Golden light filled the halls, golden and warm. Everyone was here. Everyone, and their nearest kin. Their kin and their friends. All of them laughing, smiling, happy. Eating, drinking, dancing. There was music on top of the rest of it.
Ori folded his fingertips into the cuffs of his gloves and hugged his notebook.
He liked this time of year. He did. It was only.
Well.
There was so much of it.
There was a high tradition behind it all, and Ori could appreciate that at the very least. It was a cold time. A dark time. A time when there was food laid by, but where there might not be soon. A time to rest from travel, hunting, and cultivation. A time to recall old friendships and to bolster oneself for the cold and the dark.
And so many of the traditions had ancient roots! Ori glanced at the great fire, and the huge log laid on it. The Foe had brought winter on the People in days older than the Father's Fathers, and Mahal had come, with a great tree he had slain for love of his People, in defiance of his wife, that they might learn the craft of fire and be saved.
Alone on his bench, Ori traced his foot on the ground. He hugged his notebook, and thought longingly of his study.
There was the music, too. Mahal had given them music. The music of hammer and anvil. And he had taught to them melody. He had taught them to lay aside their works, even for a time. That their hearts might remember what it was to be part of the Music.
He'd tried saying something of that to his brothers once. Nori'd laughed at him. Dori had patted him on the head. Neither one of them understood it.
It wasn't their fault. Each had a gift his own, that the work might go along.
It was a time for gifts. Mahal had given them so much. In remembering the stories, they recalled all of their Maker's gifts, and gifts changed hands.
It was a symbol.
Ori liked symbols.
A shadow loomed over him. Accompanied by a cleared throat.
Ori glanced hurriedly up.
It was Dwalin. Dwalin on uncertain feet, with his great hands behind his back.
Ori took all this in. "Yes," he said. "Hello."
"'M not intrudin'on anything?" his manner was more his own as he spoke, and that put Ori at ease.
"Oh no," he said. "Just watching."
"Well I'll not detain ya," Dwalin said. He held out a small package.
Ori glanced up at him.
Dwalin jogged the package.
Ori took it.
Slipping the cloth free, Ori let out a little gasp.
"Tis nothing much," Dwalin said. "I'd noticed –"
"I'd broken mine!" Ori exclaimed. He marveled at the slingshot in his hand. "I didn' think anyone…"
"Well," Dwaling shrugged a shoulder. "Like I said. You held yer own out there." Giving a gruff approximation of a smile, recognizable to few who were not his friends, Dwaling said, "I'm proud of ya."
He went away then, leaving Ori wondering at his gift. Tracing over it with his fingertips, warmth bloomed in his breast. He glanced up, seeing the back of his friend as he vanished into the throng. And Ori smiled.
He knew exactly what yarn he'd use.