![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elwendell posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
b2memB2MeM Prompt:B11 Madder, G54 Athelas Card:Botony and Number:25
Format:vignette
Genre:gen
Rating:gen
Warnings:none
Characters:Frodo Baggins, Sam Gamgee, Saradoc Brandybuck
Pairings:none
Creator’s Notes:I freely admit to little knowledge of dying processes, beyond the fact that stale urine can be an ingredient. I have no more knowledge of the use of Athelas in dying than I suspect Professor Tolkien had. Tarmaret is the Old English name for Turmeric.
Summary:A visit to Michel Delving triggers memories of Buckland
OF DEATH AND DYING
Frodo slid a hand over the fine woven silk on display, finally selecting a bright yellow.
Sam's opinion was hesitant. “'tis a nice enough colour, Mister Frodo. It's not one I've seen you wear much, though.”
“Oh, it's not for me. I was thinking it could make a nice waistcoat for my cousin, Merry. It's his birthday in a couple of months.”
Sam's tone lightened. “Oh. But Master Merry already has a yellow weskit. I saw him wear it at your last birthday party. A good strong cloth it was. . . what my Ma would call, 'serviceable'.”
Frodo chuckled. “She would. No, there is a lady here who does the most beautiful quilting. She makes lovely waistcoats with a thin layer of woollen wadding between the fabrics.”
“Oh my. The things you hear of in big towns.” Sam scanned Michel Delving's high street, through the draper's window, with some awe. His first visit to the Shire's main town had been quite an eye opener for the young gardener. They had an real tailor here, who made suits especially for you, with fine stiff collars and brass buttons. There was even a hobbit who made his living just trimming foot hair and toenails. Feet were more or less left to their own devices, back in Hobbiton.
Sam slid a tentative finger across the shimmering surface of the silk. “I wonder how they get that colour.”
And just like that, Frodo was a teenager again, with Uncle Saradoc proudly showing him around the Shire's only fabric dying establishment.
“We dry the herbs we need in here.” Saradoc shepherded a slightly over-awed Frodo into a large, airy room. Muslin covered, wire shelves, on which were spread flowers, roots and herbs, marched in rows down the centre of the room. The rafters above were hung with bunches of flowers and leaves, and more shelves, filled with sacks and boxes lined the walls.
A loud bang, followed by an expletive, more usually heard in a cowshed, had Saradoc and Frodo stepping around a line of shelving to discover its source. A lad, on hands and knees, was scooping up bright yellow powder, spilled from the box he had obviously just dropped. He visibly jumped at Saradoc's stern injunction to, “Have a care, you ninny! That Tarmaret has come from out of the Shire, somewhere away down south of the world.”
The youngster ducked his head, with a hurried, “Yes, Mister Saradoc.”
Frodo was glad he wasn't the one on the wrong end of his Uncle's stern tongue on this occasion, and felt sorry for the lad, who looked to be no older than Frodo himself. In an effort to divert Saradoc's ire from the hapless youngster, Frodo examined a nearby tray. “What's this, Uncle?”
It worked, for Saradoc turned to examine the small, purplish-brown roots that were spread before them, and out of the corner of his eye, Frodo saw the lad slip from the room. “It's madder root; makes a good orange and a fine plum if you mix it with kingsfoil.” He pointed to another box, labeled, Athelas. “Your Uncle Bilbo arranged for that to be sent from beyond Bree, somewhere. Of course, you've to add piss to make the plum.” He laughed when Frodo's nose wrinkled in distaste. “Why do you think the Shire's only dye house is in Buckland and far from Brandy Hall? Those stick-at-homes back in the Farthings don't want the smell of fermenting piss on their doorsteps.” He grinned. “They're willing to pay for the yarn and cloth, though.”
Frodo gave a tentative sniff. Yes. Now that he knew what to expect, he could just detect the slightest whiff of urine under the more wholesome smell of herbs. “Will I be expected to take a turn here?” he asked, with some trepidation.
Saradoc took him by the shoulder to steer him from the room. “Don't worry, lad. There's plenty of cowsheds and stables to be cleaned, closer to home. I'll find work enough for you around the Hall, in between your lessons.”
“Lessons?” Frodo imagined long days, split between sitting in dimly lit classrooms and shovelling ordure. When he looked up into his Uncle's face, however, he saw amusement riding there.
“You'll have plenty of time for play, Frodo, and plenty of playmates too. We're not your Mama and Papa, but we'll do our best to make you feel at home.”
Mention of his parents brought a pang of sorrow but Uncle Saradoc suddenly tugged him close in a hug. “We miss them too, but the best way we can all remember them now, is to come together as family should.”
Frodo wrapped his arms as far around his uncle's waist as he could, inhaling pipeweed and apples. It wasn't his Papa's smell, but it was one he at least found comfortable. There was comfort to be had in the knowledge that he was not alone in his grieving.
“Mister Frodo? Are you alright, sir?”
Frodo blinked Sam's concerned face into focus. “I'm fine. I was just remembering something.” He smiled down at the yellow silk. “Tarmaret. Yes. This will be perfect for Merry's waistcoat.” He turned to the waiting assistant. “I'll take a yard of this, please, and a yard of the undyed silk for lining.”
