YGRITTE
The horseless carts flashed strange sorcerous lights in white, red and blue from their 'eyes' and what looked like a headdress atop their roofs. Their voices sang so loud that it hurt the ears, the song a strange horn call mixed with the screech of a thousand sled-dogs. The noise warbled back and forth. The machines' metal skins were a shining white with black flanks and covered in the runes the Canadians called their 'alphabet', declaring that they belonged to the police.
Suddenly the calls ceased, leaving only the low growling, the same as the crawlers had when standing idle but awake. A cheer went up from the many that had went to the place of ritual to watch. Inside the glass that allowed the riders to see beyond the cart's insides while driving it forward, the lawspeakers grinned, just as pleased as the Laughing Tree was outside.
Ygritte took some joy in the moment. Such a sound could only strike fear in the heart of the kneelers. Perhaps even the Others would stop and take pause long enough to be killed by the mighty weapons of the Canadians. Sayer had told all that the arrival of the two extra vehicles was unexpected but welcome, a present from the police of Canada to those that had come to this world.
By now, there was not merely one of the 'crawlers' but many, lined up in a row. They were so similar that it was as if some god had made them from bronze, using the same mold. The same shape, the same colour, the same glowing 'headlights', the same sheets of clearest crystal glass to block the weather from the faces of those inside. Only the runes on the front and back of each were different. There were more vehicles with wheels too, painted the same dark green.
Canadians were busy with the lot of them, packing up the many things sent through from their homeland. They were almost done too.
The instance of happiness withered quickly though, and Ygritte found bitterness rise in her throat again. The altar was not far away. Again she imagined Michael Duquesne walking towards it, his body bared and painted with runes, willingly laying on the stone as a Green Man waited to plunge a dragonglass dagger into his heart. The waking-dream made her skin crawl in fear, her fingers and toes curl in anger.
That idiot, she thought to herself for the fiftieth time, He was going to abandon me.
"Ygritte!" called a voice. She snapped out of her thoughts, and found Ryk approaching, wearing his smile when something amusing was about to happen and he wanted to share it. It quickly died, replaced with concern.
"What's wrong?" Ryk asked.
Ygritte turned her head away from him. It would not do to admit what was bothering her, not again.
"Are you still mooning over Duquesne and his sacrifice?" Ryk asked, gently taking her by the shoulders, "Clan sister, you must put that aside or put him aside."
Ygritte tried to keep quiet, but the anger bubbled out of her. "He stole me from Rattleshirt's warband, from the White Walkers, while the Thief was in the Moonmaid."
"He's an outlander, Ygritte. He doesn't know what that means."
"I told him! And he accepted me! Then he goes and says he'll get himself killed."
"To save his people. That's what chiefs and kings do, put their tribes first. The gods know this, and so do you. If you didn't want that, you shouldn't have let yourself be stolen by a chiefly man."
"He was mine," Ygritte said, before regretting it. She sounded like a whiny child even to her own ears.
Ryk sighed heavily, releasing her shoulders. "Aye and he's a fool for not seeing that he still is," he said, "But to speak for him, there're many matters to look to. There's still a war." He thumbed at the Canadians.
Ygritte finally looked back to him. "That's not a reason to forgive him."
She did not like the pity in his eyes when Ryk shrugged and waved her off. "That's your path to choose. But come. Duquesne wants to introduce the Canadian chiefs."
Ygritte felt a lump in her throat. She didn't feel like doing anything but be alone. But she knew this was a childish feeling. She was a woman-grown, a spearwife and chieftess of the Laughing Tree. I'll not wither and crawl into a hole over any man. "Aye, I'll come," she said, "Nothin' better to do."
Ryk sniffed, restraining a laugh. He always had been able to know what she felt. She punched him on the arm for it.
The gods were not pleased with Ygritte.
When she arrived among the Canadian tents made of their strange and colourful materials, Michael Duquesne was laughing and japing with his sergeants. She could have strangled her clan brother at that moment, until he glanced back at her to say he was sorry. He must not have known, she decided, else he would have not invited her to speak her piece of the tale to come.
Sitting on strange seats made of canvas hanging on crossed metal poles, Duquesne and most of the Sergeants lounged about, drinking from their strange metal tubes. Free Folk were there too, sitting on fur bundles and drinking ale from horns. Val the Princess stood by her Stark husband, the two leaning in to speak into one another's ear. Marcach sat with two of his own tribe, and Sayer's women crowded around him, chattering among themselves except for the quiet warg Iola as well as the favoured and tall Grette.
