Voluspa Chapter 5: And Blooming Hue, a Game of Thrones + Worm Crossover fanfic

A/N: Chap 4 review responses are in my forums as normal. Thank you all for reading.

Chapter Five: And Blooming Hue

Taylor let the rain fall; it came in a dense curtain of cold water that swept across the column of Crows. For herself, she simply asked it not to fall on her, and so it did not. Only Two-Toes noticed as they made their way up the game trail that served as the road through the forest.

The muddy ground cushioned her feet and sped her steps, enough that she had no trouble keeping ahead of the column. Despite that, Two-Toes spurred his horse ahead enough to ride beside her.

He didn't offer her a ride; she wouldn't have accepted anyway. He simply rode beside her and observed how the rain never actually touched her.

"Ser Mattaus was an accomplished swordsman," Two-Toes said. "If a liar and a bastard aside. Chet was not so much a fighter, but Mez could hold his own. How'd they die?"

"Quickly," Taylor said without looking at the man. "They were not good men."

Two-Toes snorted. "Not many of those in the brotherhood are, beggin' pardon. Thieves, bastards, killers and rapers all."

Taylor hazarded a look. "Not all, Orban."

His face sobered. "How'd you know that name? Or that Ser Dalard was a Caswell bastard from Bitterbridge?"

"You look like an Orban. And he looks like a bastard."

The much older Crow snorted again, but said nothing else as they continued down the path. They finally reached the narrow trail that led to the clearing. She stopped at its mouth. Two-Toes maintained a position a few feet from her as the rest of the column caught up.

"Why've we stopped?" Ser Dalard said.

Soaked to the bone, the young knight looked utterly miserable.

"The bear cave?" Two-Toes directed the question to Taylor.

"Yes. The supplies are hidden behind protections only I can lift."

"That's convenient," Dalard said. He sneezed, then glared at Taylor. "Why aren't you wet?"

"Because I choose to be dry," Taylor said. "This way."

She turned into the narrow path before the Crows could speak. It was Two-Toes who called for the men to dismount and follow. It took quite a while for them to do so; Taylor did not wait, but she didn't rush either. After a few moments she could hear boots sloshing in the mud and detritus of the forest floor as they tried to catch up.

Because of her surer footing and head start, Taylor reached the clearing well before the men did. As she stepped out onto the rocky ground that separated the foot of the hill that held the cave from the lower forested area that ran down to the creek, she saw how her protective spells had caused bushes to crowd out the opening of the cave.

"Well, witch? Where are the supplies?"

She pointed her twin staffs at the cave. As she did so, she released her protections. The bushes that had grown up around the cave opening withered back, causing half the Crows to step back in alarm. Dalard continued to grip the hilt of his sword as he stared wide-eyed from her to the cave.

"Two-Toes?" He sounded less the braggart, and more the scared boy.

The older man made his way up the gradual stony slope until he stepped into the cave. He ducked his head in and was gone for a few moments before walking back out. "It's there," he called.

Taylor was looking at Ser Dalard even as Two-Toes checked the cave. She saw the treachery and the fear in his heart. With the confirmation that his goal was at hand, the young man decided then and there that she had to die; Taylor had no doubt White Tree would follow. She scared him too much for him to let her live, and his pride would allow no witnesses to that fear.

"Kill…"

She lifted her staff and summoned the storm.

"...her!"

Lightning blasted down from the overcast sky. Not one bolt, or two, but a thick coruscating river of plasma that latched onto the young knight and cooked his body from within right where he stood. The other Crows cried out and stumbled back in terror from the sight. Those three who pulled bows dropped their weapons, while others slipped and fell into the mud.

She released her anger; Dalard crumbled dead to the ground, steaming from the energy that cored his body. Taylor remained where she stood, untouched by the pouring rain. On the hill, though, she restored the protections. Two-Toes yelped as he scrambled away from the thick-growing bushes.

"My promise was dependent on you doing no harm to me or mine," Taylor said. "Ser Dalard betrayed that promise, and so your supplies are lost to you."

