Back to the wedding night. The timestamp reads 1am when Augustine wakes Roha. She snores delicately, splayed out on top of the covers in their hotel room, still garbed in her voluminous wedding gown, the white train puddled at the foot of the bed.

He brings the camera close to her tranquil face and whispers, Rise and shine, honey.

Hello... It’s dark. Is it morning?

Not at all. But that’s what makes it perfect. Here, put on your coat.

Much like the rest of Augustine Kir’s life, the events of that night and the aftermath would be recorded for posterity. He makes sure of that, taking the extra memory cards and batteries with him as Roha yawns and roots around for her shoes.

—

The pair exits the hotel quietly through a back door, in a blink-and-you-miss-it second of security footage. The exact route they take is unclear, tracks covered by snow the next morning, but Augustine’s camera picks up again twenty minutes after they depart. He stands in a seemingly flat plain of snow, looking up. He is still in his navy blue tuxedo jacket, the thick down coat thrown over it, wafting in the breeze. A light shower of snowflakes dots his shoulders with tiny white stars.

Come on, babe. Let’s get a shot without that ugly heap of concrete. The sky is magnificent.

The camera looks back, following his gaze. The back of the hotel can be seen looming above on the slope. Between the camera and the resort compound is a barrier made of metal bars - but buried in the fresh snow and easily overstepped. Which the couple appears to have done.

Roha lingers by the invisible threshold, apprehensive. Even though she has no idea the barrier exists, she can feel something is wrong.

What’s the holdup?

The snow is fresh. It’s hollow. You should go back.

Don’t be like that. I made everyone come out to this frozen wasteland, had the wedding set up here, because you’re from here. Because you were always saying it was too hot in Central.

Yes, I appreciate that.

You like snow, I bought you snow. So come on down and enjoy it. And I want to have a go at that dress. I didn’t like the thought of hundreds of people above and below us either-

No, it’s not people. It’s the snowfall. Now, you come here.

Roha’s voice is unusually hard, the closest it's come to a resistant timbre - it’s even commanding. The sudden show of spine from his demure wife wipes the smile from Augustine’s face, for a moment, then it snaps back on.

My, aren’t you confident, back in your natural habitat? We're just going to take a few pictures, maybe shoot a short vid. Besides, this place is totally safe. Military magic and stuff. The Central army doesn’t play around. There’s supposed to be a fence at the edge of the resort area and I don’t even see it - we’re probably miles away from the danger zone.

The camera swerves a little. Roha appears to be searching for this fence, to prove him wrong. Augustine lets out an exaggerated puff. As if matching his temperament, the snow begins to dust up around him..

Alright, Roh, if you’re gonna run back to bed, at least hand me the camera before you go.

Roha makes her way to him. The wisping fabric about her brings to mind a drifting cloud - she is, absurdly, still in the bridal dress. But the crunching under her boots is loud and firm.

There’s a good girl.

She reaches his side, and latches into his arm so hard that he flinches in surprise. His voice in retort, however, is smooth as a snake.

Roh. You’re hurting me.

The snow is going to fall. From the mountain. Her voice is breathy, but it’s not the mellifluous whisper she usually uses. She is really exerting her strength to pull him back, back up the slope and behind the barrier. You’ve been drinking unwisely again.

Cure me, then. I know you can. Cure me with a kiss.

I will, I will- come here. Augustine.

No, you come here. I told you, we’re totally safe. I bet we could stand here and watch it all go by. C’mon point this the right way. He yanks the camera from her grasp, shakes her off, but grabs her before she falls on her back. He is invigorated, perhaps, by the idea of being challenged; having finally succeeded in drawing frustration from his supposedly infallible wife. When a woman stoops to challenge him, he becomes sure he’ll win. You’re not losing your nerve, are you? You’re supposed to be indestructible.

The camera captures Roha in her flaring gown, almost camouflaged against the wall of snow, swirled in the rising white mist. One hand has maintained a grip on Augustine’s downy sleeve. Almost inaudibly over the incoming rumble, she speaks a fragment so hoarse and rigid it is hard to believe it is coming from the same woman was so often lost to passivity or confusion. In tones none of Kir's audience nor family has heard before, and will never hear again, the hiss of one centuries old sluices through the din of crashing snow; You poor fool.

