The bad spell that came in March hadn't taken Frodo completely by surprise. He'd had a similar spell of darkness and pain on the same date the year before, on the first anniversary of the Ring's destruction. He'd been dreading the recurrence, but he thought he was braced for it. After all, he'd been in reasonably good health for several months, since his last dark day in October. He'd even hoped that, as time passed, the force of the spell would diminish.

He was wrong. This year was worse. The day itself was a nightmare of memories that he could not escape by waking. He'd lain in his bed all day curled into a ball beneath his blankets, weeping and moaning as if he'd taken a mortal wound--for that was exactly what it felt like. That little ache that was always at the core of his being now grew to overwhelm him. He felt just as he had at the moment the Ring had gone into the fire, almost as if his heart had been torn beating from his breast, and yet he lived... although he nearly wished he did not.

Sam sat by his bedside for most of the day, holding his hand and patting his fevered brow with cool, damp cloths, but Frodo found no comfort in his friend's ministrations. He could only endure, and hope that the end of this terrible day would bring surcease. At last, at dusk, he finally fell into an exhausted and mercifully dreamless sleep.

But even after the worst was over and the black spell had passed, Frodo was laid low throughout the days that followed, and felt quite weak and dazed.

Sam insisted on keeping him abed. "I want you well again as soon as possible," he explained on the second day after Frodo's bad spell. "If I'm to marry Rosie in two weeks, you've got to be fit to stand by me at the ceremony. I don't want to worry about you while I'm away on my honeymoon."

In spite of his weariness and the lingering remnants of gloom that cast shadows over his mind, Frodo had to smile at this. "Of course you'll worry, Sam," he teased. "You can't help it."

"Maybe," Sam conceded, "but I don't want to come running back from Waymoot over it."

As his gift to the about-to-be married couple, Frodo had rented the cottage outside Waymoot where his cousin Angelica used to meet her lover, Lad Whitfoot, in secret. It was a perfect, private, little love-nest, and now that Angelica and Lad had married and their baby had been born, they'd moved into a larger home in Michel Delving, leaving the place vacant.

"So you stay in that bed and rest," Sam concluded firmly as he plumped the pillows and tucked Frodo in against the spring chill. "Mind you don't set a foot on the floor 'til I say so."

"Yes, Sam." Frodo made no protest to these dictates. He had no desire to get up, so it was no imposition to obey Sam's orders.

"Is there anything I can bring you?" Sam asked him.

"My notes on my book, please," Frodo requested. "If I'm going to be abed for awhile, perhaps I can do a little work."

"Not too much work!"

"Not too much," Frodo agreed. "What about something to read? That ought to occupy my mind and keep me from feeling too depressed. I don't see how a book could tire me."

Sam didn't see how either, and went into Frodo's study. He returned a few minutes later, bringing the Red Book, with Frodo's notes tucked in between the pages, and a collection of smaller books stacked on top.

"Here's some of Mr. Bilbo's old books," he said as he deposited the stack on the nightstand.

"Thank you, Sam." Frodo took the books from the pile one by one, looked over the title on each spine, and opened a few to look at the neat, familiar writing that crowded the pages within. "Uncle Bilbo translated so many of the old, Elvish legends. I haven't read these in years--I used to enjoy them so much as a boy. Remember, Sam? Before we'd ever been away from the Shire..."

"And saw the Elves," said Sam wistfully.

"It might be a good idea to refresh my memory, and perhaps include a few notes in my book. There are a quite a lot of references to Elvish history in our tale that can benefit from a more detailed explanation." He had come to the last book in the pile, a thin volume titled "The Tragedy of The White Lady of Gondolin." The title was unfamiliar; Frodo couldn't recall seeing it before. "I think I'll start with this one."

With the freshly plumped pillows behind his back, Frodo drew up his knees and set the book across his lap. As Sam left him and went to make supper, he began to read.

"The Tragedy of The White Lady of Gondolin" (A translation from the Elvish by Bilbo Baggins)

"So it passed in the days of the Great Peace. The fair city of Gondolin knew no troubles, for it lay well-guarded within in its mountain fastness, and all paths to it were secret. The people of Gondolin were content to remain within, and knew naught but peace and happiness, save for the King Turgon's sister Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, who had dwelt in the city for two hundred years and grew restless. She wished to go abroad in the lands of Middle-earth, as she had been accustomed to do in Valinor.

"Her brother the King refused her at first, for he feared that someone might discover the way to his city, but the Lady would not be denied her will. At last, she departed from Gondolin with three lords of the King's household whom he trusted most to escort his sister.

"It was meant that Aredhel should ride to her brother Fingon, who dwelt in Hithlum, but she dissuaded her escorts from this path and instead sought the sons of Feanor, who were her kinsman and friends of old. The Lady's chosen path brought her onto perilous roads, and it was near the dark lands of Nan Dungortheb that she was parted from her escort and lost. The three lords sought the Lady Aredhel, but in vain, and perforce returned to Gondolin bearing sad news to the King of his sister's fate.

"But the Lady Aredhel, who was brave as she was fair, rode on alone through dangers untold and found her way to the land of Himlad, and past Celon, until she came to the sunless Wood of Nan Elmoth."

On the page opposite these last paragraphs, Bilbo had painstakingly drawn an illustration--either from his own imagination, or copied from the Elvish text: a fair Elven lady mounted on a white palfrey rode on a path through woods, apparently blithe and oblivious to the menacing eyes that watched her from the spaces between the trees.

"It was in Nan Elmoth that the Dark Elf Eol dwelt, and when he saw the lightsome beauty of the Lady Aredhel, his heart was foresworn to her. As he would have the Lady, he set enchantments among the trees of the wood so that, no matter the path she chose, she would be brought to him. When Aredhel, weary from her long riding, at last came to the doors of Eol's home, he made her welcome and bid her to become his wife.

"The Lady Aredhel did abide in that dark land without sun and walked only beneath the stars and moon at her husband's side for twenty years. In time, she bore Eol a son, a Child of Twilight that his father named Maeglin."

The story was familiar; Frodo was certain he had read it before, although this text was somewhat different from the tale as he remembered it. Perhaps some nuance of the Elvish was lost from Bilbo's translation, but he found it difficult to tell if Aredhel had become Eol's wife willingly, or if she was his prisoner. Twenty years was no time at all to an Elf, but somehow Frodo doubted that this dauntless lady, who rode wherever she pleased, would agree to stay even that long with a husband she disliked, enchantment or no.

He turned the page.

"As her son grew, the Lady Aredhel told him many tales of her kinsman and the beauty of Gondolin, and a desire was born in Maeglin's heart to see his mother's home. So often did he ask to be taken to see Gondolin that at last Aredhel consented. The lady and her son departed from Nan Elmoth while her husband was away, and rode to the city. Unbeknownst to them, Eol returned early to find them gone, and followed but two days behind.

"There was much joy and wondrous surprise in Gondolin when the Lady Aredhel returned, for all had believed her forever lost and despaired she would be seen among them again. Though Aredhel would not say whence she had come, nor where she had been these twenty years, King Turgon bid her welcome and praised her son Maeglin highly, calling him 'sister-son' and a worthy princeling of the Noldor.

"Maeglin bowed low before the King and vowed that Turgon should hereafter be his liege lord. But his eyes, all the while, dwelt upon the King's daughter Idril, for he found her most fair.

"But the joy at Lady Aredhel's return did not last long. In the midst of the celebrations, Eol was brought before the King. He had tracked his wife and son to the very gates of Gondolin, and was there captured.

"King Turgon would have Aredhel and Maeglin remain in the city, and would have remain Eol as well, lest he betray the location of Gondolin, but Eol refused to submit to the king's authority. He did not care for the secret ways of the city, but only desired to have his wife and son restored to him.

"Eol allowed that Aredhel might abide in Gondolin awhile, for he knew she would grow weary of the city as she had before and return to him when she wished, but his son must come with him now. Aredhel consented, but this Maeglin refused, for he had pledged himself to King Turgon and was also loth to leave his fair cousin Idril."

A second illustration showed a group of Elves gathered in a circular courtyard rather like the council chamber at Rivendell: The fair lady in white stood at one side of the circle with her hand beseechingly on the arm of a dark-haired Elf, presumably her husband, but Eol already had a hand beneath his cloak to reach for a short spear he wore tucked into his belt. A tall Elf, fair as the Lady and wearing a jeweled diadem on his brow, stood on the other side and scowled at Eol imperiously. This must be King Turgon. Between them was a young Elf, also dark-haired, but he stood with his back to his parents and held one hand out toward the king.

"When he heard his son's words," the story continued, "Eol was full wroth. 'Ill-begotten,' he called his son, and a 'betrayer of his blood.' He demanded that Maeglin obey him, but Maeglin had chosen his new master and neither father nor mother's pleas could sway him. Also, the King would not have him leave.

"Vowing that Turgon would not have what was his, Eol sprang upon him and revealed a spear that he bore concealed beneath his cloak. He cast it, but the Lady Aredhel stood in the path of its flight, for she would protect her son above all, and so was wounded.

"Eol was seized and kept captive until such time as King Turgon would pronounce judgement upon him. Lady Aredhel pled for Turgon to be merciful to her husband but, though her wound was small and her brother the King tended her through the night, she soon sickened and died.

"There was no mercy to be found in Turgon. When Eol was brought before him for judgement, the king commanded that Eol be thrown from the highest wall of the city and his body broken on the rocks beneath.

"Thus it was done, and thus ends the tragedy of the White Lady. Would she had spent her life in Gondolin, rather than meet such a fate! Had she not wed Eol and been mother to Maeglin, her line might not have ended, nor the kingdom of Gondolin fallen."

That last line sounded rather sententious, almost as if it had been added to the story later, but Frodo knew enough of Elvish history to know what happened to Maeglin and the city of Gondolin afterwards, and realized that it was essentially true.

But that was not what interested him most right now. His recent experiences as an investigator had given him an eye for suspicious circumstances--and surely there was something very odd about this tale of Lady Aredhel's death.

Sam brought Frodo's supper in on a tray, then sat at the foot of the bed to see that he ate every bite. After supper, Frodo read the story of the Lady Aredhel aloud to his friend.

"I remember Mr. Bilbo reading that story to me as a lad," said Sam once he had finished.

"I've read it before too, or something like it. Doesn't it seem rather odd to you?"

"How d'you mean?"

"The quarrel that led to the Lady's death. Everyone behaves so strangely during it, as well as afterwards."

Sam shrugged. "Well... they're Elves. Who can guess what they'll do? You know how they are, like forces o' nature as much as people--bright and merry as a summer's day one minute, and fierce as a lightning-flash the next."

Frodo smiled at this poetical but apt description. "That might explain it. But all the same, there are a few things that seem strange to me, and I'd like to find answers to them, if I can."

Recognizing this tone, Sam regarded him with sudden suspicion. He had accompanied Frodo on enough cases to know what "I'd like to find answers" meant. "You sound like you're investigating."

"I suppose I am," Frodo admitted. "I've done so much of it lately, I've gotten used to seeing mysteries everywhere. Puzzles interest me. They need to be solved, even if they happened in the First Age."

"I won't have you tire yourself over something that happened so long ago," Sam insisted. "You're just getting over a bad turn. You should be resting."

"I will rest, Sam. I'll stay in bed, I promise! This isn't a real investigation, only play. I don't expect to discover anything momentous about Lady Aredhel's death--not at this late date! Think of it as an intellectual game, like riddles, that'll keep me occupied while I'm abed. You won't let me do much else. You might even help."

Sam relented grudgingly. He could never refuse Frodo anything and, after all, what harm could it do if Frodo played at solving a mystery out of some ages-old Elvish story? "What's so odd about it?" he asked.

"For one thing, I find it strange that Aredhel pled for mercy for her husband after Eol had wounded her."

"Why wouldn't she? He didn't mean to hurt her, and she knew it. She'd only got in the way, accidental-like. Besides, nobody was dead yet. The king wouldn't've been as hard on him if she hadn't died."

"But she was dying, poisoned by the spear that struck her."

"Did she know it?"

Did she? Frodo wondered. Maybe Aredhel hadn't realized that her wound was fatal. He recalled reading of Eol's skill with metallurgy and weaponry; would his wife know that he was capable of creating a poisoned blade?

"Sam," he asked, "can you look through Uncle Bilbo's books and see if you can find anything more about Eol? I'm sure I've seen other stories about him."

"I'll hunt it up for you in the morning," Sam promised.

"Another thing: even if it led to Aredhel's death, it strikes me as interesting that the dispute between Turgon and Eol seems to be over Maeglin. Neither seems as adamant about whether Aredhel stays in Gondolin or goes with her husband, but they come to murderous blows over her son."

