eldalieva
STILL Servant of the
Secret Frodo!
Registered: Apr
2002
Location: Losin' it. Oh wait, LOST it.
Posts:
60 |
Hey...it's
October 6th, you know. Time to take our minds off our own
angst and think about Frodo's. This is a three-part story that
I wrote quite some time ago, but is fitting for
today:
On October
6, Part 1
He put his left hand in mine and it was
warm. “You see?” he said. “I think it will be all right. Today
is October fifth…last year I was already sick for three days
by this time. And the year before that, I was ill for a week
before the sixth. Every year there is less of it…perhaps this
year it is gone!”
I wove my fingers through his. They
were warm, and not even vaguely rigid. “I think you may be
right,” I said. “I think this may be the year.”
He put
his arms around me, and I embraced him, enjoying his
happiness. But in my heart, I did not believe my own words.
Every year, it was true, the duration of his illness had
lessened. Yet the severity of it when it came had not. He was
sick for only five days last year, the shortest time his
illness had ever lasted, and yet at its worst, he had still
been afflicted to the point of delirium. Could every trace of
such an illness have disappeared in only one more year’s time?
I did not share this with him, for he deserved the
chance to believe that he was, at last, well. And although he
frequently seemed able to guess my thoughts and moods, he was
so moved by his own faith in his healing that he either did
not feel my concerns, or he chose to overlook them. I loved to
see him so happy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I awoke
in the dark of night, lying curled behind him and my hand was
on his arm, above the bend of his elbow. Through the soft
fabric of his nightshirt I felt that his arm was cool, and my
heart fell.
I sat up and leaned over him, expecting to
find him already awake, but I saw that he slept on, his face
peaceful and his breathing easy. I did not dare to touch his
old wound, for fear of waking him, but I ran my hand lightly
up his shoulder, and did find it cool. Yet when I touched his
fingers, they were still warm and relaxed.
There is
a chill in the room, I thought, relieved. There was
a chill in the room, and he had been sleeping with his left
arm above the blankets, covered only by his sleeve. I touched
my own upper arm, and found that a bit cool as well, and I
almost laughed at my own fondness for assuming the
worst.
I decided that a bit of fire was in order; if he
did take ill, even a little, it would be better if the room
were not so cold. I wrapped myself in my dressing gown and
went to the hearth. The embers were still glowing there, and
it took little time to stir up a small, but warming fire. I
turned back to the bed and saw that he was now lying on his
back, his head turned away from me, towards the window. I
could see the moonlight’s reflection in his eyes, and knew
that he was awake.
I climbed onto the bed and settled
myself cross-legged next to him. I took his left hand between
mine, and it seemed to me that it was just a touch cooler than
it had been before. It is only an illusion, I chided
myself. My own hands are so warm from making up the fire. His
fingers curled easily around mine without a trace of
stiffness. Nevertheless, I shook down the long, heavy sleeves
of my dressing gown so that they draped over his hand and
mine.
He did not speak to me, but his eyes were calm
and lucid as he stared out at the night sky. Yet something in
his rapt attention to the window began to unsettle me; he
appeared almost spellbound.
“What are you looking at?”
I whispered, for it seemed that he had not blinked in a long
time.
“There is a red star there,” he said slowly,
without taking his eyes from the window. “A red star lies on
the horizon. It is always there at this time of year.
I leaned forward until my cheek was almost touching
his, so that I could see the sky at the same angle that he
did. “Frodo, I don’t see it. There is nothing
there.”
“It is there,” he sighed. “It is there. I used
to look at it from my room in Rivendell. The red star in the
South. Red as blood. Even now it follows me.”
I looked
down at him, right into his eyes, and then up again, trying to
follow his sightline as closely as possible. I saw it then. A
scarlet dot on the horizon, dimmed by the light of the
Hunter’s Moon and the other, brighter stars. A red pinprick
that flickered like a flame. Or winked like an eye.
“I
see it,” I said quietly, not moving, knowing that if I shifted
my position even a little, I would lose sight of it. “I see it
now.”
“You do see it,” he said, with a tone of relief.
“It always returns in October. I saw it first in Rivendell. I
saw it all that autumn, until we left. It was watching me. It
watches me still.”
“Frodo, it is only a star. A star of
a different color.” I tried to laugh. “It is not even a very
big one!”
“It grows brighter as the Moon
wanes.”
“So do all the stars!”
“No. This one is
different. It does not move. It is always in the same place.
It is His Eye. It is what is left of Him.” I heard a note of
panic tinge his voice. “Even here I see It. Even here It sees
me.” He sighed again, heavier, almost moaning, and then
shivered. With terrible dismay, I felt his hand grow markedly
colder between mine, so rapidly that it seemed his veins
suddenly flowed with ice water instead of blood. I chafed it
and drew my sleeves around his hand and arm although I knew it
would do no good. He suffered yet. He was not healed.
I pressed his forearm to my breast and with my left
hand on his cheek, I turned his face away from the window.
“Don’t look at it. It is just a star, but don’t look at it. I
will draw the curtains so that you can’t see it.”
“I
will know that it is there,” he answered, his voice catching
on the last word, and even in the pale light from the window I
could see that his eyes were dimming, that he was becoming
confused. He shuddered and his teeth began to chatter. He
blinked rapidly and his eyes shifted from side to side. “Where
am I? What is happening?”
“You are home,” I said, and
held his hand tighter. I stroked the side of his face. “You
are safe. Nothing will happen to you here.”
“No…” he
said. He clenched his teeth and tried to pull away, to sit up,
but he fell back against the pillow, in pain. His hand was no
longer able to clasp mine; the hand and arm were so cold I
could feel them against my breast, through my clothing. Yet I
held on. I took my left hand from his face and laid it against
his frozen shoulder.
“This is not home!” he cried. “We
must go! Put out the fire! Oh…they are here! They are here!”
He twisted away and shut his eyes, grimacing with
pain.
I leaned forward and pressed my face against his.
His left cheek was icy, as if he had been outdoors on a frigid
day. I could feel his teeth chattering inside his mouth, feel
his lips tremble against me. I knew that I would have to get
up. I knew that I would have to get a warm compress for his
shoulder. But I could not leave him yet, not when this was
just upon him.
“It’s all right,” I whispered into his
ear, hoping that he could still hear me. “It’s all right, this
will pass. Stay with me, Frodo. Stay with me.”
He
groaned something unintelligible. I lifted my head to look
into his face. His eyes were open but unseeing, all clarity
gone from them. He trembled helplessly. He was lost in the
shadows, and would not return until they had released him for
another year. There was nothing I could do. I turned my eyes
back to the window and now I had no trouble finding the red
star. It burned low in the South, above the line of the trees,
and as I watched, it winked at me.
__________________
It was an April
morning when they told us we should go
And as I turned to
you, you smiled at me
How could we say no?
Oh, the fun
to have, to live the dreams we always
had...
--Plant/Page
Blue---blue---as if that sky let
fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
--William Cullen
Bryant; as posted by TolkienHead
Last edited by
eldalieva on 10-06-2002 at 01:24 AM
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10-05-2002 09:35 AM
back!
It certainly
didn't have the scenes that have been described. But you're
right, I should be pleased, as I didn't even expect it! 
Scrapbooking is addictive! Scrapbooking rocks!
to you
all!
Not THE book, though. 
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