| Jarvey
Join Date: Jun 2011 Location: Oceanic Flight 815
Posts: 558
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Well, I hope you enjoy! The format is a little awkward, but it won't let me fix it! I hope you enjoy, and if you have any questions about Aunt Firiel's accent, just ask. So here it is!
Chapter 15
When I had first heard the words “Merry Christmas!” I thought they were talking something about Merry Brandybuck and Chris Mass (whoever that is).
Hobbits don’t celebrate Christmas. We celebrate Yule, which is our New Year. We all gather in the clan hall, and tell stories and play games. Everyone different clan must wear a different color. And when you’re a mix of more than one clan, you have a sweater of the background color of the clan you were born into and then a stripe with the other clan of your ancestry.
My base was green, along with many others. Mine had a stripe of purple for my Took grandmother from Norway, and orange stripe for my great grandfather who was from Ireland as a Proudfoot. Many were much more colorful, since many had parents that were both Hobbits. However, I did have one more stripe; black for my mother. I was the only one with a black stripe.
My sweater was waiting for me on the couch as soon as I walked out of our Franklin stove after using Floo powder for the first time (not fun).
My dad was beaming on the other side, squashing me in a hug. “You’ve grown,” he whispered in my ear. I had grown, I suppose. I guess I just hadn’t noticed it being surrounded by Men two feet taller than me.
I looked down at my father. There was a tear going down his cheek, and I could feel the tears in my eyes too. I had missed four months of being with my father. We talked in letters, but it most certainly was not the same.
After hugging Dad, he made me put on my sweater, which I would have to wear outside until Afteryule 2, or January 2 in the calendar of Men. Together, we walked out of the cave, questioning each other about our lives, until we reached Rosie’s cave.
There they all were, in their Yule sweaters. Uncle Tolman, Aunt Firiel, and Rosie. Uncle Tolman had a green sweater, identical to my dad’s. Aunt Firiel’s base color was blue, which stood for the Fairbairn clan in France, and Rosie’s was a combination of both of their sweaters, many colors all knitted together.
Rosie embraced me as soon as I walked through the door. “We missed you Bandy! Thanks for writing!” I smiled at her.
“Wouldn’t dream of not writing.”
Well, throughout the holidays, and in between the festivities of course, I would go our hall of records. I went immediately to the second age, which was when the Ring of Galadriel was created. I knew all of the old stories and I had already read each of the books in the records at least once. I looked over again the most likely places, but nothing.
I would spend hours at a time in the hall of records, and Dad was becoming suspicious. He would occasionally walk in and bring me my meals, and Rosie would come in and keep on asking me to play soccer, even though we were surrounded by nearly three feet of snow.
And besides, I preferred staying in the hall of records, because the rest of the clan would always look at me funny. My black stripe seemed to be a big sign saying “hate me.” I knew of course they didn’t hate me, but when I was wearing my sweater, it was more obvious that I was different.
As I searched a black book with gold lettering on the front, it was the day before Yule. I heard a knock on the hall of records door. I told them to enter, and in came Aunt Firiel. Her curly golden hair was up in a bun. Uncle Tolman always told me that she was a prize back in her home clan of France, and that he was lucky to have her. I smiled. At the age of 35, every hobbit-lad goes out to each clan in the surrounding nations, searching for a bride. Uncle Tolman was somehow able to win Aunt Firiel’s heart, and so she came to Scotland.
“Hey Aunt Firiel,” I said, smiling.
“’Ello Bandy,” she replied. “I brought you your lunch. She held out a tray to me. On it was a chicken sandwich and an orange. We only get oranges occasionally, and because of Yule there were always treats like that.
“Thanks,” I said as I got back to my reading.
“Bandy, you need to get outside,” Aunt Firiel tells me. She was always a motherly figure. “You ‘av been reading too much, even more zan normal. Is there anything I can ‘elp wiz?”
I sigh. “No thank you Aunt Firiel, I—“I then pause for a moment. Of course! The Fairbairns had the Red Book! The Red Book!
Now, for a little back-up history on the Red Book. The Red Book was written by Frodo Baggins, a lot of it taken from the notes of Bilbo Baggins. Frodo then passed it down to my ancestor, as well as Aunt Firiel’s ancestor, Samwise Gamgee. But before Samwise left for the Undying Lands, he gave it to his eldest daughter, Elanor. IT has been in the hands of the Fairbairns for years.
Finally, I said, “Actually, I was curious; did you ever read the Red Book?”
I hold my breath as she ponders this. After what seemed like forever, she answered, “my father waz one of the ‘obbits who was allowed to study the original. ‘e would come ‘ome from work, and tell amazing stories ‘e ‘ad learned.”
“Did he ever mention anything about getting from Middle Earth to the Undying Lands?”
She stared at me suspiciously. “And why on earth would you want to know zat?”
“Just curious,” I said very quickly.
She sighed. “Zee only zing I ‘ave ‘eard of is by ship.”
“No other way?” I inquire.
“No ozzer way,” she repeats.
Heartbroken, I head back to the cave after I finished my lunch.
I would be going back to school in three days, and I couldn’t imagine telling my friends that I found absolutely nothing.
When I walked through the door, Dad was already cooking supper. We would be having a potluck in the Clan Hall, with the Yule log burning in the center.
My dad was baking chicken, his signature dish.
At 10:30, with chicken in tow, we met up with Rosie, Uncle Tolman, and Aunt Firiel, who kept on looking at me with a motherly-worry in her eyes. Rosie kept on reaching to hold my hand.
When we got there, everybody else had already arrived. All thirty of them. My great grandfather, Robin, was sitting in a large chair by the Yule log. We all surrounded him, dancing. Rosie constantly made me dance with her. I was the closest cousin to her age. The next closest one was 5 and still wearing diapers.
At 11:58, the folk music stopped, along with the patter of Hobbit feet. We all stood there, still as stone, waiting for the clock to strike midnight.
As soon as the clock struck 12, we all turned to Robin, who raised his glass and slowly said, “To the Seventh Age, 39!”
At that, the music started again, and we continued to dance, and I had a funny feeling this year would most certainly be different.
Last edited by XenoLongbottom; 04-11-2012 at 08:22 PM.
Reason: Got the year wrong! Sorry readers! :(
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