So, what's happened to the General while John and Rodney have been getting to know each other? And how will 'Captain' Mitchell react to news of his favourite's disappearance? Let's find out… (But don't worry, there's also some John and Rodney in this chapter!)

Chapter 7

The freezing air seared deep into the General's lungs as he led Ronon out of the barn. His breath caught, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, fighting against the impulse to cough. But it was no good. And once he'd started, his hoarse, hacking barks filled the farmyard and sent the chickens scattering back into the warmth. Not that they would have stayed out anyway. They had more sense. More sense than he had, perhaps.

"I have to go," he rasped.

Ronon's wise brown eye looked into the General's and he tossed his head in agreement.

"John's up there. With that madman." The General broke off to take a deep, wheezing breath. "I have to get help."

Ronon snorted.

"I know, I know. There'll be a price to pay. But if we want the village's help, Mitchell's the one to go to."

He led Ronon over to the kitchen steps and, using them as a mounting block, heaved himself astride the horse's broad back. Everything was such an effort. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs and knew the last thing he should be doing was setting out into the deep snow.

"Should be in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket, like the pathetic old man I am," he said.

Ronon said nothing in the face of this self-pity.

"You're right, of course." He nudged the horse forward and relaxed into the familiar side-to-side sway, his body assuming the shape of so many long campaigns spent mostly in the saddle. "Just have to make the best of it. Can't let a stupid cough get in the way. John needs me."

Ronon grunted agreement.

The snow in the lane was built into high drifts and the horse used his chest to push through them, floundering and high-stepping in what would have been an uncomfortable ride for anyone but a veteran. The General didn't have to think about keeping his seat, even when Ronon made a sudden kangaroo hop over a build up of snow to land on the village road. It wasn't much easier after that, there being few farms out this way and nobody else foolish or desperate enough to venture out. Ronon ploughed on stoically, however, his hooves plunging deep into the soft drifts.

The snow glistened in the sun, but there was a stiff wind which whipped over the surface and drove stinging, frozen flakes up into the General's face. He pulled his scarf up and his hat down, leaving only a narrow opening for his eyes. But the road was more sheltered as it dropped toward the village and at last they reached areas which had been cleared and trampled down by the overlaying tracks of sled runners and boots, small and large. Children were playing in a sloping field, their cries and shrieks lightening the hardship of the weather.

In the village square, the daily market was reduced but still present, though transactions were hurried and nobody seemed inclined to linger. The General headed for the inn and, judging by the raised voices and laughter floating out into the square, he was right to do so. He rode into the inn yard, slid down from Ronon's back and gave the horse into the care of a stable boy.

"Give him a rub down, son." He slipped the boy a copper coin.

"Yes, sir, General, sir!" The boy led Ronon into a stall.

It was warm inside the inn, even in the corridor between the taproom and the saloon, and when the General followed the loudest voices into the taproom a wall of heat hit him and he pulled off his hat, unwrapped his scarf and unfastened the buttons on his greatcoat. The fire was piled high with logs, and patrons sitting nearby were red-faced and sweating.

Cameron Mitchell (the General refused to respect his assumed rank) stood at the bar, surrounded by a court of admirers. He lounged, propped on one elbow, his red velvet coat hanging open and his top few shirt buttons undone, revealing a heavy gold chain and an expanse of chest hair that looked as if it had been artistically arranged. The General suppressed a disapproving snort.

"And after that little exploit," Mitchell drawled, "the Colonel said to me, 'Cam, if we had more men like you the war would have been won years ago.'"

There was a round of approving rumbles from the men, admiring sighs from the women and a scattering of applause.

"You've led such an exciting life, Captain!" A silk-clad brunette pushed forward, presenting her low-cut gown for the self-declared military man's inspection. "You were so brave, capturing that enemy fort all by yourself!"

"Brave?" Mitchell tipped his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. "You could call it bravery." He shrugged. "All in a day's work for a soldier of the King's army."

There was more twittering and an exchange of grins between some of the men, bound together by their mutual admiration of the town hero. John would never court such flattery. He would never demand, or even tolerate the fawning admiration, and he was far more a hero than this velvet-clad false idol would ever be.