"I suppose that's only natural," Sam said after thinking it over. "A wife's got a right to visit her family, and it seems like nobody was going to tell this lady to go or stay if she didn't want to. But a child's different. Your child's your own. This lad, Maeglin, wasn't yet twenty. That's barely half-grown for a hobbit, and Elves live so much longer'n we do. He must've been a baby to them! I expect this Eol was thinking that the king wanted to take his son away from him and if he let the lad stay, he'd never see him again. And then the boy says he wants to stay with his uncle." He turned to Frodo. "Now that's something that puzzles me--What's this 'sister-son' that the king calls the lad when he first meets him? Why not 'nephew'? Isn't it the same thing?"

"It's more than that." Frodo explained, "You see, while Elves inherit through their fathers, they count their family lineage through their mothers. Your sister's children are considered your nearest blood relation after your own. By calling Maeglin 'sister-son,' King Turgon is not merely acknowledging Maeglin as his nephew, but as a child of his bloodline, and telling his court that Maeglin will be his heir since he had no son."

"Well then, it looks like Eol was right to worry!"

"Yes, but he tried to kill his son rather than let him go."

"Did he?" asked Sam. "I thought he was trying to kill King Turgon."

"No-" Frodo began to correct him, then he realized that Sam was right. The last time he'd read this story, he remembered quite clearly that Eol had thrown his spear at Maeglin, and Aredhel had flung herself in the way--here, the matter was not so clear. It might be interpreted that Eol had attacked Turgon, not Maeglin, and Aredhel had simply been caught in the middle of their fight while trying to shield her son. Was this another mistake in Bilbo's translation?

He said as much to Sam, who answered, "I think Mr. Bilbo got it right. It makes more sense for Eol to strike at the King instead of his son, if he wanted to take his son away with him. Maybe he thought he might get away with the lad if he did. Didn't the king say he wouldn't let any one of 'em go--not Maeglin, and not Eol? After all, when he let his sister go out, her husband found his way into the city by following her and look at the trouble it led to! Who knows who might've come in next?"

"Yes," Frodo agreed. "Turgon couldn't risk revealing the secret pathways into the city. He couldn't let them leave Gondolin."

"And none of them did! Did it stay secret after that?" Sam asked. "The end of the story says that it fell, but doesn't say how. It's not still there in the mountains, is it?"

"No, it's gone. Not even the mountains are there anymore." He would have to show Sam the map Bilbo had copied, which showed that Gondolin had lain to the northwest of the present-day Shire, beyond the Ered Luin--the Blue Mountains, as the hobbits called them--in what were now the desolate lands by the present coast of the sea. The great cities and kingdoms of that long-ago time had fallen into the sea in the Second Age, when the last Numenorean King Ar-Pharazon had tried to assail the Undying Lands at Sauron's bidding. "It was Maeglin, as a matter of fact, who betrayed the city to Melkor."

"Melkor? Who's that?"

"He was the great enemy of the First Age, the first evil power, before Sauron. In fact, Sauron was his apprentice. He was also called Morgoth by the Elves, who will not speak his original name."

Sam nodded; he had heard that name before.

"Maeglin was in love with his cousin Idril, but his father wouldn't hear of them being married. From what I recall, Idril herself was repulsed when she learned of Maeglin's feelings for her, and she spurned him."

"But why? What was so wrong with him?" Sam wondered. "I thought the King liked him. Was it because his father was this Dark Elf that killed his mother?"

"It wasn't that. As far I know, no one held Maeglin's parentage against him. The problem was that Maeglin and Idril were first cousins," Frodo explained. "It's taboo among the Elves for two people so closely related to marry. They seem to think it unnatural."

Sam was wide-eyed at the idea. First cousins, second cousins, and cousins to any lesser degree married every day in the Shire. Among the best families and local farm communities, it was almost impossible to find two people who were not somehow related.

"Besides, Maeglin was considered the King's son by this time, and it wouldn't do for him to marry the King's daughter," Frodo continued.

"What happened to her?"

"Idril? She married someone else..." Frodo took down one of the other books in the stack on the nightstand and found the detailed genealogy Bilbo had laid out in the frontispiece. He traced the family tree with a finger until he found the name. "Tuor. He was a Man, not an Elf. Their son was the mariner Earendil. After his cousin married, Maeglin went away from Gondolin and eventually fell into the hands of Melkor. He was imprisoned, and tortured. Melkor promised that he would become lord of the city and have Idril for his own if he revealed the secrets of Gondolin. Maeglin told him. Melkor besieged the city, and it was utterly destroyed. King Turgon was killed, and so was Maeglin for his treachery, but Idril and Tuor escaped with their son--who was Lord Elrond's father, by the way."

"So she's Lord Elrond's grandmother? And all this was in the First Age?" Sam was amazed. "How old is Lord Elrond anyway?"

"I've no idea." Bilbo's genealogy had no dates. Frodo recalled his own surprise when Elrond had described the Last Alliance of Men and Elves and their battle with Sauron as an eyewitness and participant. That was three thousand years ago, at the end of the Second Age, and Elrond had been a grown Elven-lord even then. Who could guess how old he might be?

The thought of lives that spanned who-knew how many thousands of years made Frodo feel how brief their own lives were; even the longest-lived hobbits were a mere blink of an eye in comparison to the ages-long lives of the Elves. When he considered his own life, which would be much shorter than the normal hobbit span, he suddenly, keenly, felt all that time he wouldn't have, and he abruptly shut the book and closed his eyes.

He had begun to feel much better, excited and interested, since he'd read this story and had been discussing it with Sam; now, it was if a dark cloud had passed over the sun, and he was in shadow again.

"Are many Elves from the olden days still alive?" Sam wondered.

"A few," Frodo answered after a moment. "Most of the eldest have gone to the Undying Lands in the West, but a few still remain here in Middle-earth. The Lady Galadriel was living then. Aredhel was a cousin of hers." He wondered if Galadriel had been anywhere near Gondolin at the time of the tragedy. "Do we have any stories about her--where she was, what she was doing in those days?"

"I'll look, I'll look," said Sam, "tomorrow. That's enough for tonight." He picked up Frodo's dinner-tray and rose to leave the room. "If you're going to be investigating, you'd best get a good night's sleep. I'll come back after I do the washing-up to sit by you." He had been sitting at Frodo's bedside to watch over him during the nights since he'd fallen ill, and had been getting little sleep himself.

Frodo set the books aside. "I don't want you to 'sit up' tonight, Sam. Sleep with me, please." With thoughts of his own mortality haunting him, he did not want to lie here alone in the dark.

Sam smiled at the invitation. "I won't be disturbing you?"

"Not at all! In fact, I think I'll sleep easier if you're near."

"All right. I'll be back as soon as I can." He leaned down to give Frodo a kiss, and blew out the candle on the nightstand.

Frodo lay down, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders, and kept his eyes on the glowing embers of the bedroom fire. He lay awake, waiting until Sam returned.

Once Sam had undressed and climbed beneath the blankets beside him, Frodo snuggled closer. With Sam's arms around him and the sound of that strong heart beating against his ear, he found comfort enough not to think about the past... or what must come.

He slept.

---

Frodo dreamt that he was walking along a beach. Water washed around his ankles and receded as rapidly and, with each step, his toes sunk more deeply into the wet sand. Tall, chalk-white cliffs rose on one side of his vision, and on the other... lay the sea.

The sea. He had never seen it in his waking life, but he often found himself on its shores in his dreams. Was it like this in reality? Wave upon wave tumbled forward in a foamy spray, and beyond them lay a vast, flat blue-green expanse that sparkled from the glints of sunlight that broke through the clouds and stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see. He'd never seen so much water. It might cover all the world.

"Do you seek the truth, Little One?"

He turned; behind him stood an Elven lady dressed in long green robes. Although she was not as tall and her hair was ashen rather than gold, Frodo thought he saw a resemblance to the Lady Galadriel.

"I have ridden far and wide," she said, "seeking that which was lost in another age. All remains dimmed in the mists of time, long-remembered, yet forgot. At last, it seems I have a champion for my cause--though one I would not have thought to look for."

"I will do whatever I can, My Lady," he promised her.

The waves were washing higher now, over his knees, and then up to his waist. He had to brace himself to keep from being knocked over by them. The Lady's skirts flowed about her like water-lily leaves on the surface of a pond. She smiled at his words.

"That is all I ask. Seek the truth, and you will find it."

The next wave swept over his head, and he was thrown off his feet and tumbled head over heels into the onrushing water. He opened his mouth to cry out, but before he could make a sound, another, more familiar voice spoke near his ear:

"Frodo?"

He awoke with a startled jolt to find Sam leaning over him. "Oh, Sam!" Frodo sat up and threw an arm around his friend's neck.

"What is it?" Sam asked as he gathered Frodo close. "What's wrong? You were squirming about and whimpering in your sleep. I thought as you were having a bad dream."

"No, it wasn't bad," Frodo answered, his face tucked into the hollow of Sam's collar, "but it was odd." As they settled down, still holding each other, he told Sam of his dream.

"The Lady you saw--d'you think she was this Aredhel?" Sam asked when Frodo had finished. "And she wants you to find the truth about how she died?"

"I think so. She never said so precisely, but that's what she must have meant when she spoke of finding something lost in time, remembered yet forgotten."

"But if she knows the truth of it, wouldn't she've done better to tell you what is it plainly instead of making you guess?"

Frodo laughed. "If she knows it, Sam! But that's the way of dreams. They never say anything plainly." His dream might not be a portent--Aredhel's death had been so much in his thoughts today that it wasn't unusual he should dream of her--but he had made a vow to aid the lady, if only in his own mind. If there was a long-lost truth, he would do his best to find it.

After breakfast the next morning, Sam spent some time searching the shelves of the study and brought Frodo two books. The thicker one was a collection of stories taken from Elvish history, and the other, more slender, was an account of Gondolin's destruction.

"It's the same story as you told me last night, about Melkor and Maeglin and such," Sam said as he handed the second book to Frodo, "but it goes on a bit more at the end, and I thought as you'd like to see it."

"Yes, thank you. Did you find anything about Lady Galadriel?"

"She's mentioned now and again in that big book," Sam answered, "but there aren't any stories 'specially about her that I could see."

Frodo opened the larger book. Sam had marked the page which mentioned Eol with a strip of scrap paper, and he quickly found the pertinent passage in the midst of a tale of how the Elves had first encountered the Dwarves:

"The Elves were much astonished by the Dwarves, for they had not thought to meet other beings who had the power of language and the arts of craftmaking. They called them Naugrim, the Stunted Folk, for the form of the Dwarves was strange to them. The Dwarves dwelt in the lands of Belegost and Nogrod, upon the mountains. Few Elves would venture among them, save Eol, who scorned the company of Elven-kind and sought the solitude of the dark forests of Nan Elmoth.

"Eol became a friend to the Dwarves, for he saw that they had much to teach him in the crafting of swords and knives. He learnt the language of the Dwarves, which they guard jealously amongst themselves as the most precious of gemstones, and became a skilled ironsmith and maker of arms. These skills he taught to his son, Maeglin."

So, Eol had learned of metalwork crafts from the dwarves, but there was no mention of his learning how to make poisons from them. Dwarves, as far as Frodo knew, had no interest in herbal lore or poisons; if they crafted a deadly weapon, it was deadly for its strength and sharpness alone. If Eol had learned such arts, it must have been from some other source.

Frodo remembered the wound he'd received at Weathertop. That had been a minor injury too, but the icy tip of the Black Rider's knife had slowly worked its way toward his heart and had nearly killed him. Only the healing skills of Lord Elrond had saved him. His shoulder still ached from that old wound from time to time, and the bad spells he endured on the anniversary of that day were second only to the one he had just gone through.

Did Eol have knowledge of those same dark arts? Could he have sought out Morgoth, or Sauron, or some other lesser force of evil who would teach him such spellcraft? It was possible, but Frodo doubted it. For all he was called the Dark Elf, there was no indication that the other Elves counted Eol among their enemies. Surely Turgon's reception of him would have been immediately much more hostile if Eol were seen as an ally of Morgoth; the king wouldn't have waited for Eol to threaten anybody before having him killed. Nor would Turgon have adopted Maeglin if he believed that Eol's son had been corrupted by the same taint.

How then had Eol come by his knowledge of poisons?

An even more astounding idea occurred to Frodo: Was Eol's spear in fact poisoned, or was that simply assumed because the Lady had died after being injured by it? Could she have been poisoned by some other means? By some other person?

According to the story he'd read yesterday, Aredhel had "soon sickened and died" after taking her wound. Frodo wished he knew if a healer had attended her. Had she been given medicine, or had a poultice been applied to her wound? Had anyone brought her food or drink during her final hours? On these points, the tale was unhelpfully silent. He only knew that her brother Turgon had "tended her during the night."