Despite herself, Ygritte's eyes met Michael's for a moment. A mix of want and anger swirled in her stomach the moment she did, as she rounded the Canadian section and found a place by Sayer. The younger Canadian leaned around his favoured spearwife and smiled. "Hey Ygritte, thanks for coming," he said, "We're going to introduce you guys. I know maybe you don't want to be here, after I told you about the Lieutenant and the sacrifice thing..."
Ygritte smiled back, cheered up a little by the man's own good humour. "We fought the White Walkers, Louis Sayer," she said, "You did not mean to tell me either. Though I wish you'd have let me have the Walker I had under my knife. All I got was the last o' its life. Could've used your not-magic stick to break his leg for me."
Sayer shook with quiet amusement for a moment. "You didn't need it," he said with a wave, "I would be dead if you hadn't been there to get in his way. You killed that one just as much as I did."
Ygritte supposed that was true. The killing of the White Walker had been desperate, and she had shaky legs for hours after the fight had stopped.
"If only I had been there," Grette said, "Instead I was stuck swinging a torch at mouldering corpses, clacking their teeth at me."
"You'd be dead," Iola replied, causing the other women around to nod and jeer, "You're not quick and darty, like Ygritte." Indeed, her fellow spearwife was tall and built wide at the hips and chest.
Grette was not perturbed, instead draping her arm over the young Canadian and pulling him close to her. "You would have saved me, wouldn't ya, Louis Sayer?"
"Of course," Sayer replied cheerily, "I'm a warrior of Canada, aren't I?"
Grette's lips quivered, like that wasn't quite the answer she was seeking, and this drew a rare throaty chuckle from Iola that spread all the way to her bright green eyes.
Ygritte watched this all and wondered bitterly why she couldn't have that with Michael. It seems so simple. Once again, her gaze was drawn towards him. She found him stealing looks at her right back. Gods, no, he's abandoned you for his duty and done nothin' worthy of forgiving what he did.
There was no lingering on the matter. A strange Canadian woman appeared. She was wearing pieces of glass in front of her eyes in a metal frame, drawing the attention of most. This was a 'doctor', a head-maester, of which there were many among those that Bloodraven kidnapped.
A shiver went down Ygritte's spine. Bloodraven was an old name among her people, a hated name. That he was still alive and apparently had sorcery enough to kidnap those from another world was a no-good omen.
The 'doctor' was accompanied by two others, one man and one woman, both of whom were unremarkable except being pretty in that Canadian way; clean teeth, good skin, taller than most. Duquesne had once told Ygritte it was because they all ate well and kept clean, and that more people had trouble with being thin than being hungry. She had scoffed at that then, but seeing his countrymen made her think about it again.
Michael Duquesne stood up and clapped his hands together to get the attention of all the circle.
"Thank you for coming," he said in the Common tongue, "We have a new gaomilaksir, a new set of commands from our Queen and her ministers." He waited for the Zheng to translate before continuing.
"But before we talk about that, I'd like to introduce these men and women. They fought with me against our enemies back on our world, and I trust them with my life." Zheng again translated for the Canadians. She did not look pleased about it.
Ygritte saw Marcach's head move, his gaze falling on every Canadian at the other side of the circle. "I am honoured to meet warriors and brothers of the Wallbreaker," he said, more formally than Michael expected, "Your nation is strong. As chief, I was wise to decide on joining it."
"Aye," Ryk agreed, raising his drinking horn, "We salute you, Wallbreaker!"
Every Free Folk with a drink in their hand raised it too, causing Michael Duquesne to grin widely. His Sergeants made some words at this. Ygritte understood maybe two words in five of what was said, and they were the sort of jeers that friends and clan brothers made to one another. They are his brothers, she realised, Like Ryk to me, in all but name. She noticed one or two who did not share in the good fun. Perhaps not all are brothers.
One Sergeant stood up and said something cheerily to Marcach and Ryk.
"Good to meet you too," Sayer translated, "He asks if he can have a horn?"
Ryk was happy to grant it, and rushed to fill one from an open cask. The Canadian went and took it when it was offered, his fellows watching closely as he tasted the stuff. Warm, was the response, But good. Ygritte knew enough of the Canadian words to understand that much. The others were not so eager to try it even still.
