For the second time, Tristan broke up through the surface of the water. He heaved Dylan up and pulled her head onto his shoulder, keeping it above the waves. Her eyes were closed and her face lifeless. Relief tangled with anxiety inside him. He had been so lucky to find her in the inky water, his fingertips just brushing the hem of her jeans. Not even waiting to right her, he had grabbed a firm hold and swum back up. But he feared he was too late. Was she truly gone?

The opposite shore was in sight, and he kicked off strongly towards it. The swim didn't take long, and soon his feet scraped the bottom of the lake as it became shallower towards land.

Tristan staggered up the pebbled shore, Dylan lifeless in his arms. He collapsed a few metres from the water's edge, dropping to his knees and laying Dylan carefully on the ground. Grasping her shoulders, he shook her gently, trying to rouse her.

"Dylan! Dylan, can you hear me? Open your eyes."

She didn't respond, but lay there unmoving. Her hair was soaking wet and plastered all over her face. He lifted each lock carefully and tucked it behind her ears. Tiny purple jewels that he had never noticed before sparkled in her earlobes. He leaned in and placed his cheek over her mouth. He couldn't hear her breathing. He felt it, though. She wasn't gone. What do I do? Tristan thought wildly.

"Calm down," he told himself sternly. "She's swallowed a lot of water." Grasping the shoulder furthest from him, he pulled her across so that she was lying face down with her chest across his knees. Turning his hand flat, he slapped at her back, trying to get her to cough up the water. It worked. Liquid began to spill from her mouth, and then she started to choke and retch, finally vomiting a large quantity of the foul black water. Rasping gasps now came from her throat and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Dylan came to with a horrible sense of awareness. She was splayed awkwardly, chest crushed against Tristan's knees. She struggled to get her arms beneath her and, realising what she wanted, Tristan helped her up. With his assistance, she pulled herself onto her hands and knees, gasping in air and bringing up the last of the water. The taste in her mouth was disgusting, as if the water had been polluted with foul, dead, rotten things. In fact, it had, she reminded herself, remembering the grasping hands and biting teeth that had tried to pull her under. A combination of shock and cold hit her all at once and she began to tremble violently.

She reached out for him and two strong arms gripped her round the middle and pulled her towards him. He nestled her into his arms and began to rub her upper arms and back, trying to warm her. She tucked her head under his chin, trying to get as close as possible to his body heat.

"I'm here," he replied, anxiety plain in his voice.

"It's okay, angel," he muttered. The endearment slipped easily off of his lips, surprising him.

'T-Tristan," she stuttered through blue lips.

Dylan felt a warm glow at the word, and the sudden rush of emotion, combined with the adrenaline still coursing through her veins and the trauma that she had just endured, overcame her. Tears welled in her eyes and instantly spilled over, rushing down her cheeks and stinging her cold skin. Her breath came in gasps, and suddenly she couldn't hold it back. She began sobbing hysterically. Her whole body shook and she gulped in air, exhaling raggedly in pitiful cries and whimpers. The sounds tore at Tristan's heart, and he instinctively held her tighter, rocking gently.

Eventually she cried herself out. Tristan still didn't move, keeping hold of her as if frightened to do anything that might set her off. Finally though, the darkening sky forced him to speak.

"It's okay, it's okay," he repeated over and over again. Dylan understood, but just couldn't seem to pull herself together. She would quieten down for a moment and lie peacefully in his embrace, but then the sobs would resurface from nowhere and she was powerless to stop them.

"We're going to have to move, Dylan," he whispered in her ear. "Don't worry, it's not far."

His arms released her, and it felt as if all of the warmth that had been generated by his closeness evaporated. Dylan's shakes returned, but thankfully not the tears. She struggled to stand, but her legs wouldn't support her and her arms refused to do what they were told. Her near drowning had exhausted all her reserves of energy, and she had no will to fight her tired limbs. Tomorrow she would lose him. That thought was all consuming. It made more sense to simply lie here and let the demons come for her. Physical pain would be a welcome relief from internal agony.

"I'll get a fire going to heat you up," he promised, for Dylan's jaw was chattering with the cold. She could only nod numbly, though the chill was inconsequential -- a meaningless, irritating side issue that barely registered.

