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Bilbo stood before the 7-branched candelabra on the windowsill and glared at it.
“It’s just,” he said plaintively, “Just, is that it?”
His husband regarded him with open confusion. “The uthakdenak?”
“No, not the wretched uthakdenak. Never mind,” growled Bilbo, stomping back to the desk where Thorin sat surrounded by paperwork. Erebor was snowed in, as it most likely would be every winter, and thus it was time for taking inventory of the mountain’s supplies and requirements. To Bilbo’s mind it made for a thoroughly tedious job and he had been looking forward to Yule simply to break the monotony. Or rather, not Yule, but Mahu Khazad Dûm, which he had understood to be the Dwarvish equivalent.
Cold, pale light afternoon streamed in across their twin desks, illuminating how large Bilbo’s “To Do” pile was compared to Thorin’s. That morning Balin had brought in the uthakdenak, set it up on the windowsill, and left. Bilbo had waited excitedly for most of an hour to see what other decorations would come next and was now very much disgruntled, in spite of a full luncheon. The candlestick was very splendid, large and decorated after the fashion of Dwarvish things, with elegant proportions and sharp angles intricately woven together. Bilbo could not imagine a finer candlestick. It only didn’t seem right that the preparations should consist of so little.
He picked up a sheet of parchment headed “Grain: Rye & Barley”, glowered at it, and put it down again. Thorin had returned to the task at hand, the nib of his quill scratching as he made quiet, careful notes.
“All right, yes, it is the wretched uthakdenak,” said Bilbo, the words bursting out of him in a flood. “I mean, Nurtu Gunnel was so grand and majestic! A whole month of blowing horns and everyone making beautiful little trinkets from silver coins, and then the parties and music and singing, and how we all walked together down to the riverside and you threw the little trinkets into the water, after all the work you’d put into them. It was fascinating.”
“You were horrified,” said Thorin, the corners of his mouth twitching, barely glancing up from his work.
“I was!” agreed Bilbo readily, pacing the room. It was a large room, as most in Erebor were, and well suited to the purpose, his bare feet against the stone producing a most satisfying slap as he walked. “But then Balin explained it to me, the expression of humility before Mahal, and the importance of making, but not possessing, and all of that.” Bilbo found himself beside the table where their luncheon had been set, and paused to dip a finger into some leftover cherry sauce, sucking it thoughtfully. “I understood the food well enough, with all the sweetmeats and the special bread to dip in honey so that it looked gilded, and the pummy, pommy, what were they called? The mining fruit with the rubies in?”
“Pomegranates?” supplied Thorin.
“That’s right! I liked those, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t do something like that again.”
Thorin set down his quill and pushed back his chair to regard his belligerent Prince Consort. “You would have us celebrate a second Nurtu Gunnel already?” he asked, clearly much amused. “As a pebble, I believe I may have said the same to my mother.”
Bilbo scowled. “I don’t know, I suppose I thought an event like Mahu Khazad Dûm would be more than just some candles.”
“Bilbo. They are not just some candles,” began Thorin, and Bilbo waved an irritable hand.
“Yes, I know all that, they’re the seven stars of Durin’s crown in Mirrormere, and the white metal candlestick is the mithril under Caradhras, and so on, but is that really all there is? You’d think the founding of the Dwarrowdelf would be cause for a bit more celebration. Doesn’t the mountain deserve some cheer?”
Thorin put his head on one side and blinked slowly, his gaze directed to the floor, in that particular way that meant he was growing annoyed and trying not to show it. “Once, it would have been,” he said, “but Khazad Dûm was lost to us many centuries past, Bilbo. In these days the holiday is not entirely a happy one.”
There was little response one could make to that. Bilbo rubbed his nose, ashamed of his outburst.
“Have patience, Amrâlimê,” said Thorin. He reached out a hand, and Bilbo begrudgingly allowed himself to be pulled onto his husband’s lap. “In Spring there will be Amrâgu Abkân, and enough food and wine to satisfy even you.”
“Is that right,” said Bilbo dryly, and Thorin chuckled, drawing him into a hug.
