"The rear part of the plane was the part that survived. The part they were sitting in." Courfeyrac tightens his hold on Bahorel's hand as Bahorel's eyes go unfocused for a moment. "Bahorel? You all right?"

Bahorel shakes his head, growling low in what's probably frustration, and his eyes refocus.

There's no time to worry about Bahorel as the plane lurches again, metal screaming loud enough to drown out the terror of the passengers. And it is terror in the air, a thick, sour, horrible smell and feel that seems to beat physically against Courfeyrac with each pounding of his heart. "The back of the plane! Get to the back of the plane!"

He doesn't know how many hear him. Some, apparently, because a few passengers drive further back, attendants shoving them into seats and securing oxygen masks on them before belting themselves in.

Then there isn't time to act anymore, and Courfeyrac loses all sense of what's real and what isn't as a dragon tears apart the metal griffin they're riding within, dropping everyone into the cold sea. He barely manages to keep his hand locked on Combeferre's arm as the world seems to shift and swerve in nonsensical ways before they come to a bone-jarring stop amidst a deluge of water and personal effects as carry-on bags slide from the overhead compartments.