Miles is all too familiar with this place...
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
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Memories
Miles knew where he was. He was freaking out. This wasn't a hallucination. This was real.
He knew this. There was Bass, at the door, locking them. Miles let himself go as Bass turned around, smiling and happy and relieved. Let himself go again as Bass embraced him.
"You're home," Bass whispers, clinging to Miles. "You're home…"
Miles embraces Bass back, lost in the memory of this place. He knew what had happened: He and Jeremy had been out on patrol. Keeping the troops inspired. They had to. Bass couldn't leave—he was too valuable. It had gone bad. It had gone very bad.
The rebels had known. Somehow or other, they had known. Jeremy had been taken down, fighting to protect his general—his lover. One of them. Miles had been taken down by someone bludgeoning him off his horse. He'd fought hard. The bastards had put a gun to Jeremy's forehead, threatened to blow his brains out all over the ground if Miles didn't surrender.
He'd surrendered. He'd surrendered. Jeremy had been left behind, headwound bleeding and leaving a puddle of red blood underneath him as Miles had been dragged away. The rebel leader hadn't been a rebel like Nora. Nora and her kind had a sort of peculiar, stupid, stupid honor and pride in something that had—mostly—ceased to exist. These ones…
These ones were animals. Bass had worried about them taking the towns Miles and Jeremy and he had rescued with their army. The town these…these animals had taken… It wasn't a pretty sight. Miles had been tied to a post in the center of town, stripped of his clothing…
They'd beaten him. They'd beaten him to a pulp. Miles had thought they were going to rip his spine out. They'd already taken his back. He'd felt the blood running down his thighs. That was about the time he'd passed out. He'd been so damn grateful.
The abuse had continued as soon as he'd woken up. The people in the village… The people in the village had been told the Monroe Republic was a pipe dream. It couldn't last. They were pathetic and weak. Look at their general. Look how easy he is to break.
Miles had stood up on shaky legs, told the bastard off. He'd swore at the man, sworn to the people that the Republic would free them. He'd been knocked to the ground. Miles couldn't remember much after that.
The Militia had come. They'd come, and they'd killed everyone who hadn't surrendered. Miles had saved the people of the village. He'd gotten so many loyal allies that day in West Chester. Everyone knew who he was.
Miles had taken a horse and rushed home, home to Bass. Jeremy had kissed him quickly and told him to run to Bass' office before the man got there.
Bass had locked the door before he saw Miles standing—leaning, actually—against the desk. Miles had met Bass halfway across the room and embraced him. Bass had led him gently to the floor, before Miles' legs could collapse under him. He'd held Miles as the man sobbed his relief out at being home. So long… It had only been a week, but so, so…long. Why?
It hadn't taken long for Miles to cry himself to sleep.
He'd woken up sandwiched between Jeremy and Bass. They loved him. Bass and Jeremy personally executed everyone who'd taken part in the beating of his lover, his general.
But that was only a memory. His hallucination was not so kind.
Miles didn't cry as he was led away from the spot by his niece.
How could he?
- o – o -
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