Michael gestured to the man. "That is Sergeant John Schafer, Elector of Weyburn," he said, "Also known as Cue Ball, because he's pale, bald and hits things."
The Sergeant was tall like Michael, though he had more muscle and stubble that was brown in some places, fair in others. Ygritte had no idea what a 'cue ball' was, but after Zheng had relayed the words, John Schafer ran his hand over his round bald head. It did look like a ball, and she snorted.
"Next is Sergeant Alastair MacDonald, Elector of Strathcona," Michael said, "We call him Moustache. No need to explain that one." This man was shorter, with wilder eyes… but the skin between his mouth and nose was a dense forest of wiry brown hair.
"Aye," said Ygritte flatly, "'tis as fine a lip rug as I've seen. You'd need an axe to get through it." Michael and O'Neill had a little chuckle at that, joined by all but MacDonald himself when Sayer repeated it in English.
The Sergeant twisted the edges of his moustache, as if it had curls at the tips. He said something, but Ygritte couldn't understand a word. She thought he might be speaking another language entirely.
"He says to laugh all you want," Sayer said, "But none of us could grow a moustache that thick."
"Why would I want to?" Ygritte asked. More laughs came from that.
Michael held up his hands for quiet. "Moving on… Sergeant Jozef Nowak, Elector of Surrey. Otherwise known as Bacon." This one had a large nose and round jaw, though he was just as formidable looking as the rest of the Canadian warriors.
Nowak barked a response, before smirking and adding more words.
"He says he's called Bacon he looks a little like a pig," Sayer explained, "But he's lucky because he also tastes good."
Howls of amused derision boomed from Ygritte and the Free Folk. All knew what he meant, but the plain meaning was more amusing to them. "He better not tell the cave-dwellers that," Marcach laughed, "They would love to chew through this one!" He spoke for all in the matter.
Michael gestured to the next man, his arms and back so thick with muscle that he looked like he might tip over. "This is Sergeant Artem Melnyk, Elector of Dauphin," Michael said, "We call him Terminator… That one is kinda hard to explain."
Ygritte made a face. She had no idea what the name meant.
"You know the big machine gun we have? Well, Melnyk used to be the man who would use that same kind of weapon among the soldiers under my command. Sometimes he would shoot it while standing up and walking, like a famous warrior from our myths called the Terminator."
Ygritte's eyes widened. The most powerful weapon of the Canadians save the 'C-Four' was the machine gun. Zheng had let her carry it once, it weighed more than even the heaviest battleaxe. And she knew these weapons jumped and fought whoever used them, like a crossbow bucking but many times stronger. The idea of someone standing up with it and shooting was nigh-unbelievable.
This Melnyk must be mighty, Ygritte thought. No small number of the women with Sayer were looking on in awe too. The Otherbane shan't have them all, it seems.
"Last among the warriors but not least, this is Sergeant Jeanne Portelance, leader of the military police, Elector of Regina," Michael said, pointing to the woman at the edge of the circle, "I have only known her since she came here, but everything I have seen so far has been good. Her job is to enforce our laws."
Portelance gave a weak wave. She was taller than Zheng, but not by much. Nor was she as formidable looking. But the other Canadians deferred to her in a strange way, and sat away from her.
"She is a lawspeaker?" Ryk asked.
"A sort of one," Michael said, clearly not sure of what that really meant, "But she's under my command while she's here. Do you want to introduce yourself, Ryk?"
Ryk decided to stand up, pressing his hand to his chest. "Longspear Ryk," he said, "One of the three chiefs of the Laughing Tree tribe. Like the Moustache, I need not say why they call me Longspear. Though I can show if someone wishes." He smirked and winked at Zheng, whose glare indicated she might like to bash his skull in with a rock. Groans went up from the Canadian contingent after the translation. Ryk is still Ryk. He should steal someone soon, before men begin to think he is nothin' but talk.
"Marcach, of the unicorn riders," said man himself interrupted, "The only other names I'm known by are Chief or Magnar. You may call me what you wish. I too ride beneath the banner of the Laughing Tree and the Maple Leaf. Lieutenant Duquesne has brought great fortune to my clans, I hope this continues now that more Canadians've arrived."
Schafer and MacDonald both mumbled their own greetings, which Sayer translated. Marcach inclined his head in acknowledgement, pleased with himself as he took another swig of beer.
