a return to the cold and dust

[preyed]

When the machine begins working once more, Vera finds Martin to tell him. There's little need for debate any longer, not when the way is clear. "Keep hold of me," she tells him, not out of sentiment but assurance that he will not lose his way in Time once more. She doesn't need to find him thirty years in her future. And then, all it takes is a step, like walking through a door.

The actual experience, however, is more jarring than she expected. The tug and pull at time and space leaves her breathless and weak in the knees, though she does not dare falter. One moment, she is in the Charon. The next, she is standing in the snow of Solstheim, the bitter chill biting down to her bones.

"Divines," she mutters, swallowing, and nearly falls. The snow is thick and she forgot - foolishly, she knows - to wear her furs. Her hand unconsciously squeezes Martin's where she would unconsciously be clenching it into a fist, and when she stumbles, a hand is there to catch her.

"Dragonborn," a woman calls, and her eyes look up to see Frea of the Skaal hovering over her, concern in her eyes. "Are you injured?"

Everything is back as it should be. But now she has a guest, which is the next thing the shaman takes notice of, drawing back. "What-- Who is that?" she gapes, and the people around the small village are staring too, and whispering. All of their eyes are on Martin.