II: Green
Three years before, on another restless night, Frodo had slipped out of bed and gone into Bilbo's study with a lit sconce in hand, tiptoeing up the smials long after midnight in search of something new to read. He'd worked his way through nearly every bound tome in the Westron tongue and was already two-thirds of the way, by his reckoning, through the Elvish. The Sindarin went more slowly and required a stack of loose sheets of parchment and freshly sharpened pencils kept near his bedside for working through the more obscure passages. How he lived then for the delight in deciphering the mysterious lyrical phrases into the sturdy phonetics of his own language, and inviting those fresh ideas and images into his imagination.
Frodo could recall how he balanced his toes upon the base shelf to search the top levels for a new title, holding the lit sconce high over his head and as close to the bindings as he dared. Much of the higher shelves had yet to unlock their secrets to him. He was whispering the mysterious titles to himself when the weakened candle gave in, spilling a trail of hot wax over its lip and onto Frodo's wrist, causing him to unwittingly drop the sconce.
Frodo yelped and dove to the floor to smother any sudden flames, sure to spring up in the dry cluttered study, with his own flesh, if necessary. His night-shirt was spared for the candle had blown itself out in the fall, but Frodo's tumble left him smarting at the knees with his fingers coated in fresh sticking wax. It wouldn't do for Bilbo to wake and come find him within the evidence of such a close call, so Frodo felt about in the dark, scraping the melted wax into a warm ball in his hand. It was in doing so that his fingers came upon something rather odd about the base of the bookshelf. In the dark it felt as if he'd damaged the side of the old heirloom. A panel had come loose and was lying at an angle now to the floor.
Biting back a curse, Frodo felt his way about the edge of the protruding board and found that it was hinged. Curious, he slid his hand into the dark space beneath. Tapping about at arm's length, he discovered a metal box, smooth and cold to his fingertips. He drew it out carefully and pulled it into his lap. He felt for the lid and seams and could tell that the box was locked fast by a keyhole in the front. This amazed Frodo. Bilbo had many trunks and boxes of this and that, but he had never hidden any of them from Frodo, nor had he ever bothered to lock them--not even the ones with gold or gems settled into the bottom.
Frodo set the box upon the floor and slipped off for a fresh candle. After pausing at Bilbo's bedroom door to assure himself the hobbit within slept soundly, he returned to the study to have a better look at this strange treasure.
Closing the study door behind him, Frodo picked up the box and set it upon Bilbo's writing desk. It was a foot long and five inches high, made of finely hammered silver with leaf motifs at the corners and ornamenting the lock. Elvish craftsmanship to be sure, but long hidden and tarnished with age. Frodo lifted the box and gave it a little shake. It felt as if it contained a few items, flat and shaped closely to the dimensions of the box. He supposed he could just ask Bilbo about it at breakfast, but what if it was indeed something his uncle had intended to keep secret and retrieved it from him to only hide it in a better place never to be found again?
The lock looked simple enough, so Frodo sifted quietly through the desk's many drawers for Bilbo's brass lock picks. Having been a burglar in his distant past, Frodo's uncle had taught him, among more reputable skills, the fine art of lock picking; though occasion rarely called for it around Bag End save when the privy door lock jammed on cold nights.
The lock was fragile, and Frodo took care not to mar its delicate mechanism as he coaxed it to release. The lid popped open a fraction and Frodo lifted it to reveal three translation books in three colours: green, red and blue. The covers bore no title. The leather bindings were tooled in a fine floral pattern and nothing more. He opened the green book and found it had been marked on the first page by the Elvish rune for "one." The pages were filled with Elvish Tengwar on the left-hand side, and common runes on the right, all perfectly lettered in Bilbo's familiar hand. The red and blue books boasted more of the same with the runes for "two" and "three" upon their title pages, respectively.
This was very odd to Frodo and he felt the exciting prickle of curiosity. Why would Bilbo go to such great lengths to conceal a translation? And why the lack of title? Frodo knew the only way to unlock the secrets of these books would be to sneak off and read them one by one. So he took up the green book and put the other two back, closed the box and latch, and slipped the whole thing back under the bookshelf, lowering the fake panel. He tucked the translation book under his nightshirt, took up his candle and headed back to bed.
