A large hand gripped his shoulder. Frodo leapt away, his legs tangling in a thick cloth that hindered his movements. He stumbled to his feet and stared, eyes wide. A dark presence loomed between him and the single light in the room, a lamp obscured by the shadowy outline of the massive creature reaching an oversized arm towards him.

Frodo scrambled away desperately, tripping over the uneven floor. "Don't touch me!"

His shrill cry was deadened by the shadowy walls. Naked, he scurried over the lumpy impediments scattered upon the floor—his torn clothes, perhaps, or his discarded pack. Heart racing, he whirled to crouch near the wall, keeping the dark, lumpy shape of some indescribable object between himself and his pursuer.

The door opened—not a door, but a flap. Frodo cringed, expecting more Orcs—then stared as two Men came into the room. They were fair-haired, clad as soldiers. They looked first at the presence in the center of the room, then at Frodo, cowering and naked on the floor. Their mouths parted in astonishment.

The one Frodo had fled from turned to address them. As he did so, the light of the lamp from the center pole shone clearly upon him. Light eyes, wind-roughened skin, yellow hair. He spoke softly yet urgently to the Men at the entrance, his speech indecipherable, but rolling and rhythmic in its cadence.

The world revolved, steadied. This was not the Tower. These creatures were not Orcs, but Riders of Rohan. The tall one in the center of the room was none other than their newest king. The lamp was a plain lantern of the type the Rohirrim used, its light a yellow glow, not the sullen red glare of the reeking, iron-clad lamp. The indistinguishable shape Frodo had placed between himself and the others was nothing more than a saddle resting upon a heap of blankets. The walls were canvas; what he had taken to be windows were periodic tapestries. The floor was covered with thick, soft rugs. Frodo shivered and relaxed, feeling faint in the aftermath of shock.

Éomer finished addressing his men, who left promptly, pulling the tent flap closed. He then turned towards Frodo, his face troubled. He held out a hand. "Frodo? Do you know me?"

Now that the initial panic had passed, Frodo had only to feel mortified by his behavior. He wanted to rise and go to the king, but—he was naked. He sank onto his knees, and put his hands over his face.

There was a rustle of footfalls over soft material, then Frodo felt a voluminous blanket being draped across his shoulders. He tugged it round himself, distressed to find how badly his hands were shaking.

Éomer sank onto a heap of blankets near him, yet not too close. Hesitantly, he asked, "Shall I send for Samwise, or the King?"

Frodo shook his head. He longed to find his voice, but worried that he might become ill if he opened his mouth. He huddled within his blanket, trembling.

Éomer continued softly, "I will not ask you what happened. I could see it in your eyes. You were somewhere else, reliving some evil memory." He paused. "Though you now know where you are, it clings to you still. I'm sorry."

Frodo hunched miserably, shivering. He wished he could answer, but the scene blurred behind a veil of tears. His throat felt too tight to talk.

The tent flap opened. Frodo turned his head away, as Éomer rose to greet the newcomers. Frodo heard the rattle of dishes on a tray, a few deep words of resonant speech, then retreating footfalls and the rustle of the canvas flap. This was followed by a clink from the area near the table, and the gurgle of liquid being poured. Then soft footsteps padded towards him.

Éomer knelt beside him. "Try this." A large hand gently detached one of Frodo's from its grip on the blanket. A warm mug wafting fragrant steam was pushed into his hand. "Sip. You'll feel better."

Frodo managed it—not gracefully, slopping a little of the liquid as unsteady hand met trembling mouth. The tea was mildly sweet, pungent and bracing. Frodo sipped again, and felt some tight knot inside him release.

Éomer said softly, "Of all the wounds of war, I think this is the worst: the remembered horrors in our minds that will not give us peace."

His gentle words tipped Frodo over the edge. A rush of hot tears spilled down his cheeks. He lowered his head.

The mug was lifted from his hand. An arm went round him, pulling him close. Frodo often resented the difference in size between himself and most other races of Middle-earth; even the weakest Man or Orc could overpower him. Yet Éomer's grip was respectful even as it was encompassing. For a moment, Frodo felt he could surrender to a world where everything was bigger than he was; larger, more in control of itself. For a moment, Frodo could feel how insignificant he was, and take comfort in it. The huge arm cradled him tenderly; the wide chest summoned all-but-forgotten memories of another time and life, when Frodo was a lad, and security was an oversized embrace and the lilt of song drifting from the kitchen.

"Forgive me," Éomer murmured. "Had I known my intrusion would recall such memories, I would not have entered. I came merely to summon you to the evening meal."