—

Augustine was technically correct to have confidence in the Central army’s construction. The united front of engineers had taken great precautions to protect the Jeweled Sky Hotel and its visitors from avalanches. A crack team of demolitions’ experts, using the same technique used to construct the cathedral, blasted a chute into the stone which circles the peak to collect, then redirect the debris down a straight slope on the opposite side of the mountain. The slippage occurs not only away from the hotel, but out of sight. Reinforced by large-scale magical sealing and titanium supports, the enormous slide was rigorously maintained, video recordings of its great feats often featured in hotel advertising.

As expected, the chute wore wider over time with usage, natural erosion. But the safe zone was also monitored scrupulously, and marked by a new line of multicolored metal poles. Unfortunately, in the dead of night after heavy snowfall, the poles lay under the snow. The morning sun would melt down just enough to reveal them again. This misled investigators for a good while into believing that Augustine could not - would not - have wandered into the path of an avalanche.

‘Mistakes were made,’ mutters Andon Kir when he learns of his son’s doing, the whole fiasco unequivocally laid out on video.

‘We failed to account for visual flaws exactly when visibility would be most important,’ says a representative of the hotel maintenance team.

‘I could have pulled harder,’ Roha muses, back to her mild self.

—

September 200x, the eve after the wedding.

The discontent of our newlyweds is drowned out by a rumble from above. The earth shakes, the mountainside loosens and half a tonne of snow sweeps them down the back of the slope and into the rocky gorge far below.

—

At 4am, the blackness before the camera recedes, and Roha’s form fills the screen.

The outer layer of her once-glorious dress is in shreds, tattered remains gripped in her free hand. But the slip underneath is holding itself together. She is spattered with blood from her chin to her shoulder - presumably her own blood but moves through the treacherous terrain unhindered by injuries. A few blue pods speckle her chest. She may have taken severe damage in the fall, but has made full recovery with nothing but her own aura. Such is the nature of Life Fountains.

She turns the camera around in her hands as she trudges across the snow, inspecting for damage. Her breath clouds the faintly cracked lens, but the device has, incredibly, survived the fall intact.

The darkness of night goes even darker, as she enters a cave formed by the fallen debris. She ducks beside a wall of boulders.

I found it. It still works. Are you feeling better?

The noise heard in response is a horrifying, hollow moan. She puts down the camera to attend to the source. Her voice is gentle, but her words shake investigators to the core.

You look okay. I put everything back inside… everything I could find. A lot of it is under… sorry, I couldn’t move this. There are so many rocks. Maybe if I - Should I try again?

There is a grunt of agitation from the patient and the sound of shuffling. Roha turns back toward the exit, picks up the camera and stands.

I’m sorry. Should I go? Do you need me to go?

No. No, no, don’t leave me.

A tantalizing pause, as the camera hovers over the mouth of the cave, the starlit sky peeking down at her. But Roha does not defy her husband. She turns and kneels, turning the camera onto him, onto what has become of him.

Lying on a patch of ice glazed red and black with his blood, Augustine Kir is half crushed under the wall of rock and ice. The left side of his body, from rib cage to skull, disappears under a boulder that now pins the rest of him to the earth, his once-handsome face now half a pale, tearstained mask. His legs, while free, are bent at odd angles, shoes lost in the fall.

Post-mortem investigation found that the destroyed arm, lung, and portion of his head had been completely obliterated, bones and all. Lucky instances have found Life Fountain able to reattach limbs, but there was nothing to even try with in his case. His organs would have been largely displaced by the weight on his torso. Roha, as she said, put what could be salvaged ‘back inside’. She also seals his wounds with what she had available. For a Life Fountain, this means aura. The bioluminescent pods pile heavily where his body meets with the rock, like a froth of ocean waves against a cliff. The missing half of his face is a mass of neon blue. When he struggles to open his mouth, he glows from within.

Experts agree - he shouldn’t have lived. Nearly bifurcated, out on his back, in the nightly subzero temperatures - no human could have survived in that condition. No human should. The underlying implication is that the fact that he was alive suggested that he was no longer human.

