A Cold Sense of Déjà Vu

He felt as if he had seen this woman before, in a thousand moments exactly like the present, as he lay dying on the tundra among the corpses of his men.

The rustle of her heavy coat with its fur trim; the way her hood framed her face; her thin-lipped smile; even the way she crouched before him and her every word felt like she was really saying: are you going to give me a different answer this time?

And this time he did, asking in a voice chilled by the arctic air and the man's impending death, "We've had this conversation before, haven't we?"

"We have," she replied, lightly tugging his coat—too light for the weather, but not the ultimate source of his demise—back over a weeping wound. "But it feels like an echo of an echo of an echo, doesn't it? And the more I have to come back, the stronger that feeling gets. But you won't remember the words."

"What do you want with me?"

Her brows arched in surprise. Finally, something new.

"I want to save your life."

He was dying. How could anyone save him from that, where bitter winds blew and his only shelter was an overturned lifeboat?

He reached out to the stranger, grasped her coat and hissed, "I do not want to die here."

She smiled.

"You won't, Captain—I'll see you in the morning. You'll make a fine Traveler."

He lost consciousness, his mind reeling.

What have you done to yourself, Fitzjames?