One day, he's lucid enough to realize they're wrapping him in wool and good thick clothing. One of them wraps his arm around his shoulders and the other takes his arm firmly-- (how peculiar. Is that pale sickly thing part of him?) and they leave the stone and wood and plaster for someplace much colder.

There is something colorless and vast above him, and he stares hard at it when they get there. It's wide and empty and lonely, but the cold is the right sort, the sort that nips and reminds him he can feel without screaming. The two let him stand like that, head thrown back and eyes watering from the chill, for a long time. They're saying things to him like they always do, and their voices keep the white-gray-brown emptiness beautiful.

Something tiny soft quiet wet brushes his face, and he recoils.

One of them smiles and runs a warm finger over his thin cheekbone where it fell. "It's just snow, you know."

If he says it's safe, maybe it is...

They crunch their way back inside an hour later, and he sleeps without dreaming.