***
Frodo slipped the bolt closed on his door and curled up in his bed against the pillows for a little late-night reading. The story revealed to him through Bilbo's translation was a good one. It was an ancient tale of the divided northern region of Doriath, held by the elf-kings of old during the First Age. This tale in particular followed the lives of two princes, Angaroch and Galaelin. Angaroch was master of his own lands handed down to him from his father, the elf-king of Neldoreth, whereas Galaelin was a younger prince from Brethil, yet to come into his own. The two were swordsmen of great renown and had spent many of their younger years engaged in challenges with the fierce immortal warriors within their lands. Angaroch soon came to hear of the younger prince's fame and sought him out for a challenge, proclaiming that any who could match him in battle would succeed the lordship of his lands. They were about to begin their first tournament within the thick groves of the Neldoreth forest when Frodo fell fast asleep and the results of the encounter would have to wait for another evening.
Frodo woke the next morning to Bilbo knocking upon his locked door. Frodo opened his eyes, startled to find the green translation book still grasped in his hand upon the pillow. He'd fallen asleep against it and his cheek was embossed with a portion of the floral trim. He hopped out of bed and stashed the book far back in his wardrobe, rubbing his cheek furiously as he went to answer the rapping door.
"Gracious me, Frodo. Did Gandalf come by earlier this week and turn you into an owl?"
Frodo peered at his uncle through the small opening he'd made between the door and jamb. "Why do you say that?"
"Because, my dear lad, you sit up with your eyeballs propped open in some book half the night and sleep like the dead right through second breakfast, which is getting cold. Up and out of there at once before you begin to hunt mice and squirrels!"
If Bilbo had noticed any stray wax drippings about his things in the study or heard any of his creeping about in the night, he gave no indication and served Frodo up several thick griddle cakes with plenty of fresh whipped cream and elderberries. Frodo figured with the silver box as tarnished as it was, it had possibly been a few decades since Bilbo had even thought about the books and had perhaps even forgotten that he'd put them there. For all accounts, the books had yet to present anything unusual that would require such storage. But Frodo knew he had many pages to go and looked forward to sundown when he might sneak off to bed early for a second read.
***
The evenings passed in candle-lit wonder, and after the third night, Frodo had finished nearly all of the green book. The princes had fought and neither had emerged the victor, so Angaroch decided that he and Galaelin should rule his lands together and they did, every day riding out in the morning to keep their lands safe from the threat of various evil beasts that slunk upon the ground or flew through the air. Their friendship was fast and true until the day Angaroch was promised to marry Nenárien, an elf-maiden of great beauty who could sing like a nightingale. She came to live with the princes in their keep upon the shores of the river Mindeb. But a cruel trick of fate occurred; both princes fell in love with her and Galaelin became withdrawn from his friend and would no longer ride out with him, staying behind to wander about the castle. One day, when Angaroch returned early from his tour, he found his fair Nenárien wrapped in Galaelin's embrace, their lips together in a kiss. Angaroch flew into a rage and swore revenge, so the two warriors vowed to fight one another to the very death, the victor proving his true love for the elf-maiden and rightful lordship of the lands.
Their battle was long and bloody and involved many weapons and felling of trees and crumbling of walls. Each fought the other until the sun had set and risen on the following day. When the quaking hills had quieted of their arms, Nenárien went in search of her champions. She had expected to find them both dead upon each other's swords, but instead found them clasped together in an embrace and surrounded by light.
At first, this seemed reasonable enough to Frodo, but something about the wording that came soon after 'embrace' confounded him. The word itself in Elvish was one he'd never seen before and he grabbed a sheet of paper next to him and scribbled it down. The translated Westron word was also unknown to him and seemingly, a difficult one for Bilbo to define himself. It appeared as if he'd written first one word, then rubbed it out and inserted a new one, one Frodo had never seen before: frottage. He had no idea what that meant exactly, but it seemed to upset the elf-maiden who ran crying from the grove. It was here that Bilbo had chosen to end the green book.
