Author's note: AU and OC, this brief story is set well after Frodo has sailed West, and assumes that he is living on Tol Eressea. I like to imagine that he has found some female companionship on the island; she is the narrator of the story. (I try to avoid potential Mary Sue pitfalls by keeping my narrator anonymous.) Unfortunately, I also imagine that Frodo's healing in the West would have been a long process over the course of years, not an instantaneous cure.

This is my first story on this or any site. Please feel free to review.

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On October 6

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.

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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.