The calm caused by Michael and the others showing up lasted only a few minutes.

The random civilians huddled together even closer than when they arrived, their faces lit from below by camp lights and their eyes searching the darkness of the trees beyond for the Children of the Forest.

The soldiers of the First Battalion and the military police all maintained their discipline and their cordon around the civvies, outwardly. Every few seconds, they would steal a glance at Michael, before returning their watch on the assembled Laughing Tree tribe. It was very easy to notice, because the beams of their flashlights would turn too.

Every glance seemed to increase the pressure he was feeling. All wanted answers.

All except Corporal Teixeira, now Master-Corporal Teixeira it seemed. His face was unreadable, most likely because Sergeant MacDonald was standing right beside him, but Michael didn't need to see emotion on his face to know exactly what the man was thinking. He was certainly unimpressed with the declaration that Westeros might as well be Hell.

Little shit would have preferred I stay lost. Time to prove him an asshole. It wasn't hard to decide what to do next.

"Sergeant MacDonald, I'm taking command," Michael stated, returning his gaze to the Scottish NCO, "Get the civilians sitting down. Put Teixeira on getting a full account of who came through, and grab the section 1ICs and bring them here. We need a huddle on what's going to happen next."

The man paused before answering, suggesting he might object to Michael asserting his authority. But he did not. "Sir, the civilians won't listen to us," MacDonald objected, "When the light came… We were trying to get them to move. They were about to fight to not do what we said, sir."

Michael wanted to scowl. MacDonald was never one for flexible thinking. Not the time to show your discontent, Sergeant. "The situation is different now. Those woods are full of barbarian types with medieval weapons, weird child-like creatures and magic trees with faces. The civilians look too scared to disobey right now." Hopefully Marcach isn't going to ride up on a unicorn…

Cloutier made a noise from her throat, drawing even MacDonald's attention. "You don't seem scared of the child creatures, and the barbarians seem to obey your commands," she said, "How is that?"

She's not going to leave this be. Michael exhaled a breath and pat the side of his rifle in response. "I'm armed."

The academic tilted her head slightly in confusion. "So?"

Okay, enough of this. "Can you do me a favour, Doctor Cloutier? Could you follow Sergeant MacDonald and help get everyone sitting down?"

Cloutier narrowed her eyes. "How do you speak their language?" she asked, completely ignoring his request.

"Now's not the time for that."

"It's exactly the right time," Cloutier insisted, "Seems to me like we have all the time in the world. You've been here for months, and you haven't found a way to open the door home. We have many questions. We can fill the time with answers."

"I've been in this particular place only a few days," Michael replied quickly, "The whatever-portal spat us out hundreds of kilometres north of here, we've been travelling ever since. Our friends over there came with us." He thumbed over his shoulder at the Free Folk.

"Hundreds of kilometres and it took you months?" MacDonald asked, "Didn't you have a BV with a fuel trailer? You could've done that much in a couple of days."

Sayer answered quickly. "It wasn't like we had a highway," he shrugged, "There was shit in the way."

MacDonald glared at the intrusion, but Sayer ignored him. The Private was increasingly impervious to such intimidation. You're a lot less scary than a White Walker, Moustache. Never mind Lord Jon Umber in a bad mood with drink in him.

"We've documented everything for debrief," Michael intervened, "Now go carry out your orders, Sergeant. I do not want to lose a single civilian."

MacDonald's moustache rippled, the irony of the statement in light of past events not being something to go over his head. But he nonetheless stomped his boots and saluted. "Yes, sir," he said with utmost professionalism, before turning to Teixeira and others standing nearby, "You heard that officer of the Patricias, move your arses! Corral those civvies!"

The section immediately moved towards the civilians, bypassing the confused MPs, and began ordering the civilians to sit. As predicted, they were too disoriented to disobey. Many were soon crosslegged on top of the large stones of the spiral below them, almost glad they had been told to put themselves there.

Michael breathed a sigh of relief, even if Cloutier had been missed and was still standing beside him, expecting an answer for her questions. He was sure MacDonald had left her there to annoy him.