All eyes turned to the last person in the circle who was unintroduced as yet; Ygritte herself. She put her bow over her head, slinging it across her body, before she put her hands on her knees. She locked eyes with Michael.
"I am Ygritte, first chief of the Laughing Tree. I was the first of my people to speak to a Canadian. I brought Michael Duquesne to our King, and spoke your favour. I gathered men and spearwives t' join you. I fought alongside you against the dead, the Crows and the kneeler Lannisters. We are more than allies…" She stopped, biting her lip for a moment in thought. What do I want to say? What should I say?
"We are bound by the blood we have spilled," she finished.
The rest of the audience exchanged glances, not sure what to make of that. Ygritte panicked. She had said too much. Getting up, her feet took her from the place and towards her own tent. I'm doomed.
Ygritte stewed in what she knew was self-pity. She'd lost everything she thought she'd been sent by the gods in what felt like no time at all. She wanted to forgive Michael Duquesne, put the whole thing behind her. But she couldn't. He hadn't said he was sorry. He hadn't said giving up his own life for others to go home was foolish and selfish.
The feeling boiled up to anger every now and then. At one point, she paced around her campfire, wondering how best she could get revenge for the insult paid to her. Killing Michael seemed impossible. She thought of stealing weapons and going back to Mance, letting the prisoners go free or going to the ritual altar and telling the other side that Michael had mistreated her.
The foolishness and selfishness of those actions cooled her down quickly. She wanted to hurt him, make him feel the way she was feeling, not betray him. The next flash of anger came, and she picked up her tent and furs, trudging off to a more lonely spot, a long away from camp. She found a place down the new road and by the shore. By the time she had set everything up again and lit another campfire, she was exhausted. She had been angry the whole time.
She went inside her tent and fell asleep. By the time she awoke, it was darker, only the flickering orange of the campfire coming inside from the opening. She didn't feel much better… just numb. The smell of something cooking and soon the sound of boiling water came over her.
Ygritte rolled over and found Ryk waiting outside for her, poking at the fire under a cooking pot. He must have kept it going after she had left it. With him were more faces, of an age with her from their village and those near it; stout Gunvar, thin Thomer, sharp-eyed Briya and a few others she knew less well. The ones she had convinced to follow the Canadians, the ones that had survived everything that had happened in the True North before they had come.
They all wore nothing more than their skins and fine shirts they had taken from dead Lannister kneelers. Gunvar's shirt had a hole in both the front and back, marked by a red stain where a Canadian bullet had went in and out. He only ever wore it as he ate and slept in the evening. The sun was still up, but the tall trees made their own darkness. This isle is cursed, not blessed.
"Wakey wakey," Ryk said, "We were worried 'bout you."
Ygritte grunted, not really wanting to say much about it. She stumbled out of the tent, half dressed, and joined the group by the flames. There was some stew roiling in the pot, almost ready. Its smell made her mouth water, as did the sight of little bobs of meat jumping up through the surface in between the vegetables.
"Rabbit," Ryk explained, sensing the question, "Thought you'd want to eat something… not Canadian right now."
"Thought right," Ygritte groaned, stretching out her legs. Gunvar's eye flashed towards them, wanting something he could not have. She glared at him, and the moment ended.
"Their food is too sweet 'nyway," Thomer insisted, running his fingers through his hair, "Or too hot."
"Spicy," Ygritte intoned in English, "That's their word for it."
"Aye," Ryk said, "They've a great many words."
"Too many."
They sat in comfortable silence for a little while, all of them staring at the fire and the pot. Ryk eventually grabbed up a stack of wooden bowls and some shiny metal spoons. "Looks about ready to me," he murmured aloud, his brow knit with concentration as he stirred the pot with an even larger metal spoon.
"Smells about ready to me," said Briya with a crooked smile, "Hurry up."
Ryk stuck his tongue out at her, but plunged the first bowl in anyway. He gave the woman a look and handed Ygritte the food, along with the spoon. She took both, but instead of eating, she held the polished steel spoon up to the fire, watching the light curve on it. It had been a gift from the Canadians, like so much else was.
How come they have such things? Ygritte asked herself, Why can't we make them? Why can't the kneelers? The thought disturbed her heart, making it feel like someone had closed their fist over it. She flipped the spoon over in her palm and used it to shovel the food into her. She felt better at once. The grease made the vegetables taste like meat, and each bite
"What'll you do?" Ryk asked, chewing away at his own food.
