Yule 1419. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Yule 1419. 

 

 

 

Erdo Maggot lay awake shivering. The rooms at The Heron, in Frogmorton, had always been some of the most comfortable in the Shire, he could not recall being so cold in all his years of travelling. 

 Of course, he had never told Mrs Maggot, not since first she had made clear to him that of all the steady, reliable, hard-working hobbits who flocked to her door (he grinned to himself, forty years and he was still gloating...) he himself, Erdo Maggot, was the hobbit she would most like to spend her life by the fire with. But he had been raised on the borders of Buckland, his free time had been spent running wild in the woods with the Brandybucks, playing at Elves and Orcs. His secret wish was to have travelled as a few, rare hobbits of the more prosperous sort had done, and to have seen the lands of Elves and even Orcs for himself. But Mrs Maggot had known her own mind, and he had not been prepared to pass up the chance at her hand, so he had laid his dream aside unspoken, and whiled away the dull hours at the plough with anticipation of his next journey to Michel Delving to sell his crops.

 

 He lifted his head, the fire was low, his breath could be seen, hanging in the still air. He listened, the inn was still, but he could hear the distant sound of horses approaching, their hooves loud on the frozen Road. He sighed, he was too cold to sleep, he relectantly slid out from under the thick blankets and darted over to the fire to pile logs onto it and warm the room. As he straightened up he noticed that he had left the curtains open a crack, and the draught was sliding cold hands around his ankles. He peeked out as he held the curtains to draw them together, then froze himself, and exclaimed in astonished delight 

 "Snow !"

 

 The lights of the lanterns at the the crossroads lit up the riders, there were four, Rangers, soldiers of the Kingdom of Gondor now, it was said, though even The Shire, it seemed, was part of this Kingdom, as Mr Baggins had explained it. Erdo slowly shook his head, trying not to regret his limited horizons, and resolved at least to visit Bree, even if he had to persuade his wife to come with him, to hear some real news. But the riders were hidden for a moment by a swirl of snowflakes, twinkling in the narrow beam of light.

 Erdo grinned; snow ! There had not been snow for years, not to speak of, not blanketing the ground and burying the mud and dead leaves in sparkling whiteness ! The weather had been, they now knew, increasingly foul as the power of the Enemy had grown, the air acrid and bitter, the sky dull and heavy. But like the passing of a storm, a great weight had been lifted from them in the springtime, and the very dirt that had coated the fields of his farm had been scattered by the clean, fresh wind from the South. He straightened his back again, as they all found themselves doing, as though they had stooped long under an unseen load, which habit had kept them bearing. The air was clear, and glittering with falling snow, the Rangers rode openly, singing as they came, the fire behind him began to roar, and the warmth seeped into his cold skin. Erdo Maggot smiled, then softly, for it was still dark in The Heron, he began to sing.

 

When Erdo came downstairs to the common room, the blackbirds were beginning to awaken, while the Rangers, filled with hot pies and cold beer, were lounging at the fireside. Erdo bowed formally, and was introduced by the landlord.

 "This is Beren of the King's Rangers. He and his men are riding to Hobbiton with gifts for Mr Baggins. It seems the King celebrates Yule himself, away South."

 Erdo grinned at the Man, he himself seemed to be one of the few who had grasped that the mysterious King who had suddenly appeared, lord of all the land, was the same Man as the Ranger who had been travelling up and down the Road, often crossing the path of Erdo, for all these years. Erdo wondered if this Beren knew the King, then decided to ask him outright. 

 Beren had laughed and pulled up a chair for Erdo.

"Not as well as I would like, alas, for I am young yet, but I have ridden with him from time to time. As have you, I believe ?"

 

Erdo had gotten along famously with the Rangers, the fact that he was on visiting terms with Tom Bombadil had had even the one who had barely greeted him sitting up in his snug chair and looking with interest at the farmer. Erdo was thinking of the changes of the past year as he told his familiar tales, noting the bright colours under the grey-green cloaks of the Rangers, and the flash of silver, or gold, at belt, buckle and brooch. It seemed that the need for secrecy was passed, that now the soldiers of the King could ride openly, dress cheerfully and reminisce, laughing, with farmers. Erdo felt himself ease, as comfortable as an old house, settling into the landscape. After all, he thought, what need to travel when the news came to the Shire ? Here, at least, he knew where the best ale was to be found, the finest pie, the warmest welcome. Here were all his friends, his family, his children, his dear wife. He thought of his wife, a sudden pain in his heart, imagining himself returning from a long weary voyage to find her wed to another; his fists clenched, he had been lucky. A little more time spent with those reckless Brandybucks and he would have gone, and lost her forever. He thought of the gifts these Rangers were bearing for Mr Frodo, and a sudden daring impulse seized him.