Will she even believe the truth? "It's magic," he stated out of the blue, "That's how we speak the languages here."

"Languages… Plural?" Cloutier asked at once.

Michael nodded. "We seem to be able to speak all of them. There's a reason for it that's too long to explain now, but it makes sense if you know the history of the portal. The real mystery is how you came through to here without receiving the same treatment."

Cloutier cocked an eyebrow. "I'd like to hear that history… but isn't the real mystery how we get home?"

Michael smiled, and Sayer smiled along with him. "No, we know the answer to that one." Though the answer is not a good one.

The academic crossed her arms. "You know how to get home, and you haven't done it yet?"

"Not that easy, teach," Sayer said with maximum impertinence, "If it was, you think we'd be hanging out somewhere without showers, coffee and chocolate?"

The mere mention of coffee sent a pang of addiction through Michael. Please God, tell me one of the civilians brought some to make on their little camp stoves.

Cloutier actually began tapping her foot, her brow all curled up. "My colleagues thought they found a way to open it too, but it requires nuclear reactors or accelerators or whatever. How could you possibly open the way? Was it you that brought us here?!"

"This one has a mouth," said Ygritte from behind in the Common tongue, the irony of the statement entirely lost on her. She quickly joined the circle, looking at Michael and not the academic.

"She's just scared," Michael replied, "It's making her babble."

"So she wasn't sent by your Queen?" Ygritte said.

Michael shook his head. "No, but we shouldn't tell any kneelers that. Or Princess Val."

Ygritte gave a nasally chuckle. "Aye, not their thing to know."

Cloutier cleared her throat. "What is the young woman saying?" she asked politely, "It doesn't sound friendly."

Michael put on as nonchalant an expression he could muster. "Oh, nothing. She wanted to know if the Queen had sent you all here."

The academic flinched back a little. "Why would the Queen have sent us?"

"Long st…" Michael began.

"Long story," Cloutier finished, "When are we going to hear the long story?"

You'll never hear it. Michael thought, as he put two fingers to his mouth. He blew out a long, loud whistle and waved in MacDonald's direction. They hadn't coordinated comms yet. When he saw the man was coming, he got onto the radio himself. "O'Neill, leave Zheng in command over there and come here."

"Yes, sir," came the reply.

Anne Cloutier still did not get the message and waited, with Ygritte standing just close enough to her back to push a shiv into it. The academic evidently did not see the danger.

MacDonald soon appeared again, flanked by two more Sergeants and another Master-Corporal; the leaders of the three infantry sections of the platoon and the weapons detachment. The sight was strangely familiar; all of them were the people Michael had commanded before, albeit some had received promotions.

Sergeant Schafer commanded Bravo section, just as MacDonald commanded Alpha. He was as tall as Michael was, and his blonde hair was shaved completely almost bald. Michael knew he did it because he had started losing his hair in his early twenties, but it made him look like a scary son of a bitch. The irony being he was regarded as the most easygoing of the sergeants.

Sergeant Nowak had been a Master-Corporal when Michael had left the First Battalion, and now commanded Charlie section, the reserve section of the platoon. He was shorter than Michael, and was probably most recognisable for his pudgy nose that made him look like a pig. He was also the most aggressive of the section commanders, which was probably why he had been put in the reserves to cool off.

Master-Corporal Melnyk had just been a Corporal, like Teixeira, when Michael had left. He was a couple inches short of six foot, and wore a short brown beard. He had been the machinegun operator in the weapons detachment before moving up to command it, and he still had arms as thick as O'Neill's own from carrying the weapon around.

Schafer, Nowak and Melnyk had one important thing in common. They were in Michael's faction where previous events were concerned, men that had been with him through the events and backed his actions afterwards. Now only if Faucher had come through too, he thought, Then I'd have a force that could do anything required of them.

O'Neill ran up to join the assembly, looking severely undressed by comparison to the other soldiers even after they had stripped off their outer layers of cold protection. He stood waiting, nodding a greeting at the rest. The two units were stationed in Edmonton, but Michael was still unsure if he knew them.