Two-Toes regained his feet and made his way down the hill, one hand on his own sword hilt. He did not draw, but neither did he take his eyes from her. "The young ser was a fool, but he was a brother of the Night's Watch. You've made a powerful enemy today."

"I defended myself from a hot-headed murderer. Do I not have that right?"

"Those north of the Wall are outside the law."

"You are all north of the wall as well. If what you say is true, then what crime has been done?" Taylor tapped her staff again, and upon her request the rain stopped. "This is my forest now, Orban. The people within it are under my protection. That is my law. And you now see that I can and will enforce my law. Do no harm to me and mine, and no harm will befall you. Betray that law, and the forest itself will destroy you. Tell your Lord Commander."

With her piece said, Taylor calmly walked to the fallen knight. His body was blackened and charred, his armor melted into his charred flesh. But his sword and knife in leather sheaths on a thick leather buckler remained untouched. She leaned down and removed it from the smoking ruin of the man. She noticed a purse attached and took that as well.

"Take his body back and burn it," Taylor said as she threw his belt over her shoulder.

Two-Toes had continued walking side-ways until he stood with the twenty other Crows. "You'd stand against all of us?"

Taylor stared intently at him as overhead the sky began to swirl into a funnel cloud. She remained still as the Crows ducked down in horror.

"Your leader was an ass, Two-Toes. Don't die for him."

She waved her hand, and the funnel cloud broke apart. Whatever fight the Crows had in them was now thoroughly gone. She remained still, watching as the realization made its way through the collection of weak, tired souls that they could leave alive, if they just left.

"The Highborn usually are asses," Two-Twos said. "We'll leave you be. But mark me, child. You've killed three brothers of the Watch, including two ordained knights. Bastards or no, that is a thing the Lord Commander can't let go."

"I'll be right here," Taylor said simply. "Go back home, Orban. You're a decent man with a good soul. I'd hate to have to kill you."

Orban Two-Toes glanced back at his terrified men and made his decision. "I'd hate to have to die." He stood straight, let his hand fall from his weapon, and then walked over to gather the charred remnants of young, dead Ser Dalard. He left without another word, and the other Crows followed likewise.

Taylor followed their progress through the forest until they reached their horses and began their long trek back to their Wall. She paused, the laughed. "As you wish," she whispered, laughing at a long-beloved story.

~~Voluspa~~

She sat on the stony slope just under the cave. She'd slipped her blindfold off and held the two long branches of the god tree on her thighs as she stared around the clearing. The sounds of life picked up again when she settled; she heard birds chirping, whistling and otherwise crying to find a mate. She heard a bird that sounded almost like a blue jay singing about how strong and high his nest was.

Chipmunks darted through the trees in their endless quest to gather enough food to survive the long winter. None of the spirits knew when that winter would come, but they knew it was going to come eventually. Winter was hard, the whole forest told her.

Over the birds and other animals; over the wind in the leaves of the endless trees and the thick underbrush, she heard the rush of water. "That's right, there's a stream," she noted to herself. It was fast moving and deeper than what ran by White Village. She had fresh, clean water, at least.

Her bifrost eyes found the stream easily, but as she looked she saw other things she never noticed before. There was a pear tree near the stream, though not fruiting yet. She saw small squash growing amidst the underbrush, and wild onion and garlic. There were even a few wild radishes.

Mushrooms sprouted on fallen logs, and their spirits spoke not of poison but of life and nourishment. Her steps took her back down the hillside as she drifted into the forest, exploring all of the life and potential there. As the birds sang to her in greeting and the trees whispered their respect, she walked along the stream where she saw outcrops of limestone and clay, and trees struggling desperately against each other for light.

She stopped at one of the more common trees-one that looked almost like a red cedar. Curiously, she pulled at its fibrous bark, only to see with surprise that new bark was growing under it.

"It sheds," she whispered to herself in delight. She looked at the truth of it, and the strong, steady spirit within, and realized just how much she could use this shed bark for. With the fibrous material, she could make everything from clothing to paper!

Now that the dread of danger eased to the back of her mind, Taylor realized that she could not have asked for a better spot to homestead. And by homesteading here, making herself a target, perhaps she could make White Tree a little safer.

