He measures the seconds in snowfall, fury and fear overlapping into a familiar knot of helplessness. There's no choice here. He could run, but Jack would stop him. Every time he plays the scenario out in his mind it ends with Oliver back here, in the spirit's chosen shelter, maybe tied up next time, or half-frozen, or completely disarmed.

Oliver edges his way around to the corner of the building, toward the rest of the village, keeping his eyes on Jack. When he reaches the place where he has no choice but to break eye-contact if he wants to keep moving, he knows he's made the inevitable decision. Defeat stings - but he's alive and in better health than he would be if he bolted.

The fire is low when Oliver ducks back under the overhang of the shelter's roof. He builds it up gently, letting the heat scald his fingers back into feeling. With the ebb of confrontation comes exhaustion, and Oliver is sorely tempted to bundle himself into the blanket and sleep until Jack decides it's time for them to talk.