With his head resting on Thorin’s shoulder, Bilbo pondered, recalling Spring that first year after Erebor was reclaimed. There had been a party, or at any rate a long, complicated meal, and then the gate had been opened with great ceremony and everyone had gone outside to sing and dance until the wee small hours. Bilbo had very much enjoyed all of it, and ought perhaps to have paid a little more attention to what everything had symbolised.
Moreover there had been no particular celebration of Lithe, so that Bilbo had missed the day entirely, only realising a week or so later in conversation with King Bard. It was all down to the calendar they used in Erebor, that ran by the moon instead of the sun, occasionally with an extra month to make up the difference. It seemed unnecessarily complicated to a Hobbit accustomed to Shire Reckoning.
He loved Erebor, its soaring architecture and the breathtaking beauty of its stone, and he loved his dear, headstrong, melodramatic old Dwarves. He really did. Yet there were also times when their culture seemed almost unbearably strange to Bilbo, and he despaired of ever becoming accustomed to it.
“You are troubled,” said Thorin quietly, and Bilbo realised that he had perhaps been sighing rather more loudly than he intended.
“In the Shire,” he began, and almost stopped there when he saw the look of concern on his husband’s face. “Thorin, please,” said Bilbo as patiently as he could manage. “In the Shire, where I do not chose to live, I might add, Yule is one of the biggest parties all year. I do miss that. Winter seems very long without it.”
“I see,” said Thorin thoughtfully. “Forgive me, but I know little of Yule, save when it falls. Will you tell me?”
“Oh, there isn’t much to tell. It’s just a big family gathering around the fireside, lots of eating and drinking and singing, reminding ourselves of warmer days to come.”
“You have traditions, you said. What are those?”
“We do, I suppose,” said Bilbo. He stretched out his toes and wriggled back, getting himself comfortable in Thorin’s embrace as he thought where to begin. “Around the middle of Foreyule everyone would go out with baskets and saws to cut holly branches and pine, and make wreaths to hang on our smial doors. The leftovers went around picture-frames and across the lintels indoors, and the air would be full of the smell of pine, and roaring wood fires, and oh, baking! My mother had a recipe for gingered biscuits, and we used to cut them out in the shape of stars and hang them about the place on ribbons. You could get hungry just sniffing the air, and none of it was to be eaten until the feast day, which was a terrible hardship. One year I sneaked into the pantry after bedtime and was found the next morning sick as a drunkard after eating an entire crock of brandy butter.”
Thorin chuckled quietly, and Bilbo grinned with satisfaction. He always relished a tale to tell, and was warming to his subject now.
“Then on Yule Eve, the faunts would each be given a box to open. If you had been good, it would be full of sugared nuts and peppermints, and if you had been naughty, you got a lump of coal.”
A wordless sound of disapproval from Thorin halted Bilbo in mid-flow. “I do not understand,” said Thorin. “The gift of coal was a punishment?”
“Because you can’t eat coal,” explained Bilbo. “Though I do know some who tried.”
“It seems a cruel tradition, to play such tricks upon children at a time of celebration. Were you ever given coal?”
Bilbo suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Dwarves viewed their rare, precious offspring very differently to Hobbits, who had no shortage of mischievous infants and often found their resources for discipline somewhat stretched.
“Just the once,” said Bilbo, hurriedly pressing on before Thorin could become upset on his behalf. “And it was richly deserved, so don’t worry about that. Sigismond Took insulted my mother, so I pushed him into a snowbank and ran home. He got stuck, and was there for hours before some passers-by rescued him. He caught a very severe chill and my parents were livid.”
“I see,” said Thorin gravely. “You are lucky he was found.”
“Yes,” agreed Bilbo. “Hence, coal.” He sniffed. “Although I do recall it was the only Yule of my childhood where I woke up with no stomach-ache.”
At that, Thorin laughed, a full laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and Bilbo could not help but reach up to stroke the fine lines lovingly.
“That’s all rather old hat these days, however. The faunts get more excited about Grandfather Yule now,” continued Bilbo.
“And who is Grandfather Yule?” asked Thorin, smiling.
