This is a series of drabbles, most of which are 300 words. The fourth is 400 words (just happened that way, and I couldn’t find 100 words to cut out of it), and the last two are 500 words each. They feature our four main hobbits, their relatives and friends, including a few OCs, some of whom haven’t been seen in a while. These drabbles are set during the Yule before the Quest.

The Twelve Days of Yule

 
 
 
Day 1

21 Foreyule, 1417 SR

Marigold, Rosie and Lily sat in the parlor of the Cotton home, bundles of yarn, wool and cloth scattered about them. A basket of needles, scissors and knives sat on the table between them, so they each had easy access to whatever tools they needed.

“Little Bell is just going to love this scarf,” Marigold said of her niece. She was using Bell’s favorites colors of orange and yellow, alternating the colors every five rows.

“I just hope Jolly doesn’t lose these mittens before First Yule is over,” Lily said. Every year, she made a new pair of mittens for Jolly, and every year he misplaced them. She often wondered if some day she would be out in the barn milking the cows and find a calf sleeping comfortably on a pile of lost mittens.

Rosie smiled at her mother and reached for the bundle of felt. “Sam’s not very fond of gloves or mittens. He does need a hat though, so I’m going to make him a wizard’s hat.”

Goldie grinned at this but Lily looked scandalized. “Better to make him a proper hat, so he can keep what sense he has left in his head.” She spoke kindly though.

“He’s sense enough,” Rosie said. “He can wear it when he goes traveling.”

“Where’s he going a traveling to?” Goldie rightly asked.

Rosie shrugged. “I don’t know, but when he does go, he’ll have a hat.”

“And a fine hat it will be,” Marigold said.

Lily shook her head. She supposed it made as much sense as wasting yarn on mittens every year for Jolly. Maybe she could try sewing the mittens to his jacket again.

The lasses bent to their work, talk for the moment forgotten. They had a lot to do to have everything ready for Yule.
 
 

Day 2

22 Foreyule, 1417 SR

“Don’t tell me I’m ridiculous,” Everard Took said.

“All right. You’re an imbecile,” Cedric Briarmoore happily complied. “I don’t see why you’re spending all this time on a Yule gift for Vinca, and such a lethal one at that.”

Cedric critically eyed the forest floor, scattered with twigs big and small. They were looking for a long one flexible enough to be the lath of a crossbow.

“You shouldn’t be encouraging her,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, she’s likely to use you as her first target,” Cedric began, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “Then there will be nothing stopping her from coming after the rest of us. It’s not a proper gift for a lass. Not to mention, she won’t even know you’re the one who made it for her.”

“Paladin is trusting me with this,” Everard said, his eyes lighting on a curved flat piece of oak. He picked it up and tested it’s flexibility. “And I doubt very much she will use it on me first. If she uses it on anyone, it will be you.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” Cedric asked.

“No, but it’s a comfort to me,” Everard replied, grinning widely. He put the piece of oak in his bag with the other wood he had collected so far, his hands itching to begin work on the crossbow.

He wasn’t sure when exactly he fell in love with Pervinca Took, but he did remember the day he realized it was so, just a few months before. This was to be his first present to her since that day, albeit delivered through her father, and he hoped it would not be the last.

Still, perhaps it would be wise to stand a good distance away whenever he saw her with it.
 
 

Day 3

23 Foreyule, 1417 SR

Rosamunda Bolger measured a wide sash of red satin ribbon to the length of her arm and cut it. Carefully, but with the ease of practiced effort, she cut equal lengths of thinner ribbon and weaved it into the notches she cut along the edge of the satin. Then she fashioned it all into a bow of dark red offset by blue and silver.

Estella shook her head, marveling. “You make that look so easy.”

“Well, it isn’t,” Rosamunda said. “Not at first, at any rate.”

She peered at the wreath her daughter was making. If Rosamunda was known for her bows and ribbons, Estella was known for her wreaths. She had a knack for knowing when to pick the fruit and how long to dry it so it would not spoil. She knew when to cut the branches so they were still flexible enough for curving and twining together. Rosamunda had seen her do it a hundred times, and the end result never seized to be impressive.

She pointed to a finished wreath with furze blossoms, snow apples and holly berries. “That one is yew instead of myrtle. Why?”

“That’s for Gordi,” Estella answered, a blush coloring her fair face.

“Indeed,” her mother replied, smiling to herself.

