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?"
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