Mid-Morning, August 30th, 1890 — The Arctic Circle

Death and all its bounties was never a topic Fallon considering in depth before being forced into this hell. There was always the risk with her profession that she wouldn't return home, but having had no close close meant she had an unhealthy arrogance. She rushed into train cars where dark wizards awaited with no concern for her physical safety, always so sure death wouldn't come for her this time. How wrong she'd been.

Lachlan was going to die if she did nothing as she had the past two days. The final failed trip had taken the wind out of her sails, had confirmed her worst fears about dying out here. Even worse, still, was how greatly it exacerbated Lachlan's condition. His fever was unable to be ignored, his breathing faint and raspy. She had opened his furs throughout the night to allow some of the heat to eacape, but Fallon was afraid to pack ice around him as she knew to do with fevers. It hadn't helped, or at least not to any degree she could see. If she didn't do something — and soon — she would be alone out here.

Fallon shuffled about the cave gathering their supplies into an extended pouch. Regardless of whether or not they made it home, they wouldn't be coming back here. Fallon would sooner die of frostbite in the wind than be alone with Lachlan's corpse. She had to do this, even if it killed them both. Once all the supplies were packed and the broom positioned just outside the entrance of the cave, Fallon gently moved over to him and tried to wake him. "Hey," she murmured softly, "I need you to get up, can you manage that? We're getting out of here."

  

The last two days had been a blur at best. He'd been sick before, but never in subfreezing temperatures and without the comforts of his mother's herbal soup to bring him back to full strength. He'd hardly remembered that Fallon was with him, his mind instead occupied with thoughts of his parents and Quillian and Tilda. Poor Tilda. What would she think if she saw him like this? He already knew how his mother would feel; he remembered the look on her face when he'd once stumbled into the house with the poorly-bandaged gash he'd received after a run-in with a toddling dragon. But his sister... would she wear their mother's expression? Would she get angry and yell at him for being stupid? He could envision her saying he deserved it, but it was only that: a vision. His sister was not the angry and bitter sort—not like him.

He groaned as a pair of hands stirred him from his slumber, and he desperately tried to turn away from the whispers that filled his ears. He needed to wake up, they'd said, they needed to get out of here. Out of here sounded like a grand dream, but one as far out of reach as his younger self wishing for a castle of his own. He forced himself to sit up, but his eyes remained closed; the longer he could deny that he was awake, the better. It was only a nasty, phlegm-filled cough that caused him to stir into total awareness, his gaze coming to rest upon a fur-clad Fallon.

"I can get up," he murmured, but he wasn't sure how intelligibly. His words were muffled by the mucus coating his throat, and he took a much slower time to stand than his brain had convinced him. The cool breeze from the cave hit his too-warm body, sending him into a fit of shivers.

They did need to get out of here.

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It took him too long to wake, something she noted with a mild sense of panic. She waited too long to attempt this mission, accepting defeat rather than pursuing survival. If she had flown any individual missions, if she had torn off more of her layers to give him more protection, maybe they wouldn't be currently facing two different paths to death.

She helped him to his feet, a steady hand on his arm allowing him to sag against her if needed. "Good, Lachlan. I know you're tired. I just need you to stay awake long enough for us to kick off." Already, Fallon was thinking through their supplies to find something that might be made into a rope. Even if his hands froze around her, Fallon couldn't risk him falling from the broom. Rescuing him would mean their certain deaths, and she refused to die today.

She led him towards the tiny mouth of the cave. "Wait here, I'm just going to grab the rug." The extra warmth around him wouldn't help the fever any, but maybe it'd protect him from dying of hypothermia. "Don't sit, okay?"

  

Delirious as he was, Lachlan knew he was sick. There was no reason his fingers should be numb yet his face so warm. He shouldn't shivering at the rush of the cool breeze as he squirmed under his too-hot coat. He felt sticky and itchy and hot and cold and every terrible feeling he'd ever felt, bar the aching of his body. He was too cold to feel anymore, and for that he was almost grateful. He opened his mouth to argue. He didn't need the blanket; he was already too warm. It was only when he held his hand out to stop her that he noticed that his fingertips were blue and his skin near translucent. He struggled to gulp. He stood at the mouth of the cave, head hung in resignation as he waited for her return.

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Thankful that he didn't argue (or sit), Fallon wrapped the pelt around him, ensuring this time that it sat high on his shoulders so she could cover his dirty blond locks when the time came to fly. Perhaps if he slouched against her the wind wouldn't whip him too terribly? Fallon wasn't sure, but she had to hope for the best.

She ushered him outside to the waiting broom and held it for him to mount. "I'm flying this time," she told Lachlan as though it wasn't obvious. "Sit more towards the back." They were going to hug the broom and fly fast. Previously, they'd only done thirty minutes before stopping to return to the cave. This time, Fallon wasn't stopping until they were somewhere else or dead. Whichever came first.

Once he was on the broom she reached into her pocket and transfigured a rope from a handful of rocks. Tying it first around his waist then her own, Fallon mounted the broom in front of him. "Promise you won't let go of me."

  

Lachlan mounted the broom, his mind zipping through thoughts that he couldn't find the energy to voice. As an auror she should have little problem using a broom, but the beater inside of him felt as though he ought to be the one leading. He was, of course, in no state to do so, so he only let out a sigh.

This could be their last moment on Earth, their last time speaking. If they crashed, it would be better to close his eyes and succumb than traverse the arctic landscape—assuming the wind chill didn't get to him first. She mounted the broom in front of him, and Lachlan reached up a hand and stroked it through her hair, one last display of comfort, of affection, before they took off.

"I promise," he said quietly, and held on tight.

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The freezing blast of air would've prompted a pained yelp were her lungs capable of it. Fallon flew hard and fast, her body low to the handle while remaining constantly conscious of his grip. It was the fever that caused him to stroke her hair, just as it was the fever that would kill him if she didn't succeed now. Her grip tightened impossibly around the broom's shaft at the thought, her refusal to accept his death obvious on her blue tinted lips.

They flew for what had to be a half hour with no change to the terrain. Still, Fallon refused to give in. Returning to the cave now would.be signing their death sentences. From what she could tell, he was still alive behind her,.though for how long she wouldn't know. Her fingers were locked in place around the broom, her loose strands of hair frozen brittle as it snapped in the wind.

Another ten minutes passed. Fallon's eyes were heavy and her thoughts sluggish. However, in the distance a brilliant reflective light sparkled at her. A water source, maybe? The ocean? She rushed towards it, notnoticing as a few twigs in the back of the broom began to revert back to their simple selves.

  

It was two minutes into flight that Lachlan drifted off to sleep, unable to cope with the harsh winds and freezing temperatures. His grip on her loosened and his body fell forward against her, only the rope keeping him anchored against her body.

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By the time Fallon realized the magic had worn off on the broom they were already plummeting to the ground. The sparkling reflection forgotten, Fallon tried to find her wand in her pocket, but her hands were too numb to feel anything other than the burning sensation of the wind. Lachlan made no move behind her, was he already dead? He was probably better off that way, at least then he wouldn't feel the pain that Fallon knew to be coming.

Except, as they were just about to hit the surface of the snow, Fallon felt the familiar sensation of a portkey once again. And she, once again, scrambled to touch Lachlan's hands around her. This time, though, the touch would be intentional. Please, send us somewhere warm. she thought as the portkey began to pull them through.

  

Startled awake by the sudden drop in altitude, the last thing Lachlan felt before blacking out entirely was the warm rush of air that overcame him as the portkey sucked them out of the arctic tundra. It almost felt like death, or what he'd imagined death to feel like: a sudden end. A sudden relief.

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