The Burrowses would be coming to Budgeford for Yule, and all the arrangements had been made for their visit. All except one. It was with much regret that Mistress Burrows had written to Rosamunda that Gordi had decided to wait for spring to propose to Estella. Still, that could always change, if Estella would just encourage the lad. And a yew wreath was very encouraging indeed.

“It’s a fine wreath, dear,” Rosamunda said.

“Thank you, Mother,” Estella replied. She glanced at the wreath and smiled herself. It was a very fine wreath.
 
 

Day 4

24 Foreyule, 1417 SR

Miss Willow gently prodded the belly of her very pregnant patient. The bairn was beginning to move, getting into position for the inevitable delivery. Another couple of days, it would drop.

“Now, Myrtle, you might start having some false labor. It’s common enough once you’re this far along,” Willow warned.

Myrtle nodded calmly. This was her first bairn, but she was the youngest of eight and knew how this sort of thing went.

“Don’t be alarmed by it, but don’t hesitate to send for me should you think the bairn’s coming early,” Willow went on soothingly. She pressed a little further down on Myrtle’s belly. The pubic bone was still intact, so early labor was unlikely. Still, she had learned long ago that the last few weeks of pregnancy were often the most unpredictable, and she wasn’t about to take any chances.

“I won’t, Miss Willow,” the lass said. “Even if I don’t send for ye myself, I know as Hank will. He’s that jumpy. Every twitch or moan sends him flying for the door. He sleeps in his coat, you know, just in case.” She giggled at this, as much from nervousness as amusement.

“It’s not a bad strategy,” Willow replied, impressed by Hank’s readiness. “Most fathers end up on my doorstep half-naked, or bleeding and in pain themselves from falling while trying to slip on trousers and run at the same time. Now, let’s get you decent.”

They fixed Myrtle’s dress and Willow washed her hands, then they went down to the parlor where Corbin was entertaining Hank with a dramatic reenactment of his latest golfing victory, this time against Ponto Baggins.

Hank stood up and came to his wife, his hand falling on her belly by protective reflex.

“Your wife is hale,” Willow said. “Take her home and see that she gets as much rest as possible.”

Hank nodded fervently. Most of her patients never bothered to heed this last bit of advice, but Willow had the feeling that Hank would make sure his wife would at least keep off her feet while she worked.

The merry couple thanked the healer and let themselves out of the cottage. Corbin watched the couple from the window.

“When will we be having our own, do you think?” he asked with longing.

Willow turned before he could spy her smile. She didn’t want to ruin his Yule gift after all.
 
 

Day 5

25 Foreyule, 1417 SR

“Milo’s coming!” Frodo exclaimed in excitement, then sheepishly realized he was alone in the study. Sam had slipped out at some point and he hadn’t noticed, so intent he was on his mail.

He and Milo had lived as brothers once. Frodo tried to visit him whenever he was in Buckland, which wasn’t very often. He had only hoped Milo would come to Yule this year; he was having all the Bagginses over, and Peony was a Baggins, for all she was now called Burrows.

“Did you say aught, sir?” Sam asked, returning with a tea tray.

“Milo and his family will be here. They’ll be arriving in four days,” Frodo said, his face lit up like a Yule log.

“That’s good, sir,” Sam said, though privately he was worried. Frodo had been the Baggins head for years, yet he had never gone to such lengths to bring the family together for Yule. Something was up, or he wasn’t a Gamgee.

“That’s Ponto, Porto, Peony, Poppy and Filibert, and Daisy and Griffo. Nearly all of them.”

This last was said with a strange note that raised the hairs on Sam’s neck, though he couldn’t tell why.

“Bag End’ll be full to bursting,” Sam commented casually.

“Not so much. Only Peony’s and Poppy’s families will require rooms here,” Frodo pointed out. “Still, it will be nice to have a full smial.”

“It will indeed, sir,” Sam agreed. “Will you be needing me Yule morning then?”

“Stars above, no, Sam,” Frodo chided. “See to your own family and don’t worry about mine.”

He filled the teacups, added sugar to his own and sat back, a pinched smile on his face. All the Bagginses together again. All but one.

Frodo peered out the study window, wondering where in the Blue Bilbo had landed.
 
 

Day 6

26 Foreyule, 1417 SR

Lobelia sniffed at the invitation: silky parchment, silver lettering, arrogantly mocking. It should be her darling Lotho in Bag End, gathering the Bagginses, not that upstart Brandy-rat. She tossed the card into the fire and watched it burn with hollow satisfaction.

