It begins in the tattered tail of winter. The Lady spends more and more time out of doors, but well bundled, for she feels the cold more bitterly now, as its grip loosens, than ever she did in the solstice-dark days of December. This cold is harsher even than the icy winds that swept the Northern plains of her girlhood. Still, she cannot remain inside, where even the Southern sun casts strange shadows, and the walls begin to press.
The circles deepen beneath the Lord's eyes, and his dreaming intensifies. They say he does not rest for days, until, one night, he slips into a feverish half sleep, from which he does not rise. The Lady, then, curls in beside him, moving stiffly until she reaches their bed. She draws the heat from his body, gathering it in to warm the chill at the core of her bones. He follows her touch, seeking a coolness different from that of stone. They rest together, seeking relief in one another, fire and ice each held at bay in shifting, nauseous equilibrium, until…
Each year they wake to sudden freshness, breathe the air together, and know that spring is come again.
It's stated that Frodo is ill annually on the days of his wounding. I thought I would extend this annual reenactment of trauma to other characters, in the interest of fluff, of course. Hope you enjoyed.