Dawn was not far off and Frodo knew if he slipped into the study now, he'd be certain to wake Bilbo, but the word troubled him like a strange noise one might hear behind oneself while walking alone in the woods. Lying in bed pondering the issue only made the dawn seem further off, so he took up a candle, hid the book, tore off his scrap of paper and headed back to the study to find Bilbo's Words and Their Meanings in the Elvish.
He hoisted the heavy tome off its shelf and opened it upon the floor, flipping through the pages to find the Elvish word Bilbo had translated as 'frottage.' It was not listed in the book, and neither was its Westron counterpart. This was very odd, indeed. Frodo found it troubled his mind so thoroughly he could not imagine returning to bed to sleep the remaining hours away and decided he would start tea and ask Bilbo about the word once he woke.
***
Bilbo gave Frodo an odd look when he found him in the kitchen a few hours later, sipping his tea and looking a bit peckish from lack of sleep. Frodo greeted him and asked if he could help him prepare breakfast. Bilbo eyed him sceptically, but handed Frodo a bowl of mushrooms and sage to chop just the same. They ate and were clearing their finished plates when Frodo found he could wait no longer--he had to know the meaning of the word, but chose to ask Bilbo to define the common version.
"Uncle, I've come upon a word I cannot derive the meaning of."
"What is it, lad? Is it Elvish?"
"I don't know. In common tongue it's 'frottage.' What does it mean?"
Bilbo frowned as he thought it over. "That is an odd word. And you've got the pronunciation wrong; you want the long 'o' and soft 'g.' Wherever did you read it?"
Frodo felt guilt run through him, but decided it was worth getting found out if he could but understand the meaning of the end of the book a little better. "I don't recall exactly; it was some time ago," he said. "I thought just now of it and wondered if you knew."
"Well," Bilbo said, dunking their mugs into the washbasin and beginning to scrub them out, "it's the name of a form of artwork popular some years ago among the dwarves--a type of charcoal rubbing. That's the root of the word, frot; it means to rub one surface against another."
Frodo sat and chewed on a mint leaf thoughtfully. What was it about Dwarvish art that could relate to the scene in the book? He wanted to ask Bilbo specifically about the translations but something told him he'd better hold his tongue if he wanted to read the rest of them, so he let the meaning of the word linger about the back of his head for the next several hours.
It wasn't until he was sitting waist-high in suds in his bath, scrubbing his back with the long brush that something occurred to Frodo. 'Embrace' was the common word Bilbo had chosen for the description of Galaelin and Nenárien's kiss. It was also the first word he used to describe what the princess saw in the glade, followed by the word 'frottage.' "To rub one surface against another" Frodo froze, turned bright red and dropped both the soap and the scrub brush into the water with a clunk. The princes were not merely comforting one another in that embrace, but could it bethey were pleasuring each other as well?
Frodo was certain of it, and gripped the sides of the tub as if they might slide out from under him. He was all at once desperate to get a look at the next book, as well as mortified that he had unwittingly asked Bilbo to define the term for him. Impossible, he said it was a form of art. He wasn't diverting that definition for my sake, was he? Or was Bilbo in his bedroom right now, peeking under the mattress and digging through his chests, searching for the evidence? This was why Bilbo had chosen to hide the books. It had to be! And there were two more of them. Two!
***
Bilbo had not gone through his things, nor found the green book hidden behind his shirts when Frodo snuck back into his room, hair still damp and a towel hastily wrapped around his waist. He could hear Bilbo outside in the garden chatting with the Gaffer and young Sam as he threw on a shirt and produced the book from its hiding place to give the last section another go--now with a new eye for hidden meanings.
In several places leading up to the battle, Frodo now recognised the subtle hint of romantic tension building between the two princes and he flushed all over at each unveiling. By the time he reread the grove scene he found himself quite distracted and had to make some effort to put the book aside, heart pounding and every sense heightened. Clearly, the story was going to continue. Was there going to be more? More terms and descriptions he would have to think twice to uncover the true meaning of?
