CARPE NOCTEM, jon snow

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀eleven

eleven. the rift

loc. castle black, the wall. 298AC

⠀⠀⠀There was blood on her hands.

⠀⠀⠀She could smell the stuff, rising richly to settle into her nostrils, force its way down her throat until she couldn't breathe. Absently, she touched the scabbing cut on the side of her neck, and tried not to shudder.

⠀⠀⠀She'd washed her hands in a frozen-over lake in the woods last night—she'd even scrubbed her hair and clothes to the best of her ability. Rogon's grave was shallowly dug nearby, marked only with Carsen's spit.

⠀⠀⠀Yes, she'd washed her hands in that frigidly cold lake, so icy that it numbed the nerves in her skin for the next hour, and yet here it was. Shining crimson in the weak sunlight, stark and bright and hauntingly vivid against the bleak backdrop of snow and black wood and the grey, grey sky.

⠀⠀⠀Carsen wondered why nobody commented on it. It couldn't be that often recruits got gore all up their arms, could it? Although it had been noted that Rogon was absent. Carsen heard Alliser talking with another commander. She caught the words deserter and Stark and Winterfell before she stumbled away, nausea rising in her like a snake tantalised by the soft melodies of a wooden flute.

⠀⠀⠀She was called into the courtyard, and there she stood, watching everyone else pile in. She made no move to push forward when she saw she was several feet behind the general crowd until a harsh dig in her back made her entire skin quiver violently and someone said, "Go forward, boy. Ain't no hiding from this."

⠀⠀⠀Swallowing the bile in her throat, Carsen stumbled forward a few steps until she stood at the side fringe of the crowd. She spotted Sam's smooth, dark hair and Jon's dark brown, but made no effort to go to them. She didn't want Jon or Sam to see the blood that grafted her palms. Jon and Sam were good, kind and honest and intelligent. Carsen would hate for them to see the mess that had become of her. 

          Why did everything she touched have to rot?

          (Roahn—)

⠀⠀⠀It was a horrifying thought.

⠀⠀⠀Carsen blinked; the hands she held before her eyes were palely tinted with the pallid light, but not a scrap of anything untoward stained her skin, lurked between her fingers. Slowly, she turned her hands over again and again, but her skin was fresh as pearls. There was no blood. They were as clean as they had been when she'd scrubbed them in the lake.

⠀⠀⠀Feeling her head start to spin, she stuffed her hands in her outskin pockets and forced herself to focus as Thorne and Mormont took the platforms.

⠀⠀⠀"You came to us as outlaws," called Mormont. "Poachers, rapers, killers, thieves. You came alone, in chains, without friends nor honour. You came to us rich and you came to us poor. Some of you bear the names of proud houses, others only bastard names, or no names at all. It does not matter. Here, on the Wall, we are all one house. Here you begin anew. A man of the Night's Watch lives his life for the realm. Not for a king, or a lord, or the honour of this house or that house. Not for gold nor glory nor a woman's love, but for the realm! And all the people in it. You've all learned the words of your vow. Think carefully before you say them. The penalty for desertion is death. You can take your vows here tonight. Do any of you still keep the old Gods?"

⠀⠀⠀Only Jon stood. "I do, my Lord."

⠀⠀⠀"You'll want to take your oath before a heart tree as your uncle did," Mormont said, and Carsen noticed the hint of a smile on his face.

⠀⠀⠀"Yes, my Lord."

⠀⠀⠀"You'll find a weirwood a mile north of the Wall. And your old Gods too, maybe." He began to unroll a scroll. "These are the positions you will uphold the rest of your days. Honour them, wear them with pride, and woe betide if you don't.

          "You've all been assigned an order, according to our needs and your strengths. Halder to the builders. Pyp to the rangers. Toad to the builders. Grenn to the rangers. Samwell to the stewards. Matthar to the rangers. Dareon to the stewards. Balian to the rangers. Rast to the rangers. Jon to the stewards. Carsen to the rangers. Rancer to the builders. Echiel to the builders. Gordo to the stewards. Niko to the rangers. Escan to the rangers. Vorkoy to the builders. Joby to the stables. Mink to the kitchens. Allo to the builders. Nelugo to the rangers. May all the Gods preserve you."

⠀⠀⠀Carsen barely even heard her position until the sound ricocheted back to her, like an arrow deflecting off silver armour. To the rangers? In truth, she hadn't given much thought into what her position would be, but it never crossed her mind that she'd be made a ranger. She was only handy with a sword thanks to Jon's training, and—

          Her mouth went dry. Jon. Jon to the stewards.

⠀⠀⠀Alliser Thorne was smirking as though enjoying some private jest only he was privy too, but as he looked down into the crowd and nodded at Jon, Carsen felt her heart sink, but as unwilling as she was, her mind was quickly putting together the dots.

⠀⠀⠀Thorne hated Jon. Thorne hated Carsen. He had given the position Jon had achingly desired to Carsen instead, to intentionally cause a rift between them. Even as she looked desperately for Jon, she knew it had worked. She sought his eyes through the revolving pillars of leather-clad limbs, but when their gazes met, she found herself staring at two pools of steel, deep and dark an angry.

⠀⠀⠀Her stomach dropped.

⠀⠀⠀Swallowing, Carsen adjusted the furs around her neck and turned away - and almost screamed so loudly the birds would have taken leave in alarm.

⠀⠀⠀Because before her stood Rogon.

⠀⠀⠀His skin was waxy and marbled, the hue of curdled milk. Flecks of snow crested his unruly dark hair, which on one side was matted with his own gore. Frost sparkled on his lips, which were as blue as the wildflowers that grew between cracks in stone. But he was bleeding. The gash in his neck gaped, yawned hideously. Blood gushed from the wound, spilling over his neck, staining his clothes, but all he did was stare. He stared with those dreadfully blank eyes, and Carsen had to fight back a scream.

          "Rangers, with me!" some voice called—Rykker, she thought. She saw Pyp get slowly to his feet, ears red, casting a guilty look at Jon. She just managed to tear her eyes away from the hideous shadow and press her hands against her eyes as Grenn jostled her side. It was good-natured, but she still flinched from it.

          "Come on, sparrow boy!" he jeered, oblivious to Jon's expression of sick disbelief, the furious red colouring his face as he glared at the floor. "To the rangers, to the rangers, to the rangers!"

          Please, Carsen thought hysterically as Grenn seized her elbow. Put me on a ranging mission like Benjen Stark, and take me far away from here.

       

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