Ygritte could think of only one thing now. Escape. "Go back north," she said, "I don't trust the Starks. Marriage or no marriage, Jon Stark is not lord o' Winterfell. The kneelers will look for some way to turn against us. Mance'll need spears and bows."
Ryk made a face, like he had just bit into uncooked rabbit. Except it couldn't be that, he half-burned his meals. Lucky for us, he can't burn a stew. "The Stark won't dare undo what was agreed," he said, "The Canadians would declare war. And now all kneelers know what that means, as the Watch learnt."
Ryk knows nothing… Ygritte finished her bite before responding. Wouldn't do to spew rabbit when she wanted him to hear her. "The kneelers'll find some way to make it look like we're the ones breaking our word," she said, "That's their way. They don't hold t' oaths. They find tricky ways of getting around them while seemin' to keep them. The Canadians have a word for such people: Lawyers. The kneelers are fuckin' lawyers."
Briya snorted. "Sounds like Thenns," she said, "They do the same."
"Ice River clans and cave men too," Thomer agreed.
"Nah, they just stab you open-like," Ryk objected, "That's why you hang them if you catch 'em, there's no taking their word at all. Worse than kneelers, that lot."
"Mostly dead now," Gunvar said, "Wights got 'em and only Varamyr came away with his life. Lost 'is skins too. Last raven from the Wall said so."
"Good," Ygritte said, "Best thing that madman did for the Free Folk, gettin' them lot killed."
There were grunts of accord with that notion. The Ice River and cave tribes were deeply hated. None who were good of mind ever took women from them either. They corrupted the thoughts of whatever clan they joined, with the eating of manflesh and the worship of strange gods. Only the Others brought them to Mance, and only after battle.
Soon, eating took place over saying the words themselves. Ygritte began to feel better. The food filled her belly nicely, and the company was as familiar as could be.
It almost felt like the good days, when the return of the Others was just a rumour the greyhairs said was the Hornfoots trying to stir trouble, when the most Ygritte had to worry about was boys from the next valley trying to steal her. The chewing and slurping of the stew was the only thing that could be heard over the endless insects chittering in the trees.
Until it wasn't heard any longer.
The sounds of eating just stopped. Wondering if the rest of her company had all finished at the same time, Ygritte looked up from her bowl. Ryk, Thomer, Gunvar, Briya, they all sat absolutely still, their spoons and bowls held up but completely unmoving. Thomer's brow twitched slightly. Their skin seemed ghostly pale in the firelight. Their eyes all peered over her shoulder.
Ygritte turned one way, and found four Canadians, armed and armoured. They were standing in a line to the side of her tent in a line. Their rifles and carbines were raised and aimed at the others. Their helmets had the strange goggles that allowed man and spearwife to see through the dark in strange green hues, though they were pushed up out of the eyes of the warriors. How'd they get so close?!
Zheng was nearby, a look of boredom across her face. She didn't pay Ygritte the slightest mind, too busy watching Gunvar. She'll not explain.
A twig snapped in another direction. Ygritte found another four Canadians had appeared at the other side of the tent, moving into another line and bringing their own weapons up to point. She recognised one as Baldy Schafer, 'sergeant' and chieftain of the Canadians. Michael's brothers in spilled blood.
None of them said a word. Her head swirled with annoyance and fear. She splashed her stew a little throwing the spoon into her bowl so she could put it down. What's this about?
Michael Duquesne rounded her tent, hands resting on the butt of his rifle, just as armed and armoured as the rest. Ygritte burst to her feet. "What're you doing!" she demanded of him, "You decided you don't need us any longer?!" He did not answer. He gave her only the slightest glance, which sent a roil of frustration through her.
The dull clunk of a spoon on the bottom of a wooden bowl sounded. Ryk had taken back his senses, scooped up some more stew and put it into his mouth. "Have we offended ye, o' great leader of Canadians?" he asked in jest, though he was careful to not make it sound too mocking. He's afraid.
Michael smiled back, though somehow that was more menacing than if he had roared a warcry. "Not at all," he said, "Just doing things the proper way. According to custom, precedent… all those good things."
He's lost his mind. "Are you drunk?" Ygritte asked, "Have you been eating the mushrooms growing by the weirwoods?!" Such things had been known to cause madness in those not initiated as woodswitches.
"I'm perfectly sober," Michael responded, his tone sharp. Oh gods, has he really come to throw us away?