 "Mr Beren, sir, if its not too impertinent, well, I was wondering if you had anything about you that you might be willing to trade or to sell to the likes of me, that I can offer as a gift to my lovely wife. On whose account, I might add, I have forsworn the life of travel and adventure that I dreamed of as a boy."

 

 The youngest Ranger, who had not fully grasped the events of the past year, and who knew little of hobbits, suppressed a snort of laughter. His mates frowned at him, but Beren, who had ridden The Paths of the Dead, and seen the fall of Barad-dur, did not spare him a glance. 

 "We travel light, my friend, but I am carrying some bolts of cloth, perhaps we have something from away South that will please your lady wife ? Something warm, perhaps, to make a cloak ? A fitting gift for Yule."

 Erdo felt his heart sing, his wife would be the envy of the East Farthing, with a cloak from down South, and how she would smile at him over the fireplace...

 "Oh sir, that would be marvellous, really it would, but whatever could I offer you ? I have nothing valuable that can be carried, sir, my wealth is in my land..."

 Beren smiled "I am not that Beren who wooed the lovely Lúthien, alas, but I too have lived in the wild, and I tell you, farmer Maggot, many is the night we have sat to plain porridge and longed for a handful of your mushrooms to season it with. Nothing valuable ! Lads ! Tell him !"

 And with laughter, and amused but sincere voices, they had begged him to supply them with mushrooms, dried, if necessary.

 He had laughed himself 

 "Gentlemen, all is well, for I ride to Hobbiton this very day with a wagonload of mushrooms, both fresh and dried, the last of the season, sirs, from Alder Hollow, where they linger latest. I shall fetch you up a basket as soon as ever you are ready."

 "Hobbiton..." said Beren, who was not the other Beren, whom Erdo had never heard of. "We ride there ourselves... Perhaps you would care to join us on the Road ?"

 

By the time they reached Hobbiton the sun was high in the sky, though the snow still fell, as steadily as if it had always been falling and always would. Erdo brushed another load from the front of his cloak and shook out his hood. On either side the Rangers towered over him, his low wagon and his sturdy pony. The pony, new to snow, was not pleased to find itself trudging through solid icy water, as it seemed, and kept stopping to look at him accusingly, before trudging wearily on. But Erdo, who had spent several weary mornings chasing this same sprightly colt over hill and dale, was unmoved. His own feet, warm in the double-thick stockings his wife knitted for him, snuggled deeper into the layers of blanket over his knees, and he smiled at the thought of her shining eyes when she saw the fabric he had bought. It was a shade he had never seen in life, a deep, green-blue, that Beren told him could be seen only in the sea. 

 Erdo thought of the painting Mr Frodo had brought home from Gondor, the black-sailed ship, the grey-blue waters and the dark sky with the hem of light behind it, and the unbelievable horizon, straight and flat as a ruler. Imagine water, the colour of that lovely cloth...

  She would never use it to stay warm. She would save it for a great occasion, it would be put carefully away in her chest, with sweet herbs folded among the layers. He suddenly started up in his seat; their youngest's wedding, it was in spring, she would wear it then. He should get a present for his son's bride; he looked up thoughtfully at Beren, clad in wine-coloured velvet, with a thick gold belt, and as suddenly as if he had just been given the news, Erdo realized that the Enemy was vanquished, that darkness was lifted, and that he need only pass on a list of his wishes to these Rangers and gifts could be brought from the farthest reaches of Gondor in time for the wedding.

 The furthest reaches, he thought, aye, and beyond ! Gandalf had brought him wine from over the Misty Mountains, a crate from the cellars of the Elvenking, no less, to thank him for his kindness to Mr Frodo, though all he felt he had done was offer hospitality to an old friend. Still, the wine of Dorwinion had been so soft and smooth that even his wife had begun to wonder if foreign parts might not be so very uncivilised after all. 

