The meal passed pleasantly, though not with the ease of their afternoon repast. Though Frodo talked determinedly of his home, or the lands near his home, or other places from his travels in the north, his ugly awakening stayed with him, hovering just over his shoulder like the night shadows that ringed the tent walls. Éomer doubtless felt it, too. When the meal was over, and Frodo was reclining with a fresh mug of tea, Éomer fixed him with a serious look.

"We have spoken much of your travels. Yet, in all your words, you have wandered nowhere near the land in which we are encamped, and certainly not to what lies beyond."

Frodo lowered his head. He had been dreading the follow-up question all meal. But here again Éomer had been wise; had he asked it earlier, Frodo would certainly have been unable to eat.

Frodo said, hesitantly, "I believe it is as you said yourself, lord. Sometimes words are just wind in an empty sky."

"And sometimes they are the key to a locked door." Éomer set down his goblet decisively. "Frodo, I saw your eyes when I startled you from your sleep. I have never seen such horror and despair. I confess, it chilled me to my marrow—and I fought at the Black Gate."

Frodo looked away. "Beren One-Hand would not speak of the horrors of Dungortheb."

"Beren—he is the hero I have heard Aragorn speak of."

Frodo nodded.

"Then I think Beren One-Hand and Frodo of the Nine Fingers have much in common."

Frodo shifted uncomfortably. "I am no hero, Éomer."

"Your deeds would suggest otherwise," Éomer said, playfully throwing Frodo's words back at him.

But Frodo was in no mood for jest. He huddled upon himself. The fear was back, even at such an oblique reference as this.

Éomer reacted to his change of mood instantly. "Forgive me. I have no right to question you. Perhaps I should return you to your companions, with whom you can discuss this more freely."

Frodo hugged himself, rocking from his distress. "They don't know," he whispered.

Éomer started. "But… surely Samwise..."

Frodo shook his head. "I tried to tell him, once." His voice sounded strange, thick and strangled. "He said that…" Frodo broke off, breathing hard.

'They stripped me of everything; and then two great brutes came and questioned me, questioned me until I thought I should go mad, standing over me, gloating, fingering their knives. I'll never forget their claws and eyes.'

'You won't, if you talk about them, Mr. Frodo,' said Sam.

Éomer left his seat. As he had done before, he settled next to Frodo, steadying him with a surrounding arm. This time Frodo turned his face into the king's chest, seeking refuge there. He was breathing hard, trembling all over.

Éomer held him gently but securely; his hand stroked along Frodo's arm. It was comforting, but the terror had taken control of him again, and he couldn't stop shaking.

"What did Samwise say?" Éomer murmured.

Frodo swallowed hard. He would not be sick in the king's chamber, not after all Éomer had done for him. "He said… I would never forget it if I… if I talked about it."

"I see." Éomer's hand continued stroking down Frodo's arm, patiently and rhythmically. Frodo felt himself start to relax. As his breathing evened out, it suddenly occurred to him that this must be how Éomer soothed a frightened colt. No matter; the method was effective, whatever its origin.

"Frodo," Éomer began, and his tone was thoughtful. "There are those who believe as your friend Samwise does—or as Beren One-Hand did, come to that. In truth, I don't know which is the better course. Sometimes sharing our pain can help us to bear it better. I know something of what I speak: I held Háma in my arms as he mourned the death of Théodred, and I held Éothain as he mourned the death of Háma. I shall never forget the reek of the Pelennor Fields, the shock that came over all of us as we came to realize our losses: brave Grimbold, brilliant Herefara, so many Riders valiant and fair: Déorwine, Harding, Fastred—and of course, the Lord of the Mark, Théoden King, who was like a father to Éowyn and me. Long vigil my Riders held that night—without me, for I had gone to my sister. But they bound up their wounds, and spoke of their kinsmen and friends, and so came to bear the anguish of their loss a little easier, so they might face the next task steadier in heart.

