Yule in Bree
Dec. 2nd, 2006 07:55 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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hobbit_holidaysAuthor: Surgical Steel
Title: “Yule in Bree”
Rating: G (omigosh I wrote something G-rated)
Pairing/Characters: Serindë (my OFC healer), assorted Bree hobbits, Gandalf, Barliman Butterbur
Warnings: Fluff
Summary: A healer’s first winter holiday away from home starts out looking lonely
Author's Notes: Written last winter and originally posted at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
surgsteelfic. The wren-boys used to be a tradition on St. Stephen’s Day – possibly they still are in some places.
Damn, it’s cold, Serindë thought. Even when it snowed in Minas Tirith, it just never seemed to be this cold. At least it’s almost midwinter. She shivered, carefully placing another log on the fire. And never in my life thought most of my patients would be halfings – hobbits, she corrected herself mentally. Never even saw one before I came to Bree. She’d been treating lung fever recently, mostly. The occasional sprained wrist or ankle. A few actually looking to have foot hair groomed. The turning point seemed to come when she’d splinted a broken thigh-bone on one of the Underhills. They’d been so afraid the young hobbit-lad might lose his leg…
She smiled to herself. She’d just given the lad permission to start putting minimal weight on the leg. His parents had been so delighted that they’d taken over her kitchen long enough to make fresh bread and a pot of mushroom soup. “Feed hobbits mushrooms, and we’ll follow you to the ends of the world and back, mistress,” they’d said.
She shivered again.
Last midwinter, she’d still been in Minas Tirith. She and Yalië had worked the Mettarë holiday, which had been mercifully calm.
I miss Yalië. And Sardos. She sighed. Maudlin, that’s what I am. I’ll likely never be back there again. Maybe I could write them?
She was searching for quill and ink when she heard the rap on her door. Shrugging, she made her way to the front door, shivering again at the new blast of cold air – but smiling broadly at the sight in front of her. Five young hobbit-lads – including young Mr. Underhill on his crutches – carrying with them a small box in which nestled a wren. Stiff. Lying on its back.
“What in the name of…”
But she was cut off by their cheerful song:
The wren, the wren, the king of all birds
On Year’s-End Day he got caught in the furze
Up with the kettle and down with the pan
Won’t you give us a penny to bury the wren?
Waving them inside, laughing, she asked, “What’s all this about?”
“Yule tradition, missus,” one of them said.
“Let me see what I have…” she trailed off. Pulling out a silver penny, she handed it to the lads, smiling, ruffling the hair of one of them. She suddenly found herself pulled down to her knees being hugged by each of the lads in turn.
“Missus?” the Underhill boy started. “Missus, if you’ve nowhere else to go for some Yule cheer, Mr. Butterbur’s having a bit of a do – my ma and da are helping deck the inn out proper. Won’t you come?”
“She’s nice,” she heard one of the boys whisper.
“She smells nice,” another one agreed.
She thought it over for a bare moment – she was fairly sure that their celebration would not be quite what she’d experienced as a girl in Dol Amroth, but almost anything would be better than moping about her house alone. “All right, then,” she laughed, pulling a cloak over her and following them across the street to the inn.
The door of the inn opened – to warmth, to firelight and candlelight, to aromas of roasting meat and baking bread, to the sound of cheerful voices singing. Garlands of holly and ivy hung from the rafters. One of the lads took her cloak from her, as she turned to face the innkeeper. “Happy Yule, Mistress Serindë,” he smiled.
“And to you, Master Butterbur. The inn is so cheerful…”
“Did I hear the name Serindë? Well, bless my beard…” And underneath the scents from the kitchen, she caught a whiff of sweet galenas. Whirling, she overbalanced, falling into the arms of the grey-clad wizard. “You’ve grown a bit taller, if no more graceful,” he observed.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“A happy Yule to you as well, and I might ask the same question.”
She blinked for a moment, and then simply stated, “I seem to be unwelcome in Minas Tirith these days, so I made my way here. And happy Yule. It’s good to see a familiar face.”
He beckoned her over toward the fire, indicating she should take a seat. “A bit different from what you’re accustomed to, isn’t it?”