"Ah, General." Mitchell raised his tankard in a mocking salute. "I haven't seen you in the village in a long time. And without the delectable John?" He raised his head and scanned the crowd, even though it was clear there was no one in the General's wake.

"No, Captain Sheppard's not with me today, Mitchell." That was a foolish way to begin, bestowing the rank upon one and not the other, and the General imwardly cursed himself when the man's eyes briefly narrowed to hardness.

The expression of benevolence was quickly resumed. "That is a shame. But, nevertheless, come, join us! Tell us how you and your delightful companion are faring on your little farm."

The sea of admirers parted to make a path, their jealous eyes fixed on the newcomer, privileged to be thus singled out.

"I was hoping for a word in private."

Frowns and intakes of breath rippled through the crowd. Would they have applauded if he'd crawled along the floor to lick their hero's boots?

Mitchell gestured, several heads ducking to allow the expansive sweep of his arm. "We're all friends here, General. Tell me what's on your mind."

"I don't think -"

"Ah, but where are my manners? I shouldn't be keeping an old man standing, should I?"

The words projected concern, their falseness patent, but the crowd smiled and simpered and muttered about their favourite son's consideration.

"Come over to the fire, take a seat." The admirers fell back and those nearest the hearth hastily evicted the two occupants of the fireside armchairs.

The General followed, reluctantly. The taproom had become a theatre, with himself and Mitchell entering, stage right, into the limelight - not what he'd intended or wanted. He took off his coat, draped it over the back of the chair and sat, the blaze hot on his cheek.

Mitchell reclined, crossing his long, shiningly-booted legs and steepling his fingers. His eyebrows copied the shape of his fingers, a wise and benevolent ruler awaiting the petition of his humble subject.

The General forced his spine into ramrod straightness and countered with his 'addressing the troops' expression of weighty, determined intent.

"I recently had business which took me up to the city -"

"Nothing of a serious nature, I hope?"

The General bit back a rebuke at this rude interruption. And besides, Mitchell knew damn well why he'd gone, you could bet your last copper on that. "A small matter," he said, neutrally. "I left before the snow fell, but on the way home, the river road being blocked, I decided to take the forest path."

Mitchell tutted disapprovingly and an echo fluttered amongst the onlookers. "You took a risk there."

"I did." He wasn't going to deny it. If only he'd stayed up in town. "I was set upon by wolves and my horse bolted off the path."

The surrounding eyes were wide.

"You're lucky to be alive, then," said Mitchell.

"Yes." Suddenly uncertain, the General considered how to present his story.

"Tell us, General, how did you make your daring escape? Did you draw your weapon and shoot them dead between the eyes? Did you wrestle hand-to-hand? Were you rescued by a lost tribe living in the depths of the forest?"

Appreciative murmurs and chuckles rewarded the hero's attempt at humour.

"Rescued? In a way, yes. My horse brought me to a place I've never heard of. Perhaps you have, having lived here all your life. A city. Overgrown and seemingly abandoned - a city of many great buildings and towers."

"A city? In the forest?" Mitchell met the eyes of the crowd, a brow raised. The assembly shook their heads. "I'm sure if there was any such thing, we would have heard of it."

"Nevertheless, it's there. There was an opening in the base of one of the towers. And food and water set out for my horse." The General continued to tell his tale, in the simplest way he could. The crowd hung on his words, but took their cues from Mitchell, their faces reflecting their growing disbelief. He reached the part where John arrived and exchanged places with him in that cold, lonely cell, and he was allowed to leave.

"And you're saying that you left John there? That he's there still? A prisoner of some madman living in a lost city?"

"Yes," said the General, his tone steadfast. "He is. And that's why I've come to you - to ask for your help in getting him out of that place."

"Of course I'll help!" said Mitchell.

The crowd instantly matched his attitude, nodding and rolling up their sleeves and generally showing how on board they were with setting out into the forest right now.

"Or at least I would, if that ridiculous tale were true!"

Sleeves were pulled down, arms folded and sneers of disbelief and scorn resumed.

