Chapter Text
He’s out scouting when he sees them: footprints in the snow.
Not the heavy press of winter boots. Something dainty, light. Barest trace of a wraith passing beneath the shadows of the night. Wolf at his heels, he follows their tread. Finds her at the river-bend.
Sight to see, even in her ragged skirts, half-torn cloak. Damp colours: blues, greys, whites, but there — just there — a streak of fire warming up the frozen air. Drops to a knee beside her, skates his fingertips over that fire-streak of hair framing her moonstone face.
“Lost,” he says. “Little girl lost.”
She stares at him as if it is a question. Distant tide-lines pulling up across her brow as she takes him in, eyes like sunlit sea. Parts her lips. Asks a question of her own. Water. Husk buried deep in her throat.
“Plenty.” Tilts a brow toward the snow dappling his knee. “All around. Put a handful to your mouth, suck it up… get all the water you need.” Wolf nosing at his side. “Lost girl used to wineskins, hmm? Silver cups.” Pushes the wolf away. “Where is your village?”
“Gone,” she says. “Burned. Black towers. Boys on the gates instead of banners.”
“Boys?”
“Dead. All dead. He told me about them on our wedding night.” A shiver runs through her, rattles her teeth. “Tar and yarn, little silver wolves pinning their cloaks… ash now. He took their bodies down, burned them, threw them to the wind.” Eyes rising: flames in them to match the colour of her hair. “Should have put them in the crypts. That’s where they belong.”
Shifts on his knee. “Your family?”
“My brothers.”
Flat of a fire-warmed axe to a wound, the way she hisses it. Speaking of the dead — but the pain of it all is alive on her tongue. He shifts on his knee again, then rises from the ground. Fingers on her arm. Pulls her up with a touch more strength than needed; she is light as a feather, as like to blow away in the wind as her brothers. Sways on her feet, opens her mouth to speak. He shakes his head. Once.
“Quiet now,” he rumbles. “Time to walk.”
*
Stops further down the river to let her drink. Wolf splashes in beside her, water thickening his bone-white coat. Shakes it off. Surprises him that she doesn’t squeal or skit away. Watches from the riverbank as she sinks her fingers into the thick white fur instead; closes her eyes as she strokes a palm between pricked ears. The white wolf allows it, leans into her touch — that surprises him, too.
Doesn’t show it. Just waits on his riverbank, eyes knitted up at the skies reading the clouds as they sway and shrink. Storm coming — soon — he’s sure of it. Gives a grumble. Wolf and wraith looking up at him from their place in the water. Bone-white coat and fire-streak hair turning as one to clamber back up beside him.
They walk in silence. Sound of their feet carrying up the quiet air between them. Wolf disappearing into the trees up ahead. Black-knife shadows as the sun sinks slowly behind the hills. Scurry of footsteps as she quickens her pace.
“Where are we going?”
Doesn’t look back at her. “North.”
“Is it… f-f-far?”
Feels the shiver rattling her teeth like a breath of wind on his skin. “Few more miles.” Looks down at his feet as he cuts through the snow. “There’ll be a fire. Food.” Pats the hare hanging from his belt. “Few more miles — then a fire. Hmm?”
Glances back over his shoulder in time to see her nod. Once. Then she burrows back down into her shoulders; presses her dainty footprints into the snow. He counts each step — his, hers — frowns as his heartbeat slows to match their rhythm.
*
Carries her once or twice. Gullies and flutes of flowing water; sets her down where she won’t get her feet wet. Not tenderness or care that makes him do it — only that she’s shivering madly and he wants to be home by nightfall. Spots the cookfires as they crest another hill. Gives a whistle: wolf comes bounding out the trees to meet them.
Strides ahead, slithers down a path of loose shingle, snow-flecked stones. Stops at the silence echoing behind him: no footsteps sinking soft to match his heartbeat. Turns to find her swaying at the crest of the hilltop. Damp colours: blues, greys, whites — red hair silver-washed by the early moon. Starts back up toward her.
“Fire. Food.” Jerks a thumb up backward over his shoulder. “You see? Just there.”
Hears her breath: shallow, soft. “Who… who sits at the fire?”
“Free folk.”
“Like you?”
“Like me.”
Measured, the nod she makes now. Chapped lips drawn tight together like a rosebud: red, lush, waiting for a thumb to unfurl them in the springtime — petal by petal. Catches hold of his thoughts. Shakes them free. Wintertime. Winter-lands. No time to think of roses, redness, however sweet. Fire, that is what he needs — her, too.