“He’s a tall fellow, dressed all in green, with a pointed hat and a long white beard down to his toes, who comes down the Chimney on Yuletide Eve and lays out the feast ready for morning.”
“Tall, and bearded?” asked Thorin.
Bilbo grinned, relishing the tidbit he was about to reveal. “Technically, of course, he’s Gandalf.”
Thorin’s look of mild interest became one of astonishment, and it was Bilbo’s turn to laugh, sitting back once more to tell the story properly.
“Do you recall the Winter of 2911? In the Shire we called it the Fell Winter, and very nasty it was too, long and bitter and right on the heels of a bad harvest. We very nearly ran out of food, and without Gandalf and the Rangers we would have. That’s where the whole thing comes from, though of course it’s only a merry little tradition now. I suspect he knows it too, although for heaven’s sake don’t mention it to him. He hardly needs his pomposity boosted any further.”
“Ah,” said Thorin. “And the green robe?”
“We are Hobbits,” said Bilbo reproachfully. “And grey is hardly a colour for celebrations.”
“I suppose,” agreed Thorin. “It sounds charming.”
“It’s fun,” sighed Bilbo, picking at a thread on his tunic. “But Yule and Lithe are not Dwarven holidays, which by the way are very fine, as I have already said. You have such grand stories and ancient traditions, and what do we celebrate? Hot food in Winter and cold drinks in Summer. I should stop being silly about it.”
The snow had begun again as they were talking, falling softly behind the window and the uthakdenak, settling on the stone balcony beyond. It did look beautiful. Really, thought Bilbo, he ought to trust his Dwarves to know how best to celebrate their own holidays.
Thorin broke the silence. “I see no harm in celebrating food, and cheer, and home,” he said. “When my people lived in exile, we could not keep our holidays as we do now, but that does not mean we forgot. I can imagine you have missed your gingered biscuits just as I once missed the halwakhâfad of my youth.”
“Oh those,” said Bilbo eagerly, remembering the hot, sugared treats with their delicious fillings of fruit jam. “Will there be those at Mahu Khazad Dûm?”
“Always,” said Thorin. “They are a tradition. I should warn you, however, that Dís holds the record for most eaten. Frerin made the mistake of challenging her one year, and she managed 43 before she made herself sick.”
Bilbo blinked. Thorin’s sister had only joined them under the mountain a few weeks previously, and though he liked her well enough, it was hard for Bilbo to imagine her as a sticky-faced Dwarf pebble. If she was anything like her brother, however, perhaps it was true. Thorin had a sweet tooth almost worse than a faunt’s.
“If you are to live in Erebor I would have it be a home to you, Bilbo,” said Thorin. “Give me a little while to think on the matter.”
It felt as if a weight had dropped from Bilbo’s shoulders, one he had not even known that he carried. He rewarded his dear Dwarf with a kiss, got back to his feet, and set to his paperwork again, much comforted.
--
At the end of the next council session, Thorin announced that this year Mahu Khazad Dûm would be followed by a small celebration of Yule, and Bilbo could not help but be touched by the enthusiasm with which the suggestion was taken up. He almost choked with laughter at the sight of Bifur and Bofur attempting to drag what looked like half of Dale’s forests up to the royal quarters. The doorways and mantelpieces of Erebor were rather larger than those at home, however, so it did take an awful lot of greenery to decorate them to Bilbo’s satisfaction.
Ginger and cinnamon were procured from Dale’s markets, although was far more pungent than Shire stuff, making Bilbo’s Yuletide biscuits so fiery it was a blessing they were destined for the cast-iron stomachs (and tastebuds) of Dwarves. There was also some misunderstanding over the dough-cutters Bilbo commissioned and the resulting stars had six points instead of five. Bilbo decided they were pretty enough, and though was impossible to quite put his finger on why, somehow the six-pointed stars looked more Dwarvish. Perhaps it was to do with the Dwarves’ fondness for hexagonal shapes. He iced them with white sugarpaste, hung them on ribbons from the swags of decoration, and was very pleased with the effect.
