Artair and his old man are sharing a drink. Artair isn't there for long, but it's still important to see him, to celebrate their own version of the holiday in their own small way. They cook a meal together, and then go to the woods and plant a new tree in the earth of knotting ring of groves they've built each year and speak words for those who aren't there to celebrate. They decorate the other trees with fruits covered in seed for the birds, and leave bindings of pine and cinnamon, holly and mistletoe through the woods and home. Byron's is decorated by both of them while the food had cooked, with dried oranges, holly, mistletoe and the warm glow of candles. There are some bones and pine and other decorations they've made in years past as well, and little end table wreathed with pine that holds a collection of stones, plants, a skull, and other little offerings for the year. This tradition and a meal with his uncle are something he would never miss.
Once home, they light a bonfire outside, and at a wooden table full of warm food outside, Artair raises his wooden tankard. "Go mbeirimid beo ag an am seo arís." He toasts, and his uncle repeats the same, a tradition between the two. Their drinks clack, and they down them together, before partaking of the food they've made.
Artair heads out into the snow soon after they finish dinner, after the food is stored and the dishes are clean and they've talked inside for a while. He carries with him a few boxed portions of dinner, at the insistence of Byron. It was the same old push and pull, but Byron always won when he reminded him that surely couldn't stomach all the portions that remained before they went bad, and the waste would be a shame. Artair relented and took four this year to help his uncle out, and because he knew a few others who might enjoy a little special dinner he could bring by. It'd be nice to offer them some special cooking, too.