some cliche trope rubbish
because apparently Iâm good for nothing else right now
âHeckyl,â Ivan yells, trying to make himself heard over the screaming wind. âHeckyl, be reasonable. I am trying to help.â
He dodges a bolt of lightning and tries not to get annoyed. He tries to see things from Heckylâs perspective: heâs freezing, lost, possibly injured, doesnât know where he is or whatâs happened, and one of his sworn enemies has just turned up. A little suspicion and ire is perfectly understandable under those conditions.
He just wishes Heckyl would quickly get over himself and calm down. At least enough to let Ivan get them both out of the worst of the storm, because despite everything thereâs no way Ivan is leaving the man out here to die of exposure. And die Heckyl will: heâs in his shirtsleeves and vest, with not even his coat to protect him. Heâs completely vulnerable to the elements, and nobody from his motley crew is likely to mourn his loss or indeed try to come to his rescue. Quite the opposite. Theyâre far more likely to throw a party and cheer for the next new leader. Â
He must be very frightened, Ivan thinks, and that helps temper his irritation a lot.
âHeckyl!â he roars, wishing very hard that the wind would die down for just a moment so he could try and sound less aggressive. âI. Am TRYING. To help. Stop attacking me. And LISTEN. You are going to DIE out here unless you let me help you.â
The shadow of Heckyl, around ten feet away in the fluttering white flurries of snow, seems to straighten. And in a merciful answer to Ivanâs wish, the wind drops. The blizzard is thick but no longer howling in their faces, and Ivan can see Heckyl properly.
He was right. Heckyl does look very frightened. His hands are raised in an attack stance, preparatory to calling more lightning.
âCome here,â Ivan says, beckoning. âWe will seek shelter together. I call a truce between us. Do you accept?â
âWhy would you do this?â Heckyl replies, and his teeth are chattering viciously. He is already wracked with shivering. Much longer and he will start to become hypothermic.
âBecause despite our differences, we are all each other has right now,â Ivan says. âWe have a better chance of getting back home together. Now. Do you accept?â
Heckyl stands silent and still, the snow cascading down over him, gathering in his hair and laying thick on his shoulders, lining the folds of his trousers in white. Â
Then he nods, bringing his arms up about himself and hugging his own shoulders in a vain effort to keep warm. Ivan beckons once again: and as the wind starts to pick up once more Heckyl comes to him. They set off into the whirling whiteness without a word to one another.
 It takes almost an hour to find any form of shelter, and even what they find is not good. Visibility is incredibly poor - only glimpses when the wind drops allow them to see the topography of their environment. Itâs a snow desert, barely a tree or a hill or anything except endless walls of white.
They find the cave only when Heckyl falls into it, and cave is being optimistic. Itâs a scrape under an overhang which is hidden by drifted snow until theyâre on top of it. Heckyl hurts his ankle in the fall, but actively snarls Ivan back when the knight tries to help him up. Together, in the lee of the overhang, they take stock of their situation.
A positive: itâs already warmer out of the wind. Ivan draws a relieved breath, looking out at the sheets of snow and wiping off his wet face with his sleeve. And itâs dry in here, aside from a line of snowmelt at the very entrance.
A negative: Heckyl is in bad shape, whether he wants to admit it or not. He crouches on the dry rock, trailing his injured leg and his breathing wheezing in his chest. His skin is almost blue in places, and ugly windburnt red in others. His fingertips outside the fingerless gloves are white and his hands are shaking. Ivan, with his cloak, has fared better. His face starts to sting as it warms slightly, and he is aware of a lightness of head, but he is otherwise functional. He sits down, rubs his hands briskly over his exposed skin to encourage the blood to flow again.
Heckyl is doing no such thing. He just huddles against the ground, making that painful hitching breathing sound, and not making any efforts to improve his situation. Ivan watches him closely for a few minutes, initially suspicious of a trap. No. Itâs unfeigned. Heckylâs stare is glassy and unfocused, his shuddering repetitive and uncontrolled. Heâs slipping away from Ivan as Ivan watches, and Ivan will not sit idly by.
âHeckyl,â he says, loudly. Heckyl doesnât even blink. âHeckyl.â
âWhat,â Heckyl hisses, almost automatically. It would have been more encouraging if it hadnât taken a delay of almost thirty seconds for him to speak.
âYouâre becoming ill. Come here and I will help you.â
âHeckyl,â says Ivan, as patiently as he can muster. âYour lips have gone blue. Unless thatâs normal in your kind -â
âThen come here. I donât want you to die. For one thing I canât imagine any adversary we would get in replacement of you would be an improvement.â
Heckylâs glassy eyes flick over Ivan in confusion.
âWas that,â he wheezes, âa compliment?â
âIf you like. Now come over here.â
It takes another five minutes. But Heckyl does come over. Slowly, shakily, suspiciously - like a starving stray cat being tempted into a carrier by a well-meaning philanthropist. He shuffles across, dragging his foot, and settles about half a metre from Ivan, gasping a little with the effort.
Ivan decides heâs pushed it far enough with issuing instructions, and now takes the initiative. He moves, his own body aching with cold, and examines Heckylâs ankle while Heckyl flinches and tenses and looks like he wishes he was anywhere other than in a situation where a Power Ranger is carrying out field medicine on him.
âItâs not broken. Just bruised.â Ivan smiles. âGood. Now look at me.â
Heckyl does. His skin is burnt from cold and Ivan is in no doubt that he will be in quite a lot of pain once the numbness goes away.