Frodo sat at the end of his bed, a hand to his bared chest. Half-dressed still from his bath, he could feel every inch of his shirt clinging to his freshly cleaned skin, while the voice of his uncle and the elder Gamgee drifted in through the open window. He took a deep breath to try and calm himself, all the while regretting he'd left the bath so soon given the state he was now in. Whatever the case, be it the impatient appetite of his curiosity or his body, the satisfaction would have to wait for nightfall.
***
The lock would not give. Frodo kneeled upon the floor of the study, the silver box set upon the chair, a candle at his elbow and the lock picks plunged into the tiny hole. He worked them with a rushed and unsteady hand as he tried to recall anything he might have read in the sequels when he'd first casually flipped through them, but nothing in particular came to mind. The lock made an odd sound and Frodo hoped he'd finally succeeded in setting it free. He tried the lid, but the silver remained clamped shut. He sat back on his heels with a sigh, wiping the sweat from his forehead. This is ridiculous; who am I? Some impulsive tweenager barely out of his teens? Patience, Frodo.
He stared at the candlelight playing on the carved ceiling some moments until he felt calm enough to try it again. Slowly, he reinserted the picks. Remembering everything Bilbo told him about letting the lock speak to you came back to him, and with a slow steady twist and push, the box sprung open. Frodo snatched up the red book and began to flip through it eagerly. It seemed the elf-maiden was quite out of the picture now and the princes were going to be spending a good deal more time in the hidden grove of Neldoreth without her.
Frodo smiled secretly at his find and tucked it under his arm possessively. Then he set the green book back in the box and picked up the blue one. He had thought he would raid the box for its entire contents, but after rereading the end of the green book five or six times that afternoon, he decided he was finished with it and should probably leave it behind just in case Bilbo got wise to him and decided to give the box a shake. Frodo wanted to take his time now with these books and thought a better effort toward concealment would be prudent. So he left the blue book unopened and searched about until he found a blank translation book of nearly the same shape and size as the missing red book and locked it under the silver lid with the other two. Then he carefully replaced the box under the panel, reset it, and headed off to bed.
***
His bedroom door bolted and plenty of fresh candles on hand, Frodo began to read the red book, slowly. The wording was moving and beautiful in itself and Frodo was amazed that such creative effort had been put into a work containing such questionable subject matter. This was not some base limerick sung by a wash-maiden, but a conscientious literary work, well-phrased with sophisticated meter and rhyme.
He placed a blank sheet of paper against the right hand page and read the Sindarin through first, working the meanings around his own mind before unveiling Bilbo's rather impressive translation. It was obvious to Frodo his uncle had spent some time with this work--possibly sketching out several versions on parchment before entering the final copy into the book alongside his careful penmanship of the original. Frodo wondered where the original was kept. Likely, it resided in Rivendell, rolled in a dusty scroll. Or did the elves also feel the need to lock this particular lay up in boxes, too? How did Bilbo come upon it in the first place? Was the story true? Most likely it was. Elves rarely spent their attention on matters of fancy, having thousands of years of memory to work with. These were all questions he intended to ask his uncle someday, but not until he got a good long look at the contents, first.
The story unravelled before him, page-by-page, vast and symbolic, leaden with double meanings and grand romantic gestures of fidelity, courage, strength and honour. It was clear these two princes had found deep passionate love with one another and weren't about to make any apologies for it. In fact, the plotting of the story failed to imbue their love affair with even the slightest hint of morality. It was the purpose of the work to show how such a bond might serve in the greater keeping of a kingdom where all looked upon the fair warriors, clasped arm and arm, and cheered, knowing this great love was what kept their dwellings safe and free of evil.
This was a true revelation to Frodo, who having been brought up a Bucklander, had never even heard whisper of such tolerated adult couplings. Every lad was expected to grow up properly and marry a lass of his family's approval, and only after much negotiation over dowry. Frodo had been relieved to be relocated to Hobbiton where the rules of marriage were not so strict, and long before his Brandybuck cousins could arrange such a dreary fate for him. It did not surprise Frodo so much that elves would think differently, being immune to many of the necessities that plagued mortals and their societies. But still, here was a coupling that was clearly revered and honoured by the peoples of the land in which they dwelt and embraced.
