"Well, it all goes back to mother and-- Actually da started it all." Merry let his right arm go limp and pliable in Frodo's hands. "He got it in his head that he should be doing the accounts."

Merry watched as Frodo rolled his eyes and grimaced.  Everyone knew that Saradoc's real strength was in the vineyard and the cellars -- even in the fields.  He was not as good with the ponies as Merry's Grandfather Rorimac had been in his day, before the accident, but he was decent.  But with the bookkeeping -- his father was an unmitigated disaster.  And he was even worse at doing any actual business with the customers. 

"I am assuming this leads to our favourite artist somehow." Frodo moved his attentions to Merry's chest and stomach.  "So where and why did Uncle Sara get this idea?"

"Grandda, of course." Merry responded. "There were some problems with a customer that he found -- a new inn close to the Bridge of Stonebows. They weren't paying properly and mother cut them off after it happened three times. What with the harvest problems the last two years and-- well, we have barely enough outside of the Hall's needs for even the dependable paying customers. She had given them the benefit of the doubt because they were just starting up, but we can't afford to carry them for too long these days. Perhaps in a better year--"

"Lean forward and let me get your back." Frodo said in a quiet voice. "So, what does that have to do with you?"

"Everything." Merry sat up, wrapping his arms around his legs and leaning forward. "Ngggh," he grunted as Frodo dug his fingers into tense muscles as he scrubbed.

"Sorry, love."

Merry found himself clenching and unclenching his jaw and tried hard to relax. "Mother has always wanted me to do the accounts so I will understand what da does not, and never will understand. And da-- well, grandda pushed him and pushed him. You know how grandda gets sometimes." Merry buried his face in his knees. "He's frustrated that he can't do it all any more and-- well, you know how disappointed he is that mother is handling so many things herself."

"Uncle Rory expects a great deal of everyone and he can be a bit of an arse about it at times, but he does respect and admire your mother. I know that." Frodo handed him the flannel and soap. Here, wash your legs and feet. So, Uncle Sara--"

"Drank a bit too much inventory and got into the books. Made a complete hash of things." Merry scrubbed unenthusiastically at one leg. "I was in there helping her clean things up, when he came back in. Had mother in tears about-- well, about almost anything you can think of from the past, present, and future."

Including a lot of things that Merry didn't want to hear about himself, about the other babes that were never born, about Frodo. He could tell by the sounds behind him that Frodo was making quick use of the opportunity to wash his own hair and scrub himself clean of the dust of the road, but he was listening. "And?"

"And then grandda roared in. Then everyone was yelling about pretty much everything." He moved around a bit as he ran the cloth over his legs, just so he could see Frodo's face. "At one point mother even threatened to take me and go to Great Smials."

Frodo, scrubbing away under his arms with the flannel, stopped. "She-- what?"

Merry felt his heart start pounding, just like it had that day. His throat tightened. "I know. She has never said anything like that before." He stared at the side of the tub but saw his mother's face -- rigid and drained of colour -- and his father's -- florid and furious. "Then da said he was the Master of the Hall and she could just go back to Great Smials for all he cared, but as the future Master I would have to stay with him. Then grandda said that he was still the Master and they could both go for all he cared, and as the future Master, I would have to stay with him." He realized that he was just blurting things out breathlessly and stopped, breathing hard.

"I was ready to leave them there, shouting at each other like that. They wouldn't have noticed. I was going to pack everything and head for Hobbiton--"

"But you didn't." Frodo said softly.

"No. But I did think about it. I was-- I just am so tired of it all." Merry closed his eyes. "I just waited until they all got quiet and then I told them they could all leave and I would run the Hall."

Merry heard an odd noise from behind him that sounded a bit like a snort.

"That is just-- perfect."

He must be mistaken. He turned his head to look back at Frodo.

"Are you mad?" Then he realized what he had just said when Frodo grinned at him and finished soaping up his chest. "Oh, yes, I forgot. You are mad. Absolutely. Bollocking. Mad."

Frodo snorted, and as if to prove Merry's point, slid forward, wrapping slick legs firmly around Merry and disappearing under the water.

Merry ignored him and finished scrubbing his other leg -- or rather tried to ignore him. There were bits bumping rather firmly against his backside that he could not, in all good conscience, ignore, especially when Frodo was using him as leverage to emerge from the water sputtering and splashing behind him.

"No, I meant--" Frodo sounded a bit watery until he ran his hand over his face and pushed his hair back. "I meant that was a perfect response. Seriously. It was just what they needed to hear at that moment. Each one of them."

Merry turned and looked at him -- no, more glared at him. Frodo ignored him reached over the edge of the tub and retrieved the bottle of oil, letting the cork drop to the floor. He poured a small amount into his hand and returned the bottle carefully to the floor.

"Trust me, it was." Frodo rubbed his hands together. "Now, turn about and rinse off well. It's time for that massage I promised."

Merry grunted and slid forward once more, dipping under the water to rinse off and leveraging himself up, dripping and wet. At last he could smell something besides the cloying smell of paint. He smelled Frodo all around him -- and juniper berries.

"Here, you need a bit to tame that hair." Frodo put a hand on the nape of Merry's neck, rubbing as he did, and raked his other hand back through Merry's hair. "So, what happened next then?"

