Thaw
He had reached Rivendell at dawn, wet and tired, shivering in the unseasonable frost that rimmed the golden leaves and slicked the pavingstones beneath his feet. He never felt warm after that. When he reached for the ring, a thing of fire, the ice in their eyes had entered him. On Caradhras, snow and suspicion, Aragorn’s eyes colder than the snow. He pled with them to turn south, but they pressed on. The frigid water of the pool, the mines a winter of grey and silver stone.
Now his blood seeped into the frozen ground. He was cold, so very cold. Then a hand, rough and warm, touched his face. Aragorn’s eyes, burning with love and grief, blotted out the sky above him.