Frodo shook his head. He had questions about the Lady's death, but he mustn't let his imagination fly away with him! At least, it would not be remarkable for Aredhel to plead for mercy for her husband, not if she hadn't known that her injury was fatal.

Having settled this question, Frodo turned to find out what he could of Galadriel. Sam, with his usual thoughtfulness, had also marked the passages he'd found that mentioned that Lady's whereabouts during the First Age. Frodo had known that Galadriel was old beyond reckoning, but he had not realized that she was one of the elder Elves who had rebelled against the Valar and made their way into the lands of Middle-earth to establish kingdoms for themselves. As far as he could determine, she had been living in the kingdom of Doriath, in the vast woods to the south of the mountains where Gondolin was hidden; she had met and married Celeborn there around the same time that Aredhel had gone out on her ride, wed Eol, and been killed, but it was impossible to say if Galadriel had known about any of it.

Frodo set this book aside, and took up the other one to read of the fall of Gondolin. He had read this book before, and the tale was as he remembered it: When the Elf-reared Tuor had come to Gondolin, Turgon favored him over Maeglin, which made the latter jealous and resentful. When the king granted Tuor his daughter's hand in marriage, it was more than Maeglin could bear. He'd left the city to delve into the mountains for, like his father Eol, he had a smith's skills and interest in working precious metals. He tunneled too deeply into the mountains, and was captured by orcs, who brought him to their Master. Through a combination of torture and false promises, Melkor had forced his prisoner to reveal the pathways into Gondolin. Then the Great Enemy had sent Maeglin back to the city to work further treachery from within.

Seven years later, Melkor dispatched his forces upon Gondolin: orcs, wolves, balrogs, and even dragons. Though the Elves of the city fought valiantly, they had been caught unprepared and could not stand long before such an attack. Many died and only a few, led by Idril and Tuor through a secret passage in the mountains, escaped.

But there was one small detail Frodo had forgotten that seemed important to him now: when Gondolin had been besieged, Turgon sent for aid from his kinsmen in Doriath... and his plea had gone unanswered. These same kinsmen, however, had welcomed and sheltered Idril and Tuor, their small son, and other refugees from Gondolin. Had that plea for aid been ignored, or was it never received? The messenger might easily have been waylaid. Doriath had been having its own troubles at the same time, beset by Dwarves in an assault that would be recalled bitterly by both races for millennia. The surviving Elves of both kingdoms would eventually settle together by the sea.

What had actually happened in those long-ago days? Would he ever know? The stories of Elves and Men from the First and Second Age were based in true events, but their telling and retelling had become so stylized and wrapped in the mythos of time that they seemed more like fairytales than historical accounts. And, as Sam had observed, the actions of Elves were sometimes so contrary to the commonsensical hobbit point of view that they seemed unfathomable and made the stories about them seem even more unreal.

That he must try to find the truth through Bilbo's translations only made the matter more difficult. What a pity that he didn't have the original Elvish to compare this with!

During the years that Bilbo had worked on translating the stories of the Elves into the Common Speech, he had regularly received packages of books from Elrond's library in Rivendell. He always sent them back when he'd finished his copies and, as far as Frodo knew, had taken the last with him when he'd left the Shire on his eleventy-first birthday... or had he? Could Bilbo have left any Elvish books behind?

It was a tiny chance, but Frodo had to know.

If Sam had been in the house, Frodo wouldn't have dared to break his promise to stay in bed--but Sam had gone out into the garden. With the coming spring, the ground and new plants required a lot of work that he had neglected since Frodo had fallen ill. Frodo decided to risk it.

Quickly pulling on his dressing gown, he went down the long, curving hallway to his study at the other end of the house. He began by searching the lowest shelves, then the corners, then the books tucked behind the foremost neat rows of spines. While he found a few interesting items he hadn't known were there, and would have to examine later, none were the Elvish text he hoped to find.

As he dragged his desk chair closer to stand on and check the highest shelves, he thought: What about the tops of the shelves? There was a gap of a few inches between the upper boards and the ceiling; Uncle Bilbo had often tucked things away up there for safekeeping, and then forgotten about them.

Frodo reached up into the gap over his head. His fingers touched something soft, sagging, and dust-covered, and he drew it out to see what it could it be: an old pipeweed-pouch with some stale remnants of crumbled leaf inside. He set it down and reached up again to find more of Bilbo's forgotten treasures: ragged notebooks; a small wooden box containing desiccated quill-pens denuded of their feathers and a dried-up inkpot; and, at the very back, a large, flat parcel wrapped in paper.

As he brought the parcel down, he heard sounds in the kitchen. Sam had returned, and Frodo knew that the first thing his friend would do was check on him.

Tucking the parcel beneath one arm, Frodo raced back to his room. He stripped off his dressing gown, tossed it onto the fireside chair, and leapt into bed mere seconds before Sam came in.

"Are you ready for your lunch, Frodo-" Sam looked over his face and frowned with concern. "Here--what's wrong? You're all flushed." He touched Frodo's cheeks and forehead to see if he was feverish. "You are a bit warm, and your breath's coming short, almost like you'd been running. Are you feeling all right?"

"I feel fine... perhaps a little tired." The exertion of his visit to the study had taxed him more than he'd thought it would. "I've had a most exciting morning's reading. A cup of tea before lunch might be nice."

Once Sam had gone to fetch his tea, Frodo brought the parcel out from beneath the blankets, where he had hidden it, and carefully unwrapped the paper. To his delight, the set of thin books inside appeared to be bound in Elvish-fashion, with soft green covers bearing a delicately veined pattern, almost as if they were made of large leaves. There were no titles. He opened one eagerly...

And found he couldn't read it.

The writing was Elvish, but not a kind that he knew. There were several variants of the Elvish language; Bilbo had taught him how to read and speak Sindarin, but he knew no more than fragments of the others. At best, he could manage a few basic root-elements common to all Elvish tongues.

Frodo huffed in exasperation as he turned through page after page of elegant script. Yes, they were all the same.

In the second book, he found two lovely illustrations in gilt paint and colored ink, so much like those in Bilbo's book that Frodo was sure these were the ones he had copied. This text, therefore, must also be the original Bilbo had used. His search had been successful, but virtually useless. How could he confirm the accuracy of Bilbo's translation when he couldn't translate it himself?

But he had stumbled onto something most curious.

Frodo remembered now where he had read the story of Eol and Aredhel before; he had found it in Lord Elrond's library during his days of recovery before the Fellowship had set out on the quest, and it was definitely not the same book as the one he held in his hands. That book had been in an Elvish he could read, and there were no illustrations.

"Maybe I shouldn't be giving you more books if it's going to fret you like this," Sam said when he returned with Frodo's tea a few minutes later. "Did the things I found help you?"

"Yes, very much!" Frodo hastily set down the slender leaf-green volumes, and took the tea-mug. "You did a splendid job."

"You got the answers to your questions?"

"Some of them, but not all I'd hoped for. Was there nothing else on Eol?"

"Only that same story as you read to me."

"Same story?" Frodo sat upright, understanding. "In this book?" He lay his free hand on the thick book Sam had brought him that morning.

Sam nodded. "A few pages after that bit I marked for you. I didn't mark it too, as you'd already seen it. Do you want your lunch now? I've got a bit of beef-broth left from last night's supper."

"That'll be fine," Frodo answered distractedly, for he was still staring at the book beneath his hand. "Blast me for a fool..." he murmured.

Once Sam had gone back to the kitchen, Frodo picked up the book and quickly found the place Sam had marked. He turned a few pages beyond this, scanning until he found what he was looking for.

It was the same story, but not quite. There was more detail on the Lady Aredhel's travels before she had come to Nan Elmoth and been ensnared by Eol's enchantments. 'Ensnared' seemed the perfect word, for the story as it was told here made it seem as if the Lady had been a prisoner rather than a willing wife, and that she had escaped with her child at the first opportunity. When Eol came to Gondolin and demanded their return, Aredhel agreed to go back with him; her acquiescence had the tone of a sacrifice made to save her son.

The account of the Lady's death was also distinctly different:

"When Eol was refused, his wrath was unbounded. 'My son you shall not withhold from me. Maeglin will come with me!'

"And Turgon replied, 'I will not debate thee, Dark Elf. I am King of this land, and my will is law. This choice alone is given thee: abide here and be subject to me, and thy son with thee, or else die.'"

"But Eol was undaunted, and brought forth a spear that he had kept hidden beneath his cloak. 'The second choice, I take--and for my son with me. You shall never have what is mine!'

"Swift as a serpent, he struck, flinging his spear at Maeglin. But the blow did not land true, for the Lady Aredhel leapt into its path, and was wounded in the shoulder.

"The King's guard then seized Eol and bore him away in bondage. Turgon would judge upon this matter the next day. The Lady Aredhel pled for mercy for Eol, and Turgon's heart might have been swayed by her words, if Aredhel had not sickened and died in the night, for the point of the spear had been poisoned and none knew it until it was too late."

He couldn't attribute these egregious discrepancies to a faulty translation; Bilbo could never have done so bad a job. There were obviously two versions of the tale: the one he had read in Rivendell, and the other he had just found in the study.

How had this second version come into Bilbo's possession, if it hadn't come from Rivendell? And which one was correct?

When Sam returned with Frodo's lunch, he found Frodo bright-eyed with excitement, with several books opened and scattered on the bed around him. "What's this?" he asked. "You've found something?"

"I have--something important, Sam!" Frodo announced. "Only, I don't know quite what it means." He explained his morning's discoveries enthusiastically, pointing out the significant differences between the two accounts of Aredhel's death, and pausing now and again to swallow a spoonful of soup or a bite of bread at Sam's insistence.

Sam listened, but with less enthusiasm. He watched Frodo closely, and seemed to have something else on his mind. "You're getting awful excited about this, more'n you should if you ask me," he observed with a note of disapproval. "'Twas only a game to keep you from getting bored while you were lying abed--like riddles, you said!"

"It was a game, at first," Frodo admitted, "but now I honestly wonder if there isn't more to it. There must be a reason why the Elves keep two versions of the same story."

"But what's it matter? It happened so long ago and everybody concerned's been dead for thousands of years, or gone away over the sea."

"It matters because it isn't merely a story of long-ago. It's history, Sam. I'd like to know the truth of what happened. You see that, don't you? It isn't right that a book can state that Eol threw a poisoned spear at his son and killed his wife as if these were indisputable facts, when there's some question of whether or not it was truly so. As a matter of fact, I'm beginning to wonder if Eol was responsible for his wife's death after all. There's enough here to make me doubt." But, if Eol had not killed Aredhel, who had?

The foremost suspects were disquieting: if it hadn't been Eol, then it had very likely been her son, or her brother. They had the best reasons for wanting rid of Eol, and Aredhel's death accomplished that quite effectively. Maeglin had wanted to stay in Gondolin and, with both of his parents dead, he had his wish. Would he kill his own mother for that? As later events would show, he was quite capable of betraying his family.

Turgon wouldn't have let the boy go, no matter what. The king wanted a male heir, and his sister's son was the perfect choice. He was said to be fond of his sister, but what if that wasn't so? Perhaps Turgon thought that Aredhel had committed an unforgivable crime in revealing the way into his city to her husband, even unintentionally. Or he may have sacrificed his sister for the sake of the city's safety, if he thought she was a danger to it.

Sam looked doubtful once Frodo had spoken his thoughts. "If it was somebody else, wouldn't the Elves've found it out ages ago?"

"Perhaps they did--or, at least, whoever wrote this second version must have suspected the matter wasn't so trimmed and laid out for tailoring as the other story says it was. There's so much more I need to find out, if only I had the least idea of how to find it."

"It doesn't seem to me there's much farther you can go, and I don't know as that's such a bad thing right now. I'll see if there's more books..." Sam had been looking over the books scattered around Frodo, and noticed the Elvish one. "Here, what's this?" he asked as he picked it up. "I never brought this one in for you to read."

"No, you didn't." Caught, Frodo confessed, "I found it."

"Found it? Where?"

"In my study."

Sam looked momentarily puzzled, then his face cleared as he understood. "You got out of bed?"

"I wasn't up for very long, only a few minutes. I had to see if Uncle Bilbo had taken all his Elvish books back to Rivendell."

"You might've asked me to go look," Sam said reproachfully.

"You were out," Frodo replied. "Besides, you wouldn't have known where to search."

"That's as no matter, you shouldn't have done it. You promised you wouldn't. No wonder you was breathing hard!" Sam put down the book and regarded Frodo sternly; Frodo braced himself for the anticipated scolding and planned his own meek and oh-so contrite apology. "I don't know if there's anything in this story or not, but I'll tell you one thing for certain, Frodo: I won't have you getting worked up into another bad turn when you're just getting over the last one. You ought to be resting, not running about the house after a tale in some old book. It's too much on your mind, and it's giving you these odd dreams and odder ideas. If these books're putting such thoughts in your head, then I'd best hide 'em away someplace safe 'til you're fit to be reading 'em."

