His breath fogged the air, its slow patterns twisting in shapes that seemed to Aragorn both sinister and vaguely disturbing. How long he stared, mesmerized by the icy plumes, he had no notion. The temperature continued to fall, stiffening his limbs and casting a faint sheen of frost upon the surrounding surfaces. Even Elrohir and Daelin, still as the dead watchtower upon which they sprawled, glittered in the weird silver light. It occurred to Aragorn, eventually, that he had fixated upon his own breath in order to avoid the blackness of the missing sky and the sickly gleam of the ruins and the glance which had settled upon him. He did not remember making such a choice, yet it seemed for the best.

Indeed, his sluggish instincts were screaming to press himself smaller still, into some crack or corner where he might remain unseen by the gaze that prickled his nape, watching him from all places at once. He was exposed before it – stripped bare to eyes both unfriendly and obscene – and he shivered deeply, drawing his limbs tight.

His own skin and clothing crackled with the shift.

Faint as it was, it proved enough. The unexpected sound within an otherwise silent world roused some remnant of thought or will, and Aragorn lifted his eyes. He was not alone within this nightmare world. If he was slowly freezing, awake and semi-alert as he was, his insensible companions were in even greater danger. He rocked forward, ignoring the flutter of invisible movement upon the edges of his vision, and managed a slow shuffle. The cold sapped his strength, but he forced himself forward until he was close enough to lay a shaking hand upon Daelin's pale cheek.

The other Ranger's skin felt cold, even to his own icy touch. Though Daelin yet breathed, no fog formed before nose or mouth, and no warmth fell upon Aragorn's questing fingers. He was uncertain what that meant, or what action he might take even if he did know. He had no means to warm them – a glance showed both torches lying in cold ashes upon the broken tiles, and their cloaks were as frozen as the rest of the landscape. The very thought of making his way down the hill left him shaking with fatigue, and even if he should somehow complete the impossible journey he may arrive to find their campfire as dead as their torches. At the moment, death seemed preferable. He drew Daelin's outer clothing more tightly around him, pulling the hood snug and fastening the extra ties around neck and waist, before turning a painful crawl toward Elrohir.

The ghostly movements flitted alongside, murmuring and footfalls and the clash of distant steel encroaching now upon the heavy, dull hush. Aragorn ignored this new madness, narrowing his focus to the act of reaching the fallen Elf.

Time for all the rest later, but he would delay it as long as possible.

Elrohir's arm was still curled over his head, and Aragon was forced to tug the stiff limb down in order to examine his brother's wound. Dark blood traced the Elf's temple and jawline, frozen thick against the skin. Aragorn cleaned it as best he could with a corner of Elrohir's hood, finding the process a difficult balance between removing the blood and rubbing raw the cold flesh beneath. Once Elrohir stirred, and Aragorn thought for a fleeting moment his brother might rouse. The Elf subsided immediately, however, and Aragorn was left to wonder if he had imagined the movement. He finished and drew hood and cloak around Elrohir as he had done for Daelin, avoiding the dull, unseeing stare of Elrohir's partially open eyes.

Such ministrations finished as were possible, Aragorn had little choice but to finally turn his attention – such as it was – to the ancient watchtower.

He had noted in brief glances that the tumbled stones seemed to shimmer, but now he saw that they were in fact the very source of the unhealthy light. Not only the ruins, but the outline of the watchtower as it had been – high walls, stairs, arched doorways, battlements – flickered in pale hue against the blackness beyond.

Not beyond.

There was no beyond.

The sky, the stars, Anor and Ithil – they were no more. Perhaps they had never been. Gil-Estel was surely naught but some tale he had once been told, a bedtime story to pacify a restless child. It was his own foolishness, that he had once believed Eärendil sailed the stars. How could it be, when nothing existed outside the circle of Weathertop? He had surely never been aught but a shadow upon the broken tiles, a negative against the cold glow of the ancient tower which was the world's only solid reality.

He saw now, though, that he and his companions (how could a shadow have companions?) were not alone upon Amon Sûl. Men and orcs fought within the sickly glow, grey flames flickering through the fray, burning structure and living being alike. The sounds of battle rose, the screams of men and the shriek of orcs, and he wished desperately for the eerie silence that had been. The roar crescendoed as a tall, cloaked figure strode through the far doorway, swallowing the light in his wake. Power and terror emanated from him, and the imprint of a dark crown rose from his brow. He strode throughout the field with powerful steps, striking down man and even orc within reach of his mighty sword, graceful and deadly and utterly terrible. The great head turned and the unholy gaze fell finally upon him, insignificant shadow that he was. He cast himself upon his face, scrabbling to cover himself.

What point, though? All was surely lost. No shelter was possible from the piercing Eye which gave the fell being direction and strength.

The heavy steps approached – measured, unhurried – and the cold that he had thought all-consuming seemed suddenly a distant warmth. The great figure stood above him, and terror held the shadow motionless.

The biting tip of a sword whispered at his neck.