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. A faint sheen of frost painted the surrounding surfaces - even the Elf, still as the dead watchtower itself.

His companion was bleeding, a dark red splash against glittering pale skin. He took a deep breath and rocked forward, but got no further. The thought of the effort required to traverse the distance wilted him to the cold ground.

He lay still. All was silent.

Aragorn!

The Elf canted his head, body tense. Listening.

Aragorn …

The word meant nothing, yet it wound throughout his frozen body, warming, coaxing. 

Calling.

Why should it draw him so? 

The clash and din of battle distracted him, jarring his teeth and battering his ears. Men and orcs, swords and pikes. Fell winged beasts. The terrible king stepped from the darkness beyond the watchtower, steel boots striking sparks from the stone. He burrowed beneath his cloak, a small terrified shadow.

Aragorn, come!

He knew that timbre, those tones. They meant affection. Comfort. Safety.

Such were not found upon Amon Sûl. Nothing lay beyond. Surely, then, this was naught  but a figment.

You trust me, yes? Have you not always trusted me?

He did. He had, though he did not remember ever doing so.

Will you not trust me again?

How could he? The voice did not exist. Yet truly, the decision was made. It had been made long ago, before memory and conscious thought.

Then come to me, brother! Leave this place.

The heavy footsteps trod closer. The great sword rasped from its sheath. He fumbled to his knees and flung the cloak aside in one desperate surge.

Light flooded in.