With the sun setting, Taylor walked back to the cave to take stock of what she had to work with. The cave itself was roughly the size of the bathroom in her old house, minus cabinets and accessories. The supplies took up one whole side of the cramped, smelly space. As darkness fell outside, she sat down and studied the largest of her pilfered supplies.

The large wooden chest creaked in the shadow of the cave when she opened it. With her eyes, there was no dark or shadow, and so she saw everything within it regardless of the cave's dark interior.

It was a tool chest. Not just any tools, either. It held four types of axes, a gimlet, auger and brace, a compass, square and ruler, three types of saw, an adze and planer, chisels and gouges, hammers and crowbars and even a large leather bag filled with primitive iron nails. The level was an A-shaped wooden frame with a plum drop and string. At the bottom of the chest, she saw a whetstone for sharpening.

Considering she appeared to be stuck in a medieval-era world, the tools she held would have been crafted by a blacksmith, one at a time, and were probably worth a fortune-assuming ten gold dragons was a fortune. "No wonder they wanted it back," she muttered.

The rest of the supplies were just that-bags of white beans, a second wheel of wax-sealed cheese, bags of flour and seed. She found a cast iron pot and pan for cooking, a sewing kit for repairing clothing. She even found a spindle and wool carders, as if the men were expecting to get access to sheep. She had no doubt she could use them on the bark.

The two Crows she killed weren't just deserting-they fled with the intent of homesteading themselves.

And they thought Morag would make a perfect wife.

Regardless of how she came into possession of it, Taylor found herself with several days worth of food, seed to grow more, and the tools necessary to make herself a home.

~~Voluspa~~

On the morning of her first full day in exile to hopefully keep White Tree safe, Taylor left the cave and walked out from her hill, past the stream, and onward until she found a young, strong bald cypress that had the promise of centuries ahead of it.

She placed her hand on the tree and spoke the words to anchor powerful wards of protection and awareness. When she lifted her hand away, a silver palmprint remained embedded in the bark. Rather than hurt the tree, she could feel how her magic strengthened it.

Her steps carried her to another tree, and a third after. Over the course of the morning, she cast a web of gentle protective magic around the entire hill and its surrounding land. By the time she came back around, she could see the slight shimmer in the air between the trees, and the aura of power that hung in the sky overhead. Mortal eyes would miss it, but to her eyes it reminded her of the air around their cabin in the White Mountains.

"The walls are up, time to start planting a garden."

As she caused the dense underbrush to release itself, saving only a few berry bushes, Taylor couldn't help but feel a little guilty. Shaen, Nob and Kern had to do back-breaking work to make their small field produce any food at all. They had to clear the weeds and rocks by hand. But the spirits in the soil and stone were so strong, and so raw, that Taylor only had to ask them to comply for the stones to leap from the ground and roll toward the base of the hill where she hoped to use them for other purposes.

Vanir spells burned weeds and underbrush away, leaving two raspberry bushes and a bilberry bush untouched. The soil writhed for her, churning itself in anticipation of the beans she planted. She planted the rye seeds in long rows a few yards from the edge of the stream, and even replanted wild garlic, radish and onion she found in the forest. When she was done, she stepped back from the beginnings of a garden her mother would appreciate.

There were no olives for oil, but with a nearby pear tree and the berries, she would have some fruit in her diet.

She found a fallen branch as she walked, and broke it into pieces before lighting a small fire with a spoken spell. Using some of the stones she freed, she built a rough stone cooking surface and made a lunch of plain flour flatbreads and a slice of the hard, crumbly cheese melted onto the bread.

As she ate, she studied the clearing at the base of the hill while her thoughts went back to the cabin her father built in the White Mountains when she was very little. She remembered everything, going as far back as age three or four. One memory that stood out was dad making his own pine tar to treat the foundations for the cabin.

"The foundation timbers will rot without it," he told her when she asked what he was doing.

"Can't you buy some?"

"Why pay others, when I can make it myself?"

Her mother had memories of her people making huge pine tar pits, but Dad just used an old oil drum and a large clay pot under it, and could make two to five gallons of pine tar in a single drum. The trick was to cause the fatwood to burn in a low-oxygen environment that would melt the resin into tar. It usually ended up with charcoal after.

