“Dragon…” Herbert echoed, softer than a whisper. He was vaguely aware of his hands going numb and his clothes soaking through as he sat in the snow. Flecks of white were already trying to bury him under a fresh sheet.

If Herbert had not retreated fair into his mind from the rationality and logic, functioning on a much more basic level, he would certainly have broken. A creature of fairy tale and legend displayed its sheer power and actuality right before his eyes. The plane was now falling ribbons of metal and flames.

The cold lessened, and Herbert realised he was being pulled to his feet by Dmitri. 

“You would be correct in your guessing,” Herbert said through chattering teeth. It would only catch up with Herbert’s mind later that this heavily implied Dmitri was used to such a sight. 

Dmitri’s gaze was steady and held none of the fear he saw reflected in his own. It calmed him; part of him, but in parts of his mind locked away, other feelings fought to be felt. Envy of such collectedness. Anger at his apathy. One part found his reaction out of place, and deadly humorous. Another wondered if there was something wrong with the monk’s brain, and wanted nothing more than to dissect it. 

Herbert stared at his hands. They were red and swollen, and on them rested translucent crystals of ice and snow sending tiny rivulets down their contours. He wondered if he would get frostbite. He wondered what frostbite felt like. 

“Down a mountain in snow, or waiting to starve inside an unsound ruin to starve to death. I do not like either option.”