Ryk's eyes narrowed, as the others exchanged glances. "Good then," he replied, "Sit and eat with us. Speak. If you wanted us dead, you'd have shot us down like wolves already."
Aye, true, Ygritte thought, her heart thumping.
Duquesne clicked his tongue and thumbed towards at her. "Sorry Ryk, I'm busy."
Ygritte had had enough. She stormed over to him, and attempted to shove him with both arms. He barely budged. Her throat closed for a reason she couldn't understand. "Whatever game you're playin', get on with it!" she croaked, "Or go!"
Duquesne looked down at her with his dark blue eyes, and brushed a stray braid out of her face. Ygritte's insides squirmed, with something other than anger or sadness.
"Okay," he shrugged. Fast as a shadowcat, he ducked down and threw an arm around her waist. Ygritte half-shrieked when he rose again, this time with her thrown over his shoulder. She hung from there, head forward, legs splayed behind his back. Reaching for her knife, she found it wasn't there. She had left it in the tent. Gods curse it!
"Let me down, Michael Duquesne!" she roared, blood rushing to her head. She craned her neck to see what was going on.
Duquesne raised his rifle with one hand, balancing it on his hip as he aimed it at Ryk. "You going to have a problem with this?" he asked, "Am I doing it right?"
Ygritte shifted, and finally found an angle she was able to see from. Ryk and the others were grinning all-mad, on the edge of laughing themselves half to death. Gods take them.
"Aye, you're doing it right!" Ryk erupted, "I knew we'd make a man o' the Free Folk out of you, Michael Duquesne!"
The rest of them began to laugh too, shaking and curling over, their faces turning red.
"Not so much, I think," Michael replied, "You just stay there."
Ryk showed his palms, not making a fuss and unable to speak for the laughing.
"You come get me off o' here!" Ygritte called out, twisting to meet his eyes. Her clan-brothers and sister simply looked back at her with a smile and pitiful eyes. Fucking cowards, don't want to fight the Canadians, she told herself, before another part of her asked, But who would?
The fight escaped out of her for the moment. There was no way Ryk and the others could win. She went limp, wondering what she should do. Michael took her away along the coast, his warriors falling in behind him as he moved through the forest once more. They were all moving towards one of the crawlers, sitting in a lonely spot off the clearing of the trees.
He's stealing me, Ygritte realised, He's stealing me again! The fire of rage burst forth as a new flame again. He's not said he's sorry or that he'd not throw his life away! I'll not be stolen by such a man! She wriggled and squirmed, trying to get her hands into his face and force her to drop him.
"Hey, Ygritte, easy…" he began to complain, before she managed to grab his lower lip. She pulled and twisted, gaining a call of pain for her trouble, until she found herself falling.
They tumbled. Michael fell on top of her, the weight knocking the breath out of her lungs until he rolled away, groaning. She sucked in the air again, her back aching from where she had flipped off of his shoulder and hit the dirt.
"Sir?" asked Baldy Schafer, "You both alright?"
"No," Michael wheezed. Ygritte let out a chuckle of delight, the pain not enough to stop it. Aye, that's what you get for trying to steal me again.
"But I will be," he continued, sitting up, "Schafer, you go on ahead. Here is as good a place as any." He undid the clasp holding his rifle to its straps, and threw it to the man. Schafer caught it. "Zheng, you hang around over there by that tree, like we talked about."
"Sir," Schafer agreed, before waving the rest of the warriors to follow him. Ygritte watched them go, and saw Zheng wander away as commanded too, just out of earshot. She and Michael were now alone, save for her gaze on them both.
Ygritte sat up and waited. It was plain he wanted to do something, say something. Her palms itched as the words did not come. Gods, what is he waiting for! "What'd you want, Michael Duquesne?" she asked, all poison, "What's the Zheng doing over there?" The woman watched like a wolf watches its prey.
"Truthfully? She's making sure I don't fuck you," Michael stated at once, blunt as can be, "Laws, remember?"
Ygritte snorted. "You try to and I'll cut your cock off." With what blade?
Michael sighed and attempted to stand up. No you don't. Ygritte grabbed his arm and pulled, forcing him back onto his arse on the ground. He breathed out again. "Ygritte, I'm trying to do something here," he said, "Can you stop hurting me for a few seconds?"
"Steal a woman and you may get hurt," Ygritte sneered back, "The Thief isn't in the Moonmaid any more, Michael Duquesne."
