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The mountains and ridges were a grey torn-paper edge jutting up into the white sky, piled up in layers upon layers that seemed to stretch on endlessly ahead of them. While they stuck to the valleys, Ford and Arthur nevertheless found the going exhausting as they struggled through snowdrifts and across icy plains, seeking shelter in small clustered forests of dull green pines, fashioning little shelters from fallen branches and attempting to light fires in the cold.
“When I was in the Scouts, they taught me how to make quite a pleasant tea out of pine needles,” Arthur reminisced, bundled tightly in layers of reindeer skin.
“Well that’s very useful considering we have nothing resembling drinking receptacles or a fire,” Ford grumbled irritatedly as he struck a couple of sharp-edged stones against one another. “Did they ever show you how to light a campfire in a blizzard?”
“Oh, I’m sure they tried but I was very preoccupied with the knot-tying.”
If the days seemed long, the northerly nights washed over them for an eternity, accompanied by a mighty chill that froze the earth solid and clawed their faces with biting red pain giving way to complete numbness. Ford and Arthur were loath to address just how close they would shift into one another as they craved warmth in the darkness. Both would pretend they were asleep and lie still, two small, hibernating creatures in the abounding icy wilderness listening to the other breathe, minds awash with a dozen simultaneous thoughts of survival, the next day’s journey.
For most in such brutal conditions hunger would also be an issue, but Ford’s pheromone control skills had provided a more than satisfactory amount of food to keep them going. On this particular morning, as the pure golden light of the dawn sunshine glittered on the thousands of frozen crystals lining the forest floor, Arthur watched as Ford closed his eyes as if deep in thought. The whole process appeared to require him to enter a sort of meditative state, and Arthur knew this wasn't something that came easily.
“I'm just here if you need me,” Arthur called in what he hoped was a reassuring tone as he crouched behind a thick trunk a few meters away.
“Yes, I know that,” Ford’s trance was broken and he shot him a frustrated glare. “Shh.”
In truth, Arthur was never really sure what he contributed to the ‘hunt’, if one could really call it that. He awkwardly rearranged his grip on the makeshift spear he’d constructed for comfort. Ford performed his unsettling skills with such ease that Arthur felt embarrassingly superfluous. He wondered why he even bothered keeping him around.
After a period of silence, Ford awoke again, his face illuminating with a smile of such warm sincerity that it made Arthur doubt he'd ever seen him genuinely happy before. He took gentle, accustomed steps through the snow, absorbing the forest’s beauty and expelling a decent amount of his own in turn. Arthur felt sick. Everything about the strange ceremony pulled at a strong sense of wrongness deep in his gut. He couldn't afford to be ethical about it; if they didn't eat they were dead, it was a rule as old as life itself. But surely it shouldn't be this easy?
He told himself that he should look away if it was bothering him so much, but no matter how much he willed his eyes to tear away from Ford’s oddly graceful creeping, he couldn't stop watching. He swallowed to wet his tongue—was it working on him too? If it took so much control, could he be picky about who his pheromones affected? Had those monks been able to teach him how to differentiate?
A fair amount of time had lapsed with no luck. Perhaps this section of the forest was just too barren. Ford’s pacing was beginning to resemble a more typical vexedness. Arthur gave a glad sigh—hopefully the effect would wear off now, even if they'd have to go hungry.
“I suppose we’ll just have to move on,” Arthur shrugged as he emerged into the open. Upon turning to face him, Ford froze. It didn't seem possible that his eyes could get any wider than they usually were, but now the whites seemed acres wide.
“Arthur. . .” Ford said cautiously, as quiet as he could muster.
“Ford?” Arthur answered with a fear as palpable as the hardened snow beneath his slippers.
“Stay very still for me,” Ford murmured, lowering himself to the ground like a stalking wildcat and reaching for his own weapon. Arthur couldn't bring himself to do anything but comply, fixated on the slow, reaching steps Ford took on all-fours, his hands plunging into the thick white blanket of the forest floor. This was extremely odd, Arthur thought. If those damned pheromones would wear off. . .
Ford was nearly at his feet now, but didn't acknowledge Arthur, peering through the triangle his legs made with the ground.
“Ford, what is it?” Arthur let out an exasperated gasp. The tension was overwhelming him, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up.
“In a second I am going to tell you to run,” Ford whispered, almost gleefully.
“Ford, can't you just say what's going—”
“Run!”
Ford sprang up, grabbing Arthur by the sleeve, and before he could begin to register what was occurring they were tearing their way through the forest, ducking heavy, dark branches as they came swinging towards them. Just when Arthur was barely managing to keep his wits about him, he heard the snarling, heaving breaths of something pursuing them, its heavy feet churning up snow like smoke in its wake. The terror made him lightheaded; the surroundings seemed to swirl about him in zebra-striped streaks.
“Quick!” Ford suddenly tugged him rightwards, bringing him stumbling sideways. The beast was sent lumbering into a thick trunk, staggering back up before it resumed its chase. Arthur’s legs were burning—he’d never been the picture of fitness, and their diet as of late had been the meagre pickings of the frozen taiga. Running dizzyingly cold, his blood seemed insufficient to carry him on any further, and he buckled, tumbling to the ground. Ford’s grip was such that he plummeted too, the heap of the two men writhing about, stunned. The vast creature lunged for a swipe.
“Ngahhhh!” came a snarl from the auburn mass of hair entangled with Arthur as Ford jabbed his spear up at the paw the size of a dinner plate. It embedded itself in the beast’s wrist, who fell back with a yowl, waving its paw about in a frantic attempt to dislodge it. A damp, leathery nose twitched down at the pool of red spreading outwards in the snow, then back at the two with what Arthur could only assume was bemusement. Raising itself into a sulky saunter, it retreated.
“Zarking hell,” Ford rasped, “Where did that thing come—mmm. . .”
His mouth was muffled by the sudden intrusion of Arthur’s lips thrust against his own, a burst of warmth on his face. Arthur pressed in tightly, pulling him closer by his upper arm. The adrenaline subsided in favour of a surge of relief, of glorious exhilaration at the fact of being alive. And just for one, beautiful second, Ford didn’t seem to mind.
“I—er,” Arthur garbled as he recoiled, his face boiling. “The pheromones! Perhaps the bear was drawn to the pheromones.” He prayed the change in topic would work as he extracted himself from the Betelgeusian. The alien, he reminded himself.
Ford shrugged. “I never quite got to the part of the course where we refined it all. Maybe the creatures on this planet go loopy for it.”
“Yes!” Arthur cried in poorly concealed desperation. “Loopy, that’s right. Pesky pheromones. Well, everything’s got to have its drawbacks, eh?”
For a moment, Ford stared somewhere in the middle ground wistfully before looking up at Arthur and nodding in the affirmative. “Pheromones or no pheromones, I’m still bloody hungry though. Let’s try to find something to eat that won’t kill us in the process.”
It didn’t take long for them to realise they were completely and utterly lost, but in all the despair and frustration, Arthur kept his gaze on the trees ahead. He’d already failed to keep up his restraint once today—he couldn’t risk looking at Ford and letting it go again.