"A lost city? A mysterious stranger who lives up there in splendid isolation? What is he, a king? A wizard? Did he wear a pointy hat? Oh no, you said a hooded cloak, so you didn't see his face." Mitchell broke off to laugh, theatrically. "That's the one piece of your story I can believe - you didn't see his face! And why's that, folks?" He looked around at the crowd, holding out his hands for suggestions. "Because he didn't exist, that's why!"

There was general laughter at this score against the General.

"I'm an honourable man, Mitchell. I don't lie."

"No? Well, how's this for a version of the truth - my guess is that it wasn't just you that went up to the city, but John too. And he saw some kind of opportunity up there that would suit a young man better than moldering away in that pitiful excuse for a farm, and he took it! Ditched you and ran and now you're making up that rubbish to save face!"

"How dare you -"

"And if that's not the story, then what about this? You're in debt to my father, so you, and maybe John too, cooked something up to lure me out into the forest and then hold me for ransom."

"That doesn't even make sense!"

"Or maybe you're genuine - you really believe your story. John's left you all alone and your mind can't take it, so you came up with that fairytale! Are you losing your marbles, old man?"

The General's instincts flared. The taproom was no longer a safe place, the crowd no longer a good-natured company but an uneasy, watchful presence.

He stood up and snatched his coat. "I see I'll get no help here."

Mitchell was suddenly on his feet, his hand clamped around the General's forearm. "It's not John who needs help, is it, old man? It's you. Maybe I'll have a word with the warden of St. Haringley's. They have nice, comfortable cells ready for people like you."

The General jerked his arm free and glared into Mitchell's contemptuous eyes. "I'll rescue John myself." He pushed his way out through the jeering villagers and marched out of the taproom, then collected Ronon and left the inn and the village behind as fast as he could.

What had he expected? Disbelief? Yes, maybe, to begin with. But he'd expected to be able to persuade the town hero and his followers; he'd expected to be believed eventually. Did they not know he was a man of his word? Had he not always dealt fairly with his neighbours? Helped them where he could, even when he had little of his own to spare? That man Mitchell was poison. He could turn monks away from their faith with his twisting words.

The General urged Ronon to a faster pace, his anger and sense of betrayal fuelling his desire to be home, back at the farm. But without John.

What was he going to do now? How was he going to rescue the man who he'd come to think of as a son? Oh, to have even a handful of his troops at his command - just a very few of those who'd served him loyally over the years; those men who'd trusted him, who'd followed him into danger, who'd carried out his orders without question. They'd soon have John out of that place.

"Easy, boy." He took pity on the horse, slackened the reins and allowed him to pick his own way through the snow. "What are we going to do, Ronon?"

Ronon's ears twitched.

"I hate to think of John still in that cell. Alone. I should've refused to change places," he said, knowing that he had, and that his refusal had been futile - John had been determined. "I could sell the farmhouse, take the money up there, see if that man'll exchange it for John's freedom." But that would take time. And who would buy, knowing that Mitchell disapproved?

Ronon snorted, his breath pluming out in a great cloud.

"If I go round the farms individually, I could get one or two to come with me. Beauchamp the bookseller would come, for John. And Herdrick Starken, maybe - I lent him the plough when his was broken and John helped with his harvest." It was a vain hope, though. None of them would go against Mitchell. "Well, it's just you and me, then, boy."

Ronon grunted and stamped through a shallow drift.

"Your hooves and my gun. That'll have to do."

oOo

John closed the book that rested on his bent knees, and rubbed his eyes. "So, everything's made of atoms, which are made of protons and neutrons, and electrons kinda spinning round them?"

Rodney looked up from his typing-thing - a laptop, he'd called it. "What? Oh. Yes. Well, that's the beginner's model, at least. A way in, so to speak - an introduction to the subject."

"A dumbed-down, village idiot's version?"

"You're not going to let me forget that, are you?"

"No," said John, with satisfaction.

"How was I to know you had a halfway decent brain beneath that ridiculous fluff?"

John brushed his hair out of his eyes. "It's not fluff! And why d'you keep going on about my hair, anyway?"

Rodney folded his arms and tipped his head on one side. "I don't know. It's just so… you."

"Is that bad?"

"No." The glimpse of blue eyes disappeared as he returned to his work. "No, it's not bad," he said softly.