This threat was utterly unexpected. Frodo sat upright and gaped at him. "Sam! You can't do that. You wouldn't dare."

"I can, and I will, if you won't look after yourself properly. I'm thinking of your health, even if you aren't."

Sam meant it; he was really going to do it. Frodo watched with increasing astonishment and dismay as Sam gathered them up--the green-covered Elvish book, the Fall of Gondolin, the Tragedy of the White Lady, and the thick book of stories--in spite of his repeated entreaties of "Sam, don't. Please, don't!"

He had always been amused, and somewhat aroused, by Sam's bullying, which was one of the reasons he submitted to it. He never, however, let it stand in the way of anything he really wanted to do. When there was something important, he simply overrode the authority he normally allowed his lover to have over him and did as he liked regardless of how Sam fussed.

But, this time, he couldn't do that. Sam was determined to take care of him, whether he liked it or not, and Frodo found it neither amusing nor arousing. He only felt helpless. He could put up a fight for the books, but he was still ill and very tired after searching the study, and he wasn't up for a quarrel. And, for once, Sam's will was stronger than his own. "Sam, you can't-"

"I'll give 'em back when you're better," Sam told him. "You can investigate this then if you want to, but I'm putting a stop to it for now. It's for your own good. You're never going to get well if you fret yourself over a puzzle you can't figure out. Don't you want to get well, Frodo?"

"Of course I do! Do you think I enjoy being ill? I'd much rather be able to go about as I like and never worry about being tired or giving myself a bad turn, and not have to think about-" He stopped there, for his voice became choked. Also, his first instinct, as always, was to protect Sam, who wasn't ready to hear his worst fears spoken aloud: no matter how long he rested, nor how carefully he was tended, Frodo would never be entirely well. The rest of his life would be spent like this, with bad spells that grew worse each year, and longer and longer periods of recuperation.

Tears blurred his vision as anger and frustration at his illness overwhelmed him. He felt foolish and weak, weeping over something that couldn't be helped, but it proved more effective than any argument he could have made. The sight of those big blue eyes grown enormous and brimming with tears was more than Sam could bear; his resolve crumbled.

"Frodo, don't cry!" Sam dropped the pile of books on the foot of the bed and went to him. "You mustn't! It won't help. You'll just work yourself into a state, and then what'll I do with you? Oh, stop! I didn't mean to upset you so. I only want to do what's best for you. All right--you can keep your books! Only, please, stay in bed 'til you're better. Hush, now. Don't cry anymore." He looked around for a handkerchief and, finding none, grabbed a corner of the bedsheet to dab at Frodo's tear-streaked face, then pressed his mouth to the wet and trembling lips.

At the kiss, Frodo relaxed and shut his eyes. His fears and frustration ebbed away. This was the other reason he let Sam take charge of him; whenever they touched, he found not only comfort, but also a strength and vigorous living energy that he no longer possessed himself, and was irresistibly attracted to.

He would have flung himself into Sam's arms, if he didn't still have the lunch tray and a half-finished bowl of soup across his lap. Instead, he reached out to take Sam's head in his hands, gently gripping handfuls of hair, and drew Sam as close as he could with the tray between them. He could surrender now, and did.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered when their lips parted. "I'll behave."

"You'll do as I ask, Frodo?"

"Yes," he promised, "anything."

"Well, then, can't you please read something else for a bit?"

For the next few days, Frodo did his best to keep his promise. Sam constantly attended him, and showed himself to be ready and willing to fetch anything Frodo might ask for, but he also kept an eye on Frodo to see that he stayed in bed.

Frodo did not try to get up. He recognized that Sam was right: he could go no farther. Unless they discovered another book on the shelves, his investigation had come to a dead end. The most he could do was write to Bilbo in Rivendell to ask about these two translations. Even when he was out of bed, Frodo knew he wouldn't be well enough to journey so far to speak to Bilbo or Elrond, or research the library of Rivendell for himself.

While he rested, he read other stories to keep his mind off the Lady Aredhel's death, and off his own illness. He read of the creation of Middle-earth, of Luthien and Beren, and of Gil-Galad. But his efforts did not succeed either way, for the tales of the Elves were so intertwined that whatever he read led his thoughts back to the very things he was trying not to think of. Sauron's name came up often enough to remind him of the Ring and his own journey to Mount Doom, and the Silmaril that Beren had taken from Morgoth recalled not only Idril's son Earendil, to whom it was later given, but the light that the Lady Galadriel had given him and that he still kept as one of his treasured possessions. They were all part of the same story.

Even in reading of the first Elves who ventured to Middle-earth, he found a reference to a warning Turgon received from the Valar when he prepared to settle in his new city in the mountains:

"Love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart, and remember that the true hope of the Noldor lieth in the West and cometh from the Sea."

Turgon was also said to be under "the Doom of Mandos." Frodo had no idea what that meant, but it sounded as if Gondolin's destruction had been foreseen at its creation, and the death of its king with it.

Although he knew Sam would not approve, Frodo read of the fall of Gondolin again. He was most interested in the events leading up to it, especially the activities of Maeglin.

If anyone had benefited by the deaths of his parents, it was Maeglin. For countless years, he had enjoyed the exalted position of a royal favorite, prince of the kingdom and Turgon's presumed heir. He was said to have his father's temperament, but no one had suspected him of any intentions more evil than desiring to marry his first cousin, before Idril's marriage to Tuor had forced him to leave the city, and he'd fallen into Morgoth's hands. Had he been blameless all that time, Frodo wondered, or had his treachery begun much earlier?

Was Maeglin meant to be the doom of the city? If Turgon had not adopted his sister's son, Gondolin might not have been destroyed. Had the king been nurturing his own downfall?

When Sam found him reading this book, he made Frodo set it aside, but ideas and theories were already forming in Frodo's mind.

By the end of the week, Frodo's health had noticeably improved. One afternoon, he sat up, propped against pillows with the dinner tray serving as a makeshift desk so he could work on his own book. He was writing of the first days of his and Sam's journey through the Emyn Muil, before they'd encountered Gollum, when he heard a knock on the front door. He knew that Sam would answer it, and turn away any neighbor or prospective client who asked for him. Sam was adamant that Frodo not be disturbed; only a few of his closest relatives had been admitted to see him since he'd been ill, and then only for a few minutes.

He heard low voices speaking in the entry hall, but didn't look up from his writing until Sam came to his bedroom door and announced, beaming, "You've got a visitor." Then he stepped aside to allow Gandalf to duck through the low doorway and enter the room.

"Gandalf!" Frodo held out both arms to him like a welcoming child.

The wizard bent down and gave him a hug, then held him back and brushed the mop of curls from his brow to study his face. "You're looking much better than I'd hoped to find you, when I learned that you were ill," he said.

"I'm feeling much better today," Frodo answered cheerfully. "I may get up for dinner, in honor of your being here, if Sam will let me." He smiled at Sam. "He's very strict with me, you know."

Sam returned the smile before going out and shutting the door, leaving the two to talk.

"How wonderful to see you, Gandalf," said Frodo. "We weren't expecting you at all. Will you be able to stay for Sam's wedding? He's going to be married to Rosie Cotton next week. Did he tell you?"

The wizard's bushy eyebrows rose slightly at this news. "I wish that I could stay," he said, "but I can only stop for this day and night, and must go on in the morning." Finding the chairs in the room too small, Gandalf sat down at Frodo's bedside. "I have an errand that takes me into the western lands, but I couldn't pass so near the Shire without seeing you."

"I'm very glad you did! What have you been up to since we saw you last?"

"After we parted, I returned to Minas Tirith to counsel and advise the new King. I remained there until about a month ago, when I went to Rivendell to see Elrond, and Bilbo. After my business is finished, I must return to Gondor. I am expected back."

"You've been to Rivendell?" Frodo asked. "You've seen Bilbo--how is he?"

"He's at a great age, for a hobbit, and the destruction of the Ring has taken its toll on him, as it has on you." His eyes swept again over Frodo's pale face. "Rivendell is in a state of great preparation. It is the end of the Elven Times, Frodo. It may be one hundred years or more before the last Elf leaves these shores, but many will go sooner. Much sooner. Elrond already makes his plans to depart."

"To the Undying Lands," Frodo said wistfully. "It must be lovely, Gandalf--never to die, but find rest and peace. All wounds healed."

Gandalf gently cupped his face with a hand. "You mustn't give up hope, my dear hobbit. Your sacrifice has not been forgotten. I can't say more of it yet, but I will tell you that there has been a great deal of discussion about how you might be repaid."

"Repaid?" Frodo echoed. "How? What do you mean?"

But the wizard shook his head. "I've said too much already. There is much that is not settled. Wait." Then he changed the subject. "There's no need to ask what you've been doing. Writing a book, I see." He laid the tips of his fingers lightly on the top of the page Frodo had been working on, open on the tray between them. "I hope you'll allow me to read some of it while I'm here."

"Yes, certainly! I've worked quite hard on it, and I'd love to hear what you think."

"And it's not the only work you've been doing lately, is it? Sam has told me something of your career as an investigator, Frodo. I must say I'm surprised: I would have thought you'd had enough of adventures."

"I thought so myself," Frodo admitted. "When I came home, I only wanted peace and quiet, to spend the rest of my days at Bag End with Sam, minding my own business and writing my book. I didn't go looking for more adventures, Gandalf, not at first, but they seemed to find me all the same. Once they'd begun, I had to do what I could to help." He laughed, although some of his most important cases--the murder of his cousin Berilac, Lotho's disappearance, and the tragedy that had interrupted Melilot's and Everard's wedding--had been far from amusing. "Now that I've gained a reputation for solving other people's puzzles, they come to me for help. I can't turn them away. They all say I'm so clever, and I'm afraid it's gone to my head. And I do rather enjoy it."

He wasn't normally a vain creature, and disliked being praised undeservedly, but he did take pride in his intellectual abilities. He was more clever than most hobbits. Why shouldn't he put his intelligence to good use? He couldn't pretend that he didn't enjoy solving puzzles, nor that he wasn't flattered that he'd become famous throughout the Shire for it.

Perhaps that pride was why he was so keen to find a mystery in this ancient, Elvish story? Certainly the two different accounts of the death of Aredhel raised some interesting questions, but was the rest of it entirely his imagination? Maybe Sam was right and, in his illness, he had turned a minor literary puzzle into something greater. After all his successes, was it simply that he was anxious to prove he was still a capable investigator even if he couldn't get up out of bed to do it?

He wondered what Gandalf would say about it.

"As a matter of fact," Frodo ventured, "I've got an odd puzzle I'm working on now." He indicated the stack of books on his nightstand; the green-covered Elvish book was on top.

Gandalf took up the book and opened it. He spoke a few words in a tongue that Frodo did not recognize, but guessed from the cadence and tone that the wizard was reading from the first page.

"'The Tragic Death of the White Lady'..." Gandalf translated the title into the Common Speech. "I didn't know that you'd learned to read Quenya, Frodo."

"I haven't. That book was left behind by Bilbo, but I've been reading his translation of it. I was curious to compare Bilbo's copy to the original, only I'm afraid I'm not up to it. Can you do it, please, Gandalf? Will you tell me what exactly what the Elvish says?"

"Yes, of course."

Once Frodo had found Bilbo's copy of the tale and pointed out the questionable passages, Gandalf translated the Quenya for him. It confirmed what Frodo suspected: Bilbo had made no error.

"Were you there, Gandalf?" he asked. "Did you know them?"

The wizard shook his head. "Gondolin was before my time." Then he glanced up from the pages to regard Frodo with a twinkle in his eye. "How old do you believe I am?"

"I couldn't begin to guess," Frodo rejoined. While Gandalf might look like a very old Man, Frodo knew certainly that he was not a Man at all... but he had no idea what the wizard actually was. "You might not be as old as the eldest Elves, but you've lived well beyond the oldest of Men and the oldest of hobbits. Bilbo once told me that you haven't changed since he was a boy. I've heard how you used to be a friend of my great-grandfather, Old Gerontius Took, and of my grandmother and her sisters when they were girls."

Gandalf smiled. "Yes, Bella, Donna, and little Mira. I remember them well. I always thought I could see Mira in you. You have something of her spirit, Frodo. They all three longed to go on adventures."

"And did they go?" Frodo asked, intrigued. He knew that two of the Old Took's sons had gone away, one to sea and the other to who-knows-where and never returned, but he hadn't heard about the daughters. His grandmother Mirabella had died when he was very small, and she'd never spoken of any adventures that he could recall. At most, from Bilbo's tale of his own travels, Frodo inferred that Gandalf had sought Bilbo out to accompany the dwarves because he was Belladonna Took's son.