"Gentlemen, this is Sergeant O'Neill of the Third," he said, "This is MacDonald, Nowak, Schafer and Melnyk."

"We know of each other, sir," MacDonald replied gruffly.

O'Neill let a sneer appear for a split second, before controlling himself. "Yeah." What the hell was that about?

"Who's the woman?" Schafer asked, tilting his head towards Ygritte.

"Local leader," Michael responded, "Long story short, she and her people signed up with us to get back to Canada. We needed the help. Probably wouldn't have got this far without them."

Nowak shook with a silent laugh. "Pretty too," he pointed out, "Up to your old tricks, Lieutenant."

Michael bit his tongue. How the hell do I explain…

"Not really the time for that," MacDonald complained, "We're stuck on another fucking world. Any chance we could address that wee problem, sir?"

"They have a way back," Doctor Cloutier interrupted.

All heads spun towards Michael. "Is that true, sir?" asked Melnyk.

O'Neill cursed under his breath, before Michael could respond. "We think so. We followed old books that said the place we're standing was the centre of magic on this continent."

"Magic?" MacDonald asked.

Michael ignored him. "The small creatures you probably saw in the trees, they say they can open the way home…" he continued, "The problem is it has a cost. A sacrifice, someone from Earth..."

"Fucking leprechauns said they can open the way home if you kill someone," MacDonald interrupted again, "Have you gone mental?"

Michael felt his patience began to wear thin. "Sergeant, the fact you're standing here is proof that we can travel between the worlds from this place."

"We didn't have to kill anyone," Doctor Cloutier objected.

"That's because the killing already happened on the Earth side," O'Neill explained, "First Nations lads repelled an invasion ages ago, killed a whole bunch of the leprechaun things and giants too. They were the sacrifice that brought us all here."

Cloutier nodded rapidly. "Yes, we found the bodies," she said, her voice strained, "But magic sacrifice?"

Michael didn't bother trying to explain, but turned to Ygritte. "Hey, I'm just speaking to you so they know I can speak Common," he said, "Anything you want to know right now?"

"Aye," Ygritte replied with some belligerence, "I'd like to know who they are and what you're saying."

"They don't believe in magic, so I'm showing them I can speak your languages," Michael said, "Most of them are soldiers like me. The woman is … a wise woman, like a maester? A teacher."

Ygritte looked at Cloutier and craned her neck forwards. "Doesn't much look like one," she said, "Is this what wise women wear in Canada?"

Michael laughed, and returned his attention to his compatriots. "Think I could learn a language that perfectly in a few months, professor?"

The good doctor shrugged. "Maybe."

"All of us can speak any of the languages here," Sayer chimed in from outside the circle, "Maybe one or two of us could learn that fast, but not all. Sergeant O'Neill barely speaks English."

The collection of NCOs looked at the private like he had just farted, even if he was right. He's forgetting O'Neill can speak Gaelic. Michael decided to rescue him. "Corporal, go join Zheng. Ygritte, you go too. Get everyone back to camp."

Both of them saluted, which had a lot of the newcomers gawping for a second, before the pair ran off towards where Ryk and Zheng were waiting at a respectful distance. A half-minute later and the Laughing Tree were departing back through the woods. The torches moving off had deepened the darkness.

"There's no reason to believe in any sorcery crap, sir," Nowak said.

Michael nodded. That was the reaction he expected, and what he would've said in Nowak's place. "It might look that way, but the language thing isn't the only evidence. We have people here who can jump into the minds of animals, makes for great recon. We can demonstrate that later. And if we're stuck here, wait until you're face to face with a White Walker."

MacDonald scoffed. "What the shite is a White Walker?"

Cloutier snapped her fingers. "The ice people. Right?"

Michael and O'Neill exchanged glances. "How do you know about them? Have they come through to Earth already?"

The academic shook her head. "No, they've just sent… projections. Holograms?"

"Body, weapons and armour made of ice? Glowing blue eyes? Nasty looking?"