âYour skin is damaged,â he says, bluntly. âIt will hurt. But it wonât kill you if we get out of here soon.â
âI s-s-suppose you have a plan,â Heckyl mutters, teeth clenched.
âNot really. But we will do nothing useful if we turn into icicles.â Ivan settles himself back against the wall, trying to get as comfortable as possible. âI wonât bite you. Come sit with me and get warm.â
The look on Heckylâs face is a picture. And not a pretty one.
And he laughs. The laugh turns into a wheezing cough.
âYou want me to c-come and snuggle with you n-now?â
âCertainly. I have a cloak. You do not. You are freezing. I fail to see the humour in the situation.â
âYou will die,â he repeats, simply. âYou would rather die than, as you put it, âsnuggleâ?â
Heckyl pretends to think about it.
Ivan closes his eyes and pulls the cloak tighter around him.
âIf youâre still alive in the morning we can plan together.â
And he quickly dozes off, exhausted and cold, against a background of Heckylâs laboured breathing.
 An hour later, and Ivan jolts awake to an alarming sound. Heckyl is much closer to him now, sprawled out on the floor as if he had crawled as close as he dared before losing his strength. The sound that woke him is a gulping whine, as if Heckyl can barely breathe any more, and Ivan hastens to him, takes hold of him to lift him from the almost-prone position.
Heckyl is barely conscious, his eyes rolled back to the whites, and he gasps uncomfortably as Ivan moves him.
âIdiot,â Ivan chides, gently. He drags the oblivious Heckyl back with him to the spot against the wall, and pulls him in against his body, covering them both with the fur-lined cloak. Heckyl is a lump of ice, every bit of his body radiating cold, and Ivan spends a good few minutes regretting his choice until - finally - Heckyl starts to warm.
The horrible whining breathing subsides slowly, quietens, and Heckylâs body begins to relax. Ivan feels the shared warmth spread, doubling his own level of comfort, and closes his eyes again, satisfied by this turn of events and more confident now that theyâll both wake up in the morning.
Of course when Heckyl does wake up, he attacks him.
âCalm down!â Ivan bellows, finding himself with an entirely unwelcome lapful of flailing, startled alien. Heckyl has obviously no memory of what occurred overnight and is unhappy to find himself in the unwanted snuggling situation after all. Heâs lashing out, and Ivanâs lucky heâs weak and tired and disoriented, because heâs easily subdued and after a few moments lies panting in Ivanâs grip, eyes flared to the whites like a startled horse.
âGood morning,â says Ivan in a gentler tone, with only the faintest hint of sarcasm. âSleep well?â
âAbsolutely,â says Heckyl, his voice ragged, ânot.â He raises a trembling hand to his face and then draws it away sharply, hissing in pain.
âI did warn you it would hurt. Regardless. We need to move on.â
âI admire your optimism,â says Heckyl, whose questing fingers have now moved down to his ankle, âand I do so hate to be a downer, but -â
He flips back the corner of Ivanâs cloak thatâs over his feet, exposing them to view, and Ivan sighs. That ankle is swollen, the bruising standing out in splotches of purple and red, and itâs probably utterly incapable of taking weight. But they donât have a choice. They have to find some way to get off this planet and back home immediately, as they wonât survive long like this. And theyâre not going to find that way home by sitting in this cave.
Ivan stands up, extends his hand.
âIâll help you,â he says. Heckyl looks at that hand as if itâs a snake about to strike. âYou canât walk unaided. Let me help you.â
âUgh,â says Heckyl, and hesitates: but he does, eventually, take the hand. Ivan gets him to his feet: and they head out into the blinding whiteness.
The snow has mercifully stopped falling, and now they can see for miles. Itâs not encouraging. The planet surface is almost featureless under the undulating mounds of white. Ivan gets a better grip under Heckylâs arm and moves them forward. Itâs actually not as bad as heâd feared. Heckyl is limping, certainly, but he can dot his injured foot to the ground as he moves, keeping him stable in the snow. As long as Ivan keeps an arm around him theyâre making relatively good progress.
They continue without break for almost an hour, then eventually Heckyl snaps: âStop. Canât you see this is - just stop. Put me down. Weâre getting nowhere.â
âIâm not putting you down,â Ivan says, as patiently as he can muster. âYou will freeze. And we will never get out of here.â
âOh, weâre not getting out of here,â says Heckyl, evidently in an exhausted fury. âCanât you see that? Weâve been sent here to die. Or rather I have. I imagine you just got caught up in the portal.â
âSuch arrogance. We will get out of here,â Ivan says. Ivanâs certainty is like a rock. âAnd nor am I letting you die because youâre too pathetic to keep moving.â
âPathetic?â Heckyl bristles. Ivan smiles a little, internally, and with only a small nudge gets them moving again. Â
To be fair to Heckylâs innate cynicism, they would entirely not have got out of it alive: it is pure accident, and possibly a great deal of luck, that saves them. After a short few more hours it begins to get dark again. The snow starts up again. They are lost and exposed in a whirling blizzard, no shelter, no protection. Heckyl is worryingly silent, dragging at Ivanâs side, until a particularly relentless gust of wind pushes them both off balance: then he falls into the snowbank and lies still, not getting up.
Ivan, struggling to keep his footing, bends to him. His limbs are ice, even with the cloak. Everything aches or is numb. He isnât really aware of the final push the wind gives him, and he joins Heckyl in lying prone in the drift, all consciousness fled.
He isnât aware of the portal re-opening, swallowing them both, and depositing them back once more in Amber Beach. Right in the middle of the road outside the museum.