Tristan had clambered to his feet, and he reached down and hooked two hands under her arms. He pulled her up as if she were weightless, and yanked her right arm over his shoulder. His left arm snaked around her waist and then he half-pulled, half-carried her off the little beach and up a narrow, dirt path to a cottage.

The door of the cottage was old, and its proximity to the water had caused the wood to swell and stick in the doorjamb. Tristan had to let her go to open it, and she slumped against the wall, staring at the ground. He twisted the handle and shoved his shoulder against the door. It groaned and resisted him at first, then gave way, causing him to half fall inside. Dylan didn't move. Going inside meant beginning their final night together; it signified the beginning of the end. She was dimly aware of high-pitched howling coming from somewhere to her left, but she felt no fear.

"Dylan?" he called. She didn't respond, and the silence was enough to make all the hairs stand up on his arm. He leaped to his feet and was at the door of the safe house in three long, powerful strides. There she was, where he had left her, supported by the stone wall and looking into nothingness with dark eyes.

He led her inside and sat her down in the only chair, which he had placed in front of the flames, and when he shut the door, the temperature in the cottage quickly warmed up. Looking back towards the fire, he was shocked at Dylan's diminutive figure. Her legs were together, her hands folded lightly on her lap. Her head was bowed as if in sleep or prayer. It was like looking at an empty shell in an old people's home, a body waiting for the end. He hated seeing her sitting so alone like that, and crossed the room to be with her. There was nowhere else to sit so he settled for dropping crosslegged on a scrap of tattered rug that lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. He looked at her and wanted to say something. Something to break the silence. Something to bring a smile back to her face. But what could he say?

"Come on," he said, bending his knees slightly so that he could look into her eyes. They didn't change their focus. It wasn't until he reached out and took her hand in his that she seemed to become aware of him. She stared at his face, and he could see the sadness etched in every feature. He tried to smile in a comforting, reassuring way, but his muscles seemed to have forgotten how and it felt wrong to move his mouth that way. He tugged gently at her hand, and she followed him in silence.

Tristan also heard the noises from inside the cottage where he was lighting the fire. He turned to check on Dylan and noticed for the first time that she hadn't followed him inside.

Tristan, however, would walk away from her tomorrow and vanish from her life for ever. He would go on to the next soul, and soon she would be a distant memory, if she was remembered at all. Dylan had asked him for stories of some of the other souls that he had guided, and had seen his face twist as he tried to dredge up long-forgotten memories. So many passed through his fingers that no one face stood out more than the rest. She could not bear to be faceless to him. Not when he had become everything to her.

"What do you mean?" his reply was only just audible above the crackle of the flames. His whole being screamed at him not to have this conversation, to put her off; he could not deal with her pain as well as his own. But she needed to talk about it, so he would listen.

"I can't do it," she whispered, looking up from the floor to stare at him with passionate but terrified eyes.

"I can't do it on my own. Walk the end of the journey, or whatever it is I do. I'm too scared. I… I need you." The last part was the hardest to say, but also the truest. Dylan had accepted her death with a calm that had surprised her, and grieved only a little for those she had left behind. Surely if she was making this journey then, eventually, they would too. She would meet them again in time.

He shook his head and she lowered her eyes, trying desperately to prevent more tears from surfacing. Was it not possible, or did he not want her? She had to know, but what if she didn't get the answer that she wanted?

"No," he said, his voice even through monumental effort. "If you stay here, eventually the wraiths will get you and make you their own." He gestured outside. "It's too dangerous."

"Can't I stay here, with you?" she asked timidly, little hope in her voice.

No, she had no desire to make that final journey. She would not -- could not -- leave him behind.

"Is that the only reason?" If he had not seen her lips move he would not have been sure that she had spoken, her voice was so quiet. But whispered as they were, the words flooded into his ears and formed in his brain, turning his heart to ice. This was the moment, to tell her that he didn't care for her, and make sure that she knew that he meant it. It would be so much easier for her to take that final step if she thought that he was walking away without regret.

"You do?" Hope burgeoned, lighting up her face.

