#gift 11

[artcalledwind]

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[hobbitadvent]

Secret Santa Prompt 11: Traditions

Note: This will also be published on AO3 in the next couple of days, at this account. 

Summary:

It’s been nearly two decades since the end of the Quest of Erebor: two decades since Thorin Oakenshield began his glorious reign as King Under the Mountain, two decades since the same Thorin Oakenshield was wed to the heroic halfling Bilbo Baggins. 

And now, just in time for the holidays, Bilbo thinks it’s about time for something new. Little does he know the chaos he is about to unleash, and the trouble he just might get himself into…

[See end note for Khuzdul and Quenya translations, and the sources for certain holiday elements.]

Traditions

It was the very end of the autumn in the 2961st year of the Third Age of Middle Earth, and cold winds were just beginning to blow round the slopes of Erebor, the peak which housed the great kingdom of King Thorin II Oakenshield. 

In the depths of the mountain, two figures were walking the stone corridors together: a short figure, a halfling, his bare feet moving doubly quick to keep up with his taller companion, a regal dwarf clad in a simple tunic of dark blue, with an ornate silver crown sitting on his greying head, whose deep voice echoed into the adjoining halls. 

“It is simply impossible for me to be away from my kingdom for that length of time, Master Baggins," Thorin said as he continued to stride along the path to the chambers of the court, “It’s a very long journey to Duban Felekulbizar – to Rivendell.” He watched his own boots scuff along the marble floor, until he realized the hobbit’s feet were no longer walking beside his.  

When Thorin turned around, he saw that Bilbo had stopped several yards down the corridor. 

Standing with his hands on his hips, Bilbo said, “Now don’t you go ‘Master Baggins’-ing me, Thorin, we’ve been married for nearly twenty years. I think you can afford to call me Bilbo.”

Thorin sighed. “Bilbo, this simply can’t be done. Who exactly is supposed to rule while I’m gone?” 

“Why, Fili of course!” Bilbo said, like it was a stunningly obvious answer: “you’ve been complaining since last Midsummer that he needs some real political work to dig into. Please, Thorin? I’ve been writing to Lord Elrond about it for years, now.”

Thorin hemmed and hawed, muttering into his beard, which gave Bilbo to the opportunity to kiss him soundly on the cheek and announce, "It's settled then. You and I and a small company shall go to Rivendell for Yuletide, Fili and Kili can keep an eye on things here, Balin can keep an eye on the two of them, we'll all have a grand old time, and be back here for the first feasts of spring!" 

And Thorin found himself swept down the hallway toward the council chambers, apparently with the intention of handing the throne to his nephews for the season, and going off to spend “Yuletide” with the elves instead of being with his people for Sulûn Kheled Kibil and the candle-lighting. 

Durin’s beard, Thorin cursed. How had it come to this? 

~

The day after the first whisper of frost began to grace Erebor’s highest point, the King Under the Mountain rode out the grand front gates, accompanied by his husband the Prince Consort, and a company, consisting of Lord Dwalin son of Fundin, Lords Ori and Nori, sons of Korin, and Lady Dís daughter of Thrain. Their ponies were the sturdy creatures now bred in Dale, built like the draft horses of men, with soft dark coats and thick white feathers about their heavy hooves. 

The company moved in relative safety through the Greenwood, quiet and frosted with winter's snow. The plains north of the Gladden Fields were similarly dressed in glittering ice, the long grass trailing its tips, dry and brown, through the thinner snow drifts. 

Through a pass high in the Mountains of Mist their paths led, and, wary of arousing undesired attention, the company were quiet, and they bound the feet of their ponies with cloth so their hooves would not strike the hard rock, and they made no fire despite the cold. The tall peaks and sheer cliffs passed this way on either side, until they came safely to the green western lands. 

There at the feet of the mountains they made their first real camp since they had left the shelter of the Greenwood, and Dwalin and Ori set a fire going, and there was roast meat and cooked apples all round. 

