Baggins Birthdays?

[white--gull.livejournal.com]

Here's one that is a chapter from a larger fic, "Vision of the Heart."

I hope you enjoy it!
(Rated G)




Finished ladling stew, Bilbo peered hopefully out Bag End's kitchen window. "Those clouds must clear by tomorrow!"

Gandalf stirred his stew approvingly, breathing in steam rising from the bowl. "Hobbit culinary arts do not dim with time," he rumbled appreciatively.

Frodo chuckled, amused that his own bowl seemed dwarfed beside the serving-sized one they'd set "Wizardly wisdom, Gandalf?"

"Simple observation, lad," Gandalf replied, lifting his spoon to his mouth.

"I could use some of both concerning tomorrow's weather," Bilbo said dryly.

The wizard studied the clouds. "For your one hundred eleventh birthday, Bilbo, even the sky will cooperate!"

*****************

"Frodo! Frodo!" a familiar, cheerful voice called. Frodo turned and looked about, but it was a feat trying to spot the speaker through the crowd. Finally, Frodo saw Merry waving to him from just beside the luncheon pavilion. Frodo smiled and hurried to his cousin's side.

"There you are!" Frodo greeted Merry as soon as he was close enough not to have to shout. "I was wondering when you'd arrive!"

"Oh, we've been here a good while, but there's so much to distract one that I hadn't made the time to find you yet! Sorry! And happy birthday, Frodo! Does it feel different to be of age?"

"Thank you! And not at all! You think you have not had time? That is the story of my life for the past few months! 'Send this invitation, Frodo,' 'Pack up that mathom, Frodo,' 'File that paperwork, Frodo,' 'Look at this response, Frodo!' Honestly, Merry, I've quite forgotten how to think for myself! Maybe tomorrow it will seem like I've come of age!" Frodo's grin showed his remarks to be what they were, good-natured grumbling full of hidden affection for his eleventy-one year old uncle.

Merry grinned back. "Well, I hope you're not too addle-brained to enjoy the party. This is wonderful! You and Bilbo have outdone yourselves. Is everyone in the Shire here?"

"Just about," answered Frodo, and his blue eyes flitted over the crowd, as if looking for an elusive face. "Just about," he repeated softly. He looked back at Merry. "Pippin is here. Have you seen him?"

"Of course!" snorted Merry. "I found him where all the other 11 year olds are - checking out the food and games! Come on, Frodo, show me where the best entertainments are!"

The party really was wonderful, and the day sped by quickly for Frodo and Merry. Much of Frodo's enjoyment came by watching Bilbo. His uncle bounced from one guest to the next, from one tent to the next, making sure everyone was having a good time and that all the food and entertainments were boundless. Gandalf had given up trying to keep an eye on the old hobbit, and could usually be found sitting and smoking on a bench close to the garden. Frodo and Merry joined the wizard from time to time, between elvenses, lunch, foot races, pony races, dances and the rest.

"When are the fireworks, Gandalf?" Merry asked with excitement as soon as the sun began westering.

Gandalf smiled. "Oh, sometime after tea and before supper I believe," he answered. "Don't be concerned, Meriadoc. They cannot be missed, I promise you."

"Good!" grinned Merry, and catching hold of Frodo's sleeve, drug him off to join in a pie eating contest. Gandalf shook his head as he watched them go, then drew his grey cloak closer about him and sent a ring of smoke skyward.

After tea, Frodo escaped Merry and made his way to Bag End, walking the outer perimeter of the party on the way. The party field was more than full, the crowd had swelled rather than diminished during the day. Some hobbits were sprawled beneath trees or in the shade of the tents, napping to replenish their energy (and appetites) before the evening activities. He'd reached Bag End. Opening the door, he slipped inside, but the smial seemed empty. A noise from down the hall drew him to a spare room, but only Galin was there, beard wagging as the dwarf patiently packed item after item into a travel-worn bag. "Nearly finished?" asked Frodo. "I hope you've had time to eat during all your preparations!"

"Plenty!" answered the dwarf. "I've eaten plenty, and probably more than enough for an evening of walking. And yes, I'm almost finished."

