[ The beast's footsteps drawing nearer on the shale, his own panicked breath and the rush of his heart in his ears as he fumbles with the infernal keys on his shackles. He barely hears the words over his own desperation: You should be still. Stop moving! And then everything is hot and sharp and loud and black, the beast's mouth closes in around him and he does not feel the earth beneath him anymore.

The quiet hush he opens his eyes to is blinding, and he finds himself on his back in soft snow — the slow rock tree boughs in the breeze, like some sweet lullaby. He dare not breathe. But finally he does, a long shuddering breath. He feels as if he awoke from a dream, and he lies for some time — close to weeping.

It is too cold to remain here, and he slowly sits up to look about him. A quiet wood. A word comes to mind: winterstille, winter silence.

He cannot remain here. And so George Hodgson slowly, painfully pulls himself to his feet — his body aching as he turns about him, tries to find a direction to head. His feet carry him, stumbling through the snow. What is this place—? His eyes wide, watering. Vegetation, and the soft smell of smoke lingering high above.

Stumbling, he finds himself a pathway and begins to follow along it. How can this be? They wandered the shade on no such paths or trails. But soon enough, there is movement. His heart skips in panic. The beast? Or something else? He dives for cover behind a tree, a cry half-caught in his throat. He is unarmed. No means to defend himself, at the mercy of such a stranger in this... strange place.

His voice wavers as he calls out: ]

Please, I beg of you—! I am unarmed—! I mean no harm—!

[ This place is strange, the people within it stranger. A low buzz of noise within these walls. Bodies moving to and fro, and he moves amongst them like a ghost — lost in some haze. His manners almost forget him, and he nods stiffly as he moves to one side to let another past like an afterthought.

The air is warm and the scent of food seems to cling to him, but it turns sour in his stomach and it can only lurch painfully in reply. He finds himself drifting towards the tables regardless, as if his feet carry him without his mind's say-so. There is food. Stews and soup and grilled fish.

He stands, staring at it as other move around him to gather their fill. His eyes grow glossy with tears, and he blinks them back. His mouth waters. He is hungry, and frightened and shamed. He cannot move himself to eat. Perhaps this is Hell, he thinks. Punishment for what he has done, for every wretched thing he has done. As if he could never be clean. As if nothing in this world could cleanse him. ]

[ He is rested. Fed. It turns in his stomach uncomfortably, and he cannot dwell on it too much. He wanders in search of— he does not know, truly. He is lost. Perhaps already dead. He does not know this place, but it cannot be Heaven.

His travels take him along the the outskirts of Milton, along the frozen ponds that are here and there. Thick reeds smatter along the edges of them. It feels strange to be amongst the green, to be amongst anything that is nothing but ice and shale.

And there are others here. Hale. Not starving and sick like he and the other men. He does not find their gazes but keeps moving, until the crack of ice echoes and gives way with a unceremonious splash. He stops, spinning round to look back, and he knows he cannot do nothing. He has done... so little. He cannot let this time be much of the same. He rushes forwards, careful as his feet reach the end of the pond. He crouches down, low to distribute his weight better, crawling upon the ice to the person's aid. ]

Your hand—! [ He scrambles for a hand, trying to find a good grip. ] Be calm—! Here, I have you—!

canon point: episode ten: we are gone, the showdown with tuunbaq/point of canon death. contact heolstor for plotting!