The sad irony of all of this is that he does understand, in a way more intimate than perhaps anyone else here — That white-hot flash of madness when reality has stepped on your neck one time too many, when the centre has finally proven it cannot continue to hold. It's a baptism, that sort of madness, and he wouldn't dare try to wrench it from her had he any other choice.

But she isn't going to die here, from this. Not while he draws breath.

"They're getting her," he presses to her ear, as calm as he can make his voice while panting with the effort of holding her back. "Rose, they're getting her." It's a lie, perhaps, but he delivers it as a solemn truth, barely past his lips before her flailing sends them both splashing down onto their arses in the shallow water.

He does not, even for a blink, loosen his grip. Not even now, seated with her between thighs that he wraps fast around her waist just in case, the water lapping in against her lean, splashing legs. He pulls her tighter, his breath hot at her ear.

"You be as angry as you like, scream as loud as you like, beat the bloody shit out of me," he huffs, and then swallows, his throat bone dry. "I'm not letting you go. You hear me, Rose? This is what you would do for her, you'd not let her go, either."