A vague feeling of impending loss touched Frodo's heart as he stepped back outside Bag End, and he wondered again if Bilbo would truly see his plan through to the end. There had been many excuses for Frodo to avoid thinking ahead and preparing himself for Bilbo's departure, if it came to that, and he had taken every one. His mind told him he was used to change, and loss, but deep inside his heart was less callous.

The reminder of loss caused Frodo's eyes to scan a nearby field where some of the ponies and waggons of visiting hobbits were tied. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he knew he was looking for one pony in particular, just as his eyes had repeatedly scanned the crowd all day for just one face. The pony was cream-colored. The face was Iris Bracegirdle's.

Three years now, she'd been married, three years that had flown as years seemed to do in retrospect. Sweetly and loyaly, Iris had embraced her identity as wife and merchant. As yet, the role of mother had not been added to that list. Her fondness for children, though, was finding a growing outlet in a small class she’d begun in Michel Delving’s library, where she read aloud each week to all who wished to listen.

And Frodo had grown in his knowledge and love of Bilbo’s knowledge and loves: The wild, the world, and the wisdom gained through lore and learning. He, with Bilbo's help, had made several contributions to that library in Michel Delving. Ties with some of his younger cousins and friends had strengthened, and Frodo's fondness for all of the Shire ran deep, much deeper than the Shire’s fondness for him! He was, after all, Mad Baggins’ nephew!

Three years had passed since he and Iris made their painful choice not to seek a future together. On the surface they were friends, and when together were able to interact with friendship’s pure affection and regard. In their hearts, they were more than friends, and always would be. Frodo had hoped the Bracegirdles would attend the party. Their reply in the post had said they would.

"There you are!" cried Merry and Pippin. "What are you doing staring at the ponies? They're all fine, Bilbo even hired attendants for them, you know!"

Frodo blushed, but the reddening light of sunset hid his embarrassment from his cousins. "What do you want?" he asked, trying to hide his annoyance as well.

Pippin didn't notice his sharp tone, but Merry's eyes were thoughtful. "Bilbo sent us to look for you. He wants you to meet him over beside the musicians' stage. Something about a missing fiddle...." He continued looking at Frodo as they walked. "Were you searching for any particular pony?"

"Why should I be?" Frodo answered, and waved to Fredegar Bolger, who was just exiting a food pavilion.

"Speaking of ponies," piped Pippin, "it's too bad you sold Sunstar. You remember, that cream-colored mare you used to have. She could have won some of today’s races easily."

Unsettled by the startling coincidence that Pippin should bring up the very pony he looked for, Frodo quickened his stride and asked Merry, "Where did you say Bilbo is? Oh, never mind, there he is now!"

"Hullo, Frodo," Bilbo greeted. "I haven't seen you for some time! Are you enjoying the party?"

"Yes," Frodo smiled, "how could I not? It’s wonderful and everything’s going exactly as planned! But what's this about a missing fiddle?"

"What? Er, that's been cleared up," Bilbo began, but his words were drowned by quickening music and the growing roar of singing, clapping and chanting.

"What did you say?" Frodo shouted, then stared at the grins of Bilbo, Merry and Pippin. The red blood rose again in his face as he became aware of what the singing and chanting voices were saying. He spun around and saw the outskirts of the dance field closing quickly in a tightening circle of hobbits. Everyone, it seemed had heard the strains of music except Frodo.

"Dance with me, my one true love, while the stars above us shine,
Drop a curtsy, give a bow, and put your hand in mine!
Come, swing close, my one true love, while the world spins 'neath our feet,
Call my name or miss a step and earn a kiss so sweet!"

Punctuating the singing was the ever-swelling chant of "Frodo! Frodo!" The musicians and crowd were calling for a favorite game played at almost all coming of age parties - where the blindfolded birthday hobbit was expected to dance with everyone of the opposite sex who wanted a turn. To Frodo's dismay, it appeared that that would be every last female!

He was expected to execute the few steps with each partner flawlessly, then call a name at the end. If he guessed the name correctly (or was stumped enough to guess no name before the gamekeepers called time), or, if he accidentally missed a step, he lost. The consequences were that he must kiss his partner - the goal of every contestant! At that, the game would be over. Naturally, his goal was to guess wrong, or dance perfectly, for as long as he could. And for the rest of the party-goers, the longer the game lasted, the better! Muffing the dance or the guess was generally considered a sign that he wanted to kiss the lass (or matron or gammer), and brought much good-natured laughter and teasing from the crowd.