John opened the book again and idly leafed through the pages, his eyes flicking over the diagrams. He'd read for long enough and was tired. It had been fun, though, running through a whole series of math problems while, out of the corner of his eye, he could tell that Rodney's attention was more and more on him rather than his laptop. Eventually Rodney had snatched his workings and, in spluttering astonishment, had declared him, 'Not an idiot, after all,' which amounted to garlanded applause coming from that sharp tongue.

The physics textbook was fascinating and, finally, some of John's questions were being answered. But now, his back was hurting and the new ideas and old misconceptions were swirling uncomfortably in his head. He shuffled and rolled onto his side and slid further down the bed.

Rodney was still bent over his laptop. What was going on behind that veiled confusion of features? When he was looking over the math problems, his body had lit up with enthusiasm, his hands had waved, his fingers had snapped with ideas for John's continuing education, and John had seen, once again, the flicker of blue eyes and the flash of white teeth. But he had been silent for a while now, only his fingers moving in scurried, insect-like rushes over the keyboard.

"Tell me what happened to you."

The tapping fingers stilled. Would Rodney cut him off again? Refuse to talk about it?

"Tell me what happened to your face."

He was motionless; closed off. But then he spoke. "I, er… I did something. Something bad."

He didn't look at John, and John could tell now, not just because those flashes of blue were absent but also because there was none of the attentiveness, none of the intense scrutiny that he felt when Rodney was watching him. "So, you're saying it was a punishment?"

The rounded shoulders shrugged and helpless hands lifted and fell back to his knees.

"Who would do that? Why? How?"

"I… I'm sorry, I don't really want to talk about it."

"But couldn't we do something? Isn't there any way -"

"John, please." The anguish twisted in Rodney's voice. "Please, just leave it."

"Okay."

Rodney closed the laptop. "Are you finished reading?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

Rodney reached forward and pressed the back of his hand to John's forehead. It stayed there, cool and dry, skin against skin, gentle yet deliberate, and in the swirling chaos of a face, so close to his own, for just a moment there were two bright, intelligent eyes looking directly into his.

Then the contact was broken, the eyes were obscured once more. "A bit warm. But not like last night. I'm hungry. Could you eat?"

"Yeah."

"Won't be long."

He was gone. Was he really hungry, or was it an excuse to get away, to avoid the issue? No, this was Rodney - he was always hungry.

The bite on John's shoulder burned and itched. He shifted position, slowly and deliberately, heavy and stiff and lethargic, the earlier sharpness of his mind worn away by too many new ideas and by lingering fever.

There was a whole city out there to explore, a whole library-full of knowledge and someone who seemed to want to share those things with him. And John was stuck here, weak and pathetic and in pain. He swore, softly and vehemently, for as long as he could sustain a flow of inventive expletives, which was pretty long because the army provided a lot of scope for learning such words and John had taken full advantage of that opportunity.

And then there was the issue of escape. Rodney had a weapon. John could steal it, make his way into the forest, blast any wolves that approached and get back to the farm and to the General. But he couldn't, because there was no way his body was going to be getting with that particular programme any time soon. He might totter his way out of the city, but then a reenactment of the water trough incident was inevitable, except he'd end up face-down in the snow. And, though John burned to know what had happened to the General, he wasn't so eager to get back to his life, to the farmwork, to the village and the attentions of Cameron Mitchell; not until he'd found out more about this place and its strange, damaged inhabitant.

John's thoughts meandered in circles, continually coming back to the fact that, for the moment, there was nothing he could do but wait for Rodney to return. He repeated his earlier string of profanities, shaking them up into ever more inventive and unlikely combinations.

"You're a linguist as well as a mathematician."

John's heavy eyes opened, reluctantly. "Huh?"

"Or not." Rodney put down his tray. "Soup," he said. "Mysteriously appeared in the kitchen along with fresh rolls. So, the elusive minions must be scuttling about somewhere."

"They're people, Rodney."

"Yes, I know, clocks and candelabras have feelings too. Come on, you'll have to sit up a bit, or the soup's going to go everywhere."

John growled and snarled as Rodney rearranged his bedding so he could sit propped up with the tray on his knees. "It's still going to go everywhere."