"Aye," MacDonald said, "They were showing up regularly where you disappeared, gawking at us like tourists."

O'Neill wiped his brow with his hand. "They know where we came from," he stated, "They're doing their own reconnaissance, sir."

"Or just making sure we're not preparing to invade ourselves," Michael replied, "After we fought them, I'd be more worried about that if I were in their position."

"Sorry, what are they, sir?" Schafer asked, "They have swords and spears. Not exactly a big threat."

Michael sighed. "You'd think so, but they have magic. Far to the north of here, they've already raised the dead and turned the corpses into a zombie army. And they make summer into winter wherever they go."

"You can't be serious," MacDonald said, "Zombies?"

"Do we look like we're fucking joking?" O'Neill replied, crossing his arms, "When we arrived, we were attacked by a group of the same barbarian types we have with us now. We knocked seven shades of shit out of them, killed all but that woman who now leads our allied forces."

"She is an enemy?" Nowak asked, his voice straining like it was hard to believe.

I guess Ygritte isn't all that intimidating if you haven't seen her pick someone apart with arrows. "Not any more," Michael replied, "Point is this: One of the ice demons came along, approached us like it was nothing, and raised its arms. While we were too busy looking at it, the dead were getting up all around us. Singh and Arran were killed before we realised what was happening, and ordinary bullets don't put the things down. Only tracers and other incendiary weapons. They're getting ready to invade this part of the world."

"So we have to go back?" Melnyk questioned, "Else we're stuck here with the damn things and they could invade at any time? Both home and here?"

MacDonald looked like he'd chew through a rope. "Calm down, Corporal. I still say we'd win. An industrialised country against ice people with zombies? The artillery alone would laugh all the way to the massacre."

Doctor Cloutier cupped her hands over her mouth. "If the 'ice demons' can control the weather, I'd be more worried about being able to feed everyone."

MacDonald opened his mouth to respond… and shut it again.

Yeah, she's smart. "That was my thought. Zheng's too," Michael said, "I'm a little more worried about protecting the civilians. We can survive here. We have the training. No offence to you, Doctor, but you don't. At the very least, we need to try to get the civvies home. The locals have magic, we have seen it and we can get them to demonstrate it. They say we need a sacrifice."

The NCOs hissed and cursed.

Sergeant O'Neill grunted. "Everything we've read in their books supports the idea too."

"Where did you get books?" Schafer asked.

"A library."

"A library full of books that say you can kill people to do magic?"

Michael waved his hand to get their attention again. "We're getting off-topic here. For us to go home, someone needs to die. But we can't just order someone to die. Especially as we have no idea if doing it will actually work."

"Obviously, sir," MacDonald agreed, "It's a load of shite to begin with."

"Agreed," Schafer said, "No fucking way we kill someone, sir."

O'Neill cleared his throat. "Then we're stuck here," he said, "I know you can live without the creature comforts, but how many of you have kids you never want to see again? Parents, siblings, friends?"

There was a pause. Michael knew rightly that at least two of the assembled NCOs had children. In their shock, they hadn't considered it.

"So what?" Nowak said, "Do we draw lots from the whole unit?"

Schafer shook his head. "That'll cause desertion."

"We're not killing anyone," MacDonald insisted, "I'll desert, sir, never mind anyone else."

Michael saw that the question of how to get home was not any easier with more potential sources of sacrifice. I should've known, really. "Look, we'll keep investigating. We can figure out how to communicate with home. If ice demons are projecting themselves there, we can do it."

Melnyk cocked an eyebrow. "Maybe the government can provide us a serial killer to sacrifice instead," he said.

"The government would never do that," Cloutier said with a dismissive wave, "The death penalty doesn't exist in Canada, and won't simply because we're stuck."

"Forgetting something, Doctor?" Melnyk responded, wiping sweat out of his eyes, "It isn't just our government at the base any more. The Americans do have the death penalty."

"And both governments want a way to this world," Cloutier said, finishing the thought, "Tabarnak…"

Michael looked between the group. "The Americans are in the NWT?"