Unlike the healed villagers and travelers of old, nobody was calling this a miracle.

‘I couldn’t bear to look at it… at him,’ Petra says in the proceedings. ‘There was more of that - that blue stuff than body. But the voice - ‘ she sighs. ‘That was him without a doubt.’

From where he is trapped, Augustine Kir is drifting in and out of consciousness. But his one intact eye widens when he spots a familiar object on the ground. He lets out a desperate gurgle, fingers twitching - it’s all the movement his right arm can manage.

Don’t point the camera. Don’t point it at me. Stop it. Turn it off.

I’m sorry.

Don’t let them see me. It hurts. It hurts so bad, Roh - where am I? What happened?

The camera flicks off as requested, so nobody is quite sure how and if Roha answered his question.

—

6pm. Nearly a full day has passed and the camera comes back on. From what we can discern, Augustine is feeling better. He appears to be holding the camera on his stomach, pointing it at the mangled remains of his legs, still in their dark-blue wedding slacks.

Behind him, Roha is humming. Perhaps she is supporting his head. He begins to hum alongside her, raspily. It’s her favorite song.

Hey. Sing it for me, Roh.

I don’t know all the words.

Augustine does. He walks her through them, chiding her for the occasional mangled syntax. Without seeing his face, the broken legs are nothing more than a disembodied screensaver, and you can almost believe he’s his old, charming self.

Roha makes her first full go at the song. Her voice is off-key, but Augustine lets her finish in silence.

She finishes, hums the remainder of the tune.

I give that an A-plus. I’d clap, but… hands.

Thank you.

The singer lost his brother and wrote a song. Imagine that. Making a constant reminder of something as bad as that. I wonder if Pet and Cal will do anything but… try to turn it all into a TV deal. Or…

A pale hand roams beside, under the camera, meeting his limp fingers somewhere below.

My beautiful goddess. I still can’t believe you chose me…

He coughs. Reality catches up with him. Blue spittle splatters across his chest, his once fine dress shirt.

You won’t go, right? You won’t leave me here. By myself…

I won’t.

Okay. I’m so lucky. But I’m tired now. You must be tired too. My hand isn’t doing good - turn off the camera - save the battery.

According to Roha, Augustine was able to interact with the camera to some extent, at least for the first couple of days. He didn’t have the strength to lift it, but he could press the touchscreen buttons on the side panel, if the camera was propped against a rock or dirt mound. When she left to forage nearby (for herself, as Augustine no longer had the parts required to consume or digest food) upon her return she occasionally found him playing back the recordings for himself.

—

After the avalanche, even though her premonition of it was correct, Roha does not try to assert herself against Augustine again. She does not try to reason with him, she does not suggest going for help or moving him. She makes short trips into the nearby wilds for food and water, but for the rest of the day she merely remains by his side - as he asks.

There is plenty of argument that she was in shock, traumatized into servitude. But the courts were skeptical.

It’s generally agreed that a mature Life Fountain’s perception of bodily harm is far from that of a human. Sure enough, Roha shrugged off the damage she took in the fall like so much rainwater. Regarding Augustine’s condition, she showed neither disgust nor fear. Life Fountains receive precautionary education about the frailty of their mortal counterparts, but the extent of Augustine’s injuries would have been utterly incomparable to anything in the class materials. The Foundation, with its human sensibilities, avoided showing any disturbing material to its new recruits, only expanding the material to those who showed interest in - and the facility for - becoming useful in the medical sector. Without full context, images of explicit gore have little practical effect on Life Fountains. They simply see it as a mistake to patch up. At worst, they begin to joke about the carelessness that led to it, and try to imitate.

‘Mistakes were made,’ laments Foundation leader Cadmus. ‘We are still reworking the syllabus to find an appropriate solution.’

At the same time, Roha had expressed anxiety for Augustine before the avalanche swept them away. Just because Life Fountains are a force of nature doesn’t mean there’s no greater force out there. She didn’t want to be in its path any more than he did. Docile as she was known to be, she even stepped forward to try to pull him from harm’s way. But this interpretation came under fire as well.