Dad did it by hand-like everything, he seemed more content when he was building things. But she had to wonder if she couldn't take some shortcuts. After all, she was a goddess.

But she wasn't the goddess she used to be. Telos of America could have lifted the largest trunks of the largest trees without issue, and fly through the air to position them. She could have built a log mansion without difficulty, if she had the time, resources and desire.

Telos of the Trees had no wings to fly, and had no Olympian ichor to give her the strength of Hercules. Anything she built a home out of would have to be something she carried by hand.

With that in mind, she made another pass through her claimed land. Her steps led her to the head of the creek and the small lake there. The water had a few hardy fish that somehow survived when the water froze during winter-it was deep enough that some portion always remained liquid.

The banks on the left were composed of a thick, ruddy clay, while a cliff of limestone rose up on the right.

Her father preferred working with wood; she certainly had the tools. But Taylor could summon fire with a word, and enchant kilns to burn without fuel. She made her way back to the cave and studied the low, sloping rock. Kneeling down, she spoke a prayer to the stone. It snapped under her hand and came away in a thick wedge. She turned the wedge upside down on the higher part of the uncracked stone, and with another prayer merged the stone back together. It created a nearly level section of rock and a foot-deep indentation beside it.

"Power of the air, sea and earth, and all the spirits therein," she whispered to herself. "I'm going to build a house, Dad. Just like you did. No wolves will be able to huff and puff and blow mine down."

~~Voluspa~~

During the sixth night of her stay in the cave, she woke to an unearthly moan so deep she could almost feel it through the stone of the cave floor. She sat up in alarm, and in so doing heard deep, massive barks, growls and yips. Her magical protections detected no humans, nor any supernatural threats.

She turned her bifrost eyes through the hill itself, and on the far side away from the stream and her still lacking homestead, she saw a battle of titans.

The elk-because from the antlers alone it couldn't be anything else-stood easily a dozen feet high at the shoulders with antlers that spanned the width of a gondola. And attacking it?

The mottled gray wolf was almost the size of a horse. It danced about on long, loping legs as it tried to dash in and hamstring the massive animal. Taylor looked, but she couldn't see any other wolves in the area. The giant wolf fought alone, desperately trying to take down prey nearly twice its size.

Ravens and crows called excitedly for the promise of blood while the floor of the forest shook from the titanic battle. As Taylor focused further, she saw where the wolf had scored several bites low on the great moose's belly. For all the giant animal's struggles, she could see it had already been partially disemboweled. No matter what, the bull would not survive.

He was not, however, ready just to die.

Taylor watched, her breath hitched in her throat, as the hungry wolf went again for the moose's hamstring. This time, the moose landed a powerful kick with its hind leg that sent the great wolf flying off its paws and into a towering soldier pine. Needles drifted down around it as the moose snorted in mortal agony, stared at the injured predator that killed it, and then knelt down with a low, keening moan to die.

Her bifrost eyes drifted to the small acorn on the weirwood branch. It was whispering to her, singing almost. She took the acorn from its fragile perch and held it in her hand. In a flash, she suddenly recalled a memory from her mother's brisingamen-of a sacred wood in ancient Sweden, where hung seven males of every species.

The blood sanctified the trees and the soil to the gods. It was barbaric, and the memory at the time horrified her. But for the goddess Freya, it was beautiful.

The vision ended seconds after it began, but as she stared down at the acorn she understood. The weirwood trees were born from blood and sacrifice. A small part of her wondered if what she just witnessed was because of the acorn in her hand.

She left her cave with Dalard's fine sword belt about her waist and crossed quickly over the stony hilltop until she arrived at the scene of battle. The air smelled of blood and musk. She walked toward the dying elk, drawn by its heavy, rattling breath. As she knelt down beside it, a massive eye the size of a baby's fist regarded her wanly.