Rodney folded his arms tightly across his chest. "Thank you, Dr McKay, for bringing me books and a meal and generally waiting on me hand and foot, because I know there are things you'd rather be doing instead of devoting all your precious time to my well-being. So, thanks."

John's frustration came spilling out. "Sorry to be a waste of your 'precious time.' And I wouldn't be here if you'd just let the General go home. I wouldn't have had to run off and get attacked by the damn wolves."

"Well, he shouldn't've -"

"For the last time, McKay! The General wouldn't steal from you! He just wouldn't! Not if his life depended on it!"

"Well, that's just rubbish. If his life depended on it? Of course he would!"

"No. If it was someone else's life, then maybe. But not his own."

Rodney spluttered. "What kind of a philosophy's that?"

"It's what soldiers do. They put themselves out there so people like you don't have to."

Rodney turned away. "Well, they didn't do a very good job of protecting me, did they?" he muttered.

A drip of information here, a snippet there came out - when would Rodney tell him the full story? "You had soldiers here?"

"Yes, of course. Scientists to explore, soldiers to protect them - in theory."

The rounded shoulders were silhouetted against the window. Rodney stood alone and had been alone for a long time - just one man in this huge place. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

He spun around and the turmoil where his face should be rolled and seethed. "Because I don't want to! Look, it was my fault! I know that! The soldiers couldn't have done anything. This all happened because of me! I'm to blame! Happy? Are you happy now?" The wild, gesturing arms shook, then folded themselves tightly once more.

"No," said John. "No, I'm not. I'm sore and I've got no energy and apparently I'm in a bad mood too. And, you know what? I don't believe you. I think you're wrong. Whatever went on here - maybe some of it was your fault. But nobody deserves this kind of punishment. Nobody. And whoever did it to you was dead wrong." He was sure of that; absolutely sure. Whoever did it must be powerful, must be far in advance of any technology John had experienced. But they were still wrong.

"Huh. Well. They did it. So it doesn't matter whether they were wrong or not." Rodney sat down heavily. "The soup's going cold. And if you don't want it splashing everywhere, why don't you just drink it straight from the bowl, or tear up the roll and drop it all in, thereby transforming a liquid into a solid?" He dunked his roll in his soup and began to eat.

John tore his bread into pieces. They soaked up the soup, turning it into an orange mush. It didn't look very appealing. The first spoonful contradicted the appearance, though and John soon found himself scraping the bottom of the bowl. "The clock's a good cook," he said.

"Yes, he is. I don't know how he does it."

"Sorry."

"What for?"

"For you know. And thanks." John picked at the last crumbs of his bread. "If you've got things you should be doing, it's okay. I'll manage."

"What?"

"If there are things you'd rather be doing. Than this. You said-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Sheppard! That was just me being rude and sarcastic. I'm a rude and sarcastic man - haven't you caught on to that yet?"

"So you don't want to-"

"No. There's nothing I'd rather be doing than catering to your every whim."

"That still sounded sarcastic."

"Oh well, I can't help that."

Rodney picked up his last chunk of bread and mopped up the dregs of soup. It disappeared into the area where his mouth should be, but then he stopped, his spoon poised over the empty bowl. The sense of attention was absent and he remained motionless, paused in a freeze-frame moment. Then he put down the spoon with a soft chink of metal against china.

"You can go," he said. "When you're well enough, I mean. I'm not sending you out there like this. But, if you want, you can go."

"Really?"

"Yes. But…" He flicked the handle of the spoon so that it slid around the bowl. "I thought, maybe, you might want to stay for a bit? I can show you the city, show you the library and… other things."

There was no sense of relief, no sense of elation. Just his continuing concern for the General. John chewed his lip.

Out in the forest, battling through the blizzard and then fighting the wolves, he'd been desperate; desperate to get away, to leave this Godforsaken place, to escape from the man who'd imprisoned him. But now the small world that he'd inhabited since the end of the war seemed so distant. This place held some of the mysteries and answers that he'd been looking for. It was his chance, maybe his only chance, to gain the knowledge he craved and explore some of the wonders of creation. And also, there was Rodney.

"I'll need to get back to the General. Make sure he's okay."

