’s not it at all. You’ll be the host, yes indeed, but we are holding the feast for you. You’re our friend, and you’ve been looking forward to it, so it’s the least we could do.”
“Well said,” Merry and Sam chorused, and Frodo realised it was time to give in gracefully. “As long as there are no arguments,” he warned the collection of innocent looking faces.
“You’re sure?” Merry said, suddenly serious. “For all the joking, if you weren’t happy, then this would stop, here and now.”
Frodo looked at each one of them, as they waited for his reply. None of them willing to leave, until they were sure that he was happy with what they planned to do. Although, perhaps happy was too strong a feeling at this precise moment. Sam and Merry sharing a kitchen. Pippin in charge of entertainment. So much could, and would go wrong.
Yet, they cared; cared enough to try and give him what he secretly had wanted more than anything - a Yule feast of his own. Their caring warmed him, melting his irritation away, and he smiled at them all. As one, they relaxed.
“Good! That’s settled then!” said Merry, “Now, Sam, let’s think about supper!”
That night, Frodo slept like a hobbit babe. It was far too exhausting thinking about what could possibly go wrong.
****
“I’ve been thinking,” said Pippin the next day, helping himself to an apple.
“Well, don’t strain yourself,” said Merry impatiently, “you could, of course, roll up your sleeves like the rest of us, and get stuck in.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m waiting for Frodo’s hot water to become hot water, and besides, I can’t compete with the two of you - you are both…” here he waved the apple around, trying to think of the word, “…magnificent!”
Merry, flour up his arms, in his hair and on his face, harrumphed his disbelief, and then said “Yes, Sam,” as Sam pointed out the potatoes that needed peeling. He began the task without a murmur. Pippin gaped in astonishment.
Sam looked around the kitchen. Already the Yule delicacies were ready, and the more traditional fare nearly complete. Merry had been as good as his word, and as obedient as any apprentice, even meekly redoing what Sam had felt was not up to standard.
Pippin reached for another apple, but Sam tapped the back of his hand with a spoon. “Water is hot enough now, go and take it to Frodo, its time he got ready.”
Off Pippin went, grumbling a little about bossy hobbits who had little consideration for those with large appetites. Sam took no notice, being too busy trying to picture what the table could look like. It was going to be a splendid sight, fit for any gentlehobbit decked in their finery, and then he blushed at his own presumption. He was a gardener, and occasional cook, not an invited guest. What was he thinking? He would finish what he had to do, and go home. He began to give Merry instructions about dishing up, and presentation until Merry halted the flow of his words with a floury finger to his lips.
“Sam, Sam, why tell me this? You’ll be the one in charge, you know what you are doing. I’m merely the help!”
Shyly, Sam explained but Merry would have none of it. “If the master of the kitchen does not attend, how can the apprentice? Believe me, I am most definitely the apprentice, here. You sit and eat with us all. Frodo would have it no other way. You know I’m right, and I’m not listening to any talk of you going home.”
Reassured, Sam mentioned there was one more problem.
“Only one?” Merry looked round at the bubbling pots, over-filled oven, and the mound of still to be washed plates, and dishes “I’m still amazed that all this will be ready at the right time. I can think of a host of problems!”
“That’s when we need to be dressed, ready to dress the table and eat while it’s hot. But all I have is these rough clothes, and I don’t think Frodo will have the strength to get fully dressed. He’ll be in a nightshirt and robe, and that can’t be right. What to do?”
Merry regarded him gravely. “Sam, you are a thoughtful hobbit, and Frodo is lucky to have you, but you worry too much. Does Bilbo have any clothes here, still, perhaps some of Frodo’s outgrown ones, as well? I have an idea.” He leaned forward, and began to whisper.
****
Pippin poured the water into a bowl, went back to get a hot buttered roll, and some tea, and then woke Frodo up.
Frodo surfaced to a world filled with Pippin energy, and the most enticing smells ever to drift into a hobbit’s bedroom. He realised he was hungry, surely a sign he was recovering, and gently begged Pippin to stop bouncing around, so that he could at least concentrate on what was going on around him.