And, oh, how the descriptions of those embraces had stolen Frodo's heart and breath entirely. They were bold matings, given to much heaving passion and lusty proclamations. They took some time to absorb, if that was the right word, for many of the terms did not translate very well and Bilbo had chosen various art, literary, and cooking terms to take the place of whatever mysterious activity was going on under the leaves or sheets while thunderclaps and torrents of rain or swelling seas accompanied the pair. Frodo had chewed his nails down to little nubs by the time he'd finished the first section, a whole list of strange words written on the sheet next to him to go look up once he got himself put back together properly.
And there was that, too. Over the many evenings he spent with the red translation, Frodo became quite skilled at holding the book and turning the pages with his left hand while the other was occupied elsewhere under his sheets--a teasing slow pace he fought to contain for as long as possible until overwrought with urgency, he'd place the book upon the side table and turn into the pillows, deep in fantasy, rewarded by the intensity of a well orchestrated climax. It was a delicious indulgence, that fed the flames of his sensuality as if the Elvish author had read his very mind and plundered it for buried dreams and wishes. The whole premise that two strong beautiful males might find this kind of passion with one another freely was beyond his farthest hopes and he carried that ideal with him from his rumpled bedclothes into the daybreak, where all he could think about was what he'd read the night before and how he hoped the story would never end for all the private joy it brought him.
Often, he would slip into Bilbo's study during the long afternoons and sit down with Words and Their Meanings and try to decipher as many of the euphemisms as he could. As he came to blushingly discover, lads were quite capable of pleasing one another in a wide variety of fashions and methods, some Frodo had never even considered, let alone experienced, before.
Now that Frodo had been awoken to pleasure, he could not again shut the door upon it and the very thoughts of kisses and shared loving between males haunted his every thought. Days would pass when he could concentrate on little else, his head a muffled cloud of daydreams. Bilbo thought he had perhaps contracted some sickness and made him drink a succession of bitter concoctions and wear a ridiculous herbal wrap upon his brow for the better part of a week. Needless to say, his remedies were a few feet high of the mark.
Frodo, of course, had long known of the manner in which fauntlings were begot--what educated lad did not? But that knowledge had never translated itself to him in a visceral fashion. To him, the coupling between a master and mistress was a function of family and property and not something a body could crave with seemingly endless appetite. Not until he learned that lads might share these activities among themselves, too, simply because it pleased them. Or more importantly, that those activities would be honoured and celebrated in fine works of Sindarin.
What Frodo knew from his upbringing in Buckland, was that to speak of natural desires in plain words was abhorrent and punishable, as was the curious discovery of one's own body; which after a sharp knock on the knuckles by his nanny's cane, Frodo soon learned to hide any evidence of.
There were times he could recall, long ago, when he would sit in the high grass behind the Brandy Hall playing field and watch the older lads at their games and competitions. He'd often become thick with the excitement their sweat-slick skin and heroic exertions provided him. The unspoken need would rise and he would be ashamed, yet helpless, to resist its erotic pull. It was his secret, his hidden vice, that no one would ever come to know. It was some years before Frodo could master himself to keep his eyes from peering and his knees from falling into the long sweet-smelling grasses in defeat.
He gained mastery as he gained years and fed those heady forbidden yearnings into his lusty pursuit of parchments and books, adapting a solitary existence, well sheltered from any vile or unsavoury influence. He kept to his elders and the younger ones. He found comfort in chaste hugs and kisses and left the sneaking groping habits of his earlier days lost beyond the gaming fields long before he ever came to be the future heir of Bag End.