Frodo spun again to Bilbo. "How could I have forgotten?" he cried. "But, but, now? Isn't this abominable game usually after supper?"

Bilbo, Merry and Pippin pushed a protesting Frodo inside the circle. "What, do you think I'd miss this? Or let you miss it?" Bilbo laughed. "No my boy, you are not escaping so easily!"

Fredegar Bolger, appearing out of the crowd, pulled a blindfold from his pocket and Frodo tried desperately to scan the line of lasses, matrons and gammers that were materializing from all directions. "No cheating!" Pippin squeaked. "Stop him, Merry, he's trying to see!"

The strong arms of Folco Boffin and Sam Gamgee put an end to his struggling. The last thing Frodo saw before the blindfold was in place was Gandalf's laughing face at the edge of the crowd. Apparently, even the wizard didn't want to miss this.

“Oh!” sang the crowd, "Dance with me, my one true love, while the stars above us shine,
Drop a curtsy, give a bow, and put your hand in mine!”

Frodo bowed in the direction Sam pointed him and felt a slim, smooth hand grasp his. No servant girl, this. He recalled that the two faces he’d managed to see at the beginning of the line were Marigold Gamgee and Pearl Took.

“Come, swing close, my one true love, while the world spins 'neath our feet,
Call my name or miss a step and earn a kiss so sweet!”

Drawing the lass close and swinging her a quarter turn, Frodo felt her hip brush his at an equal level and he caught an elusive whiff of honeysuckle. “Marigold Gamgee,” he called, as the steps ended.

The crowd applauded (they didn’t want the fun to end anytime soon) and Pearl’s voice growled in his ear, “You dolt! You cheated!” Frodo only smiled as Merry pointed him towards another unseen partner.

"Dance with me, my one true love, while the stars above us shine,
Drop a curtsy, give a bow, and put your hand in mine!”

The hand that took his was strong, and slightly roughened. These first partners would be the easy ones to guess, Frodo knew.

“Come, swing close, my one true love, while the world spins 'neath our feet,
Call my name or miss a step and earn a kiss so sweet!"

“Pearl Took!” Frodo laughed, and the crowd echoed him as Marigold “hmpfed” and moved away.
Frodo was aimed toward a third partner as the song began again.

A large and distinctly wrinkled hand clutched his. Not a young partner, to be sure. She danced well, but with effort. “Dahlia Bolger,” Frodo guessed, naming a barely teen-aged child who lived on Bagshot row. “Pshaw,” said gammer Proudfoot’s high-pitched voice. The crowd‘s enthusiasm swelled.

"Dance with me, my one true love, while the stars above us shine,
Drop a curtsy, give a bow, and put your hand in mine!”

A tiny hand shyly took his, and a murmur of “awww,” escaped the crowd. Frodo squeezed the little hand gently and led her through the spin. “Aunt Esmeralda Brandybuck?” he queried at song’s end, and was rewarded by a child’s giggle and renewed clapping from the onlookers.

And so went the dance, lass after matron after gammer, guess after guess, while the guessing grew more difficult and the dancing took more effort. Far from growing bored, the crowd waxed ever louder and more enthusiastic. Frodo could hear Bilbo cackling madly at the side-lines. Frodo’s resolve hardened. If Bilbo didn’t want to miss this, he’d give him something he wouldn’t forget!

"Come, swing close, my one true love, while the world spins 'neath our feet,"

The hand was thin and strong, the fingers long, but with roughly trimmed nails. Hmm. Frodo led this dancer in the quarter turn, her paces lagging his just a bit, signaling either her age ... or her intent to trip him. A matron, perhaps? Though he could not be certain, her form felt slender as she danced close.

"Call my name or miss a step and earn a kiss so sweet!"

He felt the brush of a long braid against his arm. Finally, a clue as to whom to safely guess, and just in time! “Gammer Rumble!” he stated, who always wore her hair in a bun.

“Bother!” cried Pimpernel Took, while the crowd roared with glee. The ladies were attempting disguises.