All was well – the Lady Dís was telling a story of her brother during their childhood and Bilbo was trying very hard not to laugh – until the company heard the sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching. Everyone quickly jumped to their feet, and dust was kicked over the fire.

A company on horseback rode now swiftly toward them. Instinctively, Thorin pulled Bilbo behind him, and his fingers twitched toward his weapons. But Bilbo was unconcerned. He put a gentle hand on Thorin’s shoulder, and, stepping around him, called out to the rider on the foremost horse, a huge white stallion with grey threaded through his mane. 

“Is that Glorfindel and mighty Asfaloth I see?” Bilbo asked, a smile playing on his lips. 

“Indeed it is,” came the reply. The elf leapt down from his saddle and removed his helm. A joyous grin was on his golden face as he said, “Hail, Bilbo Baggins of Erebor. Hail Thorin King. You are most welcome in Imladris.  But why do you dwell in the shadows of the valley? You are long expected at the House of Elrond.” 

Again Bilbo spoke for the group, though now his hand had gone around his husband’s waist: “We did not know we were so close to the Last Homely House! We thought surely we had several days of travel ere we reached you – but come, Lord Glorfindel, let us depart from these woods and come instead to your starlit home.” 

In this way, a company of the Dwarves of Erebor entered Rivendell on the first night of Turuhalmë. 

~

They were given a short tour of the House of Elrond by a quiet, dark Elf whose dark grey robes only partly succeeded in hiding the ink-stains on his fingers. When Bilbo – still the only member of the group inclined to talk to the Elves – asked his name, he replied, “I am Erestor, a counselor of Lord Elrond. I was told my Lord’s Steward, Lindir, refused his duties today.” And Dwalin chuckled. Erestor gave him a look, but said nothing, and merely led them through the darkened halls of Rivendell, through which the sounds of merriment echoed. 

In this way their ponies were taken in at the stables, and their bedchambers were pointed out – Elrond, their guide told them, had presumed the company would need five rooms – for Dís, Dwalin, Ori, Nori, and a grand room for the King and his Consort – but if this was not the case, arrangements could easily be made. Dwalin and Ori looked to each other briefly, with small smiles on their faces, but said nothing, for they saw the connecting door between the two north-most chambers. The company was then given warm water so they could cleanse themselves before they exchanged their traveling clothes for robes more suitable for the festivities. 

With this done, Erestor led them to the Hall of Fire, where there was feasting and dancing and a great log-fire in the fireplace, around which many Elves sat listening to Lord Elrond tell of the deeds of Finrod Felagund in the First Age. 

The Lady Dís took her leave as soon as they reached the hall, saying, “Thorin, brother, I’m going to go explore – take good care of Bilbo, and do try to enjoy yourself,” before approaching the group of Elves who appeared to be hanging ornaments of silver and gold and glass from the bows of a tree which had been placed in the corner of the Hall. Bilbo could hear her introduce herself to a smiling Elf maiden, who bowed in turn and named herself Arwen Úndomiel, and handed Dís several ornaments to hang. 

But Thorin stood awkwardly in the doorway, and would not let himself be dragged to the myth-fire, or to the feast table, or even to the mistletoe – the purpose of which Bilbo explained with a giggle. 

Bilbo quickly realized something was wrong, as he watched Thorin’s brow furrow. He asked his husband, “Thorin, love, are you alright?”

The Dwarven King glanced at Bilbo with his piercing blue eyes and said under his breath, “This place is very strange – there are no candles, and the singing is in one of the Elven tongues so I cannot understand it. And I know none besides our host and our guide. Bilbo, I wish we had not come.” 

At this, Bilbo’s heart fell, and he lashed out, “But, but we’ve come all the way here – Thorin, why must you distrust everything? Why must you wallow in sadness when there is so much delight to be found here if you would only accept it?!” 

By now, Thorin’s mouth was a grim slash, and he whispered back angrily, “Because I have a home, and it is where my nephews and my people are, where we do things the way we have always done them, Bilbo! Why must that change, why must you feel the need to change it? It is not good enough for you?” And with this Thorin left the Hall of Fire without another word, storming back into the hallways from which they had come. 

