And try as he might, it remained locked. When he checked his gear, his weapons were gone. His shouts yielded no replies. Throwing his full weight against the door did not make the solid wood budge an inch or even creak its hinges. The stool, applied to the frame, had broken, bruised his hand, and now lay in a wasted heap of fire-wood in the corner. The window was high above the ground and small, he doubted he could press his muscular body through its narrow square into the freedom of dropping to death on the grounds of Isengard far below.

Finally he sank down on his bed, his thoughts going back to what had transpired between Boromir, himself and the wizard. Over and over he called back their conversation to his mind. He should have realized that something was wrong. But even now, when it was quite obvious to him that he was a prisoner, when he knew that he must have missed essential signs of danger, of treason, of evil, he couldn't come up with more than a memory of the cold smile of the wizard and his haughtily helpful tone of voice.

He hadn't noticed anything amiss, and neither had Boromir.

Boromir. Was he locked up in another cell? Was he with the wizard? What would the wizard make him look at? Would he look?

The day passed, with no one coming for him. The night came and went. He spent the next day pacing, helpless, nervous circles. When the sun was sinking, he drank the last water from the jug and forced himself to eat the stale bread that was left from the previous day's breakfast. The chamberpot was beginning to stink.

And still no one came. Another night he spent waking, guarding the door with a club fashioned from the stool he had broken. But no one tried to enter the room.

Another day went by. He was growing thirsty and hungry, and so tired that the room blurred before his eyes. Spending three days and nights awake, waiting for a chance to escape finally wore him down and he fell asleep.

When he woke, the chamberpot was empty and clean, food was laid out on the table. But the door was still closed. And no one answered to his screams.

His thoughts turned back to how he had arrived here. What had he missed? How could he have missed that something was wrong? But he had. He had. And now he, and Boromir were going to pay for it.

It was late at night, when it came to him, lying in the silence of the guest quarters that had become his prison cell, a revelation as gentle as the velvet duvet that covered his bed.

Like Boromir, he was a man of action, and not for the subtleties of political scheming and murderous plans.

A bitter laugh wrenched from his lips.

A trap. It had a trap, right from the beginning, and they had run right into it. There was no other explanation. A trap, designed to capture one who could look into that damn stone. What did Boromir see? he wondered. What did the wizard want him to see? And why was he - Éomund - still alive, now that the trap was sprung? Why?

The days went by, and there was no answer.

He tried to remain awake long enough to capture his guards when they cleaned out the chamber pot and brought new food, but with uncanny precision they waited always long enough for him to break down and fall asleep. And he was aware that every time he broke down, simply, ignominously falling asleep because he could not remain awake any longer without rest, without food and water, grew shorter and shorter. He also suspected that the food was drugged, because he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. His thoughts were wandering and when he attempted some simple exercises to limber tight muscles, he found his reactions sluggish and slow.

Still he attempted to stay awake, to guard the door, biding his time, and hoping, hoping for a chance to escape.