Frodo leant against Éomer's chest, breathing deeply as he tried to regain his composure. He had not the smallest interest in attending the feast. No matter how respectful the men were, their eyes always followed him. Frodo had no wish to be seen, doubly given his current state.

"I have sent word to the King just now," Éomer continued, "that you are resting, and will take dinner with me. Have I done right?"

Frodo sniffled, and tried to sit up. "Yes. Oh, yes." He wiped away the tear tracks. "I'm sorry, Éomer. I never wished to burden you with my troubles."

"It is no burden. On the contrary, I would consider it the highest compliment if you would stay and be comforted. Allow me to help you to table."

"I couldn't eat now. Please, just… give me a moment."

Éomer put the mug back into his hands. "Take all the time you need."

Frodo wondered if his adventures would ever come to an end. Probably not, as long as he lived—or rather, as long as he lived among such different folk as these. His latest adventure was something he never would have imagined, even as late as that morning: sitting upon soft rugs, naked, wrapped in a coverlet-sized blanket, sipping a mug of fragrant tea while the King of Rohan hugged him about his shoulders with one muscular arm.

In a couple of minutes, Frodo felt stronger. Éomer seemed to sense it; he loosened his hold. Wordlessly, he took the empty cup from Frodo's hand.

Frodo cleared his throat. "You've the gift of silence, my lord."

"Sometimes words are little more than wind in an empty sky. You're feeling better?"

"Much."

Éomer rose. "I imagine you'll feel more yourself after you are dressed."

Frodo ducked his head, feeling his cheeks warm even as he laughed. "As you say. It was odd enough for me to disrobe in your tent to begin with. It should have been more awkward for me still to find myself nearly in your lap just now, but you made it easy for me. I thank you." He hesitated. "I'm afraid I've rather made a spectacle of myself."

Éomer retrieved Frodo's things from where Sam had left them. His face looked thoughtful as the lamplight fell upon him. "If you are worried about Éothain and Framgar, they are knights of my household. They will speak to no one of what they saw, not without my leave. Be easy about them."

Frodo blushed as Éomer handed him his clothes. He couldn't help thinking that Éomer would make a very good king; he had cut to the heart of what was troubling Frodo, and deftly defused his concerns. Now, he left Frodo to dress in privacy, returning to the low table and discreetly turning his back as he set out the various dishes that his servants had brought with the tea.

Frodo was glad not to have an audience. Despite Aragorn's excellent ministrations, his muscles had stiffened up again. The ache in his sitting bones reasserted itself, and he minced on the soft flooring, accustoming his battered feet to once again taking the pressure of his weight. The various winces and bobbles made for a ridiculous display, and he was relieved not to have a witness.

Before too long, Frodo was able to join Éomer at the table. The young king had already heaped Frodo's platter high, and filled both their cups with the thin, refreshing wine the gentry favored in Rohan. He smiled as Frodo approached, then turned to face the west. Frodo turned also, observing the ritual. At its conclusion he bowed to Éomer, then joined his host on the soft pillows.

"I did not know before that the Riders of Rohan observed the Standing Silence," he said.

"I observe it here," said Éomer. "We are visitors in a foreign land. If King Elessar honors the old customs, it seems only courteous, if not prudent, to do likewise in his realm, does it not?" Éomer's smile faded as he tore open a loaf. "But there's something more to it, I think. When I first met Aragorn, he seemed like a legend sprung to life out of the grass. Sometimes, when I am with him, I think that I, too, can smell the air of Númenor; for in his presence I perceive not merely the memory of a kingdom long vanished, but a living scion of the land itself, embodied with wisdom and nobility before my eyes. Then I begin to think that anything is possible; for if such a one as the heir of Elendil can return again to the throne, perhaps other things we think have been lost might also be stirred to life, had we but the hardihood and the resolve to try."

Frodo realized he was staring. Hastily, he broke his own bread. The outer crust was tough, the inside soft and airy. He dipped it into the gravy, and said, "If I may be so bold, Éomer King—much as I revere the Lord Aragorn, I think he is not the only king who might be considered wise."

Éomer laughed. "Nay, I deserve no such compliment. I am a simple Lord of the Mark, and I see things plainly."

"Forgive me, my lord king, but I believe you could see through a brick wall in time." At Éomer's quizzical look, Frodo added, "That is a saying they have in Bree, a town near to my homeland."

"Ah. A plain-speaking people, these denizens of Bree. I like that. Will you tell me more about them, while we dine?"