"I am no wise man or healer, Frodo. I may be king in name, but in my heart I am Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshall of Riddermark. Though all of Rohan is now my charge, yet these are the things I know: the windswept plains, the companionship of horses and Men, the songs that honor the fallen. We will see the sweet Simbelmynë cover yet more of our gallant folk, but their memory will not sink beneath the grass, for we will chant the sum of their deeds beneath the sun so their lives might sink into our hearts. Their ends might be evil, filled with woe—but how can we remember our friends rightly, unless we acknowledge what has been? The tale is not complete until it is spoken to the end. At least, so we believe in the Mark."

Fresh tears streaked Frodo's cheeks as he listened to Éomer's words. He blotted his face unsteadily with his handkerchief. His voice was a harsh whisper. "I never meant to tell my friends what… what happened. It would grieve them too much; especially Sam, and he really did all that he could—more than anyone could have hoped."

Éomer nodded. "What then do you intend to do? For these memories—forgive me, Frodo, but they must be dealt with. You cannot hope to carry such a burden unacknowledged; it will eat you from within."

"I thought… I thought perhaps I might write it down. I promised Bilbo I would keep a record—he's my uncle. Well, not really my uncle. More of a cousin. But he raised me after my parents died, and there is no one dearer to me in the world."

"I understand." Éomer caught Frodo's startled eyes, and smiled sadly. "My parents died when I was eleven. Afterwards, my uncle took Éowyn and me to live with him in Edoras."

Frodo stared a moment in surprise, then looked away. His heart beat very fast.

"Such a strange coincidence, don't you think?" said Éomer. "But perhaps it was meant to be so—that two strangers should find an echo of themselves in each other's lives. In our despair, we often feel alone. It is easy to forget that there are others who might share our burden, particularly when we have carried it alone for so very long."

Frodo let Éomer's words sink into his soul. The dark memories still clung to him, but he no longer felt overwhelmed by them. Frodo began to realize that this talk with Éomer was a gift. For the first time, he glimpsed a chink in the darkness, no less startling than the sound of Sam's gentle song, drifting up through the cracks of the trapdoor in his vile tower prison. He bolstered himself, and pushed forward.

"It was… Gollum." Frodo stumbled over the name, swallowing it almost as the poor wretch had done when he lived his miserable existence.

Éomer's arm tightened round Frodo slightly. "Yes. Go on."

"He betrayed us. The… the Ring had twisted his promise. I knew that it would. It was so strong, Éomer. It was like a pounding in the brain and blood, growing louder and more potent with every step towards the Black Land. He hadn't a chance; none of us did."

Frodo began to shake again. Éomer dipped his head, so it rested lightly atop Frodo's. It was as if Éomer was making a shelter of his body, keeping Frodo safe within.

Frodo swallowed and plunged on. Now that he'd begun, the words poured out of him, nerve-wrought and shrill. "He planned to turn us over to Shelob, a great, hideous spider. That way she would do the killing, and he could take the Ring afterwards. I thought we'd escaped her. I was running for the Pass, so relieved to be free of her loathsome lair, and something hit me from behind. I felt—a blow. And then…" He shuddered. "Such evil dreams…"

Éomer held him firmly. "What happened to Sam?" he murmured.

Frodo dashed a wrist across his eyes. "He was attacked by Gollum. I learnt that part later. Gollum tried to murder him while Shelob attacked me. That's why he wasn't with me. I had run ahead, foolishly, and Sam was delayed. By the time he caught up and drove Shelob off, he thought me already dead. Then he decided… for the sake of Middle-earth, he had to complete the errand. That's why he went on. He would not have left me, had he known I was alive."

"But… he did leave you," said Éomer gently.

The tears spilled down Frodo's cheek. "Oh, Éomer, how he berated himself for that! I think he considers it as the worst thing he ever did. Do you wonder… wonder why I can't tell him?"

"Not at all. But you are not telling Sam. You are telling me."

Frodo shuddered. It all came back, as vivid as in his dream: the reek of unwashed hide, the shuffling of iron-nailed shoes, the click of claws and gabbling of foul-breathed bodies. The pulsing ache at the back of his neck made him feel ill and weak. He flinched, as if the hard-fingered hands might seize him once more.

"Frodo." Éomer's voice drifted down to him, warm and sure as the arms that held him. "What happened to you, in the hands of the Orcs?"

Frodo drew an unsteady breath… and told him.