END
Format:vignette
Genre:gen
Rating:gen
Warnings:none
Characters:Frodo Baggins, Sam Gamgee, Saradoc Brandybuck
Pairings:none
Creator’s Notes:I freely admit to little knowledge of dying processes, beyond the fact that stale urine can be an ingredient. I have no more knowledge of the use of Athelas in dying than I suspect Professor Tolkien had. Tarmaret is the Old English name for Turmeric.
Summary:A visit to Michel Delving triggers memories of Buckland
OF DEATH AND DYING
Frodo slid a hand over the fine woven silk on display, finally selecting a bright yellow.
Sam's opinion was hesitant. “'tis a nice enough colour, Mister Frodo. It's not one I've seen you wear much, though.”
“Oh, it's not for me. I was thinking it could make a nice waistcoat for my cousin, Merry. It's his birthday in a couple of months.”
Sam's tone lightened. “Oh. But Master Merry already has a yellow weskit. I saw him wear it at your last birthday party. A good strong cloth it was. . . what my Ma would call, 'serviceable'.”
Frodo chuckled. “She would. No, there is a lady here who does the most beautiful quilting. She makes lovely waistcoats with a thin layer of woollen wadding between the fabrics.”
“Oh my. The things you hear of in big towns.” Sam scanned Michel Delving's high street, through the draper's window, with some awe. His first visit to the Shire's main town had been quite an eye opener for the young gardener. They had an real tailor here, who made suits especially for you, with fine stiff collars and brass buttons. There was even a hobbit who made his living just trimming foot hair and toenails. Feet were more or less left to their own devices, back in Hobbiton.
Sam slid a tentative finger across the shimmering surface of the silk. “I wonder how they get that colour.”
And just like that, Frodo was a teenager again, with Uncle Saradoc proudly showing him around the Shire's only fabric dying establishment.
“We dry the herbs we need in here.” Saradoc shepherded a slightly over-awed Frodo into a large, airy room. Muslin covered, wire shelves, on which were spread flowers, roots and herbs, marched in rows down the centre of the room. The rafters above were hung with bunches of flowers and leaves, and more shelves, filled with sacks and boxes lined the walls.
A loud bang, followed by an expletive, more usually heard in a cowshed, had Saradoc and Frodo stepping around a line of shelving to discover its source. A lad, on hands and knees, was scooping up bright yellow powder, spilled from the box he had obviously just dropped. He visibly jumped at Saradoc's stern injunction to, “Have a care, you ninny! That Tarmaret has come from out of the Shire, somewhere away down south of the world.”
The youngster ducked his head, with a hurried, “Yes, Mister Saradoc.”
Frodo was glad he wasn't the one on the wrong end of his Uncle's stern tongue on this occasion, and felt sorry for the lad, who looked to be no older than Frodo himself. In an effort to divert Saradoc's ire from the hapless youngster, Frodo examined a nearby tray. “What's this, Uncle?”
It worked, for Saradoc turned to examine the small, purplish-brown roots that were spread before them, and out of the corner of his eye, Frodo saw the lad slip from the room. “It's madder root; makes a good orange and a fine plum if you mix it with kingsfoil.” He pointed to another box, labeled, Athelas. “Your Uncle Bilbo arranged for that to be sent from beyond Bree, somewhere. Of course, you've to add piss to make the plum.” He laughed when Frodo's nose wrinkled in distaste. “Why do you think the Shire's only dye house is in Buckland and far from Brandy Hall? Those stick-at-homes back in the Farthings don't want the smell of fermenting piss on their doorsteps.” He grinned. “They're willing to pay for the yarn and cloth, though.”
Frodo gave a tentative sniff. Yes. Now that he knew what to expect, he could just detect the slightest whiff of urine under the more wholesome smell of herbs. “Will I be expected to take a turn here?” he asked, with some trepidation.
Saradoc took him by the shoulder to steer him from the room. “Don't worry, lad. There's plenty of cowsheds and stables to be cleaned, closer to home. I'll find work enough for you around the Hall, in between your lessons.”
“Lessons?” Frodo imagined long days, split between sitting in dimly lit classrooms and shovelling ordure. When he looked up into his Uncle's face, however, he saw amusement riding there.
“You'll have plenty of time for play, Frodo, and plenty of playmates too. We're not your Mama and Papa, but we'll do our best to make you feel at home.”
Mention of his parents brought a pang of sorrow but Uncle Saradoc suddenly tugged him close in a hug. “We miss them too, but the best way we can all remember them now, is to come together as family should.”
Frodo wrapped his arms as far around his uncle's waist as he could, inhaling pipeweed and apples. It wasn't his Papa's smell, but it was one he at least found comfortable. There was comfort to be had in the knowledge that he was not alone in his grieving.
“Mister Frodo? Are you alright, sir?”
Frodo blinked Sam's concerned face into focus. “I'm fine. I was just remembering something.” He smiled down at the yellow silk. “Tarmaret. Yes. This will be perfect for Merry's waistcoat.” He turned to the waiting assistant. “I'll take a yard of this, please, and a yard of the undyed silk for lining.”
END