"The Space Force no less," MacDonald huffed, "We built up a whole FOB around where you disappeared. The Doctor here found bloody Bigfoot buried under the stones there. Now the Americans are helping to run it."

"I'll not go back if it means executing someone," Cloutier insisted, "The death penalty is barbaric, and the Americans have no business bringing it to Canada."

O'Neill hawked and spat. "This isn't Canada," he stated, "This is Purgatory, Narnia, Tír na nÓg, whatever the fuck you like. Someone would need to be executed anyway if we want to leave. And you haven't even imagined barbaric until you've lived here for a couple of months."

Cloutier bristled and bared her teeth, but that was a pathetic display to Michael's eyes by now. "I've already said this to O'Neill and the others," he said, "But if it comes down to it, and there are no volunteers, I'll fall on my sword."

For a moment, only the chirping of insects could be heard.

"Yes, I know how that sounds," Michael continued, "But the reality is I couldn't order the death of any one of you and not live the rest of my life in prison. If we got someone to volunteer, that might happen regardless. We have no mission here, so it's my duty to get as many of you home as possible."

MacDonald made a noise from his throat. Reflexively, Michael leaned in towards him. Don't you dare bring our history into this. "Something to say, Sergeant?"

"Not a whisper, sir," MacDonald replied, "Other than you always did have a death wish."

Michael stood straight again. "Not this kind of one. We'll be looking for any other way first before I take the responsibility, I assure you of that Sergeant."

A shadow moved in Michael's peripheral vision, grabbing his attention. He half expected to see Ryk approaching, but instead, it was one of the most hideous men he had ever seen.

A knight dressed in the chainmail and the black cloak of a brother of the Night's Watch. His skin was so white it seemed to glow in the flashlights' beams aimed at him. A large red birthmark ran up from his neck, over his jaw and into his cheek, like an inkblot. One of his eyes was missing, leaving just an empty socket.

There was a dagger and sword hanging his belt, which seemed to have little dragons in bright silver on them. Hooked onto his back was a weirwood longbow, not unlike Ygritte's own.

What hell did this guy crawl out of?

"Perhaps I can be of assistance in your deliberations?" the man offered.

Michael raised his rifle. So did O'Neill.

But instead of cowering or looking surprised, the man's face remained impassive, his stance relaxed. This guy is bored.

The real surprise was that none of the First Battalion's NCOs had raised their weapons either. They just stood looking at him like he had two heads. The gap between that reaction and the lack of aggression was very distracting. But not enough to put Michael completely out of his own senses.

"Put your hands on your head, Crow," Michael said, "And kneel."

O'Neill snorted. "Ygritte should've been here to hear that, sir."

Michael tilted his head sideways once, conceding the point.

The brother of the Night's Watch did not react to the command. Instead, ravens and crows in the branches squawked loudly, as if complaining about the situation. The man finally took a look around at the birds, his single eye swivelling though his head did not move.

"Warg," O'Neill murmured.

"Yeah," Michael mumbled back, before raising his voice again, "You seem to be outnumbered."

"It matters not." The pronouncement from the interloper was absolute. He was very confident, even for a man who hadn't seen a rifle before.

"He's right, sir," said MacDonald, "This wee prick showed up on the Earth side of the portal too, like a ghost. If I was a betting man, I'd say he's a projection right now too."

We'll see. Michael flicked the selector switch of his weapon to burst from single shot, and pulled the trigger. Three bullets ripped out of the barrel, hitting the man dead centre, the muzzle reports echoing back off the rocky hills to the south. The flying metal passed through him harmlessly and impacted a weirwood behind, shattering its face.

Michael lowered his weapon, his lips curled back in frustration. The rest of the platoon was moving up to find a target, but Michael waved them off and shouted an order for them to hold.

"Well, that didn't work," said O'Neill, putting his rifle back in safe and cradling it in his arms.

"No, it most certainly did not," said the interloper, "I am Brynden Rivers, Lord-Commander of the Night's Watch, as-was. Natural son of Aegon, the Fourth of his name, of the House Targaryen. And you shall listen to me, Michael Duquesne."