It bled heavily from its neck and torn belly. With her finger, she pushed a hole into the sod where the blood pooled and pushed the acorn in. With that task done, she ran her hand gently over the animal's head and sang softly a Vanir song of passing. It sighed as its pain faded before her magic, until finally the body died. She felt its gentle spirit come loose and sink into the soil where the acorn was. There was not enough energy for her to harvest for her magic, but she eased its passage back into the earth. The spirits there greeted the newcomer as an old friend.

When it was done, she found herself next to two tons of meat, skin, sinew and bone. The skin alone was large enough to carpet a huge room.

A whimper drew her attention to the wolf. It lay where it landed, its icy blue eyes staring at her through the dark. She saw the truth of it, and opened her mouth in surprise at the creature's intelligence. He knew he was dying; he knew the hunt was a risk driven by hunger. In his eyes she could see an even larger wolf chasing him away from the meat he brought to the den. The bodies, Taylor realized. The wolf had taken the two bodies to his den, only to be chased off by his own father. He'd matured, and so it was time for him to leave.

Not a pack, just his parents and two younger siblings. The wolves were too large for any area to support more. And so he was driven away to survive or die as fate allotted.

She moved closer, and instead of baring his teeth, the wolf laid his head down and exposed his belly. He seemed to be asking her to sing his soul into the earth as well, as if he recognized she was more than mortal. She knelt down and ran her hand through his fur. His injuries were severe-a shattered hind hip and leg. It was the kind of injury that would take days to kill the poor creature.

"I'm so lonely," Taylor said. It was the first time she'd voiced the thought, but the moment she did so the loneliness came crushing down on her. She missed Sarah, Marie and Shay terribly. How she missed her father and Kurt and Lacey and all the others! She even missed Morag and her family. She'd been letting herself go through the motions of survival, but as she knelt down beside the dying wolf, she realized how much the loneliness hurt.

The great wolf lifted his head, as if to say that the earth called him home. Nor was he wrong-she could feel the spirits of the trees and soil around her inviting him to return, just as they accepted the moose he killed. In death, all things were equal.

"Life can be sweet," she whispered to him. She spoke her mother's childhood tongue-the first language of the gods. Though the wolf was of a different world, it was his soul she spoke to. "You could stay with me. I could heal your wounds and give you shelter. I could be your pack, if you wished for it."

Because she spoke the First Tongue, the wolf knew the truth of her words and the power of her soul. He licked her palm, and she could feel the oath he made in doing so.

"Rest, while I gather what I need," she told him.

Standing, she looked around at the clearing where they stood. Dozens of eyes stared back from the dark-foxes and wolverines, forest cats and other predators hung just on the edge of the treeline.

Taylor raised her hands and sung in Vaniri. "This kill and this hunter are mine. You will have only what I share, when I choose to share it. Until then, come no closer!"

She reinforced her will through the spirits. The air howled with her words, swirling away dead leaves and pines into a low line around the clearing that exposed the underlying soil and hardy northern grasses. The spirits in the soil echoed her demands, and the predators that waited in the trees bowed their heads.

Soon she was gathering plants. Each of the plants spoke to her of the promise of healing and restoration. Soon she had the potion boiling over a quickly spell-cast fire, and as the ingredients melded together, she spoke words of blessing and healing and watched as her magic sprinkled into the pot.

When the potion took on a green fluorescence, she removed it from the fire and carried it over the hill. She could feel it cooling supernaturally fast in the brisk evening air. By the time she knelt with it before the injured wolf, it was barely room temperature.

"Drink," she said. "Drink and be restored."

A tongue larger than her face reached into the pot and withdrew a solid cup of the potion. Almost immediately the wolf sat up as the magic infused its body, and eagerly licked the pot clean. He turned and licked at his flank as he stood and tested the restored limb. Taylor rose, but even so the wolf's head was even with her face and his shoulders even taller. The ice-blue eyes stared into her bifrost ones.

"Flurry," she said. "May I call you that?"

He licked her, ducking his head so that she could scratch behind his ears. "We have work to do, Flurry," she said. "We'll feast well tonight. I don't need much meat-you've earned the largest share. And White Tree could use some as well. But there's much to harvest beside meat. Like leather and fur. I don't know about you, but I don't like being naked."

Flurry licked his chops, more than eager to help her process his sorely-won kill.