His breath fogged the air, its slow patterns twisting in shapes both sinister and vaguely disturbing. How long he stared, mesmerized by the icy plumes, he had no notion. The temperature continued to fall, casting a faint sheen of frost upon the surrounding surfaces. Even the Elf, still as the dead watchtower itself, glittered in the weird silver light.

If he was slowly freezing, his insensible companion was in even greater danger. He rocked forward, shivering, and managed a slow shuffle. The frosted stone bit at his unprotected hands, the frozen air burned his lungs. Gravel dug into his knees. He halted halfway to his goal, staring in confusion at the charred remains of two torches abandoned upon the cracked tiles.

How had these come here? What purpose might they serve, in a world without light or warmth?

What, indeed, was light or warmth?

Surely his mind was inventing impossibilities.

He shook away such imaginings and staggered on, reaching trembling fingers toward the frozen blood upon the Elf’s face.

Had he not …? No. Yes. What matter?

What matter if he had done it a thousand times? What else was there?

Only the battle. Naught but Amon Sûl.

He cleaned the glittering red stain from the pale skin, dodging clumsily when the Elf started, seizing blindly for the hands that tended him. The other’s movement stilled as quickly as it began, stiff arm falling limply at the Elf’s side. The shadow finished his work, the movements familiar. Rote.

The watchtower was inevitable. He turned his gaze upon it, allowing the ring of steel and the shriek of death to overwhelm him – though in truth, he was never free from it.

Never did it cease to echo within him.

He sank upon the broken pavers, gazing dully upon the carnage and the hate. The deadly dance swirled around him, Men and orcs and fell winged creatures locked in endless slaughter, and in the midst of it all the dark crown rose – measured, unhurried, blotting the sickly glow from its path, leaving only void in its wake.

The shadow cowered, casting his cloak over himself. 

Aragorn!

The cold that he had thought all-consuming seemed suddenly a distant warmth.

The biting tip of a sword whispered at his neck.