“Oh Frodo! You need to dress, and quickly! It’s Yule!”
He tried, he really did, but no amount of support from Pippin could stop the realisation that dressing for the feast was going to be almost impossible, without him standing up for at least a little while, and when he did that, the world seemed determined to dance away from him.
“I think a crisp night-shirt and your best robe will do.” Pippin’s suggestion was very sensible, and so attired, Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. He really wasn’t ready for tightly fastened trousers, cravats and fancy shirts; and as for a waistcoat…
Pippin led him to the best sitting room, settled him down on the couch, and patted his hand like he was a grey-haired hobbit.
Frodo was going to say something, but before he could, the room burst into life. Sam bustled in, and checked the fire was drawing well. Merry and Pippin moved the table from the dining room, and then everyone was involved with china and glassware, cutlery and decorations. Frodo smiled to see how Merry listened so carefully to Sam’s instructions, how Sam kept thanking Merry for his help and how Pippin bobbed from one end of the table to the other, moving things simply because he could. Frodo began to laugh.
He pushed himself off the couch, and, to a round of applause, tottered to the head of the table, privately glad the chair had arms. Only then did he notice how they were dressed. All three were in night shirts and robes, Merry and Sam wearing some of Bilbo’s, and Pippin wearing a serviceable one Frodo had outgrown. No-one said a word, but kept on bringing in food, and lifting lids off tureens and dishes. Spiced apple cider was poured, and a greeting of ‘Blessed Yule!’ was said by all, as they sipped and smacked their lips appreciatively.
Frodo felt his throat tighten. All this for him. They had dressed that way for him. Such a loving thing to do, and yet they made no fuss, no attention drawn to the gesture.
“Thank you all,” he said, his voice shaky. Three sets of eyes looked up from their food. Three heads nodded, knowing exactly what he was referring to. Frodo began to have the first hopes that this Yule, after all, could turn out to be the best.
****
Sam could not believe that such rushing about, such lack of preparation, had resulted in a feast that seemed to please everyone. The capon was pronounced perfect, the roast potatoes just as all liked them, vegetables to everyone’s taste. The Yule puddings were not too sweet, and the savories not too salty. He accepted the praises of his fellows with a modesty his Gaffer would be proud of, and when Frodo mouthed a special ‘thank you’, just for him, he blushed to the roots of his hair. Merry made a toast in salute, and Pippin accompanied every mouthful with a symphony of noises that made sure everybody knew how much he was enjoying himself.
Although, if he had been asked to describe the highlight of the meal, he would have had to admit that it was something he had not expected. Frodo had said his hands weren’t too steady, and someone else would have to carve. Pippin looked horrified at the prospect, and Merry had said nothing, Sam felt proud that he would, of course, do the honours for the Baggins household. Yet Frodo had handed the carving knife to Merry, and for a moment Sam had found himself peeved at the idea that he could be so overlooked.
Merry, the tips of his ears pink at being thrust into an unexpected limelight, held the knife and carving fork awkwardly, tackling the fowl as if it was a rare jewel, something special. It was then that Sam realised that Frodo, in his wisdom, had given Merry responsibility for something he’d never been allowed to do before. Carving at the Brandybuck table was the duty of the head of the house, not his son. Merry had never carved before at a Yule feast. The first slice, somewhat ragged, fell on the plate, and all cheered. Two more, and Merry handed the implements over to Sam.
“There you are, Sam. We’ll all starve if you wait for me to finish!” Sam had taken over, but he would never forget that quiet glow of satisfaction from Merry, all the same.
Afterwards, when all was done, and the plates were being cleared, he remembered, that while Frodo had tasted from all the dishes, he had never cleared his plate. “You could go back to bed, if you are tired,” he suggested.
“And miss the entertainment? Never!” Frodo allowed himself to be led back to the couch, and waited for the fun.
****
As master of ceremonies, Pippin was ruthless. He did not accept a refusal.
“We are going to start with our favourite Yule songs!”
