A/N: First go at writing fan fiction, so be warned. This is fan fiction, therefore, none of the characters mentioned by name are mine. And the party wasn't my idea either. All comes from the imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien. Quite talented, he was.

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Frodo smiled, then laughed, watching his partner's face as they twirled around and between the other dancers. She yelled and whooped with every spin, dancing to drum and whistle with wild abandon. Soon enough, Frodo was yelling and whooping right along with her, lost in a sea of whirling skirts and nimble feet and drowning in the rich and sweet and sun-filled reel played by quick and talented fingers. He came to the surface as the music slowed, and was on dry land by the time the musicians came to the last held note.

Frodo bowed to the lass who had taken his hands from his pockets and led him out into the dance. She curtsied back and was swept up into the next dance before she was even standing, red curls swinging behind her.

Sitting down, alone, occasionally taking a swig from his glass, he was left to think. Remember whose party it was, remember what Bilbo had joked about that morning, and every morning for weeks before, come to think of it. Well, he said it all as if he was joking. But Frodo knew. And Bilbo knew Frodo knew, otherwise he might not have let him in on his trick. Might he? No matter. Bilbo was leaving and that was that. He'd just have to make sure to catch him before he left. Perhaps even persuade him into letting Frodo tag along at the last minute.

Then the lass was back, all smiles and swaying hips, pulling him out of his seat and out of his thoughts, and into their second dance that night. And again she shouted her enjoyment and again Frodo couldn't help but smile and laugh and scream with her. It was his birthday as well, after all. His coming of age in fact. Why shouldn't he celebrate?