Instead of romantic descriptions of fog, visions of an ice monster were now occupying Raoul's brain. The frozen hand of some leviathan creature had risen from the sea, had grabbed the ship in its fist, and would not let go. All they could do was wait for it to grow bored and crush them in its grasp before tossing them away. If he'd had more paper, he would have written down his peculiar thoughts, but he preferred to save his paper for the letters he could not send. He knew his brother and sisters would have no interest in his musings, and the thoughts running through his mind were darker than anything he wanted to tell Christine. It was a shame; writing would have given him an outlet for his fear and melancholy, and it would have been something to help relieve the boredom. He had thought the fog taught him to understand the strange mix of boredom and terror that was plaguing the expedition, but he'd had no idea. There was no sense of dreamy beauty to the ice; there was nothing to allow him to divorce his mind from the reality of potential doom all around them. Every day brought them that much closer to winter, making the chance of finding a break in the ice that much slimmer. They could see the northern reaches of Greenland from the crow's nest, but without abandoning ship, they could not reach it. Even if it came to that, Greenland's northern shores would not offer much respite. What would they do there? Hope there were some friendly natives somewhere close by? Just keep heading south until they hit civilization? The difference between being stranded on the ship and stranded on land seemed minimal at this point. There was nothing to be done, and very little to distract his mind from the situation.

There were only so many card games that could be played, so many stories to be heard. The crew had turned the necessary job of hunting from the deck into a competitive sport, killing far more animals than they needed for subsistence. Any kill was awarded one point; more points were awarded depending on the kind of animal killed. There was constant debate over how many points should be awarded for which animal, and whether or not style should be taken into account. Once, Raoul and the ship's physician had gotten a bear in a joint effort; it was decided that the bear was worth five points, but they'd had to split the points between the two of them. Dr Laurent was disappointed with the conclusion, but Raoul had not cared in the slightest. He only participated so that no one would question his lack of participation. He understood the appeal of the game, because it was a diversion, but he did not enjoy it the way so many of the others presumably did. He had never been terribly interested in hunting, and was not one to take pleasure any sort of unnecessary suffering, human or animal. There were several times he'd bitten his lip to keep from saying something he would later regret; he did not want to be seen as a spoilsport, or to be thought weak. Raoul wished the gruesome game had never been started. Every time his aim was true, and someone clapped him on the back, proclaiming the number of points he earned, he felt slightly ill, and had to work to school his face into any expression that would not reflect the mild repulsion he felt. While others turned to hunting as their choice of distraction, Raoul turned to his own fantastical musings, allowing the ice monster to occupy his mind. He had even begun developing complete stories, and was determined to write them down once it was feasible.

The idea first came to him in a nightmare, and had replayed itself several times. The dream started out pleasantly enough; he was with his siblings at some family gathering or other. His father had been there, alive and well, and Raoul had the sense that his father's presence would solve everything. He would patch up the rift between the brothers; he would allow Raoul to marry Christine, and Philippe would have to accept it. He had known he was dreaming at that point - his father would have been no more amenable to Raoul marrying a singer than Philippe. Still, it was a nice fantasy, and he didn't want to wake. So slowly that he barely noticed it at first, frigid water began to creep into the room. It came through the walls, lapping against their feet. No one else remarked upon the water, or seemed to notice at all. Raoul was so cold he could not stop his teeth from chattering. As the water continued to rise, he began to feel a slight tug on his leg. At first he dismissed it, but the pressure of the grip increased, and he felt himself being pulled backward. He tried unsuccessfully to shake it off. Finally, he looked down and saw that his leg was grasped between the tips of something positively enormous, something that was a sickly bluish white. Though he could not make out what held his leg, somehow he knew that it was a massive hand. As soon as this revelation sunk into his brain, the hand gave a tug, and he was dragged under and out to sea. With the rush of water around him, and the inescapable grip of whatever creature held him, he knew he would die. If he did not drown, he would be crushed, or he would freeze. With that certainty, he awoke.

That dream had been the first of many. The opening scene would change, but the ending remained the same. He often dreamed of his siblings, but just as often, the dream would begin with Christine. They would walk along the sea in Brittany as they had when they were children, or they would do mundane everyday things, like dining together. There were other dreams of Christine that made him nearly grateful for the interference of the monster. As frustrated as they left him, at least the interruption kept his body in check. He swore he could actually smell and taste her. He could feel her skin beneath his fingertips; she was so warm and soft, so yielding. Of all his dreams, those were by far the most realistic, both in the beginning and at the end. The first time the dream had begun with that scenario, he'd actually yelped out loud and woken himself up, and Albert as well.

"Jesus Christ," Albert muttered.

"Sorry; nightmare," Raoul replied, feeling foolish, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Be terrified quietly, please."

He hadn't been able to fall back asleep that night.

In the morning, Albert took one look at him and observed, "You look like hell. You weren't dreaming about being forced to kill seals, were you?"

"What? No!" Raoul felt slightly panicked. He hoped that no one else could see through him.

"Relax... I don't think anyone else knows you well enough to surmise just how much much you dislike killing things."

Though the tone of Albert's voice suggested that the comment was not meant to be unkind, Raoul still felt the need to explain himself. "It's one thing when we need to eat... it's entirely different when it serves no purpose. We can't even keep things as trophies. It seems like a waste."

Albert sighed. "But what else is there to do? Not everyone is capable of living inside his own head as you are."

"I know," Raoul agreed. "But no, my dream was not about hunting... I've had more or less the same nightmare a few times, but that was the worst one yet. It's the silliest thing; I keep dreaming that I'm killed by a giant being made of ice."

"That's not so silly, considering..."

Before Raoul knew it, he was relating the contents of his dreams, with certain omissions, and telling Albert all about his conscious musings.

When he was finished talking, Albert looked at him for a moment, as though he were trying to formulate a response. Raoul was afraid that he'd revealed too much of his mind's inner workings, and now his friend would him foolish. Then Albert said, "You might want to keep that to yourself until we're out of this mess, but you should write it down."

Raoul continued to muse upon his ideas. Even if they weren't the best thing to share with group of already disheartened people, at least he kept his mind occupied. He began to wonder if this were how Christine's father had gotten started with his story telling. The stories he related to Raoul and Christine had always been happy ones, but who knew what the man had kept to himself. Had he, too, been desperate to distract himself, to give some kind of meaning to a sad situation? Raoul had not thought much about it when they were children, but Christine and her father had not had an easy life. Who knew what would have become of them if it weren't for Professor and Mme. Valerius. At least they had been able to introduce a sense of stability into Christine's life. Once he was home, he would make sure she never felt insecure in anything, even for a moment.

Raoul had decided that he would be making it home, even if no one else did. He had never been one to give up, and he was determined to find a way back. There were too many things he needed to do to allow himself to die up here. No amount of ice would defeat him in reality, no matter what happened in his dreams.

Note: I apologize for the length of time it is taking me to get these chapters out lately. This particular chapter gave me a difficult time, and my daily writing time has been (temporarily, I hope) shortened.

As always, thanks for the reviews.