Frodo lost himself in the world Éomer painted. Rohan sounded so different from the Shire, yet Frodo found his mind traveling those vast, treeless spaces. Perhaps it was the longing with which Éomer spoke of his home that found an echo in Frodo's own heart. For whatever reason, Frodo was startled, as were they all, when the sentry ducked his head inside the entrance and quietly announced, "The High King Elessar to see you, my lord."

Éomer scrambled to his feet just in time to greet his regal visitor, who bowed his head to enter the King of the Mark's tent. "Lord Aragorn!"

Aragorn broke into a smile, and he held out his hand to his host. "Éomer, my friend." They clasped hands briefly, their respect for one another evident in their faces. Aragorn's eyes twinkled as he surveyed the hobbits, still nestled comfortably at table, too astonished for the moment to have moved. "I wondered what might have kept our Ring-bearers occupied for so long. I see now that you have provided plenty of provender. Your understanding of hobbits certainly increases."

"It does, to my pleasure," Éomer answered. "My understanding could hardly help but improve, as I knew so little to start with. I scarcely had a chance to speak to our revered Ring-bearers at the feast. Now, the more I learn, the more my respect for these bravehearts grows. They are truly worth all the honor you bestow upon them."

Sam, blushing, scrambled to his feet. "Now, Mr. Éomer—Éomer King, I should say. Don't go putting Mr. Frodo and me on a pedestal."

"Particularly after what you learned today," Frodo put in. At Éomer's puzzled look, he added, "Your new understanding, my lord—regarding my fear of heights."

Aragorn threw back his head and laughed. Éomer managed a lopsided grin.

"Unquenchable," Aragorn said, recovering himself. "That is what Gandalf calls them. I think you begin to see why."

"I do indeed. But now, your presence here tells me that I have kept my guests too long. You have come to tend Frodo, have you not?"

Frodo had neglected to stand with the others. Whilst his legs felt largely recovered, he didn't trust his feet to hold him; he often limped when he first rose. He had decided it would be better to appear rather too relaxed, than to stumble and have his three companions descend upon him in a frenzy of concern.

"I have indeed," answered Aragorn. "Mr. Baggins might be reluctant to claim some of my time, imagining it to be an imposition, I suppose. Yet I will not be remiss in my duties if my skills can bring him ease."

"We walked a good step today," Sam said cheerfully. "Nearly to Henneth Annûn."

"Where they startled my young stallion," said Éomer, "and my éored, by stepping into the clearing from out of thin air."

Aragorn smiled. "I can see why, after such an experience as that, you would prefer to keep them under your eye. But now, Frodo, will you accompany me back to your tent? It will not do to neglect your injuries, particularly after a taxing day."

Éomer looked hesitant. "If you please, Aragorn, and if Frodo wishes it, you may work upon him here."

Frodo's lips parted, speechless. Aragorn raised his brows in surprise. "That is a generous offer, Éomer. But this session may run long; I would not displace you from your quarters."

"There are things I must see to in camp, duties that I have neglected this afternoon for the pleasure of meeting new friends. Please, if it will be easier on Frodo, do not feel you have to stir."

Frodo was too befuddled to respond. Then Sam said, "If you don't mind my saying, Mr. Éomer, that's a handsome offer. I know my master won't stand right now because his feet are troubling him. He won't want anyone to carry him to his tent because he thinks it looks bad, so he'll walk there on his own legs, even if it hurts him." Sam gave Frodo an apologetic look, as Frodo gaped at him. "I'm sorry, sir, but you know how you are. Stubbornest Baggins what ever lived, and that's saying something."

"That's settled, then," said Éomer decisively. "Arrange the blankets and pillows as best suits your purpose. Shall I send my sentry to get the materials you require from Frodo's tent?"

"No need," said Aragorn. "My assistant is outside, bearing what I want. You need only send him in."

"Then I shall do so, without further delay." Éomer inclined his head towards his guests. "Frodo, Sam, I hope we may often meet while we remain in the country together."

"Same here, Mr. Éomer—sir," said Sam. "You're a rare one for a good chat, and that's always a hobbit's delight."

"Until later, then."

Éomer departed, and Aragorn's assistant came in. This turned out to be Turagil, a healer who worked with the hobbits often. Frodo, feeling more foolish than ever, watched the two Men, supervised by Sam, fashion a low bed from the abundant sitting materials.

Turagil spread a sheepskin over the heaped blankets, forming a firm but soft platform. He bowed to Frodo with an arch smile. "Sir, your bower awaits."

Red-faced, Frodo started to climb to his feet. He didn't get far before Sam was at his side, steadying him as he rose. Frodo twinged in places he didn't normally twinge; the effects of Éomer's well-meant but unusual transportation had not yet worn off. Whilst the healers set their supplies in order, Sam helped Frodo with his buttons.

Sam nodded at the entrance, which had been left open to the mild afternoon. "Mr. Turagil, if you wouldn't mind…?"