She and Lotho were exiled to Sackville, to the frozen dead vines of wineries and the pungent limp leaves of pipeweed. Otho had brought them here, promising to make everything right, then left them here. She glanced at his portrait over the hearth and asked him again how he could die so inopportunely.

Lotho entered the sitting room, bearing the tea service. He set down the tray and handed her a steaming cup.

“Thank you, my dear,” she said.

“We could still go,” Lotho replied, eyeing the ashen remains of the invitation card.

He didn’t like it here anymore than she did, but at least he tried to make something of it. The plantation had flourished under his hand; their pipeweed was now among the most sought after – not that she would ever notice.

“We still have our house in Bywater.”

Lobelia stiffened, imaging Frodo and his kin looking down their noses at them, Frodo sitting at the head of that immaculate table in that magnificent dining room. “No,” she said. “I won’t be made into a joke, or have pity taken upon us.”

Lotho doubted either outcome would occur. Most likely, Frodo was fervently wishing that Lobelia would do just this and refuse to attend the festivities.

Lotho sighed. “We can have Yule here. Invite the tenants to the house.” Get them out of their cold, drafty homes for a night.

Lobelia snorted. “They’ll steal the silverware.”

“Tit for tat,” Lotho replied coolly. He took his mug and retreated to the study before his mother could respond.
 
 

Day 7

27 Foreyule, 1417 SR

Ivory Burrows picked up the box containing the fragile silver bracelet and held it out to her brother. “You’re not taking this?”

Gordi shook his head.

“How much longer are you going to sidestep this?” Ivory asked. “Just ask her already. You know you want to. She couldn’t possibly deny you.”

She spoke with the confidence of a lass who had found her true love, who was already promised though no words had been spoken between them. Gordi hoped that Berilac realized how lucky he was.

“She’s just not ready,” Gordi said. “Neither am I. I love her dearly, and I want nothing more than to marry her, but I don’t know. There’s something there, blocking us.”

Ivory raised her eyebrows at this. She didn’t know how Gordi could be so blind when it came to Merry Brandybuck, but she did know that if Estella didn’t say ‘yes’ soon, he’d lose her for good. Merry was gallant and loyal; he would never speak while Gordi and Estella were courting. She wasn’t so sure about Estella though.

“She’s just scared,” Ivory soothed. “Calm her, reassure her.”

“How?”

Ivory reached into her travel coat and held out a wrapped bundle. She pulled back a fold of the cloth to reveal the unmistakable, prickly green of mistletoe. “Tell her everything. Tell her how scared you are, how much you worry about not being able to make her happy, keep her fed and warm. These are things every lad worries about. But I’ll tell you a secret: we lasses worry about them too. Tell her, so she can tell you. Then go ahead and kiss the lass. She won’t be able to say no after that.”

Gordi took the mistletoe and gripped it in his hands. Tell her everything. It was worth a try.
 
 

Day 8

28 Foreyule, 1417 SR

Pippin stretched up on tiptoes, feeling the ladder teeter precariously beneath him. He knew Ferdibrand was at the bottom, holding it in place, but that didn’t keep his heart from dropping to his toes.

“A little higher,” Pimpernel ordered.

Pippin stretched as far as he could go, the crepe streamer gripped tight in his hand lest it fall again. Was it just his imagination, or was his arm going numb?

“Here?” he asked hopefully.

“That’ll do,” Pimpernel replied cheerfully.

Pippin pinned the streamer to the wall with a thumbtack and fell back onto his heels with relief. That was the last streamer and the ballroom looked quite beautiful, he had to admit. He clambered down the ladder, trying to ignore his wobbly knees. Ferdi patted him on the back as his feet hit the floor.

“Should we get away while we’re unnoticed?” Ferdi whispered.

Pippin was about to nod, but he was already too late.

“Pippin,” Paladin said, spying his son from across the room. He waved his hand for Pippin to follow, then headed towards the Thain’s study.

“Bad luck, mate,” Ferdi said consolingly and was about to follow when he felt something light and silky brush his shoulder. He looked up to find the streamer had torn loose of its holding.

Unfortunately, Nell had seen it too. “Oh no! Ferdi, could you?” She stepped back, glaring at the spot where the streamer had been.

Ferdi sighed. “Bad luck, mate,” he muttered to himself and clambered up the ladder.