Bilbo’s mouth felt sour and his chest felt empty. He left the Hall as well and wandered the corridors aimlessly, going up stairs and away from the parts of the House which he knew, until he found a quiet-looking room which turned out to be a library, full of grand stone shelves packed with heavy books.

Bilbo curled against the cold stone of one of the bookshelf, and told himself Thorin would forgive him, had always forgiven him. But images of the terrible time following the Battle of the Five Armies flashed through his mind. 

Thorin had coughed weakly, over and over, his body trembling on the furs of the sick-bed. “Marry me, halfling. I want to do something right for once,” he whispered, as loudly as his scratched throat would allow. 

Bilbo struggled to get any sort of word out. “Thorin, no–” he started, and then shook his head roughly, holding back tears. “Valar bless, I will not be a widower so soon after becoming a husband. No, Thorin, no. You cannot do this to me.” 

Thorin tried to lift himself up, and then fell back with a grimace. “Then marry me when I am well,” he replied, even more quietly, “and you will not have to fear that.” 

“Oh Thorin,” Bilbo sighed, running his hands through the tangles of Thorin’s dark hair which lay upon the furs. 

Thorin shuddered and Bilbo wrenched his hand away. Now the dwarven king was back to the horrid, ragged coughing – bad enough that he couldn’t speak. Thorin’s mouth was still moving, and Bilbo frantically leaned down toward him, begging, “Thorin, speak to me, what do you need? Thorin? Thorin!”

But Thorin could not speak. Bilbo read upon his lips, “B, b, – p, pro… promise, promise? b, b, b-m, me promise me – is that it, Thorin? I promise, I promise. What ever you wish, Thorin. Please, please be well, Thorin. Stay with me, Thorin!” 

As the last plea left Bilbo’s mouth, the last breath left Thorin’s. Bilbo was left with the weight of the king in his arms, staring down in horror as the seconds stretched out. Then he was up, sprinting for the tent’s entrance, screaming, “Gandalf! Gandalf, Oin, somebody HELP!” 

~

Several agonizing hours later, Bilbo, sitting on the cold rock with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, saw Gandalf finally leaving the sick-tent, staff in hand, with his big hat crumpled in the other hand and his eyes to the ground. Bilbo’s heart sank. “Gandalf,” he croaked, his voice cracked from crying and disuse. “Gandalf, I – is, is he...?” 

“He lives yet, Master Baggins,” Gandalf said, though the sorrow did not leave his face: “but he will not wake.” 

“He will not–” Bilbo swallowed harshly, saying, “he will not wake… ever?”

Gandalf eased himself down next to Bilbo on the rocky ground. “He will not wake for me, dear Bilbo, and he will not wake today. He may wake someday, but that I cannot promise.” 

At the word “promise,” tears began running down Bilbo’s cheeks again, re-drawing their tracks though the battle-dust. Bilbo slumped over, muttering, “I promised him, I promised him, I promised…” until the wizard drew his grey cloak over the hobbit’s small shoulders, and held him as he sobbed. 

~

Through the many months of snowy winter following the battle, Thorin lay as one upon a grave. It was agreed that, not knowing whether Thorin would ever rise to claim the throne, Balin son of Fundin would serve as regent, until such a time as the throne much pass to Thorin’s heir, his eldest nephew Fili, who had been wounded in the battle himself, and – besides which – who refused to leave his brother’s sick-tent, where Kili was recovering from more grievous wounds. 

The passing of the year in the counting of Men and Elves came and went, unnoticed and unmarked by the company of Thorin Oakenshield – his friends, and his family, and the quiet halfling who came and sat beside the would-be king’s bed every day, and held the Dwarf’s unmoving hands between both of his own. 

Through the blossoming of the first flowers and the coming of the first fruit, Thorin refused to wake. Though the first brisk breeze of spring through the heavy heat of summer, Thorin spoke no word. 

