Author's notes
I have condensed the age gap between Frodo and Merry slightly for the sake of my storyline. Consider it very slightly AU.
HARVEST REEL
The Harvest Reel was Hobbiton's largest party of the year. It had not the grand feel of such affairs in Brandy Hall but everyone in the locality, highborn and low, came along with a gift of food or ale (and some other drinks less easily identifiable but no less potent). Anyone who could toot a whistle, scratch a fiddle or beat out a rhythm was pressed into performing for the assembled dancers. And when the prancing, swirling forms fell into exhausted heaps others stepped up to entertain with songs and tales.
This was only the second time that young Frodo Baggins had attended the event and he was looking forward to it, not least because his younger cousin, Merry, was visiting. Merry had never encountered such an event, where staid little Hobbiton kicked off the age-old traditions and for one evening in the year no-one was addressed as, "Sir" or "Lady".
The idea fascinated the young heir to Brandy Hall as much as it had Frodo the previous year. Brandy Hall was a busy and intricately knit community, where living in such close proximity bred a need for everyone to know their place in the scheme of life. Only at the Summer Gathering were the social rules relaxed a little and even then, no-one but close family would have dared address the Master by his first name.
This was not to say that everyone in Hobbiton did not, "know their place", nor was their any great feeling that the age-old order should be disturbed. (Except, perhaps, for the Sackville-Baggins.) All hobbits liked to be sure of life and maintained tradition wherever they could. Most were pretty much content with their lot and no one went hungry. But when harvest time came around all hands were needed in the surrounding fields, to ensure that it was gathered before the next rains. And it had long been a tradition that all those who gave a hand at the harvest had equal status at The Reel.
It was a happy and noisy event where matrons squeezed themselves into dresses too long saved for, "best" and young lasses competed over how many lace-trimmed petticoats they could flounce. Gaffers struggled to knot unfamiliar cravats over newly starched collars and young lads practised their dance steps, brushed dust from breeches and sniffed tentatively under their armpits.
Oo0oo
"Aren't you ready yet, Frodo?" Merry sighed as he leaned against the partially opened door to his cousin's room. Frodo started at the sudden voice and all but dropped the small bottle he had been placing so gently upon the washstand. When he turned to smile at his cousin his cheeks were a little flushed and his fingers fumbled as he married up the buttons with holes on his fine linen shirt.
Merry grinned mercilessly, quick to pick up on his cousin's embarrassment, if not its reason, and willing to make what capital he could out of it. He sauntered in the general direction of the washstand. Frodo had played Merry's games on numerous occasions, however and stepped nonchalantly sideways to block his advance. His own voice sounded ridiculously high, however. "Are you not wearing your new green waistcoat, Merry?"
Merry waved a hand dismissively. "It's only a party. Mama would be horrified if I got food all down the front of my best silk waistcoat." His access to the washstand temporarily blocked by Frodo, Merry leaned closer to his cousin and sniffed, pointedly, a grin appearing as his suspicions were confirmed.
"Now don't you smell just sweet?" Merry's grin turned almost to a leer and Frodo turned away to tuck his shirt into his breeches. The embarrassed action was all Merry needed and in a flash he had snatched up his prize from the washstand.
Noticing too late, Frodo spun around and made to grab it back from Merry but his cousin merely danced out of reach, turning the bottle towards the light in order to read the label. His was thwarted, however, for it was written in some strange flowing script. Frodo made an exasperated swipe but Merry stepped out of reach once more, and tucked the bottle behind his back.
"Oh no. You don't get it back until you tell me what's in it. I suspect it's some strange elven brew . . . maybe a love potion that makes every lass you meet want to feed you treats."
Frodo feigned disinterest and turned away to collect his new blue silk waistcoat from the bed. "It's no such thing. It's just a perfumed oil that Bilbo gave me as a birthday present last year." When he glanced back Merry had opened the bottle and was wrinkling his nose at the contents.
"Are you sure this is what you have on? It smells different in the bottle."
Frodo began to button his waistcoat, one eye upon the precious oil, his tone intended to impress with it's superior knowledge of such matters. "Bilbo says that perfumed oils smell different on different people. That one came from Rivendell and was mixed specially for me. It's made from the oils of Sandalwood and Oranges."
Much to Frodo's relief, Merry re-stopped the delicate bottle and replaced it on the washstand. The younger lad shook his head. "If you're out to catch a lass, and I can't see why you would want to, you'd do better with a well filled supper plate. I've seen some of the victuals set out and I intend to make sure that I get more than my fair share." He sat on the edge of the unmade bed. "I don't know what Sandalwood or Oranges are but I reckon if it's smell the lasses are interested in, a dab of Lavender water would work the same."
Merry sighed as he watched his cousin run fingers through his thick dark curls, trying to bring it to order, and decided that this primping may continue for some time yet. "You'll not hook a local lass with such fancy things, although why you'd want to land one at all is beyond me. They're alright for dancing but afterwards all they do is hang on your arm and use you to fetch their food and drink."
Frodo paused in the checking of his teeth. "Bilbo says I must make an effort this year. He says it's time I started acting like a tween." It seemed to Merry that there was a slight note of uncertainty in that comment. He shuddered.
"Tweens. They're all a bit daft in the head if you ask me. Bilbo's making you grow old too soon. You'll be talking of getting wed and having babies next."
Frodo's eyes widened. "No, Merry. I'm not . . ." He was cut off by Bilbo's voice.
"And what's wrong with that, Meriadoc? Most people get around to that at some time. I can't say that the thought didn't cross my mind a few times in younger days."
Merry leapt to his feet and turned to face his host, aware of his older cousin trying to stifle a most un-tweenlike giggle behind him. "Er . . . nothing, Bilbo. I'm sure Papa will be very pleased to see Frodo growing up into a responsible gentlehobbit."
"And so he should be," Bilbo replied, crossing to Frodo's mirror and tweaking at his already immaculately tied cravat. "He's been running wild with you and little Pippin for far too long. Time he started taking interest in folk more his own age." Merry was too flustered to notice but Frodo could sense a hint of restrained laughter in his uncle's voice. Finally satisfied with the arrangement of his black silk cravat, Bilbo turned back to eye the two. "Well . . . are you ready?"
"I think so, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo replied, tugging at the hem of his waistcoat and glancing down to check that his feet were clean.
Bilbo eyed Merry expectantly. "Yes, sir."
The older hobbit's keen eyes considered Merry's dusty feet for a moment and then, shaking his head, he shooed them both out of the door.
TBC
