Sacrifice Is a Beautiful Thing (Jojen Reed)

C H A P T E R 1 2

The air was sharp and cold and full of fear. Even Summer was afraid. The fur on his neck was bristling. Shadows stretched against the hillside, black and hungry. All the trees were bowed and twisted by the weight of ice they carried. Some hardly looked like trees at all. Buried from root to crown in frozen snow, they huddled on the hill like giants, monstrous and misshapen creatures hunched against the icy wind. Wolves howled faintly.

"We have to climb. It will be dark soon. You would do well to be inside before night comes. Your warmth will draw the wolves." He glanced to the west, where the light of the setting sun could be seen dimly through the trees, like the glow of a distant fire.

"Is this the only way in?" asked Meera, breathlessly. 

"The back door is three leagues north, down a sinkhole."

That was all he had to say. Not even Hodor could climb down into a sinkhole with Bran heavy on his back, and Jojen could no more walk three leagues than run a thousand.

Meera eyed the hill above doubtfully. "The way looks clear." She studied the cleft in the hillside. "It can't be more than a thousand yards from here to there."

No, I thought, but all those yards are upward. The hill was steep and thickly wooded. The snow had stopped three days ago, but none of it had melted. Beneath the trees, the ground was blanketed in white, still pristine and unbroken. 

"No one's here," said Bran, bravely. "Look at the snow. There are no footprints."

"The white walkers go lightly on the snow," the ranger said. "You'll find no prints to mark their passage." A raven descended from above to settle on his shoulder.

White walkers. The name brought involuntary shudders. Or perhaps it was just the cold.

"It's not so far," Bran said. "A little climb, and we'll be safe. Maybe we can have a fire." All of us were cold and wet and hungry, except the ranger, and Jojen was too weak to walk unaided. My strength was diminishing fast. It felt as if the further we were from home the weaker I became.

"You go." Meera Reed bent down beside Jojen. "I can't fight and carry Jojen both, the climb's too steep," I barely registered Meera's words. "Hodor, you take Bran up to that cave."

"Jojen just needs to eat," Bran said miserably. 

"He needs to eat," Meera agreed, smoothing her brother's brow. "We all do, but there's no food here. Go."

Coldhands took Hodor by the arm. "The light is fading. If they're not here now, they will be soon. Come."

Wordless for once, Hodor slapped the snow off his legs, and plowed upward through the snowdrifts with Bran upon his back. Coldhands stalked beside them, his blade in a black hand. Summer came after. In some places the snow was higher than he was, and the big direwolf had to stop and shake it off after plunging through the thin crust. As they climbed, Bran turned around to look at us wretchedly.

Meera slid an arm beneath Jojen to lift him to his feet. He's too heavy for her. She's half-starved, she's not as strong as she was. She clutched her frog spear in her other hand, jabbing the tines into the snow for a little more support. Meera began to struggle up the hill, half-dragging and half-carrying Jojen. I couldn't help. I could barely keep myself upright. My feet felt leaden, my head was swimming.

***

"Look!" Bran shouted excitedly. I could barely discern a flickering glow, a ruddy light calling through the gathering gloom in the little cleft between the weirwood trees. "A fire! Someone -"

Before he could finish, Hodor twisted, stumbled, and fell. I gasped at the sight.

A skeletal hand had reached out of the snow and wrapped itself tightly around the giant's leg. The rest of it began to emerge. The rest of the wight came bursting from beneath the snow. Hodor kicked at it, slamming a snow-covered heel full into the thing's face, but the dead man did not even seem to feel it.

"Oh no," Meera screamed desperately, looking around frantically. 

All around us, wights were rising from beneath the snow. We were surrounded, and the skeletons crowded on, tightening the circle. They surged up violently amidst sudden clouds of snow. Some wore black cloaks, some ragged skins, some nothing. All of them had pale flesh and black hands. Their eyes glowed like pale blue stars.

Three of them descended on the ranger. Coldhands slashed one across the face. The thing kept right on coming, driving him back into the arms of another. Two more were going after Hodor, lumbering clumsily down the slope.

I looked from Bran's pale face, to Meera's, to Jojen's, and to the leering faces of the wights. 

With a sudden rush of adrenaline, I was imbued with strength. I reached for my knives. Uttering the Stark battle-cry, I rushed into the line of skeletons, hacking with all my strength. Meera followed.

They never seemed to die. The things could not be hurt.

Someone was setting the wights on fire. 

It was a girl, but smaller than Arya, her skin dappled like a doe's beneath a cloak of leaves. Her eyes were queer—large and liquid, gold and green, slitted like a cat's eyes. No one has eyes like that. Her hair was a tangle of brown and red and gold, autumn colors, with vines and twigs and withered flowers woven through it.

For some reason, I knew. It -she was a child of the forest.

Meera took advantage of this to pick up Jojen and help him towards her. Hodor and Bran were already far ahead. I followed as best as I could, jabbing at the wights as they lumbered up the slope.

One bony arm knocked against my arm with such force it cracked, a sickening sound in the strangely muted forest. Fire shot though it, and an inhuman scream escaped my lips. I stumbled to the left, and a knife one of the wights bore that was meant for me hurtled towards Jojen. His eyes widened as he looked back, and he froze.

No time.

I moved and launched myself in front of him. The knife landed in a thud, and I watched numbly as crimson flowered across my front.

Jojen burst free, stumbling over as I collapsed on the snow.

The world moved dizzily around me. Everything was whirling, shifting, spinning. The only thing that still tethered me to this world was Jojen's face, his green eyes pools of sorrow, threatening to overflow with tears.

"No, no, no," Jojen mumbled, "This can't be true."

I laughed, blood gurgling up. "You know it is, you dreamed it."

"Please no," he was crying openly now.

"It was my fate from the very beginning. Sacrifice is a beautiful thing, remember? You - you told me that once." It hurt to breathe.

He nodded wordlessly.

Meera's anxious face appeared, " Mara, I'm sorry, but we have to go, or we'll all die."

"No!" Jojen cried.

"This is my fate. It's your fate to help Bran."

Jojen shook his head like a little child.

"Go." I put every ounce of strength I had into that last word.