“Looks good,” said Dwalin appreciatively, reaching to pluck one from the lintel of a window just as Bilbo climbed back down from his stepladder.
“Get off, those are for Yule!” scolded Bilbo, and suddenly remembered his mother saying the exact same thing to him as a faunt.
Dwalin glared in outrage, still holding the biscuit. “For Yule? Not Mahu Khazad Dûm? But they’re stars!”
Between that excellent point and the shock of hearing his mother’s words in his own voice, Bilbo paused, and the biscuit disappeared into Dwalin’s mouth before he could think of any rejoinder. Triumphantly Dwalin swaggered away, and Bilbo was left pondering the co-incidence.
That biscuit was far from the only one to vanish over the day or so that followed. When Bilbo, deep in conversation, noticed Thorin’s hand absently reaching for one that hung over their own bedroom fireplace, he gave up policing them as a hopeless job.
“Worse than Hobbits,” he said affectionately. Thorin glanced down and saw the biscuit in his hand as if for the first time.
“Forgive me,” he said, and replaced it, his cheeks flushing to a charming shade of red. Bilbo shook his head.
“I can always make more,” he said. “The recipe wants a bit of tweaking anyway.”
(As he might have predicted, once tweaked to the correct level of sweet, sugary goodness the biscuits only disappeared even faster.)
There was fine weather on the day of Mahu Khazad Dûm, a clear sky shining cold and blue beyond the windows of Erebor. A little after the midday bell, the whole of Thorin’s company and their families assembled in the royal quarters before the grand uthakdenak in the window, and watched Thorin’s sister Dís light the candles, one by one, beginning in the centre.
Then, they sang. Bilbo listened intently, though he did not understand much of their language yet. He could recognise the elegance of the poetry, and the reverent, melancholy harmonies of the tunes. The most important was one that likened Mahal to an aged rock, or something, and praised his guiding power. With some effort Bilbo thought he understood most of it, though he was undoubtedly missing the subtleties, and would not have liked trying to pronounce it himself yet.
When the singing was done, the sky was already beginning to shade to a deeper blue, and the seven twinkling candle flames really did look like the stars outside. It was simple, and very beautiful, and something in the pit of Bilbo’s stomach felt achingly tender at the sight. His poor Dwarves had suffered so much, and yet they still celebrated where they could, with such faith in their Maker’s love for them.
Yet even in a ceremony so solemn and beautiful, the little Dwarf pebbles ran up and down through the crowd, playing with spinning tops, conversing in whispered giggles punctuated with the occasional shriek. Such indulgence was perfectly normal amongst Dwarves, Bilbo had discovered, and very unlike the formality of Elves or Men. It reminded Bilbo of home, a small anchor of familiarity for which he was grateful. There could never have been the least possibility of excluding faunts from any event in the Shire, given the sheer numbers of them. From the corner of his eye Bilbo saw a small ginger-headed Dwarf tugging her older sister’s beard to get her attention and chuckled to himself. There was not so much difference between faunts and pebbles.
There was a feast afterwards, of course, because once again, only foolish Big Folk would think celebrations were more for drinking than eating. In addition to the heavenly halwakhâfad there were savoury potato-cakes, served with spiced applesauce and goat’s milk sour cream to dip them into. Later Bilbo discovered the spinning tops he had seen were for a jolly game where everyone gambled for sugar-crystals coloured to resemble gems. It reminded him of similar activities from his own childhood, and after a few tries the assembled pebbles were gratifyingly astonished at how long he could make the tops spin.
Eventually the candles began to gutter in their holders, and when the last one burned out, it was time for bed. Bilbo went dreamily, his head half-spinning with songs and lights, and dreamed of veins of silver metal running through the warm darkness of stone, gleaming like a river of stars.
The following day was Yule-Eve, and Fili and Kili, despite being grown dwarves, had insisted the tradition of Yule Boxes be kept. After some discussion Balin was persuaded to wear a green coat and present them, with great ceremony, to Bombur’s eight children, Gloin’s son, and Thorin’s nephews. That Fili and Kili’s both contained coal was a source of uproarious amusement to all, and young Gimli magnanimously insisted on sharing his candied hazelnuts with them before bed.