He rolled his eyes and leaned back on his hands. "Well, excuse me for not consulting the damn stars when I decided to offend you."
"Should've thought of that before you decided you were goin' t' kill yourself."
"That's not what happened."
Liar. Ygritte fumed. She jumped him, slapping and pinching. He quickly grabbed her and threw her off of him. "Can I just talk to you for a moment?" Michael asked, "Without getting attacked?"
Ygritte bit her tongue. She wanted to hear what he had to say, but couldn't admit it. That would mean him winning. That wouldn't do.
He seemed to sense it. With a sigh, Michael moved closer to her, close enough to feel his breath her face and eyes wide with attention. Her heart did a little dance. Gods, what does he want?
"Fine, I'll just talk then. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the sacrifice, but I hadn't decided to do it yet. It would only have happened if there was absolutely no other way to get everyone home. And I know that's not good enough. I am sorry."
"You better be!" Ygritte burst out, before she could stop herself, "Leaving me in a foreign world or here among the kneelers, I won't have it! You hear?!"
Everything she had done for him weighed on her like stones now; keeping the others from doing foolish things, keeping them obedient, explaining why they needed to do this hard thing or that, holding them to the Canadian way of war… it was all exhausting, especially as she didn't always understand it herself.
Michael reached out and grabbed her hand, and gave it a squeeze. "That's all over, Ygritte," he said, "Bloodraven won't let us back until the Others are defeated. I need you."
Ygritte scoffed incoherently. "Need me to lead your Free Folk warriors, aye," she said, "But not as your woman. Else you'd not have said 'oh, please plunge a knife into me, Green Men, happy to do it.'"
Michael blew a breath out his lips. "I do need you for that," he admitted, "I have no problem saying so. There still aren't many of us, we still need all the help we can get."
Ygritte's breath caught. Gods, was he using me this whole time?
"But that's not why I am here," he continued, "Our dārion advised me to let you go, to just bribe you to do what we say. They'd prefer that I don't have a woman."
"I'm not so cheap," Ygritte replied, like a reflex, "I'm a spearwife, Michael Duquesne. You can only pay for me in blood."
Michael smirked. "Good, because I don't want a cheap woman," he said, "I already killed your warband to take you, remember? The chiefs back home advised me, they didn't order me. They said to make my own decisions, that's what I'm doing. Yes, for my own people, but also for me. I want someone who'll stand beside me, as you have already. Someone who understands what I need to do."
Ygritte breathed heavily, her body feeling less burdened. She was being convinced. No, not that easily. "I don't believe you."
Michael sighed and finally stood up again, groaning a little as he did. He offered his hand to help her up. She didn't need it, slapped it away and got to her feet without aid. He frowned down at her.
"Ygritte, at this moment, there are people under my command that think I'm taking advantage of you…"
Ygritte had never heard something so mad in her life. "You're taking advantage?!" she piped up, shutting him up in an instant, "You couldn't take advantage if you'd caught six kneeler women naked and tied up in furs. I gave myself t' you after you refused t' take your due, Michael Duquesne."
"I know," he replied, sharply, "But others do not see it that way…"
"Point out these others," Ygritte growled, "So I'll cut their noses off, stop 'em stickin' it where it don't belong!"
Michael opened his mouth, but closed it again quickly. Slowly, a smile spread his lips, a knowing smile. Ygritte realised her mistake at once. I said too much.
"So you do care," he said at last, "You do want people to know that I'm yours, of your own free will."
Ygritte rasped out a wordless objection. If she didn't speak, she knew she'd be here all night, denying him. The thought of that was worse than just surrendering the truth. "Aye, I want you," she said, "But I can't trust you. You'll just run off and die at the first opportunity t' save your people. As I said, I'll not be the one left behind."
Michael's chin lifted for a moment, as he looked up at the darkening sky, considering her words. The silence did not please her, and she felt herself grab the weave of her silk shirt.
"Want to know a secret?" he smiled, his voice almost a whisper.
"What?" Ygritte blinked.
"A secret? You know, something people aren't supposed to know?"
"I know what a secret is!"
He shushed her. "Keep it down… Do you want to know or not?"
Ygritte put her hands on her hips, glaring up at the man. I'll not get away unless I let him speak his piece, some swooning tale no doubt. "What secrets do you have?" she asked, just as quietly as he had spoken.
"One that'll matter," Michael replied, "The truth of our being here. Canadians, I mean."
"What truth?"