What was he doing? He should not give her hope now, knowing that he would have to take it away again. He shouldn't, but he was powerless. He thought back on all the faces she had shown him -- frightened yet relieved when she had walked out of the tunnel, disgusted and disgruntled when he'd forced her to walk all day and sleep in dilapidated cottages each night, anger and pique when he had made fun of her, embarrassment when she'd been stuck in the mud, the joy when she'd woken to find he'd returned. Each memory made him grin, and he locked them in his mind, ready for when she would leave him and there would be no more to make.

His pause made her look up, green eyes braced for pain, teeth biting into her lower lip to stop it from trembling. She looked so fragile, as if one harsh word would crush her. His resolve crumbled; he could not hurt her like this.

"Yes," he answered. He reached up and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her down to share the tattered rug with him. Then he cupped his hand to her cheek, running his thumb across the smooth skin of her cheekbone. It warmed under his touch, flushing a gentle pink. "You can't stay here, even though I want you to."

"You promise?" she asked quickly, desperate to trap him with words. He looked straight into her eyes and nodded. For a moment she looked confused.

"I thought you said you couldn't."

He sighed.

"Then… I'll come with you. All the way," he said.

"Tristan, I can't. I can't do it," she pleaded.

"Let's just say you've grown on me." He laughed, still grinning from his remembered thoughts. She wasn't able to smile with him; she was still too needy, too on edge. "But tomorrow you have to go on. It's where you belong, Dylan. It's what you deserve."

"I'm not supposed to, but I will. For you."

Dylan gazed at him. One hand reached up and pressed against his, holding it to her face.

"I swear," he answered.

Dylan smiled tentatively at him. Her hand was still on his, and the heat from her touch seemed to burn down into his bones. She released him and he immediately missed the warmth, but then she reached out, fingers hovering in the air just centimetres from his face. The skin on his jaw prickled with anticipation, but uncertainty was painted all over her face and she seemed too scared to close the distance. He twitched the right side of his mouth up in an encouraging smile.

"You swear? You swear you won't leave me?" she demanded.

Dylan's heart was jumping haphazardly in her chest, racing in spurts, then stopping altogether for the briefest moment. Her tired arm ached where she held it aloft, but overriding that dull throbbing was a tingling in her fingertips that almost verged on pain; a pain that would only be soothed by the feel of Tristan's cheeks, his brow, his lips. She was nervous, though. She'd never touched him before; not like this.

She saw him give a tiny smile and then her fingers seemed to move of their own accord, drawn in like a magnet. She moulded her hand to the shape of his face and felt the muscles in his cheek move as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. His eyes were vivid blue, too bright for the muted light of the room, but they weren't frightening. Instead they seemed hypnotic to Dylan and, like a moth to a flame, she was helpless to look away. Tristan released her face, reaching up to cover her hand with his own, pinning it against his cheek. Four, five, six seconds of silence ticked by, then suddenly Dylan sucked in a ragged gasp, unaware she'd been holding her breath.

They didn't speak much after that, content just to be near each other in companionable silence. Dylan tried to slow time, to savour each moment. But try as she might, it was like holding back a hurricane with tissue paper. Time ticked on at an astonishing rate, and she could scarcely believe it when light began filtering through the windows. The fire had long since died out, but it had done its job in drying her clothes and warming her freezing body. Still they continued to stare at the grate, watching the charcoal-grey logs smoke. Tristan had shifted over during the night and thrown an arm around her shoulder, tucking her in against his side, cocooning her there. Their backs were to the windows and, although both could see the light trickling over their shoulders and illuminating the back wall, picking out the faded yellow paint and an old picture so covered in grime and dust that its subject was barely visible, they didn't turn.

It seemed to break the spell. Tristan moved back, just a centimetre or so, but he pulled her fingers away with his. His eyes were warm still, though, and rather than let go, he guided her hand round to his mouth and dropped a gentle kiss on the soft skin of her knuckles.

Dylan, on the other hand, was surprisingly calm. She had spent much of the night thinking about what might be coming today and had reached the conclusion that there was little she could do but take the final steps and see where they led her. Tristan would be with her. That was enough. She could take everything and anything else so long as he stood by her. And he would. He had promised.

Eventually sun-rays blasted through the window, causing the dust that swirled around in the air to shimmer gold in the light. Tristan was the first to stir. He did not want to face today. He thought about what he had promised Dylan, and unease churned in his stomach. His mind battled with what was possible, what was right, and what he wanted. None of them could coexist together.