 

 The snow was knee-deep as they rode up the Hill to Bag End. Erdo began to feel truly sorry for the pony, and hoped the snow stopped falling soon, for it was a long ride home, and Yule was in three days. Whatever happened, he must let the poor beast rest.

 The door of Bag End, hung with snow-garnished garlands of holly, opened, and clouds of warm, steamy air billowed out. Samwise Gamgee was there, grinning like a fool. He had been grinning since Rosie Cotton had finally said yes, and Erdo smiled to himself, remembering his own grin, which had settled, somehow, about his eyes, and his wife would trace the lines with a grin on her own face "The sight of that grin on your face" she would say to him "I'm still laughing, Erdo Maggot, I'm still laughing !" 

 And he would laugh with her, and he would stroke her greying hair and try to tell her how happy he was, but his fumbling words were always silenced by her kiss.

 

 The noise was indescribable as hobbits poured out of Bag End to welcome them, and lead away the cold, weary horses and pony to warm, dry stables. A younger hobbit was playing on a silver flute, rather well, thought Erdo with relief, thinking of the sweet voices of the Rangers, singing the Elven song "Greet the Snow", a translation of which was popular even in the Shire. But Erdo, whose voice was poor, had not liked to spoil their harmony, and contented himself with listening. The tune had been simple, cheerful, even, but with a haunting, wistful quality that had made him see the blues and violets in the shadows of the hedges, and think of the story of the Elves crossing the ice in the darkness, which he did know, and of how terrified he had been as a child, and his nightmares of being swallowed by the hungry ice. 

 

Frodo himself, still as thin as one who has been long ill, was dressed in silvery-grey silk, his best waistcoat, actual Elven-made, that he had worn to the betrothal of Samwise and Rosie. His face was alive with joy, but a frown of pain had graven its lines into his brow, and set a very different expression to his face than the laughter lines of Erdo. Erdo found himself stepping back at the sight of the shadow in the eye of Frodo, as though a great gulf of darkness had opened before his feet; his heart pounded, sweat broke out on his brow but he shivered from a new cold, icier than the snow, and darker than the abyss... He blundered backwards into Beren, who held his shoulders, laughing, then stopped when Erdo turned a face pale with horror upon him. Beren looked at Frodo, and at the other three travellers, as alert as the Rangers, who had paused to look at Erdo in concern. Beren smiled slowly, reassuringly, and watched the three younger hobbits unclench themselves, while Frodo looked down with a sad smile. 

 "A drink for the noble farmer Maggot, who was awoken in the dark before dawn by noisy soldiers, and dragged across three leagues of snow !" he cried, and Frodo looked up at him with a thankful smile. 

 

 As Erdo gratefully accepted the cordial, he shivered with relief; how near a thing it had been, that night at the spring dancing, when she had hovered on the lawn, looking from him to that no-good Chubb, and then given a kind of slow nod to old Chubby, who had turned to him in consternation, before she had drifted across the dewy grass and laid her hand upon his. 

 The darkness outside had seemed to fill the very rooms of Bag End, to fill his heart, as he had greeted Frodo, and he knew, deep down, that he was glad not to be out in the wild, shivering in the snow, hunted by dangerous enemies. Adventure was not for him, he decided, and sighed, forgetting the decades of labour he had spent in the fields, out in all weathers, and the endless struggle to persuade the crops to flourish. He was worn out, the youthful vitality which had fired his dreams had been ploughed, with his own sweat, into the land, and though scarcely even the wish to travel remained, he still had to remind himself of the beauty of the woods and fields of his farm, and the light on the quiet stream, and the comfort of his home, the chests and cupboards, byres and barns, filled to bursting with all that was good in the Shire and beyond, and the kitchen, where his wife, even now, would be smiling at the thought of him, and hoping that he was in out of the cold already. His eyes seemed to burn for a moment, and tears blurred his sight, but he ignored them, thinking it a part of the warmth after cold. But a wistful boy sighed within him, dreaming still of Elves in the woods. 

 

 The drink chased the shadows away, the mulled wine warming him body and spirit, heart and voice, and soon he was laughing with the rest, and sitting down in the Hall with a dozen others to hot carrot soup and great stacks of pancakes topped with mushrooms cooked in fine red wine from Mr Frodo's own cellar. They toasted Erdo, warmly thankful for the effort he had made to bring them the mushrooms, and he beamed happily at the smiling faces, in the warm, bright hall, lit with many silver lanterns, also Elven-made, from Rivendell, where Elrond the Wise dwelt. 