In the Thain’s study, Paladin turned to Pippin. “Now, recite again the speech for lighting the Yule log.”

Pippin sat in his father’s chair, closed his eyes, and envisioned every Yule of his past. “We gather this night to give thanks for the old year and to welcome the new…”
 
 

Day 9

29 Foreyule, 1417 SR

Gil Banks added the latest deliveries from Buckland and Pincup beneath the Yule tree. He hoped their own presents had reached their destinations in time and felt again the pang of being so far from family. Most of the year, he never thought twice about it, but Yule was always difficult. He knew his wife felt the same.

He turned to look at Fuchsia as she stood in the doorway to the pantry, making sure she had everything she needed for First Yule supper. He knew that Piper would be next door, doing the same for Second Yule.

“Can you dash next door and see if they have any spare taters we could borrow?” Fuchsia asked. Dressed in homespun, her hair hastily brushed into a messy bun, she resembled nothing of the lady he had married.

“Aye, I’ll go,” Gil said, looking down at himself as he stood. He was no longer the gentlehobbit of his youth either, and he couldn’t be happier for it. Living in Branbourne, surrounded by its rustic and honest folk, had done them a world of good. Would they even know what to do with themselves, if they ever returned to Brandy Hall?

Gil slipped outside and met Edon between their houses.

“Taters?” Gil asked.

Edon nodded. “Cinnamon sticks?”

Gil nodded.

They went to Edon’s house and leaned against the porch railing. They pulled out their pipes and lit them. They puffed in companionable silence, the glow from their pipes lighting their cheeks and noses.

“‘Ee look a couple of chimney chutes, ‘ee do,” Piper said through the window. She patted her swollen belly. “I need the big punch bowl down, dear.”

Edon nodded and Piper left the window. He finished the last of his pipe and sighed contentedly. Gil knew just how he felt.
 
 

Day 10

30 Foreyule, 1417 SR

Merry, Berilac, Doderic and Ilberic trekked through the woods south of Bucklebury.

They had left the Hall early that morning, while the fog still clung to the ground. They took turns hauling the handcart, which held the saws and axes, gloves, ropes and blankets, and food.

The trek to the woods had been surreal, surrounded by so much fog, and they hadn’t talked much. The fog burned off by midmorning though, and now they walked along merrily, singing carols at the top of their lungs. They made their way to the middle of the forest: Brandy Hall’s lot. They split up and zigzagged through the woods, looking at the beeches with their brown, dropping leaves, and the birches, their branches bare in the chill winter air.

“You would think the trees would want to keep their leaves when it’s cold,” Ilby said, looking at a particularly depressing birch.

“At least the beeches have the right idea,” Merry said, patting a tall, stately beech with appreciation. “Which one, do you think?”

“This one,” Berry said, and the others came to circle the tree he had selected.

The birch grew straight and proud and had many fingering branches. It was also very tall.

“That will make enough for ten Yule logs,” Dody said, voicing Merry’s thought. “Better to find a younger one. Don’t want to be breaking our backs, after all.”

They kept looking and finally found a young beech of considerable girth, about half the height of the last one. Decided, they returned to the wagon and retrieved their tools. Cutting down the tree was easy enough. Sawing it into three equal parts and stripping off the many branches took much longer.

“No wonder our fathers agreed to this,” Ilby complained.

Merry grinned. It was going to be a wonderful Yule.
 
 

Day 11

1 Yule, 1417 SR

Willow unwrapped her gift. She exhaled with a soft squeal of delight. Her husband had made her a medicinal box to store all her herbs, oils, vials and other healer’s necessities.

“Thank you, dearest!” They hugged and kissed. “Now, for your gift, Corbin Fairchild. You asked when we’d be having a bairn of our own?” She placed his hand on her flat belly. “I’d say in about seven months.”

Corbin let out a whoop of joy and jumped to his feet, pulling Willow with him. They danced about the parlor, laughing and kissing. He was already planning the nursery furniture.  

~*~

Saradoc stood with Merry in the North parlor, watching the lasses decorate the Yule log. Ribbons, candles, fruit, flowers all went upon the log, in a system of hand gestures, clucking and head shaking that left their audience baffled; all three logs would be glorious come midnight.

“You picked a fine tree, son,” Saradoc complimented. “Do you remember where you felled it, so in the spring we can plant another?”

Merry nodded. They had taken a seed from the old tree. He would not forget where it had stood, and one day, its daughter would be standing in its place.  

