Gravel and Snow - Middle-earth isn't the easiest place to survive in...
She reached behind her, still half-asleep, to pull said duvet back over herself, but her knuckles quite painfully struck solid rock.
She woke up.
The light from the sun reflected off the crisp new snow lying deep and twinkling outside. Everything was bitterly, bitterly cold. Pulling her arms inside her pyjama top for some semblance of warmth, Emma stood up, wincing as the sharp gravel bit her bare feet.
Okay, dreaming. A horribly lucid dream, but a dream nonetheless. "I mean," said aloud, trying to lighten the mood, "how many teenage girls get randomly dropped into snowy caves? Where is this, Narnia? Ha, ha. Ha. Ha."
Ha, ha. Ha. Ha, replied the cave as her voice echoed eerily around the walls.
Emma started to jog around, pulling her arms from their not-very-warm nestling-place to slap some life into her legs. It was a lie about dreams not hurting, she reflected: the slaps stung, her nose was aching and her... certain parts of her body... were horribly sore from the chill. She turned about in mid-jog - the cave was rather narrow - and saw her footprints, gleaming red on the cutting gravel. She hadn't even felt her soles being pierced.
Rather scared now - as all have a right to be who've lost the feeling in their feet - she decided to leave, and looked out of the cave mouth, squinting painfully against the glare of the snow.
Stretched out before her was a panorama of crumbling, ice-white peaks and dark, snaking ravines, the grapefruit-pink sunrise outlining them and a soft mist creating a winding haze about their sides. For all the cold and chilly wind, it really was a beautiful sight.
"So I'm on top of a mountain. Oh, joy. How do I get down?"
Get down, down, get down.
"You can shut up as well. I'm not staying here any longer than I have to."
Stay here, here, have to stay here.
"I'm not. I'm not going to stay here. I'm not" - her voice shook almost as much as her teeth - "not going to die here."
Stay here, die here.
Emma ran outside.
At first the path wasn't too steep; it might almost have been pleasant with the addition of warm clothes, thick boots and a flask of hot tea. But these elements were lacking, and Emma soon began to flag. The unfeeling had, by this time, spread through her fingers and hands and was declaring war on her legs; in several places the snow reached almost to her knees and her pyjama bottoms, far from keeping her warm, were soaked through and horribly cold and leaden.
After a while, an unfamiliar feeling started to run through Emma's hands and feet, from her nose to her arms to her legs. It was a few minutes before her tired brain realised that they felt... warm. Warm, as if someone had flipped a switch and turned a heater on. Warm, almost a burning sensation that stung her goose-pimpled skin like a lighted match. Almost without realising it, she stumbled forwards onto her knees, but - inexplicably - the snow itself must have warmed up, because it burned at her touch without melting, heating her frozen knees and palms.
She saw, through the mist that must have formed while she walked, a small nook in a rock-face that protruded out of the snow. She crawled to it, out of the wind and the light snowfall that had begun to drift down, but it was uncomfortably hot here and, as she tried to turn to exit, her body just gave in and she fell into the snow.
When the Fellowship passed by that place some weeks later, for the path was narrow, they neither saw nor commented on the oddly-shaped snowdrift, which looked for all the world like a human girl curled in sleep.