"Oh, yes. Nothing so dangerous as the perils you've faced, nor even a dragon. I will tell you the tale over supper tonight. But first..." Frodo found himself fixed by a piercing gaze, "you haven't told me why this story holds so much interest for you."

"Perhaps it's only my imagination playing tricks," Frodo began reluctantly. "Sam seems to think so. But it looks very odd to me." He explained to Gandalf about his discovery of the two versions of the story and the marked differences between them, particularly regarding the hows and whys of the Lady Aredhel's death; the oddities of the story itself; and that there was no indication that Eol knew anything about poisons. Then he put forth the incredible theory: "What would you say if I told you I don't believe that Eol killed his wife?"

The wizard's brows shot up to join his hairline at this statement.

"Is it only my imagination, Gandalf?" At least, Frodo observed, Gandalf appeared to give the idea serious consideration instead of dismissing it outright.

"Don't discount your imagination, Frodo. It is a very valuable tool--it allows you to see all the possibilities. That's how you solve these puzzles of yours, isn't it? You imagine what might have happened, and then try to confirm whether or not it did"

"Yes," said Frodo. "Yes, I do. Do you think that there might be something in this?"

"I think that it warrants further examination," Gandalf answered. "You've considered the possibilities. How will you confirm them?"

"Rivendell seems like the place to begin. I can't go there myself. Will you help me?" Frodo requested. "When you go back, will you ask Bilbo where he found this book, the one written in Quenya? I think he must have gotten it from Lord Elrond's library, but I'm curious to know how it came to be there, and why Elrond would keep two different copies of the same tale."

"I will ask, but I can guess how it came into Elrond's possession." Gandalf was turning the slender green volume over in his hands. "I have seen books with such bindings in Lothlorien, and would say that this book came to the library at Rivendell in one of two ways: the Lady Celebrian brought it with her at the time of her marriage to Elrond, or else Arwen carried it back with her from one of her visits to her grandparents."

"And the other story, the one that declares in no uncertain terms that Eol threw the spear that struck and poisoned his wife-?"

"Has been in Elrond's house for much longer, preserved perhaps for as long as Rivendell has stood. Remember his ancestry, Frodo, and from whom he would first hear the tale."

"Yes, course." Frodo understood what the wizard was implying, and it was a remarkable new idea for him. He had always thought of the Elves of Rivendell and Lothlorien as one family, but they were really two separate branches, distantly related, and had only been united with the marriage of Elrond and Galadriel's daughter, Celebrian. It was not so odd that each took a different view of the matter.

Elrond's family would have preserved the official version from Gondolin: King Turgon had judged Eol guilty of the crime, and the story that supported that judgment had been handed down from his daughter to his grandson to his great-grandson. Maeglin's later betrayal would only be seen as further proof of Eol's evil--the son had taken after his father.

The Elves of Lothlorien would have received the more ambiguous version of events from Doriath, bringing it with them when Galadriel and Celeborn left that land and made their kingdom in the golden wood. But where had the Doriath Elves gotten that story?

"You have thought, haven't you, Frodo, who might have killed Aredhel if not Eol?" Gandalf asked.

"Yes, I have." Even when he had tried most to set his thoughts of it aside, ideas had been turning in his mind. "I think it must be either Maeglin or King Turgon. I first believed that Maeglin was the more likely, but now I'm not so sure. If it were Maeglin, I can't think of any reason why the Elves wouldn't come right out and say so. He's already known as a villain and traitor. Why shouldn't they say he killed his mother, unless he didn't and no one ever thought he did? But Turgon..."

Turgon was a powerful king with a reputation for justice. To say that he poisoned his sister and had her husband put to death for it would be a monstrous accusation unless there was proof... and there was no proof, only a tale hinting that Eol's guilt was not so conclusive as the official story would have it be, and cast doubt upon Turgon's judgement.

He lifted wide eyes to Gandalf, wondering what the wizard made of his reasoning. "Could it have been King Turgon?"

"I don't know that it is so," Gandalf answered. "I know no more of the matter than you do. I do not mean to suggest that there's been a deliberate deception on Elrond's part, or an effort to conceal the truth--only that it is easier to believe in the guilt of a dead line than a living one, particularly for the descendants of that line."

Frodo thought of that warning from the Valar, foretelling Turgon's fate centuries before his kingdom had fallen. "What is the Doom of Mandos, Gandalf?" he asked. "Do you know?"

"It is the fate of Elves who fall here in Middle-earth before they can journey to the Grey Havens. Their bodies remain in this earth, and their spirits reside in the Halls of Mandos. They never return to the West."

"You mean they die."

Gandalf nodded.

Frodo had one last question. "Is it the same for the rest of us, Gandalf--hobbits, Men, dwarves? Do you know if we go there when we die as well?" After all, Gandalf would know better than anyone else; he had died, and come back.

The wizard considered him solemnly, and a little sadly, before he answered, "I was never there, Frodo. But I promise you that, wherever you go, you will find nothing you need to be afraid of."

This was comforting. If Gandalf said he had nothing to fear, then Frodo believed it was true.

He dressed for dinner, for the first time in a week. Over dinner, Gandalf told the tale of the Took girls' adventures and afterward, Frodo sat up as late as Sam would let him to hear news of their old friends in faraway places, and to tell Gandalf about his most interesting investigations--with Sam adding details that showed how cleverly Frodo had solved each mystery. Late in the evening, just before he went to bed, Frodo told Gandalf what had become of Saruman and Grima Wormtongue; he knew it would pain Gandalf to hear of his fellow-wizard's tragic end, but thought that he ought to know.

They did not discuss the mystery of Aredhel's death further, until the next morning. Frodo rose to have breakfast with Gandalf and to see him off. He had written a message for Gandalf to give to Bilbo, and gave it to him as they walked together to Bag End's front gate.

"You will ask him about that book, won't you?" he requested. "You might even ask Elrond, if you think it wise."

"I will," Gandalf assured him. "I must admit that you've made me curious to learn the truth of it myself."

Frodo smiled. "Then may I beg one last favor of you? Are you going by way of Lothlorien when you return to Gondor?" He had also written a second note; he held it up for Gandalf to take. "Will you give this to the Lady for me?"

After Gandalf's visit, Frodo's spirits rose. The last of the dark shadows that had been cast over him were finally dispelled. He was out of bed a little longer each day, sitting out in the garden or going to his study to write.

Sam was relieved to see that Frodo was no longer fretting over his Elvish mystery, and said so; Frodo did not tell him that the problem had only been set aside until he received responses to the messages he had sent via Gandalf. Even though Sam was busy with preparations for the wedding as the day drew nearer, he continued to keep a worried eye on his charge: He called Frodo indoors if the wind was too chilly or it looked like rain, and he saw to it that Frodo did not sit up too late working. Visitors were still limited, and investigations strictly forbidden. Every afternoon between lunch and tea-time, at Sam's insistence, Frodo lay down to have a nap.

On the day before the wedding, Frodo dreamt that he stood in a stone-paved courtyard with beautiful statuary surrounding a circle of seats. It was similar to the Council Circle at Rivendell, but the circle here was much larger, and around it was a fabulous city of white stone and, beyond the city on all sides, instead of cleft hills filled with autumn trees, rose austere mountains with snow-crested peaks that seemed to touch a bright blue sky.

Inside the circle, Elves stood frozen in a tableau, poised in attitudes just like the pictures Frodo had seen in the books: black-haired Eol was about to spring forward, fury blazing from his onyx eyes; fair Aredhel stood with one hand on her husband's arm as if to stay him. King Turgon, on a raised dais above his court, glared down at Eol with an equal but icy ferocity. The boy, Maeglin, the image of his father, stood between them with his back to his parents. Around them were a number of spear-bearing guards and well-dressed courtiers, but no other ladies that Frodo could see.

Then the tableau came to life. With a cry of rage, Eol plunged forward, moving so swiftly that it was impossible for Frodo to follow; an Elf's eyes might be sharp enough to pick out what had happened, but not his. The spear flew, and Aredhel fell to the ground before he even knew what was happening. At a command from the King, the guards seized Eol; Eol shouted his wife's name as they dragged him away. Maeglin stared down at his mother with a look of surprise and horror, until Turgon took him by the arm to draw him away. A courtier knelt beside the fallen lady and tried to aid her.

When he awoke from his nap, Frodo lay drowsily wondering what this could mean. Did it mean anything at all? Sometimes dreams were simply dreams. The Lady Aredhel had appeared in his dreams more than once these past weeks, but he was no nearer to understanding than he'd been that first time.

Frodo began to be aware of how quiet Bag End was around him. Had Sam gone out? No. It was inconceivable that Sam would have gone and left him alone.

Then he thought he heard the sound of someone moving near the front of the house--a floorboard creaking under a foot, the faint rustle of cloth.

"Sam?" he called out, and lifted his head from the pillow.

No answer.

Not Sam, then. Merry and Pippin, perhaps? They were expected to arrive tonight, but they would have knocked at the door rather than come into the house and make themselves at home without waking him. And they would be making much more noise.

Rising from the bed, he went down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen. As he passed the open door of the last bedroom behind the kitchen--the room he had had fixed up for Sam and Rosie to share once they were married--he caught a glimpse of a person within, stopped and turned back. It wasn't Sam, nor Merry or Pippin, but Rosie, spreading a blue-and-white quilted counterpane across the bed. A bundle of other belongings lay on the floor at her feet.

"Hullo, Rose," he said in surprise. He had not seen her since he'd been ill. "I didn't know you were here--you must have such an awful lot to do before the wedding."

"So I have," she answered, "but so does Sam. His brothers Ham and Halfred have come in and they're down at the Gaffer's. He had to go see 'em."

"Yes, of course."

"I told him I'd stay 'n' look after you while he was out. I didn't mean to wake you, Mr. Frodo. I tried to be quiet as I could. I just brought up a few things for the bedroom, so as we'd be all settled in-like after the honeymoon." She finished smoothing the quilt over the bed, then stood back to view it with approval. "There's curtains too, but I'll put 'em up later. Sam said I was to give you your tea if you got up before he came back."

They went to the kitchen, where the kettle was already steaming on the hob and Sam had left a plate of small cakes and cut sandwiches on the table, covered by a tea-towel. Rosie filled the teapot, and poured out cups for Frodo and herself.

"You're feeling better, aren't you, Mr. Frodo?" Rosie asked him as she joined him at the table. "You'll be well enough for the wedding? It'd break Sam's heart if you weren't able to stand by him tomorrow."

"Oh, I'll be there," Frodo promised. "I wouldn't miss it, even if I were still ill. Nothing could keep me away. I would've liked to hold a celebration in the Party Field for you, but I'm afraid I haven't been up to making the arrangements."

"Never you mind, Mr. Frodo," Rosie consoled him. "Mum and Dad've been wanting to see me married off from the farm since I was a wee lass, and I couldn't deny 'em that. Besides, you've done more'n enough for us--that room done up so nice, and the lovely honeymoon cottage. I never thought I'd go off for a month when I married. Only gentlefolk can do that!"

"Sam told you about the cottage?" He'd thought that Sam had wanted it to be a surprise.

"Well, he didn't mean to. He let slip about it one day when we was talking," Rosie answered. "And once he did, I couldn't rest 'til he told me everything. He says he's only seen the place at night, but it's in the midst of a garden and there's nobody around for miles."

"It is nice and secluded," said Frodo. "It started one couple on what I hope will be a happy marriage, and I hope it will do the same for you and Sam."

Rosie regarded him shyly. "I never thanked you for that, Mr. Frodo. I wouldn't be marrying Sam tomorrow if it wasn't for you."

Frodo smiled. "Oh, Sam had his part in it too."

"He wouldn't've, not if you hadn't told him he could." When Frodo tried to protest this, Rosie plunged on, "It was hard at first, me knowing that, but I wanted Sam as bad as you do, and this sharing of yours was the only way I could get him. But I'm glad now I agreed to it. The three of us get what we want most, and I expect it'll come out all right."

Sam returned while Rosie was washing up the tea-things. Frodo left them alone; he could see that Rosie wanted to speak to Sam privately. As Frodo went down the hall to his study, Sam helped Rose put up her curtains. He could hear the two talking softly.

He didn't learn what it was about until that evening, after Rosie had gone home, Merry and Pippin had arrived, and dinner had been eaten and cleared away. After dinner, his cousins went out to the Green Dragon for a half-pint or two of ale, and Frodo went to bed. He had settled in with a warm fire and a book to read, when Sam tapped on the door and came in.

"If you're feeling up for it, Frodo," he announced with a shy note of embarrassment, "Rosie says as I ought to sleep with you tonight."

Sam had been sleeping beside him every night, but Frodo understood what he was being offered especially tonight, and he grinned. "So you've come on her orders, Sam?"

"Well," Sam ducked his head, "she said it's only fair, as I'll be going away with her for a whole month and you've got just this one night before we go."

