"They spent many days in Ithilien. … The hobbits wandered here and there visiting again the places that they had passed before; and Sam hoped always in some shadow of the woods or secret glade to catch, maybe, a glimpse of the great Oliphaunt."

—"The Field of Cormallen," The Return of the King

-0-0-0-

Sam pushed through the bushes, fragrant with young leaves. "He couldn't have come this way, sir," he said sadly. "The trees are too close together. There'd be a wreck from here to Highday, if he'd passed."

Frodo nodded absently. He supported Sam's preoccupation with finding the track of the Oliphaunt, largely because it allowed him to be out of doors and away from the encamped armies, a benefit that outweighed the physical discomfort of their increasingly longer tramps. The perfume of the new flowers was balm to him; he inhaled deeply, touching the tender buds. Docilely, he followed wherever Sam led, relieved that he was not called upon to set their course, or the pace, ever again.

Sam threw back his head. "Just listen to that waterfall!" Dimly, the hiss and rumble of the stream flowing past Henneth Annûn wafted through the forest. "No wonder Stinker found it, for all Captain Faramir's precautions."

The abrupt use of the old name stopped Frodo in his tracks. Slowly, he caressed a crinkled leaf between his fingers. Though only partly unfurled, its green was vivid, blossoming to gold where the sunlight slanted through it, soft and nourishing. He did not see, because he would not, the brilliant green of the scum that floated on stagnant pools chill, deep, and reeking. He did not see, because he would not, the skeletal guide that crept before them, testing the mats of rotten weeds with his fingertips, to see if they would hold a hobbit's weight.

Frodo lifted his head higher. He still heard nothing but the waterfall, and wind through the lush growth. But the very air seemed to pulse; after a moment, he realized he was feeling a vibration through the soles of his feet.

Sam, who had been peering farther into the wood, also straightened. He cocked his head, listening, eyebrows furrowed. "Someone's coming."

As with other sight, Frodo saw Sam and himself in another part of this same wood, creeping into a fern brake. From too close at hand, a deep voice had called, "We shall have it like a coney in a trap." Frodo's mouth went dry with remembered fear.

Apparently, Sam felt some residual alarm as well. He stepped hurriedly to Frodo's side. "Come, Master. We'll get behind the bush, here. Whoever it is needn't see us unless we want 'em to."

Frodo wanted to protest. He opened his mouth to say, "But Aragorn is now king, and there is nothing to fear." But his voice died in his throat; his knees felt like water. Without a murmur, he let Sam guide him to the far side of the voluminous shrub he'd been admiring. There, they melted into the dappled shade. Sam craned his neck, trying to see who might be following their trail. Frodo merely hunched into himself, listening to his heart pound.

Only a moment later, they heard it clearly: the beat of hoofs. The indistinguishable rumble resolved itself into the footfalls of perhaps a dozen heavy beasts. Frodo shrank farther under the sheltering branches. He had no wish to be trodden upon by an animal whose foreleg was as tall as his entire body. The protection of the bush he cowered beneath felt scanty indeed.

Sam, peering past the trunk through the leaves, parted his lips in surprise. "Well, I'll be. It's some of those Rohan riders. I wonder what they're doing so deep in the forest."

Frodo turned his head to look. Trotting through the trees, the first of the tall, gray bodies penetrated the thicket. Frodo saw the well-muscled chest, the slender legs that pumped with tireless strength, the glint of a stirrup behind, and a rider's thick-soled leather boot. The great animal swept past their hiding place, as more of the creatures entered the glade, some following the lead Rider, others sweeping round the bush from the opposite side.

Sam, straining his neck to see, gasped, "It's the king!"

At his words, soft though they were, the lead horse—who was now just past their hiding place—leapt into the air with a snort. Frodo gaped as an animal taller than a smial crashed stiff-legged to earth, shaking the very ground. The horse whinnied, tossing its flaxen-maned head. The ring of its dark eye showed white.

The rider pulled at the bit, dragging up his horse's head. Though startled, he adapted instantly to his mount's unusual behavior, barely needing to adjust his seat. "Whoa, Hyrulf," he called gently, followed by a soothing murmur of rippling speech. The horse arched its neck and blew, circling to stand facing the bush, eyeing it warily. The other horses skittered nervously, picking up their fellow's excitement, as their riders brought them expertly round to halt on either side of their leader.

Embarrassed over the near mishap they'd caused—wouldn't that be a wonderful introduction, to unseat the new king?—Frodo stepped from beneath the overhanging leaves, Sam close behind him. From the reaction of the horses, he had thought their presence would have been obvious, yet several of the Men cried out in startlement at their appearance, and their mounts shied and danced backward. Unnerved at being surrounded by such large, spirited creatures, Frodo kept close to the bush; nevertheless, he forced his manners to the front.

"King Éomer." He bowed deeply to the youthful lord. "My apologies, sire. I did not know you meant to ride this way."