The healer followed his glance, then immediately crossed to the doorway. "Of course." He lowered the flap, ensuring that the edges overlapped. There was plenty of light from the afternoon sun dappling the canvas walls and roof, suffusing the room in a golden glow, but at least Frodo would be ensured privacy regarding his person. He still felt awkward, standing as he was in a strange tent—the Rohan king's personal chamber, no less, which would soon see more of any hobbit than all of Éomer's longfathers before him had done.

Aragorn was practical as always. "You can lay his things across the saddle here," he told Sam, assembling his materials.

"Right, sir."

In the past weeks, Frodo had become resigned to the embarrassment of having the healers work upon his ravaged body, accepting it as a necessity. The poisons of Mordor lingered within him; he felt it in his shortness of breath, the recurring pains from his injuries, the malaise that crept over him at unguarded moments. It didn't help matters for him to observe how rapidly Sam was regaining his strength, for all that he had been nearer to death than Frodo when they were first brought in. Already Sam's face had lost its hollow look; his brown eyes glowed with alertness and pleasure, and there was a lightness to his step. In contrast, Frodo felt the weight of every one of his years, and more. He, who had rarely before endured poor health, now found himself in the disagreeable role of invalid. Considering that he had expected to be dead, Frodo supposed that a weakened constitution was a minor price to pay. Yet his frailty was distasteful, and his relatively slow progress frustrating. He tightened his jaw, as Sam helped strip away his garments.

Turagil draped a blanket round Frodo's shoulders when Sam stooped to remove his master's breeches. Pointless modesty, in a way, yet Frodo was grateful for it. He stepped out of his trousers, holding onto Sam's shoulder for balance.

Aragorn patted the sheepskin surface. "Face down to start with, Frodo."

Awkward in his oversized blanket, Frodo climbed onto the makeshift platform. The sheepskin was silky against his knees and palms, the blanket warm upon his back. He positioned himself, then sank onto the bedding. Luxurious softness hugged him from cheek to toes. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, as Aragorn draped the cloth more evenly over him.

Sam spoke from near his head. "All right, sir?"

Frodo mumbled into the fuzzy softness, "Perfectly, Sam. Thank you."

"Then, if Master Samwise will permit me," Turagil said, "I shall accompany him to his tent for his own treatment. Have you all that you need, my lord?"

Frodo heard the clink of bottles. "Yes. Thank you, Turagil."

"My lord."

Sam murmured his farewell, then Frodo heard the tent flap rustle and grow silent.

"Alone at last," said Aragorn lightly. "Now, Frodo, before we start—is there anything new you wish to call to my attention?"

Frodo felt the twinges in his legs and backside. "Not really," he mumbled into the fleece.

Frodo could almost hear Aragorn shaking his head. His next words, brimming with amusement, confirmed Frodo's suspicion. "Fortunately, I am more adept at finding out your discomforts than you are at hiding them from me. I think we shall start with a thorough massage, and then work the usual areas. Will that be acceptable?"

Frodo felt his face warm. "Er, yes. That will be fine."

Aragorn chuckled, and a cork popped from a vial with a musical tone. "Never fear, Frodo. All infrequent riders experience the same indignities. I shall soon be able to set you at ease."

"Don't tell Éomer," said Frodo, as Aragorn lifted the blanket to reveal his legs. "He really was very kind. I wouldn't want him to feel bad for trying to help me."

"I doubt Éomer would suspect the aches that can afflict a non-rider." Aragorn's slick palms descended upon Frodo's ankles, and began rubbing with skillful pressure up Frodo's overworked legs. "Everyone in Rohan can ride at the age of three."

Frodo winced as Aragorn began to work the back of his left thigh. "He wanted to keep me from hurting my feet."

"From the looks of things, he did well to spare you the walk." Frodo hissed as Aragorn began to work the inside of his thigh. "Your feet look rather raw. What possessed you to wander so far from camp?"

"Sam." Frodo flinched as Aragorn began rubbing the muscle in alternating strokes. He was right at the top of the thigh; Frodo determined not to mind it. It wasn't as if poor Aragorn had never seen his bum before. "He had this theory, about the path—ow! That's sore. About what path a raging Oliphaunt might take to reach the Great River."

"He figures Oliphaunts to be thirsty creatures, does he?"

Frodo jumped as Aragorn started working the big muscle in his rump. Oh, that was it! The sorest spot of all. Frodo bit his lip, and tried not to twitch. "No, it's just—uh! Just that the Oliphaunt was never seen after the battle…"

He trailed off. Aragorn was working his… sitting area, quite expertly with both hands. It was exquisitely painful and marvelously relieving at the same time.

"Are you cold?" Aragorn murmured after a moment.

Frodo started. He couldn't imagine how he might have drifted off with someone massaging his bum, but he seemed to have managed it. "Not really."

"Then do you mind if I remove the blanket? That way I will be able to work all the way up the spine."

Seeing as his bare bottom had been in High King's face for the last five minutes, Frodo felt the time for modesty was past. "Not at all. I'm quite comfortable."

The lovely pressure stopped, and the blanket slid aside. Cool air wafted over his skin. Frodo heard Aragorn slicking his hands again, then his big, warm hands came down at the top of Frodo's hips. Frodo hissed, as the Man dug his fingers into places that Frodo hadn't even realized hurt.

