Ellette sat shivering on the couch. It was all she'd done for the last few hours. She stared, almost in a trance, at the TV, flipping from newscast to newscast with stiff, still chilled fingers. Rand was pacing in the kitchen on the phone, talking his way out of work. He'd never left her side through the night.

Their tiny apartment was cold even during the day. He'd worried over her blue-lipped, shivering state until she'd given in. Under any normal circumstances, she would have resisted. The concern, the strain in his voice, coaxed her more than the words themselves.

At his insistence, she finally slipped into his bed, underneath the electric blanket. There, in that warm cocoon, he rubbed warmth into her fingers and forearms. He stopped, though, hands stilled on her upper arms. There was a pause, a hesitation, and he pulled away and settled back down on his back. She curled against him, resting her forehead, and a now warmed hand on his arm. Her fingers traced a scar before she caught herself, and let out a long sigh. Her thoughts were sluggish, the warmth making her groggy after the intensity of the chill. Beyond exhaustion, she’d fallen asleep in moments.

She adored Rand. He'd been a godsend, and a best friend when she’d been in dire need. The thought of being so close to him, though... She stopped the train of thought, refusing to let herself entertain the notion. He was simply being a friend, a concerned friend, and they would leave it at that.

Now, warmed enough to keep him from hovering, she wiped absently at her running nose and flipped channels again.

There it was. She’d half expected it, but it still made her heart clench to see it, hear it — the confirmation.

"A body was found on the east river early this morning. A minor, age twelve, was discovered by a pair of joggers..."

That was it. A shot of the frost-covered ground, the rushing depths of that disturbingly familiar riverbank... And nothing more. No other information would be released. There would be an investigation, but all signs pointed to suicide.

She shook her head, angry suddenly as the tears welled in her eyes. Why had it happened? It had been hopeless, there was no way she could have saved him. A cruel joke, a tease, a torment. In that cold, in that current, she'd died trying to save him. What was the point in that?

What kind of lesson could she learn by watching a boy die, knowing that she'd awaken alive? She choked back a sob and dropped the remote, curling in on herself.

She'd been like him once. Now she rescued others like him. It was her salvation. It made her whole — until moments like this. This threatened to undo her entirely. She felt herself sinking, wallowing. She'd been alone once, a desperate and haunted teen. The torment of her youth, she'd managed to push down, to ignore, to kill... yet this... this boy. This experience, this dreamwalk brought it all rushing back.

There was a hand on her shoulder, warm, firm. "Ellette." His voice was soft, concerned. She came back to herself and stared up at him from her balled up position on the couch.

"Rand," she choked. "What was the point?" She blinked, straightening. "This wasn't a nightmare. The newscast confirmed it just moments ago... They found a body," she explained, her voice flat, struggling against the numbing feel of the depression climbing within her.

Rand settled down next to her, and picked up the remote, flicking off the noisy TV. With a flick, he tossed it into the couch cushions and took her hand. She couldn’t help but stare down at the stark contrast of the alabaster perfection of her own hand, cradled in his dark, disfigured fingers. She took a deep breath. Those hands, the damage done to them, reminded her in no uncertain way, that though she knew of pain, he knew of it in his own way.

“Perhaps there is no point.” His voice was low, consoling. “Sometimes, things just happen.” There was so much more behind those words, emotion, things not said. She and Rand had shared the same tiny apartment for some months now, but still, they kept their secrets, the intimate details of their pasts, their scars, to themselves.

“There was no saving that boy.” She sighed, calmed simply by his presence. “Usually, there’s some chance...” She sat, shoulders hunched, clinging to warmth from that hand, her solitary link to another person.

“You have a gift, Ellette.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “But I think you can only do so much.” There was a catch in that statement. The words clearly meant something to him as well, more than just a pleasantry to soothe her.

She looked to him then, finally raising her gaze to his face. His eyes were moist, and her voice caught in her throat. “Rand. What is it?”

He shook his head, shaking off the emotion, releasing her hand, and moving to stand. “You should rest. The dreams won’t come again for some time, right?” His tone was matter of fact. He was only comforting her, that was all. The change of subject settled it. There would be no broaching the subject of his internal struggle.

She nodded and curled up on the couch. “The moon calls me to walk,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “Not ‘till tonight, I think,” she spoke again, for his ears this time.

Rand went to the ancient stereo, the familiar chunky click of the old cassette player made her smile. She knew what would follow. The flute music she enjoyed so much filled the room, despite the state of the battered old speakers. If anything, their tendency to sound tinny and off only comforted her further. This was what home sounded like. She drifted off before she’d even realized she’d been exhausted enough to sleep.