Éomer's eyes widened. Hyrulf attempted to buck again, but the young king controlled him automatically, his eyes and attention fixed on the pair before him. "It's you! The Ring-bearer himself!"

Frodo bowed again. "Frodo son of Drogo, and Samwise son of Hamfast, at your service, my lord."

The tall Man stared, then swept from the saddle lightly as a boy. Before Frodo knew what he was about, the king of Rohan was kneeling before him, head bent.

Frodo opened his mouth to protest, when the quick movement of the rest of the company distracted him. Imitating their leader, the remaining men leapt from their saddles. Gathering their reins into one hand, they too bent their knees and bowed their heads towards the earth.

"Most honored friends," said Éomer.

Frodo felt truly discomfited. He glanced at his companion, to see Sam looking as distressed as he felt. "Good King Éomer," Frodo cried, "pray do not bend your knee to me. I am but a simple hobbit of the Shire."

Éomer raised his head. Awe and delight flickered in his blue eyes. "And I am but a Man of Rohan, one of the many countries of Middle-earth that would even now be under the heel of the Dark Lord or his minions, were it not for your brave deeds. Yet even if I felt no gratitude myself, would it be seemly for me to withhold my praise upon meeting you, when the High King himself chose to kneel before you at the victory feast?"

"I admit, that Strider has his own way of doin' things," Sam said. "But you weren't near enough to see the gleam in his eye. I think he was having a bit of fun with us, settin' us on his throne and all. Not meaning any disrespect to him or you, my lord—er, King Éomer."

A murmur circulated among the men, and Frodo felt dismayed. Sam addressing the High King by such a casual name as "Strider" would hardly help put the hobbits on a more humble footing.

"Please, Éomer King," Frodo said somewhat desperately. "Do get up."

The Man rose as bidden, and he was very tall—as tall as Faramir had been, that day. In an instant, Frodo's thoughts turned towards the last time he had found himself in a thicket in this wood, surrounded by a group of Men. "But what have we found?" said the well-remembered voice. Though urbane and curious, it had made Frodo's heart shrink from the unspoken threat.

But the Rider who stood before him emanated no such menace, overt or otherwise. His expression was open, even admiring. He wore the tooled leathern armor that was the fashion of Rohan, but his head was bare. His long, yellow hair was plaited for riding, even as was the mane of his fretful horse. His men rose when he did, returning to stand quietly by the heads of their inquisitive steeds.

"So," said Éomer. "I see that the legends are true. The Holbytlan can indeed avoid the sight of men, and appear or disappear in a twinkling."

"Your pardon, sire," said Frodo, "but I think we have proved ourselves to be entirely unsuccessful at avoiding the eyes of Men. Or at the least, unsuccessful at avoiding the nose and ears of your most impressive beasts."

Éomer patted the neck of his skittish mount. "You did give Hyrulf a turn. But he is young, and inexperienced. That is why I wished to ride him into the forest this day. We have no such woods in my homeland. I had hoped the adventure might season him somewhat."

"He's a well-grown beast, and no mistake," said Sam. "Tall as two Shire ponies set one atop the other."

Éomer looked round keenly. "There aren't any more of you lurking about to astonish him, are there? Your friends…"

"Merry and Pippin have duty this morning," said Frodo.

"Of course," said Éomer, as if recollecting something.

"And right proud they are to serve," said Sam. "We'll never hear the end of it, back home."

"It is we who should be grateful for such service. Though Meriadoc swore allegiance to my uncle and not to me, I am honored that he chose to renew his oath to the Mark."

"I don't think the matter was ever in question," said Frodo. "He and the Lady Éowyn consider themselves comrades in arms, and rightly so."

"Indeed." Éomer smiled, his fondness for the subjects under discussion apparent in his face. At that moment, he might have been any young Man out on a pleasure ride; a certain tension left his face, though Frodo had not noticed its presence until it was gone. "Are you going much farther?" Éomer inquired courteously. "To the waterfall, perhaps?"

"Oh, no," said Sam. "We were just looking for… having a look round, as it were."

He colored slightly, and Frodo suppressed a smile. He doubted that Sam wanted to let all the world know about his odd fixation with finding the Oliphaunt.

"We shouldn't have gone much farther," Sam continued. "Mr. Frodo ain't quite his old self yet, if you follow my meaning."

"How so?" Éomer shot Frodo a sharp glance. "Are you fatigued, Lord Holbytla?"

Frodo inwardly cursed Sam for his easy tongue. Where Sam trusted, he trusted completely, and he'd obviously taken a liking to the young king. Yet Sam's carefree speech did little to assuage Frodo's embarrassment. "It is not far to the camp, Lord Éomer. The walk will do me good."

"We'll take it nice and slow," Sam said. "We always do."