"Oh, well, yes of course you will, I mean-"

"But I'd like to stay for a while first."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Rodney's hands twitched and his thumbs performed a rolling loop-the-loop around each other. "Good."

oOo

It had started to snow again, but that was just fine by Mitchell; it would cover his tracks. The stupid old man would have no idea he'd been here, spying out the truth of that rubbish he'd spouted down in the village inn.

It was dark enough for him not to worry about being seen, unless he stepped into the glowing streaks of light from the farmhouse windows, which he wouldn't be foolish enough to do. He edged around the farmyard, keeping close to the wall. There were steps upto the kitchen door and the window was above his head. He turned up an old bucket that was lying about and stood on it and peered over the sill.

The General sat at the kitchen table, an array of weapons spread out before him. He was cleaning one of them - a heavy double-barrelled pistol - working a rod in and out of the barrels and then pointing it toward his lamp, squinting down the narrow tubes. There were a couple of shotguns, some more pistols and a heavy, blunderbuss-type thing - a fine array that Mitchell wouldn't mind getting his hands on. There was no sign of John.

What had happened to him? Had he gone? Left the village and his precious General? There were plenty of opportunities up in the city for an experienced soldier like John. The town guard would take him on like a shot. Mitchell sneered. A soldier. Mugs, they were, to go off fighting for a couple of coppers a day, risking their lives for so little and, in the end, not even any glory or honours or rewards for their efforts. Mitchell had the glory and honour without having had to go any further than his uncle's comfortable home in the city.

The General was packing his weapons away, rolling them up carefully in an old blanket. It certainly looked like he was preparing to fight. Or maybe just preparing to sell his weapons to try to pay off his debts. He wouldn't get much for them - there was already too much army surplus flooding the market for them to be worth more than a few gold altogether. Nowhere near enough.

But now he was standing up, putting on his coat and heading for the door. Mitchell jumped down from the bucket and shrank into the shadows. The general shut the kitchen door behind him and trod carefully down the steps, one hand for his lamp, another for the handrail. He moved more quickly across the yard where a fresh layer of soft snow was building up. Mitchell waited. The lamplight was dim and wouldn't give him away if he didn't make a sound.

The barn door stuck and the General set down his lamp and tugged it with both hands. It gave, he picked up the lamp and went inside and Mitchell heard his low-voiced murmuring and the answering clucking and crooning sounds of roosting birds. He crossed the yard swiftly and stood behind the door, his ear to the crack where it met the hinge.

"Another cold one, yes, you're right there," said the General. "And more snow on the way, if I'm any judge. A lot more."

A heavy hoof stamped and a loud snort set the chickens squawking.

"I know, Ronon, I know. John'll have to wait a bit longer, that's all. We'd be fools to go with the road as bad as it is. I just hope that madman's not done him any harm."

He really believed it, then; that John was being held by some recluse in the wilds of the forest. There must be some truth in it. But not a lost city. Someone, surely, would have noticed that.

"Plenty of water there. I'll get you some more hay."

The old man saw to the animals' needs, then his heavy tread approached the door. Mitchell slid around the corner of the barn.

The snow fell more heavily. He'd be glad to get back to the comforts of the inn. And Nelintha, the luscious barmaid. And maybe a couple of her friends.

"Who's there?"

Had he made a sound? The General stood in the middle of the yard, his lantern held high. There was a stamp from the barn and a flurry of flapping wings. The old man slowly lowered his light, turned and headed back inside.

Mitchell waited until the door had closed and then made his way to the lane, thanking the snow once again for covering his tracks.

So, the General was planning a rescue attempt; a solo mission, except for his horse. Or maybe he was planning to arm the chickens. Mitchell sniggered. A flurry of freezing flakes blew in his face and he pulled his scarf around his mouth as he strode through the mounting snow.

How could he turn this situation to good account? It was time to face the fact that John would never give himself to Mitchell willingly; therefore, unwilling would have to do. In which case, leverage was needed. This sounded like the beginnings of a plan, and by the time he reached the comforts of the inn, he had it all worked out.

Ooh, what a villain! What's he up to? Nothing good, that's for sure! Thank you for reading!