It was the cold that found him first, a biting, crystalline numbness that made his skin feel as if it had been flayed and laid upon ice. Yet, beneath that chill, his blood was a slow-moving river of fire, his nerves screaming with a heat that didn't belong to the cold air.
Then came the dark.
Seeing nothing when knowing there was a lot to see , was the scariest part.
And at last he tried to draw a breath, but the air was solid.
He fought next to clench his fingers. It was a slow, agonizing labor even that, like trying to move limbs made of lead. His mind commanded his hand to close, but the muscles stuttered and failed like a dog to stubborn to turn back during a walk, twitching uselessly against the sludge. Every inch of his body felt foreign, a broken machine he was trying to jump-start with a dying spark of will.
While that may be, there was still work to do, so no matter how much his body groaned and cried, he staffed it with fuel.