Éomer's handsome face was troubled. "It is a league or more. That is a fair distance to walk when you are weary."

Frodo nodded at Éomer's mount. "That is a fair distance to climb, for one such as me."

The men chuckled at his jest; the sound reassured Frodo. For the first time, he began to feel at ease.

Too soon. For in the moment he was distracted by the amused Riders, the young king stepped forward and seized Frodo about the waist. Before Frodo realized what was happening, Éomer had placed him in the saddle of his tall mount. Frodo's eyes widened, as he observed the distance to the ground. The horse's front hoof looked disconcertingly small from this height.

"There, you see?" Éomer's teeth flashed white in his sun-tanned face. "Nothing could be easier." Before Frodo could collect his wits to answer, the king had swung up behind him. His body pushed Frodo forward in the saddle, so Frodo fearfully grasped the horse's mane. Éomer instantly put his right arm about Frodo, holding him snugly against his body. He collected the reins easily in his left hand, managing the fidgeting of his horse by the pressure of his knees.

"Folcred," Éomer called. "If you will do the same for Lord Holbytla Samwise, we shall bear our fatigued friends to camp, and save them a long march."

Sam's eyes widened as one of the tall Men stepped forward. He threw Frodo a desperate look, and Frodo barely shook his head. He wished that Sam had said nothing about his weariness, even though it was true. He would have preferred to travel back on his own feet, footsore though he often was these days, for the scars of the Black Land were slow to heal. But now that the king had already set him atop his horse, it would be an insult to refuse his help.

The Rider Folcred set Sam in the saddle of his horse. Sam snatched at the mane just as Frodo had done, then the Rider was up behind him, steadying Sam with a muscular arm. Frodo wondered if he looked as improbably small on his mount as Sam did on his. Frodo had gotten used to the company of Men, and looking up had ceased to bother him, but their tall steeds could still terrify him with their size and strength.

Éomer murmured a command. "Padoch, Hyrulf."

The horse whickered, then stepped out briskly, bobbing his head. Frodo seized the horse's mane at the movement, but Éomer tightened his grip on his passenger.

"Fear not, Lord Holbytla. Hyrulf is spirited, but he will not harm you, or try to bolt."

Frodo remembered how the horse had leaped about when Sam had first startled him. He said dryly, "He need only stop suddenly, and I will be over his head into the dirt. I have not your skill at horsemanship, my lord."

"No skill is needed, Lord Holbytla. Hyrulf will carry you safely. I am here to make sure that he does."

Frodo mulled, then said, "You would do me a kindness if you ceased to call me Lord Holbytla. I am a plain hobbit of no real account. I would feel much easier if you called me by my name."

Éomer paused. "Such familiarity would not be fitting, I think."

Frodo pondered, then said, "King Elessar calls me Frodo."

The man stiffened a moment, then let loose a hearty laugh. Frodo sighed with relief.

"Well answered, Master Holbytla," said Éomer. "Very well; you carry the day. I shall call you Frodo. And you shall call me Éomer, at least when we talk privately like this."

At this, Frodo hesitated. "That would not be fitting, I think."

"It is entirely fitting. Frodo, the Men of the Mark are not so long-lived as the Men of the City—at least, not as long-lived as those from the houses of purer blood. Even so, I am full young to be king. Only a tragedy such as the one that has overset us all would have brought such a thing to pass. I fear I am but the lesser son of much greater lords."

"I am saddened indeed that I never was so fortunate as to meet your uncle. By all accounts, King Théoden was a worthy Man."

"He was indeed, especially at the end. Yet, when the mighty have fallen, the less must lead. So spoke Aragorn son of Arathorn when I first encountered him upon the North Downs. He was speaking of the loss of Gandalf, for that we then believed. Yet I can think of no man so worthy as King Elessar, nor so fitting to lead. I have loved him well from our first meeting."

"Then perhaps you can take comfort from his words, Lord Éomer. You may indeed be a lesser son, although your deeds imply otherwise. Yet you may also prove to be the Elessar for your own people. Aragorn did not step forth from the shadows as a fully finished thing. What he became, he brought about after years of labor. He is quite old for a Man, though you would not know it to look at him. The blood of Númenor runs strong in him. Indeed, he is likely the greatest Man of this Age."

"Then I will try to be patient, and follow his example. Yet I must learn quickly. For all that the War has ended, there is much rebuilding to do, and many hurts to heal."

Frodo held onto Éomer's arm, watching the scenery slip by. He was thinking of another quote of King Elessar's, something that Merry had repeated when he told Frodo of his adventures. Before his journey to the Paths of the Dead, Aragorn had said, "Many hopes will wither in this bitter Spring." Frodo felt the truth of it in his heart. Though the sun shone, and the leaves glimmered green in sparkling newness, yet the young king behind him rode with grief and doubt in his heart. Sometimes, like now, Frodo felt his own regrets pressing on him like a weight.