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Believe it or not, Gareth has not, in fact, fallen into a hole somewhere and died. He is sitting on the porch of the Orkney's little cottage, carving away with a little knife at a bit of wood he found somewhere or other. He's not had much practice at it, but it seems to come easily to him, as most things do. Stuck on a rough spot, the knife slips and he nicks his finger. He jerks backwards, surprised, and bumps up against the wall behind him. This looses a clump of snow from the roof, which falls, quite perfectly aimed, onto Gareth's own head.
Wherever he's been, he hasn't changed.
Wherever he's been, he hasn't changed.