"That's very sweet and generous of her," said Frodo, sincerely touched by the gesture.

"Besides, it's the last chance you and me'll have before I get married," Sam added. "Afterwards, things'll be different."

"Yes, I suppose they will. All right then." Frodo set his book aside and sat up to take his nightshirt off.

He was unfastening his buttons, when Sam said, "No--you leave that on. It's too chilly a night for you not to have some clothes on." But he was already undressing beside the bed.

Frodo stopped and watched with a small smile as Sam's shirt, trousers, and underclothes dropped one after the other to the floor; when Sam had finished, he scooted over and held back the blankets to invite his lover into bed. "Come on."

When Sam got in beside him, Frodo was waiting with kisses. He drew Sam down to him, and at the same time wriggled to get his nightshirt up out of the way. For one last night, Sam was his, and his alone.

Sam was up early the next morning, too restless to sleep, nor did he want any breakfast. After he had bathed, he dressed in his best golden-brown coat, which he had brought home from Minas Tirith; his fingers fumbled at the brass buttons, and Frodo did them up for him, then loosely knotted the white stock around his collar, and pronounced him very handsome.

When Merry and Pippin, who had stayed out late the night before, were also out of bed and dressed, the four of them walked together to the Cotton Farm. Tables and benches were set up in the farmyard, ready for the breakfast that would immediately follow the ceremony, and a garland-covered bower had been erected near the orchard gate; behind it, the apple trees were in full, white bloom. The wedding guests had already gathered, and an excited murmur rose as Sam and his companions were sighted in the lane. When they entered the yard, the crowd parted to let the bridegroom pass and walk toward the bower, where Rosie stood waiting for him in her beribboned dress, with a wreath of flowers atop her blonde curls, her face pink, and her eyes shining.

Sam gulped hard and hesitated for an instant, but when Frodo took his arm, he braced himself and went forward to join her.

It was with a jumble of emotions that Frodo stood beside Merry and Pippin, and witnessed as Sam and Rosie promised themselves to each other: He was happy for them both, and wished them joy. He was so very proud of Sam, who did look adorable today. He envied that Rosie could claim Sam as her own before all the Shire as he never could, and no one would speak against them. He was quite sure he'd done the best thing for everyone concerned, and yet there was also a little wistful sadness in his heart as he acknowledged that Sam was no longer entirely his. He felt a pang of longing when he recalled how they had made love last night, and that sharpened when he realized that Sam would be away for a month--a whole month! Had they ever been parted for so long before? And how would their lives change when Sam and Rosie returned?

But he smiled and applauded along with everyone else when the newlyweds kissed for the first time as husband and wife.

After the ceremony, there followed the traditional wedding breakfast, then music and dancing, and the usual nuptial customs. Frodo was touched by how many of the gentry of Hobbiton and Bywater had turned out for the celebration; normally, they would not have attended the wedding of a gardener and a farmer's daughter, but many of them had employed the Gaffer over the years, and had come to know Sam through his assisting in Frodo's investigations. The gentlefolk who knew Sam and liked him had come to see him wed. Even Frodo's own Brandybuck and Took relations who were unable to attend had sent generous gifts that dazzled and overwhelmed the Cotton family. Frodo's present of the honeymoon cottage was likewise dazzling. As Rosie had observed, only the wealthiest hobbits could afford to spend their first weeks or months of marriage in some faraway, secluded place; the country folk simply moved in together the day of the wedding and settled down into married life. The Cottons didn't fully understand Frodo's patronage, but they saw that, by marrying Sam, their Rose was taking a step or two up in hobbit society.

In the late afternoon, the newly married couple prepared to leave for their honeymoon. Rosie gave her friends and family farewell hugs and kisses, and gave Frodo a quick peck on the cheek before she climbed into the pony-cart her parents had given her and Sam for the journey. Sam gave Frodo a fierce hug as well; Frodo clung to him for a moment, and was sorry he couldn't kiss Sam goodbye the way he wanted to. There were too many people around, and all eyes were upon them.

Frodo was misty-eyed when they let go of each other, and he ducked his head so that Sam wouldn't see--but Sam, glancing back one last time as he climbed up beside Rose, did notice. A worried look crossed his face, and Frodo thought that Sam was about to climb down again. He shook his head slightly.

Sam stayed where he was, but continued to look worried. "You'll look after him, won't you?" he asked Merry and Pippin, who had agreed to stay with Frodo while he was away. "Don't let him tire himself out. He's still not well, and won't rest on his own. You've got to make 'm."

"Don't you worry, Sam," Pippin assured him. "We'll take good care of Frodo."

"If he gets into any mischief," Merry added with a grin. "We'll tie him down on the bed until he agrees to behave."

Sam did not find this reassuring.

"It's all right, Sam," Frodo told him. "I'll be fine. Have a wonderful time, both of you, and don't think of me."

With this, Sam took up the reigns and slapped them lightly on the pony's back. The cart moved ahead with a jerk and they rode away amid cheerful shouts of farewell and best wishes, last-minute jokes from Sam's and Rosie's respective brothers, tears from Mrs. Cotton and some of the other ladies, and everybody waving until the pair had gone down the lane and were out of sight.

The party would go on into the evening hours, with more dancing and feasting, but after the newlyweds had gone, Frodo suddenly felt very tired. He made his excuses to the Cottons, and his cousins took him home.

In the days that followed, Frodo missed Sam terribly. He occupied his time and his thoughts by working diligently on his book and by taking one or two small cases that wouldn't tax his strength. Merry and Pippin were glad to assist him, for they too had missed the fun of investigating.

One evening just after sunset, an Elf came to the door of Bag End and asked to see Frodo.

"Mithrandir bid this be sent to you," the visitor said simply once Frodo was urgently summoned by his cousins; he drew a wrapped and sealed parcel out from beneath his pale gray cloak.

"From Rivendell?" asked Frodo as he took the package, which was small and oddly-shaped, but surprisingly heavy. He wondered what it could possibly be. "Can you carry a message back to Gand- ah- Mithrandir for me?"

The Elf shook his head. "He is no longer there, and I shall not return. My path lies to the West."

Frodo understood: this was one of the Elves Gandalf spoken of, on his way to the Grey Havens to leave Middle-earth forever. He was about to thank the messenger, but the Elf had already gone from the doorway and was disappearing into the deepening twilight.

He brought the package into the sitting-room, where Merry and Pippin were waiting with unabashed curiosity. They had not been expecting any message, as Frodo was, and were even more eager than he was to find out what Gandalf had sent. They gathered close, bursting with questions that Frodo did not answer as he opened the sealed wrappings.

Inside the package were two letters--one from Bilbo, enclosed in another from Gandalf--and the remarkable object that had made it so heavy: a long and slender, sausage-shaped knitted green purse of obvious Shire-make. Glitters of gold were visible through the faded net. When Pippin untied the string at one end, a number of gold pieces spilled onto the table, glinting in the firelight. The sight drew astonished gasp from all three hobbits, and they reached out to catch the coins before they fell onto the dimly-lit floor, then began to count them. There were twenty-five in all, and very old-looking, bearing the well-worn stamp of a crowned head and a sword, and some words in a language that none of the hobbits knew.

While his cousins examined the gold pieces, Frodo read Bilbo's note. It was heart-breaking to see that familiar handwriting, once so precise, now a nearly illegible, spidery ink scrawl straggling across the paper. He couldn't understand much of what Bilbo had written, for even when the writing was clear, Bilbo's thoughts wandered too much to make sense of them. What Frodo could decipher told him that Bilbo was delighted to hear from him and pleased to learn that he was carrying on his studies. The gold was intended as a wedding gift for Sam and Rose.

"It's 'the last of the Dragon's hoard,'" Frodo read. "Uncle Bilbo wants Sam to have it to start him and Rosie off." He looked up from the note at the ancient gold coins now neatly piled in little stacks on the table. "Put those away. We'll lock it in my strongbox to give to Sam when he and Rose come back."

"Can you picture the look on his face when he sees them?" laughed Pippin. "Sam's never had so much gold in his life!"

"He could buy all of Hobbiton with this, and have some to spare," said Merry, "but he wouldn't dare spend any of it. Coins as old as these must be worth more than the gold they're made of. I wonder where they came from before Old Smaug got hold of them?"

Frodo found the key to the strongbox. Once his cousins had restored the gold to the purse and carefully knotted the strings at both ends, they went off to the study to lock this treasure up. Frodo settled down to read Gandalf's enclosing note, which was more legible and informative than Bilbo's:

"I leave for Lothlorien tomorrow. Bilbo does not seem to recall the book you've taken such an interest in, but has agreed to write down what he knows.

"I have asked Lord Elrond what he knows of it. He is familiar with the book, which belonged to his wife, but has not missed it from his library.

"According to Elrond, the Lothlorien tale of the 'Tragic Death of the White Lady' is deprecated as a curiosity, nothing more. It is claimed to be an account of the Lady's death by a witness to the event in Gondolin--one of the Elven Lords who accompanied Aredhel on her journey from the city years before and lost her. His name was Elennapril, and it was said that he had loved Aredhel without hope and mourned her loss even more than King Turgon."

Frodo didn't know what to make of it. Did this mean that the second account was less reliable than the official story?

A new idea occurred to him: Could someone else besides Eol, Turgon, or Maeglin have killed Aredhel, someone he hadn't heard of before? There were other Elves in the Gondolin court, ladies and lordlings. What did he know of their relationships with Aredhel before she had gone out on her fateful ride? Had she friends among them? Enemies? Disappointed lovers? If the information Gandalf had given him was true, the author of the second version of the story might have resented that the lady he'd loved had married elsewhere, and taken revenge on both her and his rival when the opportunity presented itself. Was his story meant to be a sort of oblique confession?

Or, even if Turgon were responsible, that didn't necessarily mean that he had committed the murder with his own hands. A courtier like this Elennapril might have acted on his liege lord's behalf... perhaps even without his knowledge? Surely the citizens of Gondolin were as concerned with the safety of their city as the king was. This courtier might have seen it as an act of loyalty, doing what Turgon couldn't do himself--protecting the kingdom by getting rid of the lady whose wanderlust had already betrayed them once, and eliminating the danger brought in by her husband at the same time.

When Pippin and Merry returned to the sitting-room, they found him sitting curled in his chair, nibbling absently on a corner of Gandalf's letter. Both recognized Frodo's pensive moods as well as Sam did, and knew what this meant.

"What's going on?" Merry asked him. "What're you investigating, Frodo--and what do Gandalf and Uncle Bilbo have to do with it?"

Frodo had not told his cousins about the Lady Aredhel and the odd circumstances of her death before this, but he explained it all now. He brought out the books, which he still kept in his bedroom, to show them and told them of Gandalf's brief visit and what he'd hoped to learn from Gandalf's inquiries in Rivendell and Lothlorien.

Merry laughed. "Sam was right--you won't rest! You'll investigate mysteries even when you're sick in bed and the murder happened ten thousand years ago."

Pippin asked the same question Sam had: "What does it matter now, if you solve it or not? Everyone's been dead for so long, even the people you suspect!"

"It's not as if justice can be done for the Lady, Frodo," Merry agreed.

"I know." He admitted that they had a point. All the principle players in this drama had died eons ago: Turgon was not the only one to suffer the Doom of Mandos, but Aredhel and Eol and their son all shared that same fate. Not one had gone into the West. If their spirits survived, they were in the Halls of Mandos--wherever that might be--and were beyond the reach even of immortal Elven-kind. What did his research matter to them? Was he doing it for them? He had promised to aid a Lady in a dream... but that was not what drove him. "I'd simply like to find the truth, for myself if no one else. I can't cloak a lie, and let a false history stand in place of the true."

"You've kept secrets before," Merry observed. "We know. We've kept them with you."

Frodo nodded; he knew exactly what Merry was referring to. His investigations had often uncovered unpleasant truths. The full facts behind Berilac's death and poor Mentha's suicide were known only to them and a few members of the Brandybuck family. The four of them alone knew what Lotho Sackville-Baggins had been up to in his last days, how he had died, and who had killed him. Even in the case of Toby Clover, where more than one secret embarrassing to the Tooks had to come out, Frodo had kept information from Thain Paladin when he thought that punishing the guilty would injure innocent people.

"When I thought that the truth would do more harm than good, yes," he answered. "I did what I thought best in each case and if I was wrong, then I will bear the consequences of it. This long-ago lie protects no one living. The Elves are leaving these lands and soon there will be nothing left of them in Middle-earth but the ruins of their cities and the stories they've left behind. I'd like those stories to be accurate. I'd like to see the proper version of the Lady Aredhel's death put forth, whichever one is correct. The worst kind of lie is one that's entrenched as historical fact."