"Well," Merry tried to think. It seemed to him that things had just been horrid for him since.

He heard splashing behind him as Frodo shifted around and then hands slick with oil were on his neck, strong thumbs pushing up into his hair.

"Ow."

"Sorry love. A bit sore there?"

Merry nodded, leaning into that marvellous touch and closing his eyes as the fingers kneaded and rubbed at his neck.

"You've been tied up in knots ever since this thing happened then?"

"They've had me tied up. Mother wants me in the office all the time with the books, until I think I am made out of parchment and ink." He held his right hand back for inspection. "You can see that my fingers are beginning to look like yours -- and Uncle Bilbo's."

"Lovely stains. And your da?"

There hadn't been a dramatic change in his father, but there was a change.

Patient fingers worked on his shoulders, digging in, working out the stiffness there that had plagued him for days. He hadn't realized how very tense he was, until Frodo had touched him.

"Merry?"

"Well, him too. But, it is different with da. He has been more clear-eyed than usual of late. And he's asked me to come to the cellars during racking and topping off so that he can show me things." Merry smiled, remembering the look of pride on his father's face when he could identify the barrel maker for one of the wines he tasted and he could tell what had gone wrong with the other bottle.

"So, he is treating you a bit more like the future Master of the Hall and less like a rival?"

"Mmmm hmmm." Merry agreed, then he realized he didn't quite understand what Frodo had just said and raised his head. "What?"

"You told me at Yule that there were times when you thought your da saw you as a rival -- and it was almost as if he was trying to prove that you weren't up to the task. Remember?"

"Yes, well-- yes. And then I'm just-- there are times when I think he's given up, Frodo. It is like he realizes he won't ever be what they want. So he is suddenly trying to make me be what they want. He'll change back soon enough. Nothing ever lasts with da." Frodo's slick fingers dug in to his spine and he slumped forward once more, groaning. "That feels wonderful."

"What about your grandda then?"

"Well, he is the worst of the lot, really. I mean, before I really was just a faunt to him, now, suddenly--," he switched to his grandfather's gruff voice. "'You are the future Master of the Hall, and you need to behave like it'."

Frodo snorted again. "Good imitation."

"I have been hearing-- ow!"

"Oops. Tender there?" Frodo slid oily fingers over the spot and kneaded a bit less firmly.

"Mmmmmm hmmmm." Merry stretched his spine luxuriously then settled back. "I have been hearing grandda's voice a lot lately. Sometimes he just repeats lessons I have already had from mother or da. Sometimes it's new things -- like ideas about those whites that Milo Burrows started a while back."

"I had a taste of his first vintage, actually. Not too bad," Frodo remarked. "A bit dry for me though. But where does Todo figure in to all this?"

"I am getting to that." Merry only realized that he had growled when Frodo's fingers stilled on his back.

"I'm sorry love. I interrupted." The fingers resumed walking down his spine.

"No, I-- I'm sorry. I just-- Well, it's just that grandda-- well, he-- he seems to want me to skip right past being a tween to being of age -- like this portrait. You and I both know the tradition is for Brandybucks to have a sitting after they reach majority. But no, not Meriadoc Brandybuck. Grandda insists that I have to get mine made now. And then there is the toff, who insists on belittling and baiting me at every turn and acting like some great peacock."

"Todo was much the same when he was younger. Still quite the prodigy, but always a peacock and an insufferable snob on top of it all."

"You-- uh-- mmmmmm." Frodo's fingers were low on his back now and felt absolutely exquisite. "You kn-- knew him before?"

"Well, 'knew' is the wrong word. I was quite young at the time. Around Pippin's age I think. Uncle Mac was getting his portrait done and I snuck in to watch." Frodo admitted. "I was always trailing around after Uncle Mac at that age, hoping for a story about his boat and his trips down the river."

Frodo ran his thumbs back down Merry's spine then swept his fingers back up his ribs and Merry shivered. "So, why is Todo still alive?" Frodo repeated, patiently.

"Grandda threatened to send me to Budgeford before the celebration if I didn't cooperate with the portrait painting. And he knew I was looking forward to your visit. He even said he would see to it that you couldn't see me while I was there either -- that I didn't have time for tweening, the way things are around here."

Merry only realized that everything Frodo had worked so hard to loosen was tightening up again when Frodo cleared his throat and worked his way back up to Merry's shoulders once more.

"And that-- that poncy artist treated me like a faunt because he knew he could. He knew they wouldn't listen to me. He was taunting me -- treating me like-- well, treating me like something he stepped in. And he was doing it on purpose. Just so he could stay on at the Hall. I know he was. But grandda wouldn't hear of it, and I couldn't tell mother, and da -- well, you know. They weren't going to let me see you if I didn't cooperate with all their plans."

The fingers on his shoulders tightened just a bit, but Frodo didn't say anything.

Merry twisted around to face Frodo. "You see? They don't really talk to each other any more, but they all talk to me -- no, they talk at me, order me around. They act like they own me. It is like I am a-- a thing and not a hobbit. To them, I'm the future Master of the Hall. But they won't let me just be me--" He was poking at his own chest angrily when he realized that his voice was gruff with tears. "Just me. Just Merry."

***

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