Makes a sound low in his throat. Beckons to her. Another measured nod, those sea-blue eyes sweeping down over the hill. Then she takes a step, falls back into the rhythm his heart brackets between the crooks of his ribs. Breath billowing soft through his teeth — hadn’t realised he was holding it.
*
Orell is the first to spot them. Eagle wheeling overhead; high shriek that rakes up the sky. Arm outstretched, waiting patiently till the bird lands. Strokes its feathers with a blunt-fingered hand, curses softly as its talons flex and shred at fur and flesh. It shrieks again once it sees the wolf — louder still at the man who walks beside it.
“Jon’s got himself a pretty catch,” says the skinchanger to his eagle; looks up at Jon, eyes turning a little colder now. “Is she for supper?”
“Found her in the snow,” he says evenly. Pats his belt. “Found supper in the snow, too.” Snarls his lip as the eagle shrieks at him again. “Bloody bird. I’ll wear the scars he gave me gladly — but that screaming might make me set my wolf on him before the night is out.” Brown teeth now as Orell bares them in a smile. “First watch?”
“Aye.”
“I’ll save you some rabbit.”
The skinchanger gives a soft little grunt in thanks. Steps aside to let them pass; brown smile widening as the girl flinches from the shrieking bird. Wolf slides in between them, silent snarl echoing the one on Jon’s lips. Eagle soon stops screaming, ducks back behind its feathers. Hadn’t realised her fingers were gripping at his arm till he feels the loss of them — knife in his side: pure, quick anger that he even notices it. Shakes his head. Walks on.
*
Lips drawn back together as he leads her into the camp. Like a rosebud again: red, lush, waiting for a thumb to unfurl them in the springtime — petal by petal. But it is not springtime. However sweet that little red rose may seem, it does not hide the truth: the fragile stem that sways behind it. Holds his breath to see her shiver.
No time for weakness in the winter-lands; still, the women warm to her. Take hot bricks from the cookfires, lay them at her feet, press them to her fingertips. One ducks into a sealskin tent, comes back with a thick fur to heap across her shoulders. Slowly, a fire-prickle rises against the moonstone of her cheek; soon, the chatter of her teeth stills to silence. Lets out his breath: one long, loose billow burning smoke on the cold air.
He leaves the men to their game of knucklebones, squats in the patch of snow before her. Elbows on his thighs, fingers stirring the air between them like oaks in the wind. For half a heartbeat, she meets his gaze.
Sea-ice, the way the firelight catches at her eyes; shimmering, skittish — sinking as she lets them drop, nudges at a snow-covered stone with the tip of her boot. Wants to reach out a hand, turn her chin in his palm, trick those sea-ice eyes back up to hook on his own. Wonders why he wants it.
“Warmer now?”
No need to ask it, can see — flush of heat in her cheeks, fingers rosy against the fire-warmed rocks — that she is. She nods, flexes the grip she keeps on the stones in her lap. Dainty little hands, pale as the moon. He looks at them, wonders at what they would feel like woven between his weather-worn palms. Wonders why he wonders it. Clears his throat.
“First light,” he says gruffly. “We go north again.”
Turns the stone beneath her boot, over and over. “What lies north?”
“Mountains.” Clicks his tongue against his teeth. “More free folk.”
“Your people?” she asks.
“Aye,” he says as the stone stops turning. “Where are yours?”
“I told you.” She lifts her eyes: sea-ice beneath the fire-blush of her brows. “Dead. Burned. Bits of bone buried far from home.”
Like apple-seeds, the way she spits the words between her teeth. He rocks a little on his haunches, hums beneath his breath. The men stare down at their knucklebones; the women watch him from where they sit sharpening their knives before the fire. He looks from her to them and back again.
Slender, soft, moon-pale as the dainty hands she clasps so tightly in her lap; but there is a strength to the edges of her face, the pale beauty of her jaw, the clear light in her cool eyes. He decides then.
“You’ll come with us.”
She blinks: once, twice. “To the mountains?”
“Aye,” he says. “If you wish it.”
She says nothing, only nods: once, twice. Sea-ice bobbing on the water, the way her eyes stay fixed on his. Drowns in them for a moment — then he pushes up from the ground with a grunt, finds his own place beside the fire. Keeps his back to her, gazes at the flames. Wolf ambles up to her side. Stays there as the night turns clear and cold. Eyes on the fire still — but he feels the warm weave of her fingers through the bone-white fur.