It took some effort to unclench his jaw, but Michael managed to reply. "Yeah, Michael Duquesne, Wizard of Oz. I love a good title, but Jeor Mormont is Lord Commander and the Night's Watch is at my command by treaty. So strictly speaking, you should be obeying me."

A deep rumbling laugh burst from Mr. Rivers lips, his chin raising up to spill it upwards.

"What's the Night's Watch?" MacDonald asked, "And why would its Lord-Commander obey you?"

Michael was about to answer, but realised what the question meant. "You can understand him?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

There were nods in response. "He is speaking English," Cloutier replied, "Why?"

"You can't understand anyone else," O'Neill said, connecting the dots, "Does that mean he's really speaking English or he's translating using magic?"

"I gathered the language from your minds," Mr. Rivers stated with a flick of the wrist, addressing MacDonald and Cloutier, "A simple matter of plucking it from the magic that would have granted you the ability to speak every tongue heard before a weirwood tree. Removing that ability made it far more easy to bring you here."

Nowak burst forward, as if to tackle the interloper, but Schafer grabbed him. "No point, he's not actually here."

"That fucker…" Nowak spat, pointing at Rivers, "You better be very far from here, you ugly son of a bitch."

Rivers' single remaining eye narrowed sharply. Sergeant Nowak had hit a sore spot. And Michael wasn't sympathetic in the least. "He kidnapped us," he growled, "Maybe we should go find out where he is."

'Lord-Commander' Rivers shook his head once. "I did not take you from your world," he said with a gesture towards Michael, "Nor you, Padraig O'Neill. It seems the gods themselves decided you should come."

"Bollocks," O'Neill said.

Rivers clicked his tongue. "I know not what that means exactly. Interesting, that you have different dialects."

He's doing recon as well, Michael realised, Intelligence gathering.

"Why take us?" Doctor Cloutier asked, "We were going to try and communicate with you in a few hours anyway."

"Because I have seen what Canadians can do in battle," Rivers said, "When I saw so many of your warriors gathered on the ritual spiral, I knew that represented a way to save this world. But also as dire a threat to it as the Others themselves."

"Others?"

"The White Walkers," Michael clarified, "The ice demons."

"Quite correct," Rivers said, "Even your first battle with one was a feat in itself. And each encounter with them, with the Night's Watch or the Lannister army got more and more spectacular. You could play a vital role in stopping the cold from consuming this world. But four is a rather small number to work with. I had to have more."

"So you lured us to the Spiral," Doctor Cloutier concluded, her face drawn with anger, "Betting that you could grab soldiers along with the rest of us."

"I admit, I did not think to bring so many," Rivers stated gently, looking over to the platoon, the MPs and the civvies, "But clearly fortune smiled upon my plan. I also knew without a means to return to your world, interest in claiming this one with your sorcerous weapons would die."

Michael let his rifle hang and took a step forward towards the ghost. "We'll find a way back. Or we'll find you."

Rivers did not flinch. "I have closed the way. You will not leave. Your sacrifice or anyone else's would be meaningless."

His face spread into a scornful smile. "And while you are formidable, many search for me and find me not. That your weapons are so terrifying and you would threaten to use them gives me the belief that you cannot be trusted to have free passage to this world. I thank Doctor Cloutier for that insight."

The academic grimaced and took a step back.

"Oh yes, Doctor," he continued, "I heard your words. We are a threat to them, not the other way around. Everything I've seen so far gives me every reason to believe such a statement. So limiting your numbers is a prudent measure, as is preventing your return to discourage ideas of plunder or foreign rule."

"That doesn't give you the right to kidnap us," Melnyk said, balling his fists, "You freak."

Rivers spread his hands, unphased. "So you say."

"He could be lying," Schafer added, "Trying to stop us from making the sacrifice to return home."

"He is not," a voice boomed out from the side.