***

The moon hung low overhead, mocking her with the comfort of its glow. She was far too frozen to feel comforted. The soft churning, lapping sound of the water was ominous around her. Water. The realization hit her, and she glanced around, wide-eyed. Her breath was growing ragged, but the cold, the biting chill, it didn’t eat down to her bones as quite as quickly as it had before. Maybe she was in too much shock for it too.

She caught a break in the water’s surface, faint splashing, a few gasping breaths. Someone else was here, there was another in the water. Was she being given a second chance? She glanced up at the moon in silent thanks. Her arms were strong this time, and she made a few solid strokes towards the form in the water. Her brow furrowed as the slowly sinking body came into view. This was no boy. She made a few more fierce strokes, and grabbed at him, pulling him to her.

She wiped at her eyes, blinking as she stared into that face. “Rand?” she whispered.

No... no, it couldn’t be. He was limp, and inexplicably heavy. She couldn’t keep them above water. The current, the icy bite of the water seemed to hit her suddenly, and water lapped over his uncharacteristically pale face. She snaked her arm under his and around his back, pulling him higher in the water, slapping at his face in a desperate attempt to get him to come around.

“Come on, Rand. You gotta help me. You’re too heavy,” she pleaded.

The current only seemed to grow. It clutched at their clothes, tugging insistently. She caught a mouthful of water and choked, struggling to keep her head above the surface. He was leaden, dead weight. She gasped and glanced around. The shore. Where was the shore?

Moon, guide me! she pleaded, looking up to the sky as the water lapped at her cheeks. The clouds had shifted overhead, obscuring the light. She searched the endless churning surface for a break, for a hint of something besides water. With one more deep breath, she pulled him up and began to kick, pull, and stroke with all her might in the direction that looked most promising.

It wasn’t long before she caught another mouthful of water, and her fierce strokes slowed to a slow, sluggish battle. Glancing to her charge, she cringed to find his face obscured by the rippling fluid that threatened to pull them both to their deaths.

“No!” she cried out in desperation, but no matter how much she strained against the liquid ice, she couldn’t bring him to her. Soon she caught another mouthful of murky water. The water, relatively warm in contrast to the biting night air, slipped over her face.

She blinked, seeing the moon peek from those thick, dark clouds. The sight was distorted, shimmering from her view beneath the surface. Bubbles drifted up between her and the fading beacon as she released the air from her lungs. Though she would hold her breath as long as she could, she knew that burning, heavy cold liquid would fill her next. She pulled Rand against her, defeated once more. She’d failed … again.

* * *

Ellette’s eyes flew open and she sat up with a gasp. She pulled her knees to her chin and sat wide-eyed, trying to shake the last lingering hints of her terror, the desperate struggle. Twice now, she’d drowned. This time, though, she wasn’t waking from one reality to the next. This time, it really was only a dream. The transition from dream to waking was still jolting, but not painful, not... like it was the night before. She was warm, comfortable even, despite the way she trembled in memory of it.

The familiar sounds of music piping through battered old speakers and Rand clattering around in the kitchen were comforting. She glanced over the back of the couch, catching sight of his dark form as he unloaded the groceries.

She shivered one last time and adjusted her robe before slipping her feet into her worn slippers. Still shaky from her disturbingly vivid dream, she knew retreating into herself wouldn’t help. She made her way to the little counter and pulled up a stool, watching Rand put the last few items away.

“You rest?” he asked, back turned to her as he evaluated the contents of the cabinet.

“Yes and no,” she muttered.

“Dreams?” His tone was carefully disinterested.

“Not that kind...” she answered vaguely. “Nothing to worry about,” she clarified. “Just restless.”

He turned, a can in hand. His gaze met hers, and she glanced away quickly. He wasn’t buying it. “So. What should I fix?” he asked lightly. “Curry? Pasta in a tomato sauce?”

She smiled. “Pasta. I hope you bought some sausage.” She rested her chin on her arms which were folded along the counter.

“Not the Italian kind like you like, just some turkey linguica,” he said, reaching back into the pantry. “If you’re still tired, go lay down.”

“I’m okay,” she replied, not daring to chance the places her sleeping mind would take her. “Let the smell of your cooking bring me back around,” she said, not bothering to raise her head. The clatter of the pots and pans, the click of the gas lighting followed by the warmth filling the tiny kitchen soothed her. She sighed, wishing to be nowhere else, thankful he’d stayed home to keep her company.