It was not until the first blush of red kissed the trees of the Greenwood the following autumn that Thorin again moved, and muttered in his shallow sleep, “I need him, where is he?”  and Bilbo was brought to his bedside as Oin and Gandalf tended to the king once more. 

“Dwarves are strong, immovable as the stone from which they came,” Gandalf explained to the wide-eyed hobbit. “Thorin is very close to the surface now. You must reach for him, tell him to come back to us.” 

And this Bilbo did; he kissed Thorin’s hand, and said, “I promise, I promise,” until the king’s eyes opened and he smiled once more. And it felt to Bilbo that the smile did not leave Thorin’s face at all for many months, up through the first snow, when they were wedded in a grand celebration in the Gallery of the Kings and Bilbo could not remember being happier.

~

Bilbo was still sitting alone when Lord Elrond came into the library and found him in the corner. A look of great concern grew on Elrond’s kindly face, and he asked, “Master Baggins, are you alright? Is there anything I might do to help?” 

The halfling got to his feet and dusted off his breeches. “No, thank you, Lord Elrond, I am fine. I just – I think my husband is upset with me.” 

Elrond set a comforting hand on the hobbit’s shoulder and said, “This may be, but I think he needs your company more than he needs room to think. I know you find my halls homely and good, as I do, but King Thorin may not feel the same way. I think he finds this house strange, and I think having you by his side will help.” 

Bilbo smiled up at the grey-eyed Elven Lord and nodded. “I think I shall go and try to find him,” Bilbo said and politely took his leave, as Elrond returned the book he had been reading at the myth-fire to its proper place. 

~ 

Returning from Elrond’s library, Bilbo found Thorin waiting for him in the hallway outside the door to the chambers Erestor had pointed out to them. The Dwarven King was sitting on the floor stones, looking somewhat lost. 

Bilbo felt as though a great vice had closed around his heart. He knelt down next to his husband, and took up one of the king’s hands, and only then did Thorin look up at the hobbit – Bilbo thought it almost looked as though he’d been crying. Bilbo pulled Thorin up, and led him into their rooms. 

Then a silence fell, and Thorin moved away to look sadly out at the valley. 

“Do you remember that night – our night – the winter of year after the Quest?” Bilbo finally managed to say, feeling awkward. 

Thorin didn’t say anything in reply, but turned around and slowly nodded, his dark braids tumbling over his eyes. 

Bilbo gathered his courage and went on: “Remember how the feast hall was absolutely glowing with lanterns? And there was such music and revelry, for the winter celebrations and the wedding party were all wrapped up together?” 

Bilbo turned away from Thorin, trying very hard not to cry.  In a rough voice, Bilbo murmured, “And it was snowing outside – you could see the flakes waft in when the guests from the Iron Hills arrived.” 

Now, Thorin spoke. “Indeed, Bilbo,” he said, and moving close to Bilbo, he drew a strong hand over the halfling’s shoulders, and whispered close to Bilbo’s ear, “I do remember that.”

Thorin led him to the edge of the bed that had provided for them, and pulled the halfling down gently into his lap. Lifting his eyes hesitantly to meet his husband’s, Thorin said, “I do not understand these Elves, Bilbo, with their celebrations of garlands and trees the words of other tongues. But I love you, and if these things please you, we shall have them as our traditions, my treasure. I am sorry I upset you.” 

And Bilbo twisted in the dwarf’s lap, and kissed his lips reverently, and replied, “Oh my love, my king, I am sorry. I love you, and I did not mean to prevent you from your traditions and your family and your home. I love the candle-lighting for the new snows. I love Fili and Kili’s antics during the singing. I just – I have always felt about your winter celebrations the way you tell me you feel about the customs of the Elves. These years, I have been writing to Lord Elrond, and his descriptions of Turuhalmë sounded so like Yuletide that I do believe I got a bit homesick.”

