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It takes weeks of searching before they finally track him down.

The army has moved on and it's truly only an act of God that Nicky happens to run across a deserter while out gathering firewood. It's taken them weeks to make their way from India to the far reaches of Siberia and Andromache knows it would've taken them even longer to find the man from their dreams if they hadn't been pointed in the right direction.

It's been centuries since a new immortal and centuries since they've lost Quynh and Andromache had truly hoped she would be taken from this world long before she had to find another one like her. But it was starting to seem like this was all just a punishment for her—forced to walk the earth as everything and everyone she loved passed her by.

So here she was, yet again, searching through the vast nothingness for the man terrorizing her dreams.

"This was much easier with you two," she says, adjusting the thick woolen mittens to keep the harsh winter winds from eating away at the skin of her wrists.

"I think your memory might be failing you, my dear Andromache," Yusuf says, leading their pack mule as Nicky travels behind them both. "I would gladly take weeks of searching over the years it took you to find us."

"It felt shorter—warm weather will do that." She looks over her shoulder at Nicky, brow furrowing. "Where did that man say the hanging took place? It has to be close."

The younger man glances at his compass for a moment and points in the direction they're thankfully heading. "We've been traveling north for at least a few hours now. He said the men were hanged from a large elm tree and that we would know it when we saw it."

Andromache scans the desolate, snow covered tundra around them and sighs. The light has already started fading and if she is forced to suffer through another night of dreams and the madness that this man's mind is sinking into with each passing day, she may begin to lose her own sanity as well.

But then Yusuf shakes her out of her thoughts, pointing to some tree in the distance. "I think I see it! Is that an elm?!" he asks frantically, already starting to trudge his way through the snow to the far-off tree. "It looks too wide to be an evergreen."

"Only one way to find out," she says, adjusting her pack high up on her shoulders and following Yusuf. "For his sake, I hope it is."

Her stomach curls, jaw clenching when they finally make their way to the tree and find three bodies swinging from the largest branch—each man with a blindfold tied across his face and hands bound behind his back. The rope creaks with the breeze and the closer she gets, the more she wonders if they were sent in the wrong direction. That none of these men could possibly be the one they're searching for—they're all too still, too quiet, too dead.

But then she looks down at their frostbitten feet and the tell-tale pink flush of life clinging to the tallest man's ankles.

They've found him.

"The one on the right," Andromache shouts, drawing her knife before starting to cut through the rope tying him to the base of the tree. "Nicky, Yusuf, help him down while I cut the rope."

The man's once-still legs immediately begin thrashing at the sound of her voice, as if he would be able to free himself through sheer desperation, and her two companions are barely able to take hold of him before Andromache saws through the last of the rope.

All three men collapse into the snow and the man from their dreams draws his first rattling gasp into his lungs after so long. She can almost feel the relief as he coughs and gulps oxygen after weeks of the noose, but he still shrinks away from her touch when Andromache reaches for his blindfold.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she murmurs, smoothing her hand over his heaving chest as she tries to soothe his panic. "I swear to you, we mean no harm."

The man flinches again as Andromache touches the noose around his neck, but the moment she loosens it and eases it over his head, he settles. As if the simple gesture of freeing him from his torment was enough to instantly gain his trust. The knot on the blindfold is much harder to loosen with her gloves on and Andromache finally gives up, shaking the mittens off her hands and freeing the man from the last of his binds.

She had seen only glimpses of his face in the dreams but despite knowing this is the man they've been looking for, he looks like a completely different man.

His blue eyes are wide and bloodshot, slowly healing from the hanging, and even though he's looking straight at her, Andromache swears he's staring right through her. There's a vacancy that shakes her to the core and the last time she's seen anyone look that haunted was when she had accidentally caught a glimpse in her own reflection after she had lost Quynh.

The dreams had ended but the nightmares were still there.

"What's your name?" Andromache asks in French as Yusuf cuts the man's hands free, Nicky already working on dressing his feet. No words come, only some broken semblance of a sob as she cups his face in both hands. "You're safe, I promise. No one will take you now. You can trust us."

But her promises fall on hollow ears—the man lost to the cacophony of horrors ringing in his head—and Andromache knows there's no way to reach him, at least right now.

She looks between Yusuf and Nicky and says, "Help me get him up and dressed. Once we get him somewhere warm and dry, maybe he'll come back to himself."

The sun has long since set and the clear sky is littered with stars by the time they arrive back at the abandoned farmhouse.

The man from their dreams hasn't said a word the entire journey and Andromache doesn't know if it's because he still doesn't trust them enough or simply because he can't. But, judging by the catatonic numbness on his face, it's more the latter than anything else.

His limbs are stiff as Nicky helps him off the mule and he doesn't look at Andromache as he shuffles through the doorway, clutching the blanket around his  shoulders with white-knuckled fists. Even when the man makes his way inside, he just stands in the middle of the room, staring at the space between his feet.