~*~

Edon and Gil were supposed to be keeping the children quietly occupied, but they were only getting more riled up as the day worn on.

The smells of First Yule supper wafted through the house, enticing noses and appetites alike. Piper grabbed another bowl of berries and nuts, braving the melee in the parlor to deliver it. The children attacked it with zeal, hands full of the treats.

“Merry Yule, love,” Edon said, wrapping his arms about her and the bairn in her belly.

“Merry Yule, darling,” Piper said.

They kissed to a chorus of “eeeews!” and couldn’t be happier.  

~*~

Ferdibrand sat next to his friends in the ballroom. “Well, she was using it, behind the stables,” he told Everard. “She has really good aim.” He sounded worried.

“She liked it then?” Everard said, grinning like a tomfool. He spied Pervinca across the room. She wore a pink gown with red lace and a white sash. Her hair was pulled up by a white ribbon, her auburn curls tickling her bare shoulders.

“I still think you’re going first,” Cedric said.

“He’s already gone,” Ferdi replied, looking at his moonstruck friend.

Everard didn’t respond; he hadn’t heard them.

Suddenly, the torches lining the walls were covered and the ballroom dimmed, lit only by soft candlelight. Paladin and Pippin stood at the hearth, the Yule log behind them. It was nearing midnight and the time for ceremony had begun.

Paladin nudged Pippin gently and nodded once. Pippin licked his lips and began. “We gather this night to give thanks for the old year and to welcome the new. For this year, we give thanks for the many blessings we have enjoyed, and we go into the new year with the remnants of the old.”

He lit the log and light sprang forth.
 
 

Day 12

2 Yule, 1418 SR

Lotho draped the blanket over his mother’s sleeping form. He wondered that she didn’t wake with a bad neck, sleeping in the study chair. He couldn’t imagine why she found it comforting, when he had found his father in this very chair so many years before.

He stepped outside, shuddering from more than just the wind. He walked lightly over the wet grass to the row of tenant houses. The smell of gingerbread and icing drifted past the towel covering the basket over his arm. Every year he left the loaves, no note attached. They never thought it was him.  

~*~

A light tap sounded on the door. Estella slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Ivory, and opened the door. Gordi stood in the hall, hair rumpled by sleep. He held a finger to his lips; her parents’ chamber was just across the hall.

Gordi pulled an envelope from his dressing gown pocket. He had tried all day yesterday to speak with her, failing to find the courage every time. He wrote his thoughts down instead, including an apology for the dratted mistletoe. He had ended up kissing half the serving lasses and Bolger aunties before the night was through.

“Can we talk about this? Later?” he whispered.

Estella took the letter, an eyebrow quirked, and nodded. She held out a hand before he could go. She slipped away, then reappeared with the mistletoe in hand, grinning widely. She held the mistletoe over her head.

“You really should learn how to time these things better,” she chided quietly.

Gordi grinned. “I’ll work on it,” he promised and kissed her softly.

“Now hurry, before Father wakes,” Estella said, shooing him away. She watched him stumble down the hall, his letter heavy in her hand, his kiss warm on her lips.  

~*~

Frodo blinked at Sam, who stood on the porch wearing a tall shapeless felt bag* upon his head. “New hat?” Frodo guessed wildly.

“Rosie made me a wizard’s hat,” Sam said proudly. “Ain’t it grand?”

Grand wasn’t the first descriptive that came to mind, but he could hardly insult Rosie Cotton. He supposed she wouldn’t have much experience making wizard hats. “It’s lovely. I’m sure it will see you through many adventures.”

“That it will, sir,” Sam agreed. He handed over a gift basket and took the bundle Frodo gave him in return. “Merry Yule, sir!”

“Merry Yule, lad.” Frodo waved Sam off, closed the door and returned the kitchen with his basket.

Milo glanced at the basket with interest but returned to their original topic instead. “You know, I do believe you throw as good a party as old Bilbo ever did.”

Frodo smiled warmly. “I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m glad my efforts at least suffice.”

“Ever hear from him?” Milo asked. He was one of the few who still believed Bilbo alive.

“Not for some years now.”

“Well, I’m sure he’s fine, wherever he is,” Milo assured, sipping his tea.

Frodo nodded and began making breakfast.

The End

GF 12/25/08

* - This of course being the hat that Sam wears at the beginning of the Quest. :)