"Why does it—ow. Why is it so sore? Surely the ride couldn't have done all this."

"We all carry tensions inside us. Normally they sink below the level of conscious perception—fortunately, for otherwise we would be in discomfort all the time. But when someone works upon you, as I am doing, then all the unfelt areas of tension make themselves known."

Frodo moaned as Aragorn's clever fingers walked up his spine. "Yes, my unacknowledged tension has a good deal to say, I'm afraid."

"Spread out your arms… That's good."

Over Frodo's shoulders and back the kneading hands swept. Frodo felt himself sinking comfortably into the soft platform, as his mind grew drowsy again. After the initial pass, Aragorn started sweeping his hands from Frodo's neck all the way down to his ankles, then back up again—squeezing and soothing along the way, finding each knot and coaxing it to release. Perhaps not every knot. Frodo noticed there were certain areas Aragorn did not touch: the back of his neck above his left shoulder, and a narrow strip down one side. He could not see the injuries himself, but Aragorn's care told him that the wounds must still be inflamed. Frodo lamented his meager progress, then gave up worrying. He would heal when he did; his injuries must take their own time to recede and be forgotten.

After finishing his back, Aragorn worked Frodo's arms and hands one by one. Frodo smiled, even as he winced. He hadn't been this relaxed in an age.

Sleepy from the prolonged treatment, Frodo heard the clink of a jar. He started as a cool, moist finger traced a trail down the whip weal along his side. The familiar scent of Aragorn's healing balm filled Frodo's nostrils.

"How does it look?" Frodo murmured.

"Much better," said Aragorn. "I think this injury will cease to bother you very soon."

Aragorn next turned to Frodo's neck. Frodo braced himself, but flinched anyway when Aragorn dabbed at the place with a cloth, chill with cleansing liquid. Aragorn had explained that he must dig into the wound to remove the bad flesh, so it would heal cleanly. The knowledge made the thrice-weekly treatment no easier to bear. Frodo clenched his teeth, as Aragorn thoroughly cleansed the puncture, as gently as he could. There was a short pause, then Frodo jumped as a cold lotion made contact. As usual, the medicine burned, the fiery sensation growing worse as the seconds ticked by. Frodo dug his hands into the sheepskin, breathing deeply to offset the pain.

"I'm sorry, Frodo," said Aragorn sadly. "This is an evil wound, and slow to heal. The spawn of Ungoliant were the bane of Beleriand. Only Beren among all the people of Middle-earth passed through the terrors of Dungortheb to arrive, aged and stumbling, in the protected land of Doriath."

Frodo slowly released his grip as the burning sensation eased. "How did he manage it?" he gasped.

Aragorn began massaging the flesh around the wound with a fresh-smelling balm. "No one knows. It is said that Beren spoke to no one of his ordeal, lest the horror of it return to his mind."

Frodo considered this, as Aragorn put his medicine away. "That's what Sam said," he murmured.

Aragorn turned back. "What?"

Frodo closed his eyes tightly. "Nothing."

A breeze wafted over Frodo's skin, and the blanket settled back over his body. "All right, Frodo. Face up, now."

Frodo rolled over obediently. Already much of his stiffness had eased. Aragorn repeated his massage on the front of Frodo's body, though he kept the blanket draped over Frodo's middle. As usual, he spent some time palpating the area round the white scar that the Ringwraith's blade had left. Frodo felt it as a pad of thickened tissue above his left breast. Sometimes the old injury emitted a gripping cold; other times, like now, it felt merely numb, as if the normal function of that part of his body had been crippled forever.

Frodo recalled Sam asking Aragorn once, at a time when he thought Frodo was asleep, "Why don't you use that athelas on him, Strider? It seemed to ease the cold before."

"Athelas would not help him now," Aragorn had answered. "The wound has healed, and the dreadful shard was melted. But I fear such evil legacies of the enemy cannot be wholly done away. The scar of his wounding is deeper than flesh, and beyond the reach of my craft, or even Lord Elrond's. Friendship is the best medicine for Frodo now: the comfort of his friends, and the buoyant presence of your joyous spirits."

Gently, Aragorn worked his way down Frodo's legs, chasing away the strain of his walk and subsequent ride. Afterwards, Aragorn spent some time on Frodo's feet, massaging the toes and curly tops. Frodo sighed, feeling himself relax again.

Aragorn rose. "Onto your belly, Frodo. One last turn."

Aragorn tented the blanket over him whilst Frodo sleepily rolled over. He settled onto the sheepskin with a sigh. Aragorn covered him warmly, then began massaging the bottoms of his feet. They were sore, but not so sensitive that Aragorn's prodding fingers were at all uncomfortable. On the contrary, Frodo felt himself drifting into a deeper and deeper state of relaxation.

"Almost finished," Aragorn said in a whisper. "You must stay off your feet for at least an hour, to let the medicine soak in."

"Mm," Frodo responded, too sleepy to answer more fully.

The soothing rubbing went on. Time blinked. Frodo heard a rustling at the medicine tray. Another blink, and all was still. Frodo heard no more.