 Erdo had always thought well of Elrond, there was something of the hobbit about him. He stayed in his valley, minded his homestead, and none had a word to say against him. Erdo looked at the lamps, he had met only one Elf, Gildor Inglorion, whom Gandalf had brought to the farm. He had liked the Elf, after the awe had passed. Gandalf, who had known him all his life, was wise, and had known that Erdo would be too shy to speak to an Elf should he actually meet one in the woods. But at the table of his own kitchen, with his wife laughing and pressing more mushroom stew on the unprotesting Elf, who had eaten more than Erdo would have thought possible in one so slim, Erdo had felt at ease, and been able to converse almost naturally with the thoughtful Elf. 

 But they were rare as hen's teeth, Elves, even now with the Enemy defeated, and the mere sight of so many things made by the Elves gave him a kind of thrill, like the childhood thrill of daring the dangerous. But then his eyes would turn to Frodo, and see the shadow of pain, and feel a cold, sucking darkness shroud him, draining his spirit down into... He shook himself and took a great draught of the wine. Rosie was entering, a huge smile on her face, which was as red from the stove as her poppy-coloured gown. They cleared a space on the table and she laughingly set down a great slab of dark fruit cake, decorated with sugared almonds. 

 

 Opposite Erdo, Mr Peregrin Took, who had lately grown suspiciously tall, picked up his spoon and fork, and slowly began to beat them on the table, singing softly the absurd children's song, which was the simplest of tunes, with only two words to remember, "cake" and, of course, the chorus "wonderful". Erdo smiled as Mr Meriadoc, taller yet than even Mr Peregrine, began to sing in his deep voice, his face as solemn as a mourner. Frodo snorted with laughter, but Samwise joined in, and soon the whole table was rocking to the pounding fists, especially of the four Rangers, until Rosie, helpless with laughter, held her hands up and shouted at them to stop. With a final cheer they subsided, and she cut the cake, serving sticky dark slices, richly soused in brandy, with whole cherries dropping thickly onto the plate. Erdo loosened his trousers, he was lucky to be out in the fields all day, or he'd be as fat as old Proudfoot, but still, his belly was beginning to force apart the buttons of his best green waistcoat...

 

 There was a knock at the door, Samwise, stuffing a piece of cake into his mouth while trying to suppress a laugh, leaned forwards and swung the door open with a flourish, then froze. A flurry of snow-laden wind swirled into the Hall. The Rangers leaped to their feet as silence fell, and Merry and Pippin had their hands on the jewelled daggers they carried. But Frodo, who could see past Sam, rose calmly to his feet and walked to the door. Sam stood slowly aside as Frodo bowed, Elven-fashion, and said 

 "My lord Elladan, my lord Elrohir, you are truly a welcome sight ! Please enter, for though we cannot match the grace of the House of your father, we have comforts for the weary and warmth for the cold." 

 Everyone rose to welcome the Elves, and Erdo found his jaw agape at the stunning beauty of the sons of Elrond, the grandsons of Galadriel, the beautiful Elf-who-isnt-a-queen, who lived away over the mountains, and whose picture hung in Brandy Hall, where Merry, with a strange, wistful expression, was said to stand for hours, lost, they said, in memory.

 But a picture was one thing, thought Erdo, stunned into silence. Even meeting Gildor had not prepared him for such beauty. These were the sons, he thought, what of the daughter ? What of the lady Arwen ? His respect for Strider grew, he had known him to be an important Man among his own kind, but had had no notion of how important. And once, the first time a young Erdo had ever been drunk, Strider had told him the tale of the Elven lady he had lost his heart to, and the seemingly impossible task that her father had set in his way. And Erdo had said, blithely, "Can you not find a pretty enough lass among the Mortals ?" and not believed Strider when he had said, softly, "No." 

 Now, seeing the brothers of the beautiful lady, he thought he understood what had driven Strider, more than thrones or crowns; for the living

 presence of the fair Elves cast an enchantment upon the room, the singing became warmer and more harmonious, the fire crackled cheerily in the hearth, the light of the lanterns glowed in the wine, and shone in their hair, twinkling on necklace and jewel, and sparkling in their joyful eyes.