Author: Kelllie
Genre: Angst, h/c
Characters: Frodo and Sam
Rating: G, though there are mature themes of life and death
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, it all begins to Master Tolkien's estate.
IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER
Chapter 1: Lighting
Into the gloaming he came. Into the piercing twilight, trailing frosty breath… leaving warmth and comfort and light behind.
Silently he made his way to the Party Field, barren save for a rare frosting of snow, cradling a precious bundle in his arms. He hugged it closer and the pungent scent of charred wood and ash drifted upward. How appropriate, he thought. It smelled of the past… of spent life, and death. The very things it symbolized.
The very things he carried deep inside.
He reached the center of the Party Field and paused, reveling in the glorious solitude of the moment. Soothing stillness washed over him… calming, embracing, centering. Then… he listened, straining his ears.
All was silent. All was still in the growing night.
He turned his thoughts inward and chuckled bitterly at the irony of it all. The bundle he carried had been carefully preserved as a protective charm for the Shire. But it had failed miserably. It hadn't kept the Shire safe and secure and sheltered… and all in the Shire knew it. Tonight he would be charged with rekindling this hollow symbol and lighting anew the fire of hope in the hearts of his neighbors and kin. Yet how could he rekindle the flame of others when he could not yet fathom how to rekindle the flame within?
He ruefully kicked the snow away from the ground and dropped the bundle into the small clearing. Pulling away the ash covered muslin, he piled the charcoal and cinders into a heap. He knelt and spoke the ancient words of thanksgiving… yet felt nothing. He wondered for the briefest of moments if the ingratitude of his heart would belie the magic words of the ancient spell. Could the darkness of his heart turn charm to curse?
He quickly dismissed the thought. He no longer believed in such enchantment. There was indeed magic in the world… but not here in the Shire. Not in the hands of a few silly Hobbits. He had seen too much. He knew the truth. He knew…
He paused and listened again, his ears straining, yearning for the long sought sound. But there was nothing. Silence… stillness.
He straightened, and took a great breath. The icy air pinched as he breathed it in, as if it feared the warmth inside, and quickly fought to get back out in a billowing cloud of white. He watched his breath dissolve into nothingness, then felt his heart skip. He had heard something. The faintest of sounds. He held his breath… and listened.
There it was again… and yet again, louder.
But this was… different. His heart fell. This was… unwelcomed. He whirled around to see figures in the distance.
They were coming.
Frodo shook his head to clear it. He needed to stay grounded in the moment. To still the thoughts and memories that meandered through his mind like a restless wind, tumbling him blindly from the here and now. He would need his wits about him this night.
Frodo pulled a tangle of dry tinder out of his pocket and wove it in and around the charred wood. Dusting his hands, he found his flint and struck it sharply sending a shower of sparks into the tinder. It exploded into flames.
He was soon surrounded by his neighbors. It seemed all of Hobbiton had come. Not a word was spoken as they heaved the massive Yule log onto the sputtering flames of last year's charred remains. More tinder was added, and soon the mammoth log was ablaze with light. It had once been a noble tree, towering over the very spot where it now burned. But like the Shire, it had been cruelly hewn by the foul darkness that had touched the land.
Yet… in its death, hope was reborn. Its flames now a symbol of returning light… and life.
As the Yulefire smoke trailed upward, the brooding clouds that hung close to the land embraced it, mixed with it, then followed it down. Fog and mist and smoke became as one, shrouding, and enveloping the Shire with a grey leaden veil.
Frodo shuddered. He remembered ancient tales of spirits descending through the smoke of the Yulefire on the darkest day of the year. Spirits drawn to the Yule flame like diaphanous moths seeking light, redemption, and rebirth… longing to share in the somber ritual.
The great assembly grew restless. Amid polite coughs, and the shuffling of many chill feet, Frodo pulled his scattered thoughts together, then spoke. His voice sounded strangely muffled and hollow, as if the grey mists sought to devour it the moment it left his body.
"Shall we begin?"
Hushed voices murmured assent. Young ones were quickly ushered forward to the front of the crowd. Then all was still again. Frodo continued:
"Many, many years ago, the Sun set out upon a Journey. It was to be a journey of great magic. A journey of great wonder. A journey of--"
"—How… how many years ago?", a small voice piped.
"Oh, many, many years ago. It was to be a --"
"--But how much is that?", the little voice pushed, brow furrowed.
"Hmmm… well, far before any of your grandparents were born, or any of your grandparents' grandparents, or --"
"--Before… before old Bilbo was born?", piped a second little voice.
"Yes. Much, much before that. Before the great crossing of the Brandywine… before Hobbits even lived in the Shire."
As comprehension dawned on the upturned faces, Frodo continued.
"It was to be a journey of great magic and wonder and beauty. As the Sun set off, the days grew long, warm and mild --"
"--But where did the Sun go?" This from the smallest lass.