"What's the plan, Andromache?" Yusuf asks, standing beside her at the threshold. There's undeniable concern in his voice and it only grows when the man collapses to his knees, shoulders shaking. "Do you think we're going to be able to get through to him?"

Andromache sighs and shrugs her pack off. "I want you and Nicky to heat as much water as you can. I'll clean him up and try and get him talking."

A tired grin tugs on Yusuf's lips. "Well, if anyone can, it's you."

The windows fog with condensation, steam clinging to every surface in the main room of the farmhouse by the time Yusuf and Nicky heat enough water to fill a small washing tub. Andromache kneels in front of the man, one hand on his shoulder, studying his face as her two companions bustle around them.

He looks so much older than he did in her dreams—the weary circles under his eyes almost as dark as the night sky outside—and despite how exhausted he looks, the man just continues staring at the same spot in the floor. At least, until Andromache brushes the dirt and sweat-crusted strands of hair out of his face. It's only then that his stormy blue eyes tip up to meet hers.

Death. That's all she can see. The undeniable shadow of death.

"My name is Andromache," she murmurs, trying to keep her voice as soft as she possibly can. The last thing she needs is to spook an already terrified man. "I know you must be confused and scared, but I promise you that we are here to help." 

Tears flood the man's eyes but he still doesn't answer her. Just stares at her like he's somewhere else entirely. Still at the hanging tree and still in the bindings of his first death.

"The water's ready, Andromache," Nicky says, transferring the last pot of water from the stove into the metal tub. "Do you want me or Yusuf to bathe him and—"

A hidden flash of fear lights up the man's eyes like lightning cracking across the sky and Andromache shakes her head, looking over her shoulder at Nicky. "I'll do it. I think after what the army did to him, it might be easier for me to do this alone."

Nicky looks at Yusuf worriedly but doesn't push the subject. They've been companions long enough that he knows better than to argue against her decision, so all he does is nod and gather their belongings. "Call for us if you need help," he says. "I pray that you can get him to open up."

The house is achingly quiet once the two older men retreat to the back room—only the soft whistling of wind outside and the rattling of the window panes to fill the silence—and Andromache turns her full attention to the man in front of her. "I'm going to help you get undressed," she murmurs, easing the blanket off his shoulders. "And then I'll help you clean up." Andromache offers the man a gentle smile. "But before I do that, it would really help if you could tell me your name."

The man blinks, eyes going glassy, and a shuddering exhale spills from his mouth. "Sé…Sébastien…" he croaks, voice dry and cracking from disuse.

A breath of relief rushes into Andromache's lungs and her smile widens. "It's good to finally meet you, Sébastien."

She half-expects Sébastien to shy away as she strips him of his clothing, but the roots of exhaustion have grown too deep. His eyelids sag as Andromache eases each of his arms through the sleeves of his tattered shirt and she swears he's minutes from falling asleep in his chair by the time she frees him of his trousers and gifted boots.

"Are you able to stand?" Andromache asks once she tugs his socks off. The frostbite has disappeared entirely now that he's out of the elements, but she knows how long the memory of those injuries can linger and sometimes the memory causes a deeper pain than the initial blow.

Sébastien nods slowly, pushing himself up onto unsteady feet before staggering over to the washtub. Andromache stays close by, ready to catch him if he falls, and has to step in when he raises one foot to step into the tub—grabbing Sébastien's shoulders when he tips too far to one side. He flinches as he steadies himself, eyes clenching shut as he ducks his head, but doesn't try to pull himself out of her grasp as he climbs into the tub.

A low groan rumbles in Sébastien's chest the moment he sinks into the water and Andromache can almost see the heat flooding through his body and unwinding every tight muscle in him.

"It feels good, doesn't it?" she hums, grabbing a washing cloth and dipping it into the tub. "I know you were out there for quite some time before we found you, but I'm sure you've been in Russia for far longer without a decent bath."

He nods, eyes closed and head hung, and lets out another soft moan of relief when Andromache sloughs the water up the hunched curve of his broad back. She scrubs at the dirt and grime and remnants of death on his skin before working her way up to his head, letting the water run through the matted strands. Sébastien’s mouth falls open, a shaky, stuttering breath spilling out when Andromache scrubs at his scalp with her nails, and it doesn’t take long for the tension in his body to recede.

She washes him in silence for a few minutes, letting the ease of this settle in, before she finally says, “I can't imagine what it was like before we found you, hanging in that tree. My first death was quick. Yusuf and Nicky’s deaths were as well.”

Sébastien remains quiet, but Andromache can see the cracks appearing. Small, at first. Then larger and larger until it spiderwebs across his entire soul.