***
As much as Frodo had wished to prolong his enjoyment of the translation, the red book eventually came to an end with yet another great battle, this one uncovering the existence of an evil sorcerer within the far reaches of the princes' realm--the apparent source for all the fell creatures they spent most of their days slaying when they were not otherwise indisposed. The princes grasped one another fiercely and swore fealty that they should take arms together to defeat the evil wizard, but not before casting themselves upon the bed in a heaving scramble of thrusting tongues and hips--after the inevitable conclusion of which, the red book came to its close.
The month wore on, and after many repeated readings of certain ribbon-marked passages of the red book, Frodo finally gave in to the temptation to seek out the blue book. He took the midnight walk to Bilbo's study with a mixed heart because it would mean, sooner than later, this experience would draw to a close and there would be no new encounter or professions of boundless love to stir his heart and warm his blood. He was quite certain this was the only translation of its ilk in Bilbo's study, having tapped all the remaining bookshelves for false panels in the weeks prior.
Frodo got to his knees upon the study floor and released the hinges, reached in and drew the box into his lap. It was unlocked; the silver ornamented rim opened just a fraction. His heart began to pound and he looked over his shoulder at the door. It was securely shut. Frodo looked back to the box. He was certain beyond all doubt he had pressed the lid until it clicked and could not be reopened without the aid of the brass picks.
Frodo opened the lid and looked in. The green book lay on top as he had left it, followed by the blank book, and lastly the blue book. If memory served, the blue book's ribbon marker was now in a different spot. He didn't know what to make of it. Truthfully, he had hardly glanced at the blue book, wanting to keep it for later, but he was quite certain the ribbon had last lain in the front binding.
Frodo opened the blue book in his nervous hands. The ribboned page hosted the end of a passage, some six lines long, that made little sense to him: something about Kings and laws and memory. Was Bilbo leaving him a message? Perhaps I've not been as secretive as I thought. It had to be Bilbo, and by leaving the box open, his uncle was granting him tacit permission to continue his read. Relieved somewhat that Bilbo had chosen to keep the subject quietly within the pages of the work, Frodo took up all three translations and left only the empty box under the bookcase as he carried them back to his bedroom.
***
Frodo began the blue book that same night. It was not like the others; the tone was dark and drear, the wordings sombre and less melodious than the heroic writings of the green and the passionate phrasings of the red. In the blue book the two princes left their castle and set upon a long arduous quest to Himlad to defeat the sorcerer. They fought many foul beasts and endured many hardships of storms and fires in the wilderness. As the evening grew, Frodo found himself flipping ahead, searching for what he had come to expect quite frequently, and without much provocation, in the red book, but soon realised this was not that same type of story. Still, as he read on, he found a deeper love between the princes coming to light--one of protection, loyalty and sacrifice--of the strength of having two hearts bound to a task.
The evenings passed and Frodo began to absorb this notion, soon forgetting his disappointment in the blue book's near lack of sordid events, and fell in love with the care and devotion the princes exhibited towards one another. Frodo read how the princes had come through the vast wilderness and plains to the tall black tower of the sorcerer and how they fought him and his evil minions, nearly to the death. It was then, when all the enemy's servants were vanquished and the princes thought they might rest in one another's bloodied arms, that the dark wizard sprang his trap and they were captured by foul magic and chained within his dungeon.
The reading of their dungeon captivity was hard to bear. Starved, whipped and beaten, Galaelin fell into a swoon from which Angaroch could not wake him, yet his tears fell upon him night after lightless day. Finally, feeling he had nothing to fear, the sorcerer appeared to finish them off, the two mightiest warriors Doriath had ever known. Yet still, Angaroch would not give in and he rose and broke his chains in a fury of grief for his fallen love and smote the sorcerer down with his heavy bonds, trapping him. Then he took up the sorcerer's black sword and in one strike, severed his foul head. The force of the blow was his own bane and Angaroch fell dead upon his headless enemy. Galaelin revived, and finding his lover slain thus, took up the sword and fell upon it, forsaking his immortality so he might join his lover in death.
Frodo had lain the finished book upon his chest and let the tears run across his cheeks for some time, not just for the fallen lovers and the sublime conclusion of the books, but for himself. He wept because he had never known such a love in all his thirty years, and had little hope he ever would, certainly never among his own kind.