She shrugged. “Daddy always would take us to where the Anduin runs in to the sea – where the fresh and the salt waters meet. He thought wading in the waters there at Year’s End would make the Lord of the Waters look kindly on us. A lot of the sailors and such in Dol Amroth thought it was good to show our gratitude to the Lord of Waters for whatever sort of year we’d had, hoping he’d restrain Ossё from his wrath... In Minas Tirith I was usually on duty, but they usually had some sort of formal celebration up in the Citadel to thank the Father of All. Or at least that was the excuse behind the formal balls and such. And now…” she shrugged again. “Well, I suppose this is home now.”
He glanced at her sharply. “Indeed.”
Then all conversation was cut off as dinner was served. As she ate, many of the younger hobbit lads and lasses came running up to show her this new ribbon or that new shirt. She fussed over each of them with a smile before sending them back to their parents.
She smiled wistfully, gazing fondly at the children. “Bit of a soft place in your heart for them, have you?” Gandalf murmured.
“Don’t suppose the way my life has gone to this point I’ll ever have any of my own,” she sighed. “But the hobbits were the first Breelanders to really make me welcome, so I suppose I do have a bit of a soft place for them. Still, if it hadn’t been for Míriel and Gilraen…”
“Gilraen?” He sounded genuinely startled, and his brows shot up. “So you’ve met Gilraen, have you?”
She nodded.
“Then you’ve already made a far better friend in these parts than you may know.”
She shrugged, watching the younger hobbits gleefully chasing each other around chairs and tables – and any other obstacle, including people.
With a self-deprecating laugh, she refused Butterbur’s offer of a dance, explaining to Gandalf, “Not with this foot…”
“My dear woman – if I may dare to make a prediction, by this time next year you will be dancing, and happy to do so.”
She shrugged again. “If you say so,” she murmured. “But not likely any man’s going to dance happily with the clumsy-footed surgeon.”
He laughed merrily. “This one won’t care.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
She laughed, “I will yield to your obvious wisdom and simply wish you a happy Yule, then.”
“Happy Yule, Serindë. And may you have many more.”
Title: “Yule in Bree”
Rating: G (omigosh I wrote something G-rated)
Pairing/Characters: Serindë (my OFC healer), assorted Bree hobbits, Gandalf, Barliman Butterbur
Warnings: Fluff
Summary: A healer’s first winter holiday away from home starts out looking lonely
Author's Notes: Written last winter and originally posted at
surgsteelfic. The wren-boys used to be a tradition on St. Stephen’s Day – possibly they still are in some places.Damn, it’s cold, Serindë thought. Even when it snowed in Minas Tirith, it just never seemed to be this cold. At least it’s almost midwinter. She shivered, carefully placing another log on the fire. And never in my life thought most of my patients would be halfings – hobbits, she corrected herself mentally. Never even saw one before I came to Bree. She’d been treating lung fever recently, mostly. The occasional sprained wrist or ankle. A few actually looking to have foot hair groomed. The turning point seemed to come when she’d splinted a broken thigh-bone on one of the Underhills. They’d been so afraid the young hobbit-lad might lose his leg…
She smiled to herself. She’d just given the lad permission to start putting minimal weight on the leg. His parents had been so delighted that they’d taken over her kitchen long enough to make fresh bread and a pot of mushroom soup. “Feed hobbits mushrooms, and we’ll follow you to the ends of the world and back, mistress,” they’d said.
She shivered again.
Last midwinter, she’d still been in Minas Tirith. She and Yalië had worked the Mettarë holiday, which had been mercifully calm.
I miss Yalië. And Sardos. She sighed. Maudlin, that’s what I am. I’ll likely never be back there again. Maybe I could write them?
She was searching for quill and ink when she heard the rap on her door. Shrugging, she made her way to the front door, shivering again at the new blast of cold air – but smiling broadly at the sight in front of her. Five young hobbit-lads – including young Mr. Underhill on his crutches – carrying with them a small box in which nestled a wren. Stiff. Lying on its back.
“What in the name of…”
But she was cut off by their cheerful song:
The wren, the wren, the king of all birds
On Year’s-End Day he got caught in the furze
Up with the kettle and down with the pan
Won’t you give us a penny to bury the wren?
Waving them inside, laughing, she asked, “What’s all this about?”