Frodo’s next partner was his most difficult yet. The touch of her hand was light, her movements graceful. Her body seemed sturdy when she brushed close and her feet moved with sure steps very close to his - a deft attempt to cause him to stumble, he was sure. Her hair must be pinned up, for he felt no sign of it. There were no rings on either hand. The song ended, and Frodo, in a rush to stutter his guess before the keepers called time, cried the name of someone he was sure would never dance with him. “L-Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.”

The watchers doubled over with laughter and the lass at his side couldn’t suppress a giggle. “That name must have been the ace up your sleeve,” May Gamgee’s voice congratulated. “I nearly had you.”

That she had, and Frodo supposed that really, he wouldn't have minded kissing her, faithful neighbor that she was. But now, the musicians were quickening the tune, dance by dance. Frodo continued through several more dancers, including two he thought might be Lily Whitfoot and Rose Cotton. The game had progressed so long that Frodo now was having trouble remembering what names he had already guessed. Calling a name twice was another way to lose! The shouts of the crowd were taking on the sound of honest disappointment when he fell to none. Frodo himself was tiring and growing winded. When he recognized one partner as Mrs. Hyacinth Goodbody, he very nearly called the right name instead of a wrong one! He wondered which would happen first, would he blunder the guess or the steps?

"O-oh, dance with me, my one true love, while the stars above us shine,
Drop a curtsy, give a bow, and put your hand in mine!

The hand was smooth and small and clung to his with sure pressure.

“Come, swing close, my one true love,”

She whirled swiftly and gracefully, with one slender arm around his waist. She was close enough that he knew her head just reached his shoulder….

“While the world spins 'neath our feet,”

Sweet Eru! Frodo’s head seemed to spin as well. Could it be? Long hair cloaked his arm that lightly encircled her petite waist.

“Call my name or miss a step and earn a kiss so sweet!"

She giggled quietly and there could be no doubt. Frodo was dumbfounded and electrified to realize who it was in his arms. “Iris,” he whispered unthinkingly, and in his confusion, stepped squarely on one tiny, dancing foot. Both of them went down in an undignified tangle of arms, legs, dress and ripping waistcoat. The roar of the crowd was deafening.

Face flushed and breath quick, Frodo pulled off his blindfold and risked a look at Iris. She was laughing at him, eyes shining with unabashed delight. Frodo struggled to a less ungainly position and gave Iris his hand as they rose. “I won,” she whispered happily.

To Frodo’s surprise, Folco Bracegirdle’s voice competed with that of Bilbo’s and the Mayor’s in urging the final step of the game. “Kiss her! Kiss her!” they chanted, joined by a rising chorus of all the party guests.

And he did. She closed her eyes, lifted her lovely, smiling face, and Frodo felt his heart pound with almost painful, quickening beats. Slowly, his head bent and their lips met in a chaste, yet heartfelt caress. His pulse throbbed in his ears, silencing the crowd for four, five, six fleeting seconds. Then, obeying the adamant voice of inner reason, his lips broke gently from hers. He smiled, turned to the crowd, and bowed with a flourish before disappearing into the gleeful throng.

He made his way through claps on the shoulder and hoots of appreciation until he reached Gandalf. Most hobbits were just a bit afraid of the tall wizard and gave him a wide berth wherever he sat. Very out of breath and weary, Frodo sank to the bench beside him.

“That was quite a good show of endurance, Frodo!” smiled the wizard. “Well done indeed! But who was the maiden that bested you? Unless I’m very mistaken, you were not much displeased to kiss her.”

“Matron,” panted Frodo, with a side-long glare into the twinkling eyes of the old man. “And yes, I could have done worse!”

“Iris Bracegirdle!” chortled Bilbo, arriving at their sides in a trot. He could barely speak for laughing. “I couldn’t have planned that better if I’d tried!” He wiped his eyes while choking delightedly, “You spoke her name and stepped on her foot!” Bilbo mastered his laughter and leaned in close to Frodo’s ear to whisper loudly, “You should have been made to kiss her twice, you know!”

Before Frodo could splutter an indignant reply, Bilbo turned to Gandalf. “And now, the only thing that can top those fireworks - are yours my friend!”

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