‘The Life Fountain communities up North come to be cautious of heavy snowfall for the sake of their homes, their crops,’ claimed a professor of Life Fountain trade and culture, speaking on behalf of the Kir family in proceedings. ‘They’ll make a move, oh yes - but it’s entirely driven by inconvenience. Lost food and blankets, that’s their tragedy. Anyone perishing in the disaster - that just doesn’t cross their minds.’

Roha is confused by the implications and all the proposed answers. All she confirms in questioning is that no, she did not know what would happen, and no, she did not want to see Augustine in that state. Of course not.

(The aforementioned professor would later be disgraced when the highly public results of the investigation cast many of his studies into question. He is best known for his final lecture where he called Life Fountains ‘mindless primordial ooze making vague, incompetent, and doomed imitation of human life’.)

Whether she had come to understand the sanctity of human life, or because she had no concept of it: Augustine was right. Roha chose him. She remained at his side for almost two weeks.

—

September 200x. 8pm, the pair have been at the bottom of the ravine for six days. The camera is being set on the ground, moved, set down again. Augustine groans, Roha shifts it again.

Is this okay? How about here?

The lead-up to this evening is one of the few that Roha recounts with lucidity. She says that Augustine wanted to watch the footage taken of the wedding. He hadn’t had time to see it before then. The memory cards and accessories were in a bag Roha had been holding at the time of the avalanche. The two spent half of the spare batteries that night reviewing their own wedding footage.

‘He looked so sad,’ Roha murmured. ‘But he said he was happy. He watched the kiss scene a lot. When we were done, he looked weird, and said he never put good kisses on his channel. He wanted to make a video then, for when he got back.’

In the cave of rock and snow, Roha picks up the camera, faces Augustine and awaits further instruction. Augustine’s body is turning gray and ragged with rot. His neck and arm look like withered twigs and the remains of his scalp seem to be sagging from his skull. However, he is feeling quite talkative.

You saw what Pet said to me, before this happened? Like she knew. Fuck her - I feel great. You know why? Because I chose this. You let me choose. I don’t have the right to feel otherwise… I just regret not being able to see you out of that dress. All the buildup, and I never… His bulging eye, caked in blue ooze, moves onto his camerawoman. That’s all you’re wearing. You must be cold.

No, I’m not.

No. I guess you never were. It was always too hot. Like the day we met…

What did you mean, when you said you were an inspector?

You remember that? His voice, for a moment, regains the childish tone of wonder he often took on when surprised. It was a joke. I’m an inspector, a body inspector. Sometimes guys say shit to get trust, and break it. As much as you can call that a joke.

I don’t understand.

Good.

A pause. The camera moves in and Roha whispers, Augustine, you’re cold.

He mumbles something in response. The camera is set down by his wizened face, tilts toward the ground, and the view goes dark. Black becomes a hazy gray as the tattered skirts of the wedding dress descend around him, then all is cloaked with a familiar blue haze. Pressed against his neck, the camera picks up a muffled mixture of sighs and groans, the shadows rocking back and forth until 8.37pm, when the current set of batteries runs out.

—

A day later, Augustine loses four of his fingers.

He begins the afternoon in good spirits, asking Roha to film what she’s foraged from the nearby area. She sets him up as a cameraman, and kneels in front of him. They count a handful of berries and she shows how she produces water by warming snow and soaking it into some fabric torn from the old wedding dress.

When they are done, Augustine makes a strained movement with his free hand to stop the recording. Nothing happens. He tries again.

Can’t feel my hand. Am I even touching it? Stupid thing…

It is no surprise he could not feel a thing. His arm below the elbow had been unresponsive since the first day. Capacitive touch screens, which work by sending a charge through the user’s skin, cannot detect dead flesh. At this point fingers are nothing but icy, brittle sticks.

He makes a final, anguished attempt, but pushes too hard. There is a sound like dry leaves crackling. A wail fills the hole.

—

At some point, Augustine finally gathers the courage to ask what he looks like; what his condition is. He asks Roha to show him a recording of himself.

Roha tells the courts that she was apprehensive to do so. She cannot explain why.

But, she assures everyone comfortably, he did not get upset at the image. He took a long look at his one-eyed, one-armed, aura-crusted self and simply thanked her and commented that the man under the rock ‘sure is an ugly looking fella’.