This might be an obscure point for his cousins, as it was for Sam. To them, history was merely exciting stories; they didn't really care whether or not it was true as long as it made a good tale. His was a scholar's interest. Bilbo, in translating the Elvish stories for hobbits to read, had taught him the importance of accuracy and honesty in reporting what had happened. Bilbo had failed to do that once, when first telling the tale of how he had found the Ring, and even after he had corrected his error, he could never forget it.

To make them understand, Frodo tried a different tact. "After all, who knows what tales they'll tell about us in the ages to come, and how far will they be from the truth? That's why I wanted to write my own story, myself, so there'd be no exaggeration about what I did."

He knew, as no one else did, that his success at the end of his quest was due more to Sam's strength and determination and Gollum's treachery than anything he had done. He had not got as far as that in his writing yet but, when the time came, he meant to tell the entire truth.

"The Men of Gondor will tell things differently. Remember that song they were singing in Minas Tirith when we left? Already, they call me a great hero, when I know I was only a frightened little hobbit who didn't have much choice in the matter. When the tale of the Ring is retold, that's how my part in it should be remembered."

---

Later that evening, Frodo re-read Bilbo's letter as he lay down in his bed, and tried to make sense of the scribbled passages. Gandalf said that Bilbo had agreed to write down what he knew. Surely, there must be something here, if only a sentence or two.

He began with the sentence he had deciphered earlier: "I am pleased to hear you're carrying on with your studies, my lad." So much was clear, but after this, the most he could make out was, "Sorry... I meant to teach you..." and a few lines farther down, "Left behind? I never realized..." and something about Elrond. "There were 4 of them..."

Four of what? The books Bilbo had been left behind? Frodo sat up with a jolt. Yes, of course! There were four books in that package he had found forgotten atop the shelves. On the next line, he could read, "said to be from..." and a word began with a 'D' and ended with what looked like a 'y' or 'th'. Could it be Doriath? If Gandalf was right, the books had been bound in Lothlorien, but the stories were much older. Since Frodo hadn't been able to read them, he had not examined the other books in the package closely. Where were they now? What had he done with them?

After a search, Frodo located the three other Lothlorien books, still in their wrappings, tucked away under the nightstand. The written words remained a mystery, but this time he looked at the illustrations. In the first book, there were two, one of an Elven lord and lady who stood facing each other, gazing into each other's eyes; the lady held something in her cupped hands that looked like a large, glowing gemstone, and which she seemed to be offering to her lover. In the second illustration, a gathering of Elves stood on a shore and watched a ship sail away toward the open sea. Another book contained fearsome pictures of a battle between Elves and Dwarves, and of the Elves fleeing a burning wood. The third book had only one picture, in the frontispiece, of a gold-leafed and silver-branched tree.

Frodo gathered up these books and, taking his candle, went down the hall to his study.

When Merry and Pippin emerged from their room shortly afterwards, to investigate the thumping noises they'd heard coming from the study, they found Frodo sitting on the floor with the three books each open to an illustration, and a dozen other books he had pulled from the shelves scattered around him.

"Frodo, what're you up to?" Merry demanded. "You ought to be in bed at this hour of night. Sam will kill us if you catch cold."

"I'm not cold," Frodo answered absently; he did not lift his eyes from the book he was looking through. "I want to find Uncle Bilbo's translations of these Elvish stories. Help me find the books that have pictures to match these, will you?"

His cousins exchanged glances, but they had both seen Frodo in the midst of an investigation. Unless they dragged him back to bed and held him down, he wouldn't rest until he found whatever it was he was looking for, so they might as well help. They began to pull books off the shelves to look for pictures.

The trio quickly found two of the books. The first was a tale of how the refugees from Gondolin and Doriath had united by the sea. The couple in the first illustration turned out to be Earendil and Dior's daughter Elwing, and what Frodo had taken for a gemstone was in fact the Silmaril that Earendil would bear on his famous sea-voyages. The second illustration was not of one of Earendil's voyages, but depicted Idril and Tuor sailing for the West. The second book, as Frodo had already surmised, was a tale of the sack of Doriath.

While Merry continued to search for the last book, Pippin went to the kitchen to make them some tea. Frodo, still sitting on the floor, carefully read Bilbo's translations of these first two stories.

"I've seen these stories before," he told his cousin, "but these versions don't seem very different from the others I've already read."

"Should they be?"

"I thought they would. The Lothlorien version of the Lady Aredhel's death was quite different, and if these stories were written by the same person-" Frodo stopped. Maybe that was the important thing--not the stories themselves, but that they all had the same author. Someone who had personally witnessed these events? Could one Elf have been in Gondolin at Aredhel's death, in Doriath to see battle against the encroaching Dwarves, and among the refugees at the sea? And the last story, the one they had not found yet-?

Frodo lifted his gaze to find the Elvish version, still open to the picture of a golden-leafed tree. There was only one place in Middle-earth that he knew of where trees like this grew...

"Could this be it?" Merry, who had climbed up to reach the books on the upper shelves, tossed one down into Frodo's lap. There were no illustrations within the book, but a similar tree had been stamped into the leather cover.

Frodo opened the book: It was a long poem that told how Celeborn and Galadriel had led a party of Elves over the Misty Mountains to find a new home, carrying the seeds of mallorn trees from Doriath with them. When they settled their new kingdom, they planted the seeds, which grew into the golden wood of Lothlorien.

"Yes," he answered, "I think it is."

Sam and Rosie returned at the end of April. Frodo, who'd been counting the days until the end of their honeymoon, had been half-listening for the sound of a pony cart in the lane since the morning. By the afternoon, it became impossible for him to concentrate on his work and instead he waited by the window of the sitting room with a book he didn't read. When he finally heard the creak of wheels and clomp of hooves, he leapt up and went out to stand at the front door. At last, the cart appeared around the curve of the hill and he could see them

They looked very happy together, he observed. Both Rosie and Sam had lost the blushing shyness that had attenuated their courtship. They sat on the bench at the front of the cart with one arm each around the other, smiling and slightly leaning against each other. When the cart stopped at Bag End's gate, Sam jumped down first and helped his wife, placing his hands on her waist, and Rosie put her hands on his shoulders. They continued to embrace even after she was safely on the ground so they could kiss, then stood whispering together, cheek to cheek.

"Sam!" Frodo's voice trembled as he called out. "Welcome home!"

Sam looked up, and beamed at him. "Frodo!" He let go of Rosie, and fumbled indecisively before retrieving their belongings from the back of the cart. Merry and Pippin had also come out by then and went down to help carry the bags up to the house. While the others passed into the house with their burdens, Sam dropped the baggage he carried on the doorstep to give Frodo a hug. "I missed you so much!"

After more welcoming hugs and pats, Sam took the cart and pony back to the Cotton farm. Rosie remained at Bag End rather than go with him; she said she would visit her family in the morning, but she wanted to have dinner ready tonight when her husband returned.

"I've got used to it," she told Frodo, Merry and Pippin as she ransacked the larder, "and you lads probably an't had a decent meal in weeks."

While she made dinner, Rosie told them about the events of her honeymoon fit for public discussion: Sam had fixed up the cottage garden for Mrs. Broombindle and, since they had stabled their pony at the Broombindle farm, they had paid calls on their landlady frequently. They had also gone into Michel Delving to shop and see the sights and hear the news.

"We ran into Mr. Lad and his missus--your cousin, Miss Angelica Baggins, that was--with their new baby," Rosie reported. "What a sweet little lambikin she is! They asked us to dinner one night, and his Mayorship was there. Mr. Whitfoot was ever-so kind. He shook Sam's hand and said 'twas a pleasure to see him again." She turned to Frodo, wide-eyed. "I didn't know Sam was a friend to the Mayor. He never said a word!"

"He assisted Mayor Whitfoot once, on one of our cases. It was an extremely confidential matter," Frodo explained, and Rosie looked very proud.

When Sam returned, Frodo gave them Bilbo's wedding present; their eyes nearly fell out of their heads at the sight of so much gold when he opened the purse and the coins tumbled out into their laps. Rosie insisted that Frodo lock it up again safely right away--the treasure must be saved for "the children."

"Children?" Sam echoed, and regarded his wife with alarm. "Already?"

"Oh, not yet!" Rosie laughed as she gathered the coins into her apron. "But someday soon... And you can be sure we'll be glad of it then."

"It's awful generous of Mr. Bilbo," said Sam, "but however did he know to send it?"

"Gandalf must have told him when he went back to Rivendell," Frodo answered. Then he told Sam about Bilbo's letter and Gandalf's errand.

Sam frowned. "You're not still on about that long-ago Elvish business, are you?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. You said I could continue when I felt up to it, Sam."

"You haven't been running about after this?" Sam turned to Merry and Pippin. "You saw to it he rested, didn't you?" he demanded, as if he would hold them accountable for Frodo's ill health if they hadn't.

"We did as much as we could," Merry answered, "but you know how Frodo is when he's investigating. He hasn't tired himself. It's been quiet here-"

"Except for that night we tore apart the study," added Pippin.

"Tore apart-?" Sam echoed.

"It was nothing, Sam," said Frodo. "I was looking for some books, and it did help me to see things more clearly."

His cousins and Sam looked astonished. "Then you know what happened, Frodo?"

"No, not quite, but I have an idea..."

After dinner and a cozy hour or so in the best parlor, everyone retired to their rooms. Merry and Pippin were staying one last night, but would be going back to Tuckborough in the morning; they understood--Merry had explained to Pippin--that this new household would be difficult enough for Frodo, Sam, and Rosie to settle into without them underfoot. And, after a month, Pippin was eager to go home.

Frodo changed into his nightshirt, and waited. He hadn't said anything to Sam nor Rose; he didn't intend to force the issue tonight. It was, after all, Rosie's first night here, and he wanted to give her time to be comfortable in her new home before they began to live by their agreed-upon arrangement. Nevertheless, he hoped that Sam would come to him, if only to say 'good night.'

At last, there was a tap on the door.

"Come in!" His voice quavered.

Sam entered the room, also in his nightshirt and a new dressing gown. "I told Rose I'd be sleeping here." He sat down on the bed, then flopped back with a loud huff, arms flung wide across the mattress. "We can both use a good night's rest!"

Frodo, recalling old jokes about newlywed couples spending all their time "at it like rabbits," felt his face grow hot.

He perched on the edge of the bed, one foot tucked up beneath himself. This wasn't quite as he'd imagined their reunion, but at least Sam was here with him. They hadn't had a chance for a private talk since Sam had come home. "Tired, Sam?"

"You don't know the half of it! It took us hours getting home today, longer'n it should. The pony cast a shoe outside Waymoot, 'n' I couldn't take it back to the Cottons lame, so we had to find a smithy."

"Is that all? Rosie says that you've been quite busy," Frodo ventured, "gardening, going on visits..."

"Yes, that's right."

"And- um- enjoying your honeymoon?"

Sam chuckled. "That too."

"How- ah- was it?" Frodo asked delicately, not sure exactly what he was asking. He had realized that Sam would bed with Rose once they were married; that was only to be expected, and he thought he wouldn't mind. He didn't want to hear details of their intimacy, like some vulgar, sniggering taproom conversation, but in spite of himself, he had to know. Prior to this, neither he nor Sam had ever been with anyone else. Did Sam's experience with Rose change things between them?

Sam, also uncertain of what Frodo meant, turned his head on the pillow to stare at him. After a minute, he answered, "I was glad we waited, though I don't know as Rosie feels the same about it. And I'm grateful you gave us a place to be by ourselves awhile. After this month alone with her, I feel good 'n' proper married!"

Whatever Frodo had hoped to hear, it was not this. "Then you're happy, Sam?"

"M-hm," Sam affirmed.

"You-" Frodo hesitated over the next question, "Do you want to alter our arrangement?"

Sam lifted himself on one elbow, looking puzzled. "Alter- What?"

"I won't insist on sharing, if you'd rather be with Rosie-"

"No! Is that what's troubling you, Frodo?" He was still staring at Frodo, but puzzled no longer. Then he held out a hand. "Come here."

Frodo went to him, crawling swiftly across the bed. When he held out his hand, Sam took it by the wrist and drew him closer to gaze earnestly into his eyes. "Don't you know how I love you, Frodo? I wouldn't go back on a promise to you. Share, you said, and that's just what we'll do."

Everything was going to be all right. Sam lay down again, pulling Frodo with him. As he fell forward onto Sam's chest, Frodo laughed out loud in relief--then yelped when Sam rolled unexpectedly to press him to the mattress and pin him by the wrists. The next thing Frodo knew, he was being kissed with an energy that belied all claims of tiredness.

While covering his face and throat with kisses, Sam murmured more wonderful things: how glad he was to be home, how much he'd missed Frodo, how much he'd thought of him while he was away. Then he lifted his mouth to whisper near Frodo's ear, "I'll never quit loving you. Nothing in the world'll change that."

