"Hold it straight," Thorin snapped.
Setting down the box he carried, Fíli glanced up.
Kíli met his look. I told you so. Uncle always got tetchy at some point in this process. They'd learned long ago not to take it personally. At least not very.
Kíli'd wondered last night why Uncle didn't just make himself scarce, if he didn't like decorating, and at least let everyone else have a good time. Kí didn't often have anything negative to say about Uncle. But it was true that they had little in common when it came to Kíli's idea of fun. Fíli agreed with his brother, in that. But he could see why Thorin chose to be there, in spite of his distaste for it. They didn't have much left by way of kin. It was important to be together.
That said…
"Straight." Thorin growled.
Kíli held his end steady, expressionless.
In the kitchen, Fíli could hear his mother's voice. Softly, like she was singing to herself, she spoke the first, wavering solo lines.
Wili, bring your little drum, Obin take your flute and come!
When we hear the music bright we will sing all through this night,
When we hear the fife and drum, winter should be frolicsome.
Smiling thanks at the open doorway, Fíli began taking out what precious things remained in the box, laying them out on the table to be polished. The tempo of the song picked up – it was a drinking song – after all. And Fíli joined her.
Fill the mead cup, drain the barrel
Troll the ancient snow-bound carol
Ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan,
Our poor cup's made of the rosemary tree
And so is your beer of the best barley
When we hear the fife and drum, ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan
See the flowing bowl before us
Strike the harp and join the chorus
Ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan,
Call up the butlers of your houses, put on your golden rings
Let him bring us a glass of beer, and better we shall sing
When we hear the fife and drum, ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan
Kíli'd jumped down before the end of the first 'pata-pata-pan', and taken the polishing rag out of Fíli's hand with a grateful smile.
Giving him a wink, Fíli hopped up onto the table, and Kíli stood on the bench behind, singing and handing him polished bits and baubles to be hung.
Follow me in merry measure
While I tell of beauty's treasure
Ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan,
Laughing, quaffing all together
Heedless of the wind and weather
When we hear the fife and drum, ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan
From across the room, fixing the last corner, a low voice had joined the three of theirs. Kíli looked up in surprise, and Fíli grinned.
When we hear the fife and drum, sure, our children won't be dumb.
Let the golden drink free run, dance and make the village hum.
When we hear the fife and drum, ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan,
Ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan
Ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan.
Thorin stepped down to the last notes of the song, looking appraisingly up at his work.
Then he nodded, and, nodding, went towards the kitchen. "You did well," he said.
Startled, Kíli glanced after him. Then he laughed. "I guess you win that one," he said.
"Is that my third this month?" Fíli asked, "Compared to your one?"
Kíli snatched the silver hook back with a grin, making Fíli lean for it. "Don't rub it in."
Mum had begun singing again. Fíli laughed and he didn't answer. He joined the song.
The song's a Frankenstein's-Monster of the oldest translations I could quickly find of three carols: 1.) Patapan, 2.) Here We Come a Wassailing, and 3.) Deck the Halls. I cut and pasted and changed words throughout.