Wearing the body of the elk-riders' leader, Arrel strode into the glow of the camplights, a torch in his hand. He was wearing his antler helmet and long green cloak, both of which looked pretty menacing in the dark if you didn't know what they were. His sword was If anyone was surprised enough to be threatened, they didn't show it.

Michael didn't know how he had gotten so close without being fired on by the platoon, and he didn't like the implications of the fact one bit. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet Arrel," he said, "He isn't a projection. But he is a bodysnatcher."

The others raised their weapons, but the skinchanging Child of the Forest paced by until he was beside Michael, forcing them to hold their fire. "I am not amused, Duquesne," Arrel snapped, before he pointed directly to Rivers, "And you, Three-Eyed Crow. What have you done?"

The 'Lord-Commander' breathed out a long sigh. "I've cut you off from the memories of the ritual you need," he said calmly, "I have taken control of the path to the other world. And I have changed its nature."

Arrel raged, turning this way and that. "By what right do you…"

"Because your petty revenge is worth far less than all life in the world," Rivers interrupted, before glancing at Michael, "You know he was going to help you, only because he wants to spill some of your blood."

"Tell us something we don't know," O'Neill said.

"Or tell us something in English…" MacDonald complained. Arrel did not speak English.

Rivers' single-orb-stare moved to O'Neill. "Very well, I shall. The sacrifice would have worked. You would have got home. Stay and help us, and I shall open the way again, if you can stomach the sacrifice. I may even consider limited contact with your world, as the female-maester here desires."

"And who are you to speak for all of us," Arrel said, again in Common, "Or bar the way to our vengeance?"

Rivers laughed once more. "Who are you to defy me?"

All this shit on our journey for nothing. "Enough!" Michael shouted, "Evidently you're a pair of fucking blades."

He turned to the NCOs. "Have the MPs gather up the civvies and their stuff, douse the flashlights, NV on. I want the entire platoon here, now. We're moving out, back to our camp for the night."

Something like relief rippled around the small circle of soldiers, though Michael knew it would be temporary. They had been away from home for all of fifteen minutes, if even that.

"Yes, sir!" MacDonald responded, before rapidly speaking into his radio mouthpiece. Within two seconds of him doing so, the flashlights of the platoon were flicked off, and men with night-vision goggles flipped down over their eyes began appearing around. Michael and O'Neill turned off their own, leaving only the fiery torch in Arrel's hand and the camplights among the civilians.

"What are you doing?" Rivers asked.

Michael ignored him, and got on his own radio once more. "Zheng, order a full watch for the night. Expect trouble."

"Sir?"

"The talking is over. We're leaving tomorrow morning. Make sure the unicorns are out of the way for now."

"Sir."

Rivers stepped into his view. "Do not make a decision you will regret."

Michael smirked back. "Sounds more like you're the one regretting a decision." Sick with anger, he hoisted his rifle onto his hip, and began to address the people he now found himself in command of. The civilians sitting on the ground all looked up, the soldiers gathered to the sides.

"I'm sorry to say it looks like we're stuck here. For now, we're going to head back to camp. Tomorrow, we'll leave this place. It's clear the locals won't let us go home, and even if they would, they claim it would take a human sacrifice to get it done."

Gasps of shock erupted from the civilians, along with curses. The privates and corporals began glancing nervously at each other.

"I know this is shit news. But we did survive here, once we got our bearings. We survived crossing a continent, fighting battles, even those ice creatures you saw projected back home. You can survive too. I'm not going to pretend it will be easy, but you're not alone. You have some of the best trained people in the world with you. We'll all get as far away as we can, find somewhere relatively safe. First thing is to get everyone rested up, and we'll figure out next steps in the morning."

The civilians began standing up, and gathering their things. They didn't have a lot to gather. Michael took it as a sign that no one collapsed weeping or roared their objections, evidence the temporary reprieve might hold longer than he hoped. Maybe Braavos isn't such a bad idea after all, he thought, If I can hold them together that long.

Arrel interrupted him by grabbing his arm. Half the platoon shouted at him to back the hell away, but Michael held up a hand to stop any attempts to harm the skinchanger. "He wants to say something, I want to hear it."

