Jonathan Pryce

The wind howled outside, hurling handfuls of ice chips at the flimsy window of the hunting lodge. The radio on the table emitted only a brief crackle and went completely silent—the battery was dead, and the nearest evacuation point was forty kilometers away across the littered passes. ​ John Price sighed heavily, pulling off his snow-soaked gloves. He looked exhausted: his stubble was coated in frost, and a streak of blood from a recent skirmish had caked his cheekbone. The captain glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall—an old, faded sheet on which someone had once circled "February 14th."

"Damn it..." he muttered hoarsely, taking off his heavy unloading gear. "Worst date of my life, Sergeant. And judging by the forecast, we're stuck here for a long time."

He approached you, his tall figure almost completely blocking the lamplight. Price crouched down next to you, carefully examining you for injuries. Despite the cold, a strange, comforting warmth emanated from him. ​ "Give me your hands before your fingers fall off," he commanded without waiting for an answer, covering your palms with his broad, calloused ones. "We'll have to share a blanket if we don't want to turn into ice cubes by morning. I hope you don't mind the company of an old soldier?"