That was easy. Soon, all four voices were raised in praise of the passing of the year, in thanks for good fortune, the blessings of hearth and home, and love of the Shire. Pippin became most enthusiastic during the choruses, and Frodo had to beg him to keep still, because it was making him dizzy.
“Next comes storytelling!”
Pippin started this with his most embarrassing moment of the year. It was amusing, with voices and actions, and soon everyone realised that their first thoughts of sympathy and understanding were misplaced. Pippin really wasn’t embarrassed at all.
“Do not tell your family we laughed like this,” Frodo said, wiping his eyes,” They’ll think we encourage you.”
“And so you do,” said Pippin, pleased at the reaction to his story. “I always learn from my elders, which is why I blame Merry every time.”
A well-aimed cushion hit him a glancing blow at that, Merry rubbing his hands in gleeful satisfaction.
Sam told the tale of his first Yule as a child, when he smuggled the pudding into his room, wanting it for himself, and everyone had to hunt for it. It had become a family tradition ever since, and he hastily assured Pippin that no, it was not the same pudding, and now not a real one, because that was a waste, and his Gaffer couldn’t abide waste.
It seemed to fire Pippin’s imagination, because the youngest hobbit began to plan to start a similar tradition of his own, which caused some alarm, until Frodo threatened dire consequences if he even tried such a thing in the Took household.
Merry then stood up, and began the tale of Wrestling the Pig, which was a tried and tested favourite - only this time, Merry had dressed one of the pillows up as the pig, and much hilarity ensued, as Merry wrestled, and the pillow won. It was so comical, Frodo had to ask that some quieter entertainment take place, because his stomach hurt from so much laughter.
“I’ll tell some jokes! I’m not up to many riddles yet, but I’ve learned some standard ones for parties, and suchlike,” announced Pippin.
“Uh-oh.,” said Merry, “It helps if you know how to tell them.”
Frodo waved Merry to silence, and was prepared to give Pippin the benefit of the doubt.
“Why did the hobbit cross the street?” asked Pippin, seriously.
“I don’t know, why did he cross the street?” Frodo supplied.
“Because he did!” Pippin said, immensely proud of his newly acquired talent.
Merry groaned, falling onto the floor dramatically, and burying his head under the pig pillow.
Sam looked puzzled. “Was that a joke?”
“No,” said Merry, ”Believe me, they never are.”
Pippin looked at Frodo, his lip beginning to quiver. “Wasn’t it a tiny bit funny, Frodo?”
Frodo prodded Merry with his foot, in an effort to stop Merry making mock whimpering noises.
“Yes, Pip,” he stated firmly, “It was a tiny bit funny, a very tiny bit.”
Sam leaned over Merry, appearing to offer him a hand up, “You will have to teach him some jokes for next Yule,” he whispered.
****
Later , when the mood had mellowed, helped by a generous helping of hot mince pies and cream, Pippin stated he had a final gift to give, as part of the festivities. No-one could think of what it could be - even Sam when he was thanked for his help in making the gift.
“All I did was find three stout twigs.”
Still, when Pippin clapped his hands for silence, they obeyed willingly, and with a great deal of curiosity.
“I have a gift for our host, Frodo Baggins.” He pulled out a large stuffed apple, on three twig legs. It looked like a child’s version of a milking stool, only with an apple in place of a seat. Carefully he lifted it, and placed it in Frodo’s hands. The pleasing aroma of candied peel, cinnamon, apple and raisins filled Frodo’s nostrils.
“In my family, dear Frodo, a successful Yule feast is followed by the giving of a good-luck apple. It’s meant to be given as a thank you to the host, and kept safely until the next Yule. The youngest hobbit in the Thain’s hall presents, it with all the customary blessings.”
Pippin added softly, “I’m meant to sing, too, but you don’t have to have that part.”
Frodo smiled, as sweet a smile as Sam had ever seen, and said “Yes, I do, Pip. You do me great honour, and if a blessing is called for, you must give it.”
Pippin came into the centre of the room, and stood alone. He seemed even younger than his years, and Sam saw Merry slowly cross his fingers, in the hope that Pippin would do it well, and thinking it might help, and certainly never hurt, he did so too.