"You cannot run," Arrel declared, in the Common Tongue, "The Long Night will find you wherever you go. If you stay on this world, you must stay and fight."

"Your presence could be what weighs in favour of victory," Rivers added, "Or if victory is to come, you could save many hundreds of thousands of lives."

"Perhaps you should have thought of that before screwing with us," Michael said, "Now if you'll excuse me." He tore his arm out of the bodysnatcher's grasp and looked to his assembled countrymen and countrywomen. "Follow Sergeant O'Neill. Alpha section, protect the right, Bravo the left, Charlie on rearguard. Move out!"

O'Neill gave a big wave to show who he was, and the hundred or so Canadians on the ritual field began moving. The locals watched with bemusement, evidently not having expected this answer to their bickering and scheming.

Teixeira eyed Michael warily as he passed by. Take your head out of your ass, Corporal, you're not in Kansas any more. It was a good reminder of another potential source of bullshit.

"Civvies and the platoon are on the way to camp," Michael said over the comms, "Let's get them set up separate from the Laughing Tree for now. And keep Jon, Val and that whole group of Free Folk and Stark retainers away from them. As far as is polite."

"Yes, sir," O'Neill replied, "May I ask why?"

"I don't want the locals knowing this was an accident. As far as Starks, Lannisters, Mance's boys and girls are concerned, this was a deliberate deployment. Scientists and soldiers exploring the way to Westeros. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

The mass of soldiers and civilians finally exited the clearing. Only Michael, the ghost of Brynden Rivers, the bodysnatching Arrel and Doctor Cloutier remained behind under the branches of the massive weirwood ritual tree. Michael flicked on the flashlight on his rifle again, so they weren't in complete darkness.

"Well, it's been a blast," he said to the former two, before gesturing for the latter to follow, "Come Doc, no point standing around here."

The academic reluctantly accepted, and fell into step as Michael began to leave.

"You win, Lieutenant Duquesne," said Rivers suddenly.

Both Michael and Cloutier stepped dead in their tracks. "You'll send us home?"

Rivers shook his head slowly. "I cannot do that, not immediately. The way between your world and ours now flows only one way. It will take time to learn how to undo this, and even so, it would require blood sacrifice."

Michael really wished he could shoot the son of a bitch. "So what exactly do I win?" he asked, "The interdimensional sweepstakes? A new car?"

The joke sailed over the heads of both magical beings.

"I will help you communicate with your home," Rivers stated, "And show you how to send objects there, so you may send proof of all you have seen to your people.

Doctor Cloutier rushed back towards the ghost. "We can send things back home?" she asked excitedly. Michael grimaced at her lack of caution and followed.

"Anything with a soul requires blood sacrifice," Rivers said, "But you can move physical objects without a specific sacrifice."

"Ah, just think of the discoveries!" Cloutier said, turning to Michael, "A whole new world to compare to our own, it could revolutionise our understanding of culture, biology, physics…"

He was pleased for another reason. "Does that mean the other side can do the same?" he asked, "Can they send us physical objects?"

"Yes," Rivers stated.

We have a lifeline, Michael realised, Maybe. "Can we do this from any weirwood?"

"No," said Arrel, "Only from a ritual spiral or places like it can you send and summon objects."

"What did he say?" Cloutier asked Michael.

"You can only send and receive stuff from places like this one."

Rivers sighed, his own patience clearly running out. "All magic requires sacrifice. The dispatch of objects between worlds is not allowed by specific sacrifice, but the lives lost nearby ritual spirals. It is also the power behind skinchanging, fire-sight and many other forms of sorcery, though sacrifice can enhance those abilities. Magic grows stronger in times of great turmoil for a reason."

What a fucked up world, Michael thought, But it's none of my business. All that mattered was he and the others wouldn't be remembered for just disappearing down the rabbit hole, never to be heard from again. And that they might not be running out of bullets any time soon.

"Tomorrow at dawn," he said, "I want to talk with the people back home."