“Bilbo, my love,” Thorin said, hugging Bilbo to his chest, “I did not know this. We can have a Yule celebration in Erebor – it is not a hardship to hang mistletoe and build a myth-fire in the great fireplace! Would this please you?”

Bilbo nodded. “I would love that,” the hobbit said, “but also – I know that it is not permitted for me to learn the meanings of your songs, or the words of Khuzdul beyond the names of places, but I still feel a bit… left out when the rituals of the winter celebrations come along.” 

Running a gentle hand through Bilbo’s curly hair, Thorin agreed, “I understand how unpleasant that must be. I suppose I can tell you about the reasons for our celebrations, and a few words –  but these you must not repeat. Would this help?” 

Bilbo nodded, so Thorin continued, “We call the lighting of seven candles Sulûn Kheled Kibil – the Falling of Silver Glass, and it commemorates the first snowfall upon Azanulbizar – the Dimrill Dale – after the founding of Khazad-dûm. Lines of candles were set upon the ridges of stone and one of the forefathers of Narvi, the great craftsman who built the Doors of Durin, carved a great candelabra in which seven candles were set – one for each of the seven houses of the dwarves. And so Khazad-dûm was lit as with the brightest of stars through the falling snow.”

“It sounds beautiful,” said Bilbo softly. 

Thorin made a sound of agreement. “It was. Khazad-dûm, lost though it is, and bloodied from battle, is a symbol of my people, and the peace we had there those early days. This is why we light the candles – to remember those halls and the joy our people once found in them.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo replied, “for giving me this.” And he kissed Thorin’s brow and then his lips, and Thorin laid them both down upon the bed as they caressed each other happily. 

~

When they had finished, Thorin pulled the enormous quilt from their bed, and wrapped himself and his husband together up in it, and they sat, thus blanketed in soft Elven silk, on the windowsill. From their perch, Thorin and Bilbo could see the balcony and the Hall of Fire, and the members of the company conversing happily with the Elves. 

Dís seemed to be continuing her conversation with the Lady Arwen, though the pair of them had now moved to the railing of the balcony, where Arwen was gesturing to the sky as if pointing out the patterns of the stars. 

Ori was speaking to Lord Erestor, who had led the dwarven scribe to the edge of the balcony where snow drifts had begun to pile up, so that the two could practice drawing tengwar characters in the soft flakes. Dwalin sat quietly next to these two, watching them closely, a bit of suspicion still on his face. 

Nori had struck up a conversation with Lord Glorfindel. From their gestures, Bilbo presumed they were talking about ways to hide weapons within one’s garments. Eventually, Dwalin seemed content that Ori was safe with Lord Erestor, and went over to join Nori and Glorfindel. He listened for a few minutes, and then said something that made the tall golden Elf roar with laughter. 

And Thorin and Bilbo smiled, and all was well. 

   A/N – According to Tolkien, hobbits did in fact celebrate Yuletide, and the Elvish holiday I co-opted, Turuhalmë [Note: Quenya for “log drawing”] was celebrated by the Elves of Tol Eressëa long after the end of the Third Age. [Note: Information about Turuhalmë can be found at the website of the Silmarillion Writers Guild.] It’s not completely implausible, however, that a version of this holiday may have been celebrated by the Elves of Imladris, especially given what we know of the celebrations held in the Hall of Fire. 

  Sulûn Kheled Kibil, as Thorin explains, is Khuzdul for “The Falling of Silver Glass.” [Note: I have limited experience with Khudzul; if you think I may have made a grammatical error, you’re probably right! Please message me with any corrections. For vocabulary reference, I used Henry Kånge Fauskanger’s notes on Khuzdul, which can be found at his website Ardalambion.] I have completely made up this holiday, and the traditions associated, though some of them are based loosely on my knowledge of Hanukkah traditions. [Note: Similarly to the above note, I was raised in a Christian family, so if I have been in any way offensive in my use of Jewish cultural elements, please don’t hesitate to let me know.]

Duban Felekulbizar is Khuzdul for “Valley/Dale Which is Hewn/Cut,” essentially “Rivendell.”