"On a journey… a great adventure. Like none before --"
"--But where?
A chorus of small voices joined. " –To the Old Forest?" , "--Did the Sun go to South Farthing?", "--Needlehole?"
"No beyond that… beyond all of those. To lands far… far away --"
"--But… but where? You didn't tell us."
Frodo took a deep breath. Patience. Though his back was warmed by the blazing Yule, his feet were cold, his hands and face aching. He closed his eyes, slowly breathing out, pushing away the unease of body and mind, fighting to stay connected to the moment.
"The Sun went far away… beyond the stars, beyond all imagining."
Frodo paused. Hearing no further inquiries, he continued with a rush.
"As the Sun traveled, the days grew long. Creatures across the land basked in warm sunlight as the plants grew large and heavy with fruit. But then –"
"--What kind of fruit?" tendered a very small, shy voice.
Frodo bit the inside of his cheek. This was proving far more wearisome than he had imagined. He looked up at the sea of faces staring back at him, encircling him. Faces ruddy.with wind, winking their eyes before the Yulefire. Faces etched with recent hardship, desperate to believe in the return of life, and light and hope.
He bit down harder, ashamed of himself. He felt no connection, no kinship to these faces. There was no return of life. No light and hope. Not really. Not in the end. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to push his thoughts away and continue on.
"The Sun turned onto a dark path… a path full of hardship and trials grim. As the Sun struggled, the days grew shorter. As the Sun's strength waned, the land grew colder, darker. Frosty winds began to blow. Snow began to fall. The ground became like iron, water like stone. A great battled waged between the Sun and the darkness. But the Sun was losing. The Sun was being swallowed up—"
Several small bodies edged closer, eager and enchanted. Forgetting for the moment the icy toes, the runny noses, the burning cheeks and ears.
"—swallowed by the night. And so there came a time at last when the Sun could find no strength to fight any longer. Would light and warmth simply fade away forever? Would all be wrapped in eternal night and cold?"
Frodo knew the tale well. He could recite it almost without thought. He had heard the Yule story every year as far back as his memory served. Every year, save for the last. Last year was different. Rivendell. No time for silly hobbit traditions there. Too much to think about – too many dark paths of his own yet untraveled. Too many dangers met, and still unmet…
He felt a steadying hand on his shoulder -- meant to rouse, meant to comfort. Sam. Oh dear. He'd stopped talking. He had promised himself he would not let this happen. Not tonight. How long had he been standing there, lost in thought? Where had he been in the story?
Seeing his distress, Sam moved to make light of it. "Well… don't be keeping us waiting on the edge of our toes, Mr. Deputy Mayor… Would all be wrapped in eternal night and cold forever?"
Frodo picked up the cue. "No… no for as the Sun waned, the Moon yet grew stronger. The darkness that weakened the Sun strengthened the Moon… giving the Moon newfound power and courage. The Moon grew to be a mighty force in the sky, far beyond his former self. But as the Moon looked down on all the lands, and all the creatures below, he saw how they suffered without the Sun."
Frodo delved into the pocket of his winter cloak, and pulled out a chubby taper candle.
"So the loyal Moon sought out the dying Sun in the gathering darkness and gave of his own strength and power. He shared his gifts with the Sun… And with that act, the chains of darkness were broken. The Sun was born anew. The days grew longer, and light and warmth once again returned to the land. The Moon stepped back into his rightful place in the Sky, and the Sun returned in a blaze of glorious power and might."
Frodo reached toward the Yulefire, and lit his candle. At this cue, all of those assembled – save for the very youngest – retrieved their own candles and held them at the ready.
"Each year the ancient cycle repeats as the Sun journeys into darkness. And on this, the first night of Yule, the Sun is at its weakest point. It struggles mightily, and at this moment is being consumed by the darkness. Our very life, and the life of all around us, depends on the Sun's return, so we lend our strength to the Sun through the light and heat of the mighty Yulefire. We pass the gift of light and warmth around our circle through waxen candle. Gifts freely given, gifts freely received, bringing the promise of new life."
Sheltering his fragile flame with cupped hand, Frodo stepped up to Sam. He lit Sam's candle, then murmured, "Light and strength given."
Sam smiled warmly into his face, "Light and strength received". Sam faltered a bit at the shadow he saw there. But Frodo turned away before any words of comfort could be tendered. Sam turned and lit the Gaffer's candle. "Light and strength given".
"Thank you Samwise, son. Light and strength received." The flame was gently, reverently passed from candle to candle with softly spoken words until the circle of light was complete.
And thus, the ancient rite ended as it began, in silence and stillness.
Frodo strained his ears, willing his heart to hear the sound.
But all was silent, save for the crackling of the Yulefire.
All was still, save for the swirling mists of grey.