By the end of the month, the last of the spring rains had abated and the Shire was green and in flower as summer approached. On one lovely, clear and still evening, as the sun sank low over the westward hills, Frodo sat out under the tree atop the house with a book and his pipe. Sam and Rosie had gone to have dinner at the Cottons, leaving him alone at Bag End. Sam had expressed some concern before going, but Frodo insisted that he would be fine. He was as well now as he ever would be, and after being constantly watched since March, it was a relief to be by himself for awhile, and not fussed over and told to rest.

He had been reading the poem about the settling of Lothlorien--not for the first time since Merry had discovered the book in the study--and had come to the final stanza:

"Hopes arise as the silver boughs reach skyward/Sing songs of gladness! Look on to the morrow/For in this forest city find we shelter at last/Leave behind sadness! Think not of old sorrow/Lest our hearts be tormented by what is long past."

The poetry was undoubtedly better in Quenya--Bilbo had strained to make the lines rhyme--but Frodo was struck by the tone of the sentiment. Where these stories from Lothlorien were for the most part impersonal, written as if the author had taken no part in the events he witnessed, this ending had a personal note. The poet was recalling his own losses and sorrows and the places he had left behind, and was trying his best to forget them.

Frodo lay the book down on his lap and drifted into thoughts of Gondolin and Lothlorien, of the long path from one Elven city to the other, and of what he knew of the rulers of each. He believed now that he understood what had happened in those long-ago days, but doubted he would ever confirm it.

The sun had set and the last light was fading from the sky. Frodo was about to go into the house, when there was a knock on the front door. He went to the edge of the slope and peered down. The figure standing in the long shadows on the doorstep beneath him was hard to see, but Frodo was certain it was no hobbit.

The visitor must have sensed his presence, for a pale face suddenly turned upwards and eyes that glinted like stars with a light of their own found him. A strange, lilting voice spoke, "Are you Frodo Baggins?"

It was an Elf in a greenish-gray cloak like the ones the members of the Fellowship had been given at Lothlorien. Was this the long-awaited messenger from Gandalf?

"Yes," Frodo answered, "I am. Did Mithrandir send you?"

"It is on his behalf and My Lady Galadriel's that I come, but I bring no written message. My Lady bid me speak to you, as you have taken an interest in the death of her kinswoman, Aredhel Ar-Feiniel." He leapt up the slope with startling swiftness and grace, and in an instant stood beside Frodo. "She said I might aid you."

"Can you?" Frodo asked eagerly. "You know something of it?"

"I know all that may be spoken," the Elf replied rather cryptically. "I am the last who remembers Gondolin. I was there to see. I was at the Lady Aredhel's side, when she fell."

"You're-" An odd tingle ran up Frodo's spine. He could hardly believe it. "Your name wouldn't be Elennapril?"

"It is." The Elf sounded surprised. "You know of me?"

"I've been reading your stories- well, translations of them." He lifted the book he held in one hand to indicate the poem he'd been reading. "You did write them, didn't you--The Golden Seeds? The Song of the Sea? The Tragedy of the White Lady?" He was beginning to babble in his excitement. How wonderful of Galadriel, not only to have the very person most likely to help him, but to send him here! "I'd like very much to talk to you. Please, won't you sit down?" His visitor would be more comfortable here on the hilltop than in the parlor with its hobbit-sized furniture.

They sat on the grass beneath the tree. Frodo's pipe had gone out; as he struck a match to relight it, he could see his visitor clearly for a few seconds: Elennapril had that ageless look of the oldest Elves, face smooth and unlined as a boy's, but the dark, shining eyes were ancient and sad beyond reckoning.

"I must say I'm surprised to see you're still here," said Frodo. "I thought that you would have gone to the Grey Havens ages ago. Have you been in Lothlorien all this time?"

"I have remained in the service of my Lady and Lord since the days when Caras Galadon first arose, as chronicler of the court and keeper of the library. I have found a measure of peace there, and had little desire to leave the woods where I have made my home." But there was a note of sorrow in his voice that revealed that his peace was not absolute. "We must all depart these shores soon, and the fair city of Caras Galadon will fall, as did Gondolin, and Doriath, and the great kingdoms of Men. Nothing stands in this world forever. So I must go to the sea and my fate, or remain in Middle-earth, alone of my kind."

"Why haven't you gone?" Frodo asked him.

"I did not wish to go, not yet. Even if I grew weary with the long years, I believe I would find no rest in the Undying Lands, for she is not there."

"She? You mean Aredhel?" He ventured, "I was told that you loved her."

"Alas, I did, too dearly. Do you know such a love, Frodo?"

"I am in love," Frodo confessed; in the twilight, he could feel those Elven eyes upon him.

"And it is requited, I see," said Elennapril. "You are fortunate! Aredhel was not for me. She was my King's sister, and made for a greater mate. She would not think to look to me, but all I wished was to see her and be near her. I rode with her out of the city--my King bid me accompany her on her travels, but I would have asked to go. The day she was lost, I despaired. You cannot guess at my joy when she returned to Gondolin... but it lasted only for a day."

Frodo asked softly, "It wasn't you who killed her, was it?"

"No!" Elennapril cried in astonishment. "I would have given my life to spare hers. Did you truly believe it was so?"

"I wondered about it," Frodo admitted, "until I realized that you'd gone to Lothlorien with the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. They kept your stories, and their daughter Celebrian brought them with her to Rivendell when she married."

"I was tutor to the Lady Celebrian when she was a maiden, and made her a gift of my books when she left Lothlorien."

"They must think quite highly of you. They've trusted you in their service for thousands of years. I can't believe they'd do that if they thought you'd done anything so terrible as commit a murder, and of their kinswoman. Lady Galadriel would certainly see it if there was anything, well, wrong about you."

"Yes, she would." The Elf laughed. "What an odd little creature you are, Frodo Baggins! My Lady said that I might find a way to my rest, once I had seen you. You were my hope."

"Me?" Frodo said in surprise. "How?"

"I do not understand her words myself," said Elennapril. "I know that you are favored by the Lady, and much in her thoughts. You bore the Enemy's Ring and destroyed it at great price to yourself. But I do not know how you might aid me."

Frodo drew in on his pipe and thought about this. "Perhaps it's that I write also. I've been- well- chronicling my own adventures, about my quest to destroy the Ring. I wanted to see the tale told properly, in my own words. After all, what's written down is the only thing that people have to remember us by, after we've gone."

"Yes, that is so," his visitor agreed.

"I've read your tale of Aredhel. I might add to it, and see that the truth is told at last, once I know what it is myself. Will you tell me?"

In the darkness, he could see the shadow-shape before him move slightly as Elennapril bowed his head in consent.

"Was it King Turgon?" asked Frodo. "Did he poison his sister?" It was the only conclusion that made any sense.

"You will hear what I know," Elennapril replied. "I know that my king did not speak the truth. I have heard the tale as others have told it, as it was spoken in the court of Gondolin before I departed, and I know that it was not so. In after times, King Turgon would have it that his sister was Eol's ravished prisoner, but I believe that she truly loved he whom she wed. She would have returned with him to Nan Elmoth if it had been permitted--and though I loved her, I would rather a thousand time that that be so than the ending which had come to pass! I was there on that evil day, when the Eol was brought before the King. I saw him cast his spear. I know he meant to slay him."

"He meant to slay King Turgon then, not Maeglin?"

"Eol meant to kill the king. I saw the looks that passed between them, heard their words. Such an act, no king may forgive. He was unharmed, but the Lady Aredhel received the wound instead." The Elf's head remained bowed, and he was silent for a long while Frodo waited patiently for him to continue. At last, Elennapril said, "She was struck down, and I knelt beside her. I heard her plea for Eol's life, even as she lay wounded, but Turgon would not hear it. Before my Lady was dead, he would condemn her husband. Eol had struck a blow at him, and must die for it. She was borne away and I did not see her living again. King Turgon alone nursed her that night and, at daybreak, my beloved Lady was dead. He proclaimed that she had been poisoned by her wound and Eol had slain her, but in my heart I doubted."

"Why do you think he did it?" Frodo asked. "Was it because she led Eol to the city? Or was it over Maeglin?"

"It was a breach of Turgon's highest law to reveal the hidden ways into the city," Elennapril answered, "but Aredhel might have found forgiveness for that had she stayed in Gondolin thereafter. It was Maeglin who turned the king's heart against his sister."

"Did Maeglin have a part in it?"

"I don't believe so. While he would work great evil in a time to come, Maeglin was yet a child. He would stay in Gondolin against his father's will, but he was beloved of his mother, and she of him. He wept bitterly at her death, and blamed his father for it. He believed that his father had meant to kill him, for that was what the king had told him."

"He stood with his back to his parents," Frodo mused, remembering the illustrations.

"Maeglin did not act against his mother, nor even his father," said Elennapril, "but he was surely the cause of their deaths. Above all, King Turgon desired that his kingdom should stand in this Middle-earth after he had returned to the Blessed Realm, or if the Doom of Mandos proved true. He meant a king of his lineage to rule after him. Once Aredhel and Eol were dead, King Turgon named Maeglin as his own son and his heir, and there were none to contest him. It was what Maeglin wished as well, and all he desired save Idril. It was not until many years after, when Tuor came to the city and won Idril's love and Turgon's favor, that Maeglin's heart darkened--or so I have been told by those who were there and escaped to tell of it. I departed Gondolin long before its fall.

"When I heard how King Turgon spoke of Eol in after days to Maeglin and to others, my doubt of him only grew greater, but I could not speak aloud such terrible suspicions against my liege and lord. I wrote my own tale of Aredhel's death, as subtly as I could tell it, but even so little was against the tale as it was told and the king's eye turned unfavorably upon me. At last, I saw that I could no longer call Turgon my liege. I left Gondolin and stole away to Doriath. There, I carried my tale of what I had seen, but you are not the first to guess at the truth unwritten. The ruin of Gondolin was my doing."

Frodo sat upright, startled by this remarkable confession. "Your doing? What do you mean?"

"My story of how Lady Aredhel had died was heard by her kinsman Dior, as well as Queen Melian and Lord Celeborn, and others of the Council of Doriath," Elennapril explained.

"And the Lady Galadriel?" Frodo began to understand.

"Yes, though she was not of the Council. They understood what I did not tell of Aredhel's and Eol's fate, and they sat in judgment upon Turgon as he had judged so many in his own court. In time, the Enemy was known to be on the move, and the Council of Doriath knew he would strike at Gondolin when the time was ripe... and yet they did nothing. They allowed events to unfold with no warning, nor aid. They said that there had long been a curse laid upon Turgon for his pride in building his hopes in Middle-earth when the Valar had proclaimed that all hope lay in the West. It was therefore fitting that Gondolin fall because of King Turgon's love of it: the heir he had fought to claim for his kingdom, even to the sacrifice of his sister, had brought about its ruin. With the city's destruction, they deemed that Turgon had met his fate, as foretold, but this fate would not have come about, if not for me."

"You did what you thought best," said Frodo, though it must sound like feeble comfort to this Elf who still grieved over tragedies that lay thousands of years in the past. "You sought justice for a great wrong."

"So I did," Elennapril answered, "but I might better have remained in Gondolin and died with the others. I would then be in the Halls of Mandos, near my beloved... but that is not to be my fate." He gazed westward, where a dull orangish glow still lingered along the horizon. "You have now heard all I have to tell. Will you write it for others to read--all of it?"

"Yes, I will," Frodo promised.

"Then my Lady can rest at last, and perhaps I may find rest as well. I will not return to Lothlorien." They went together down the slope of the house and into the garden near the front door. "Fare thee well, Frodo Baggins. May you also find the peace you seek, and may your heart be healed." Then Elennapril turned and went down the hill toward the lane and leapt over the hedge.

Sam and Rosie were coming up the lane, returning from the Cotton farm. They had just seen Frodo's visitor leaving, and stared after him until he had disappeared into the night. Rosie was especially wide-eyed, for she had never seen an Elf before.

"Who was that?" Sam asked as they came in at the gate.

"The Elf who wrote those stories I've been reading," answered Frodo. "The Lady Galadriel sent him to answer my questions."

"And did he?"

"Yes, he did." They went into the house. While Rosie went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, Frodo told Sam what Elennapril had told him about Aredhel's death and the fall of Gondolin.

"So you were right all the time," said Sam. "There was something odd about it. And to think--they let the whole kingdom be destroyed to punish the King's wrongdoings!" He shook his head in perplexity. "I'll never understand Elves. But you're done with this now, Frodo?"

"My investigation is finished, yes, but there's one last thing I want to do." As Sam went to join his wife in the kitchen, Frodo went to his study and lit the candles on the corners of his desk. He took out a fresh notebook, sat down, and dipped his quill into the inkpot. His book would be set aside for a little while; there was another tale he needed to write.