He was infinitely more upset when they watched the recordings from the wedding. He cried himself out of consciousness nearly every time. And yet, he asked to watch those videos constantly. She can’t explain that, either.

—

Three days later. The couple is lying side-by-side on the cold earth. It’s a relatively warm day.

Augustine’s scalp has chipped from his head and the remains of his arm - which appears to have been reduced to a stump - are dotted with aura pods. There is a hole dug through his right cheek and hastily resealed; some rodents got to him during one of Roha’s excursions. That’s all the joy he gets from a warm day. He is quite rightfully irritated, and his mouth is still functioning, so there is work to do.

Put the camera down, over there.

Roha does so.

Are you still here because you care about me?

I don’t know.

You don’t know. Of course you don’t. You never cared what I was, or who I was. You know how I can tell? Because I’m just a pile of blue crap now and you still - you look at me the same way.

I - I’m sorry. I let this happen and I’m sorry.

No, you’re not. Don’t say that.

I’ll stay here forever. If you want.

Silence. Then, Augustine struggles to release a sigh. He steadies his tone, which was moments ago on the brink of tears.

No. If you care, or want to prove it, then go. Go out and find someone. Find someone and bring them back here.

This comes out so firm, so final, that Roha is stunned to silence.

I know you think there’s plenty of time - and maybe there is. But it’s not a very fun time down here, is it? Maybe you don’t care about having a good time, I don’t even know why you’re here. But please, for me, I need people to –

He steadies his breathing again. Under his dress shirt - shredded and browned - a blue mass glows in his chest, in place of lungs.

Okay, I need some rest, Roh. I’m so tired. You know what that’s like, right?

Roha is still silent.

I think I’ll take a long nap. I’m sure you can find someone while I’m asleep. Just wake me up when you get back.

Perplexed, but finally beginning to understand, Roha picks up the camera. Augustine, with his limited resources, feigns a yawn.

I can’t wait to see who you bring in. Love you, babe.

These could have been his last words to her. It would be the perfect way to cap the tragic tale of two would-be lovers. But Augustine knows that, but he also knows that the implications will reach far beyond their twosome. And so the show must go on.

Turn the camera this way, before you go.

—

October 200x. Fifteen days since Roha and Augustine disappeared down the slope, and two days after Roha leaves Augustine in the snow cave.

A lackluster search party shuffles out of the Jeweled Sky Hotel just before sundown. The Kirs returned to Central nearly a week prior, to take the story to the press. The hotel isn’t too happy about the coverage, but are obliged to show they care by continuing the search. This lets the Kirs proclaim that they, themselves, are continuing the search.

It’s a windy evening. No snowfall, but visibility is hindered by the gusts stirring the fresh snow from the afternoon. Expectations aren’t high.

On the road behind the hotel, drifting up behind the snow chute, is what looks like a tiny storm cloud. Aflame against the light of the setting sun, the plume of filthy, bloodstained tulle rises to approach the group of six.

Roha has returned. She bears an image the search party can never forget. Her thick hair is lined with frost and beaded with blue aura, caked together at the back to keep wild strands out of her face. She is still in her defiled wedding gown, no more than a thin shell against the cold. Her hands lift the dregs of her many-layered skirts and below the hem, the searchers see that she is barefoot.

The searchers finally realize who they are looking at and begin bellowing with relief. They pat each other on the backs, take off their jackets to offer her, phone up hotel management.

Roha, too, is relieved at what she’s found. She promptly turns around and heads back down the steep slope, to the horror of the search party.

Please. You all need to come with me.

She waits, with somewhat less of her usual patience, as the search party and hotel hastily try to put together a rescue team. With no other options immediately available, the army is called in. There are ATVs, searchlights, dogs and climbing harnesses. But Roha leads them directly to the cave where Augustine lies, beside his camera.

At 5.40am, after spending two weeks at the bottom of  the icy mountains of an unfamiliar land, Augustine Kir is finally lifted from the ravine. But he doesn’t wake up to see his saviors, crack a joke or flash a smile to the press who somehow tagged along. He never wakes up again.