"We're never leaving."
Ygritte froze. That wasn't the fanciful thing she had expected. "You're never leaving?"
Michael shook his head. "I don't think so. The war with the Others is going to take years, and we're stuck dealing with the kneelers' wars too. Beyond that, the folks back home don't know enough to bring us back without doing what the Children and Green Men say is required. If we kill someone to go home, we might even be called murderers."
That was an old tale to Ygritte's ear. Making deals with sorcerers and greenseers was the way to get yourself killed or worse, and how to get you and your name cursed by men. Bloodraven was one such man. The Canadians didn't seem to know much about magic either. Their tools, for all their power, weren't magic. She knew that now, however much she called them sorcerous. They bent the world to their will through knowledge of the world itself.
"Aye, you'd be cursed," she conceded, "But why does that matter?"
"I'm not going anywhere," Michael replied, "I'm not going to jump on an altar to get sacrificed. Any danger I'll face, you can face too. It also means I need to think about how I want to spend the rest of my life, when all this is over… and who I want to spend it with?"
Warmth rose in Ygritte from within, melting her doubts and fears away from her throat and chest. Not so fast… "Aye, and you've a mess of fine Canadians to choose from now," she said, "I've seen them, Michael Duquesne. All fine-skinned, with nice straight teeth. Would'ya not prefer one of them?"
Michael rolled his eyes. "They weren't with me through everything we've been through. I'm used to you, I know you. I can love you. I don't know most of them, and most of them are no warriors. I need someone who knows what killing someone is like, Ygritte."
Ygritte frowned. Her eyes darted to Zheng. There sits a woman warrior who'd be worthy. She shook the thought off. She belongs to another anyway.
"Besides, there aren't any others that have been kissed by fire," Michael joked, picking up one of her braids and playing with the end of it between his fingers.
Ygritte's heart rose in her chest. She always did love her colour. "Aye, true," she conceded in better spirits, "Men have been known to do strange and terrible things for such a prize."
Michael nodded. "Like defy the advice of his Queen's chiefs," he said with a smile, before his face became serious. "Or steal a woman twice?"
"Aye."
"It seems you're my woman whether I like it or not. And I do like it, Ygritte."
She could've taken him right there and then. Her body began to ache for it. Oh he's all sweet words now, Ygritte thought, though she liked it much herself. "Aye, I bet you do like it," she said, taking back her braid, "Now that you've had a taste."
Michael snorted. "Well, there is that. But you chased me for moons. Don't think you meant to have me for just one night. Think there should a reward for that. So… You win, Ygritte."
He wants me. He doesn't want to abandon me. All traces of her previous despair smoked away, like steam off the surface of a hot spring. Her body seemed fortified, except for her legs, which wanted to fall out from under her. "What reward is that, Michael Duquesne?" Ygritte asked, as sly as she could.
The man looked her up and down hungrily, before he scratched his chin, glancing towards Zheng. "Not now, I ordered her to keep watch. Go back to your tent. I'll return in a while."
Ygritte breathed out with a new frustration, one of pleasure delayed. I'll not be denied. She turned towards their watcher. "Oi, Zheng!" she called, "Fuck off!"
The strange woman glared back with her endless black eyes in the last light of the day, an eyebrow cocked. "Or what?" she called back, "You don't command me, Ygritte."
"Or I'll cut you as you sleep!" Ygritte declared, "I swear on the gods, one night you'll never wake unless you fuck off now!"
"Ygritte…" Michael groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger.
Zheng shrugged. "Anyone ever tell you you're a bitch?" she said in the Canadian tongue. Ygritte gave her a filthy gesture in return, her knowledge of English enough to know what had been said to her. The Canadian warrior pushed off with her foot from the trunk of the tree she had been against and walked back in the direction of the road.
Both Ygritte and Michael watched until she was out of sight. It seemed to take a lifetime, every moment sending little shots of lightning across her skin with anticipation.
"That wasn't good," he began, as soon as they turned back.
Ygritte didn't care. She grabbed the webbing that strung around and over his armour, and moved back towards the nearest tree, pulling him along until her back was pressed against it and he was close enough to feel his breath. He steadied himself with both hands above her head to avoid falling head-first into it, almost trapping her.
Gods, now.
Michael Duquesne opened his mouth to speak.
"Shut up and get your clothes off," Ygritte commanded, preferring the action to the command as her fingers pulled at the buckles of his harnesses.