Bilbo woke to find Thorin already out of bed, drinking tea beside the fire and fiddling with a small parcel tied with ribbon.
“A Yuletide gift,” he said, holding it out as soon as Bilbo sat up.
Inside lay a silver pin set with emeralds, beautiful and delicate, and Bilbo could not help exclaiming over how lovely it was. His own gift to Thorin was equally well received: an entire box of gingered biscuits, for Thorin’s sole consumption.
“Don’t eat them all today,” cautioned Bilbo, and laughed at Thorin’s affronted snort.
Once dressed, and with his new pin affixed to Bilbo’s tunic by Thorin’s own hand, it was time to welcome their guests. The Dwarves of Erebor were ever industrious, and from morning until that night they filled their Hobbit’s Yule with gifts, and food, and music, and friends, and family, and cheer enough to satisfy anyone. If not everything went entirely as it would have in the Shire, the day was none the worse for it.
Bombur had outdone himself with the Yule Dinner, especially the roast goose centrepiece, and Bilbo could not help but feel sorry that it was a struggle to do the thing justice so soon after the last feast. His stomach ached already by the time Bombur triumphantly brought through the brandy-soaked plum pudding, blue flames licking merrily about its sides.
Dwarves have great skill with setting fires, however, and the pudding burned rather too effectively, reduced to no more than a charred lump before they managed to put it out. Secretly, Bilbo could not help feeling relieved.
Away from the table Bilbo was persuaded to teach some carols, but it never took long for Bofur to pick up the tunes and take over, improvising words as he went to turn several innocent carols rapidly more risque. Soon Bilbo was wiping tears of scandalised joy from his eyes, and laughing so hard he gave himself hiccups.
Back in the Shire it was usual to stay up all night and greet the New Year with the dawn, but in Erebor there seemed little point to that, since the new year had begun several months before. As night fell, bedtime drew near for Bombur’s pebbles, and they were the first to leave, followed by Óin, Glóin, and the rest of their family. Bilbo dished out mugs of soup for supper, and sat down to drink his own beside Thorin. The fire was burning low in the grate, and his husband’s arm about him was warm and secure. Bilbo found his eyelids drooping as he finished off his soup.
Exchanging looks, the remaining Dwarves of the company bid their farewells and many happy returns of the season to Bilbo and Thorin, and headed back to their own quarters.
--
That night, Thorin asked no questions of him, instead merely raising his eyebrows and stroking Bilbo’s hair as they lay together in their bed.
“It was lovely, Thorin,” said Bilbo reassuringly, and meant it. “Thank you.”
Thorin smiled. “And shall we do the same next year? Begin our own tradition? We have a new Kingdom to build, such things are in our power.”
Bilbo considered. It had not been quite like Yule in the Shire, though wonderful in its own way all the same. Mahu Khazad Dûm on the other hand had been a largely new experience for Bilbo, one he had enjoyed every moment of. It was an intriguing thought to consider that in time it would become the more familiar celebration, and to his surprise Bilbo found he rather looked forward to that.
Thanks to the separate calendars, there would be times when the holidays were not so close together, and others when they might fall on the same day. It would be complicated, and the more Bilbo considered, the more reluctant he was to simply agree.
In the Shire it was customary to make a Yuletide Resolution to mark the new year. Silently, Bilbo resolved to embrace his new life with a little more understanding.
It seemed to him that his Dwarves had not minded the extra greenery cheering up the place, and the sight and smell of it had cheered Bilbo immeasurably. His mother’s gingered biscuits had met with universal approval, and as Dwalin had pointed out, they were even star-shaped. It was possible that a few elements of Yule might find their way into the traditions of the Dwarves. Already the most important one - the loving company of family, and friends, and good cheer - was seldom far away.
Besides which he would never again be able to hear those Yuletide songs without the memory of Bofur’s scurrilous additions.
“Perhaps not,” he said, leaning up to rest his forehead against Thorin’s. “Let’s wait and see, together.”