The shadows fade from black (so thick he can hardly even breathe) to charcoal-grey and then to a brilliant, blinding white that hits them with a burst of bone-chilling cold that cuts through the clothes he's wearing.

They're standing in the middle of a snowstorm, a blizzard, really, and the wind whips her cloak around them with a ferocious intensity; it gusts so strongly that he's nearly knocked off his feet and into the deep drifts they're standing in.

"Fargin' hell--"

He has no idea where they are.

But there is a treeline he can just barely made out through the swirling snow, so he sets off for it. Her hand is still gripped tightly in his, but she doesn't seem to fight the progress towards the relative 'safety' of the stand of ancient hemlocks in the distance.

He has to struggle through the drifts, each step numbing his legs and feet to the point where they feel as if they're solid blocks of ice.

Once they finally reach the treeline, the snow lessens (but the cold does not).

Doc wipes the snow from his face and focuses his eyes to the shaded area, a welcome respite from the blinding whiteout - and then notices that they're not alone. A small cabin sits dark in the clearing, seemingly empty.

He trudges toward it - hoping it's unlocked...