“Yule tradition, missus,” one of them said.
“Let me see what I have…” she trailed off. Pulling out a silver penny, she handed it to the lads, smiling, ruffling the hair of one of them. She suddenly found herself pulled down to her knees being hugged by each of the lads in turn.
“Missus?” the Underhill boy started. “Missus, if you’ve nowhere else to go for some Yule cheer, Mr. Butterbur’s having a bit of a do – my ma and da are helping deck the inn out proper. Won’t you come?”
“She’s nice,” she heard one of the boys whisper.
“She smells nice,” another one agreed.
She thought it over for a bare moment – she was fairly sure that their celebration would not be quite what she’d experienced as a girl in Dol Amroth, but almost anything would be better than moping about her house alone. “All right, then,” she laughed, pulling a cloak over her and following them across the street to the inn.
The door of the inn opened – to warmth, to firelight and candlelight, to aromas of roasting meat and baking bread, to the sound of cheerful voices singing. Garlands of holly and ivy hung from the rafters. One of the lads took her cloak from her, as she turned to face the innkeeper. “Happy Yule, Mistress Serindë,” he smiled.
“And to you, Master Butterbur. The inn is so cheerful…”
“Did I hear the name Serindë? Well, bless my beard…” And underneath the scents from the kitchen, she caught a whiff of sweet galenas. Whirling, she overbalanced, falling into the arms of the grey-clad wizard. “You’ve grown a bit taller, if no more graceful,” he observed.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“A happy Yule to you as well, and I might ask the same question.”
She blinked for a moment, and then simply stated, “I seem to be unwelcome in Minas Tirith these days, so I made my way here. And happy Yule. It’s good to see a familiar face.”
He beckoned her over toward the fire, indicating she should take a seat. “A bit different from what you’re accustomed to, isn’t it?”
She shrugged. “Daddy always would take us to where the Anduin runs in to the sea – where the fresh and the salt waters meet. He thought wading in the waters there at Year’s End would make the Lord of the Waters look kindly on us. A lot of the sailors and such in Dol Amroth thought it was good to show our gratitude to the Lord of Waters for whatever sort of year we’d had, hoping he’d restrain Ossё from his wrath... In Minas Tirith I was usually on duty, but they usually had some sort of formal celebration up in the Citadel to thank the Father of All. Or at least that was the excuse behind the formal balls and such. And now…” she shrugged again. “Well, I suppose this is home now.”
He glanced at her sharply. “Indeed.”
Then all conversation was cut off as dinner was served. As she ate, many of the younger hobbit lads and lasses came running up to show her this new ribbon or that new shirt. She fussed over each of them with a smile before sending them back to their parents.
She smiled wistfully, gazing fondly at the children. “Bit of a soft place in your heart for them, have you?” Gandalf murmured.
“Don’t suppose the way my life has gone to this point I’ll ever have any of my own,” she sighed. “But the hobbits were the first Breelanders to really make me welcome, so I suppose I do have a bit of a soft place for them. Still, if it hadn’t been for Míriel and Gilraen…”
“Gilraen?” He sounded genuinely startled, and his brows shot up. “So you’ve met Gilraen, have you?”
She nodded.
“Then you’ve already made a far better friend in these parts than you may know.”
She shrugged, watching the younger hobbits gleefully chasing each other around chairs and tables – and any other obstacle, including people.
With a self-deprecating laugh, she refused Butterbur’s offer of a dance, explaining to Gandalf, “Not with this foot…”
“My dear woman – if I may dare to make a prediction, by this time next year you will be dancing, and happy to do so.”
She shrugged again. “If you say so,” she murmured. “But not likely any man’s going to dance happily with the clumsy-footed surgeon.”
He laughed merrily. “This one won’t care.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
She laughed, “I will yield to your obvious wisdom and simply wish you a happy Yule, then.”
“Happy Yule, Serindë. And may you have many more.”
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Date: 2006-12-02 02:55 pm (UTC)Awww, I remember this! The hobbits see right through Serinde's gruff nature, don't they? :D
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Date: 2006-12-03 01:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-02 11:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-03 01:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-03 12:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-03 01:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-03 12:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-03 01:29 pm (UTC)