“But I want you to know that we will never allow anything like that to happen to you again,” she continues, her voice low and gentle—more a vow than mere reassurance. “As long as you are with us, we will keep you safe. You’re part of our family now.”

And suddenly, the cracks turn into canyons.

Water splashes up the sides of the washtub when Sébastien draws his knees to his chest, pressing the heels of both hands to the sockets of his eyes as he folds over. The first sob tears out of him like a gunshot—raw and grief stricken and so, so bloody. His shoulders shake and there’s no stopping the anguish once it starts pouring out.

All Andromache can do is wrap her arms around the man and hold him as tight as she possibly can.

She holds him through the bouts of weeping, through the hopelessness that seems to be drowning Sébastien alive, and doesn’t let go until the sobs begin to subside and his breathing begins to even. Andromache tucks his head under her chin, soap smearing across her throat, and murmurs, “It’s alright, Sébastien. I understand.”

“I’m…” he chokes, another hitching breath rushing into his lungs. “I—”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, pulling away just enough to clasp Sébastien’s face between her hands. “You died. You died and you’re still here. Nothing in this world could be more terrifying than that.” It upsets the natural order of things—takes them out of the cycle of life entirely—and, even in all the thousands of years Andromache has seen, she’s still struggling to come to terms with this herself. She pushes Sébastien’s wet hair out of his face and promises, “Grieve when you need to. Holding on is worse.”

He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t nod his head, but there’s some flickering resignation in his face before Sébastien lets out a shallow exhale and lets his eyes sag shut.

Andromache settles him back in the washing tub and, as much as she tries to fill the silence with small pieces of palatable information, it still feels like a one sided conversation. Sébastien just sits there like a statue, letting Andromache wash him like he's a child. He doesn't open his eyes to look at her, not even when she has to turn his face to scrub the soap through his beard.

"—and once we had that first dream of you, we knew we had to come and find you as soon as possible," Andromache says, finishing the story that had bridged Yusuf and Nicky's first deaths with the present as she works a comb through Sébastien's tangled hair. "Once you're back on your feet, the four of us can—"

"Who is the woman?" Sébastien suddenly croaks, breaking his silence as sharply as shattering glass. "The woman in the water."

Andromache freezes, her hand clenching so tight around the comb that her knuckles go white. It had been so long since she was forced to think about Quynh and it's like being carved open by her grief after the wounds have finally healed. She swallows back saltwater, blinking back tears and tries to steady her voice long enough to mumble, "Quynh. We lo—I lost her." Sébastien's shoulders go tense and he must sense the immeasurable heartbreak in her voice, because he turns over his shoulder to look her in the eye. Andromache shakes her head and reaches for his hair once more. "She's why we have to stay together. We can't be alone—not with what might happen again."

His weary eyes search her face for the truth and he must find what he's looking for because Sébastien simply turns forward without another word. Andromache clenches her jaw as the first tear rolls down her cheek, hating how much this still breaks her apart, and feels the rolling waves of despair flood over her when the silence breaks.

"I'm sorry you lost her…" Sébastien whispers, his voice heavy like he knows exactly how deep this pain goes.

Andromache sniffs quietly, burying Quynh and every memory of her back down in the dark pits of her mind and heart where she doesn't have to feel it, and feels that anguish recede as much as it ever does. "I had hoped after this long…" She would be gone, she wants to say, but it feels heartless to do so after Sébastien's genuine sympathy. So Andromache just sighs and smoothes her hand over the back of Sébastien's neck. "I hope you know how relieved we were to find you. We needed it, after her."

He nods shakily, scrubbing at his eyes in the hidden-away shroud of his hair, and thankfully doesn't ask about Quynh again.

The candles burn low by the time Andromache manages to work the comb through all the snarls of hair and Sébastien's skin is rough with goose pimples from the cooling water. She helps him from the tub and dries him off as best she can before offering a fresh set of clothing.

Sébastien's eyelids keep drooping as he dresses, barely able to stay awake, and Andromache has half a mind to just let him sleep. But she knows it will be easier to cut his hair and beard now while they're both still damp.

So, without taking the time and energy to ask, she just grabs the shears off the table and takes her place behind Sébastien's chair.

He's too tired to argue or just knows there's no use in it when the scissors are already in her hand, and keeps his head perfectly still while Andromache starts to cut his hair.

"I'm sorry if this turns out terribly," she says. "Nicky is a much better barber than I am." Andromache tucks Sébastien's ear down as she works her way around the side of his head, careful not to nick his skin. "Though I don't think you can look worse than you do now."

She grins when a weary laugh catches in Sébastien's chest. As hard as it is now, Andromache knows it won't always be like this. They've all faced death and, while the first is always the hardest, the hanging tree is miles away and will soon be nothing more than a passing nightmare.

Life keeps going, even an immortal one.