****
Pippin’s eyes never left Frodo’s face as he sang, and Frodo kept his own gaze steady in return, willing him on with every note. The first note quavered, and Frodo heard Merry’s quick intake of breath, but Pippin recovered, and soon the notes came clear and true, reaching into their hearts, binding them together.
This is the gift, of which I sing,
Free from my heart, this gift I bring
For all that you give, your brightest and best,
May you without fail, be blessed.
Thank you, dear host,
Thank you dear friend
For sharing life’s fortune until this year’s end
For all that you give , no matter the test,
May you, without fail, next year be blessed.
At the end of the song, into the silence, came Merry’s gentle “So say we all”, and Sam’s “That’s the truth of it!” and because, they knew Frodo wanted time to recover himself, and wipe away the wetness now gracing his cheeks, they clapped, and patted Pippin’s back, until Frodo was ready to pronounce Pippin as the finest Yuletide performer in the Shire.
It seemed fitting, then, to end the evening, but no one wanted to be the first to break away, and instead, as Frodo dozed, the other hobbits brought in covers and eiderdowns, pillows and bolsters, arranging themselves in front of the dying fire. Sam waited for Merry and Pippin to settle, then got up, preferring to sleep sitting in a worn leather chair, facing the couch.
****
It was the unfamiliar noise that pulled Frodo from sleep, and the strange flickering on the ceiling that made him wonder if he was in a dream. Then he remembered about the couch, and how it had always been a place of refuge when he was ill, how he had felt less isolated hearing the rustle of pages turned as Bilbo read silently, while he kept watch. Not that Bilbo would admit to being worried, but kept watch, nevertheless.
Frodo shifted under his covers, as he tried to contain his sigh as those thoughts about Bilbo and his journey crept, like traitors, back into his mind. He’d sworn that while he had guests, he’d be a model host. No regrets about times past, no recalling of someone dear, now gone, but the very model of jollity and festive wellbeing. Only his illness had put paid to the wellbeing, and the jollity had been supplied by…and then the unfamiliar noise broke through his thoughts, and he raised himself on one elbow to try and fathom what in the Shire could be the cause.
There on the floor, lay two hummocks, illuminated by the embers of the fire. Peeking out from both were two well loved faces, deep in sleep. The noise came from Pippin, muttering in some dream. He wasn’t distressed, but whatever was going on, he was very earnest about it. Frodo imagined, with great fondness, how the coming morning’s breakfast would be adorned with the lively retelling of Pippin’s dream. The other hummock moved, and suddenly, the sound of light snoring filled the room, and Frodo had to press the covers against his mouth to stop the rising urge to giggle. Merry snored on his back! Hardly the sophisticated action of a scion of Brandy Hall, and Frodo could see the prospect of a great deal of gentle teasing when next Merry began boasting about his latest escapade.
Yet, where was Sam? Surely he hadn’t made his way home at this hour? Frodo sat up, reluctant to leave the cosiness of his makeshift bed, but concerned that Sam would not presume to stay unless Frodo personally invited him.
“Is everything all right, Mister Frodo? You wish for something?” The whisper carried across the room from Bilbo’s old chair where Sam now sat, wrapped in a quilt and watching him.
He was going to say, no, he was fine, he was going to wish Sam a Happy Yule, and settle down, but instead he said, with all tenderness, “Thank you, Sam, for this, and for everything.”
He sensed Sam’s acceptance, and appreciated the reply of “It was a good evening, indeed it was.”
“Ahem.” Two other voices came together as one. Not sleeping as he first thought, then.
Frodo laughed softly. “Thank you, Merry, thank you, Pippin.”
“Don’t mention it…any time.” came the sleepy reply.
“Thank you all for persuading me, for I’ll happily admit it was the best of Yules. What could be better?”
There was simply the sound of gentle snoring once more. Those he held most dear, content in his home.
He listened, as he drifted into sleep.
“May you, without fail, next year be blessed, my dear, dear friends,” he murmured.
Yule night, surrounded by the love of friends. There truly was no better gift.