AN: This update is for Thinktink2, who has been very graciously poking me and reminding me that it's well past time for another chapter. :-D Also, it's been so long that I no longer remember who asked me for a little bit of Jarlie, but I did remember that I promised you some, so there's some in this chapter. ;-) As usual, "Revolution" ain't mine, and oh, neither is the brief Robert Frost quote from "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."
Mileage
All of this is taking too long, and every inch of skin on Jason's body is itching with pent-up tension by the time Nora and Charlie finally haul Miles to his feet.
He looks bad, and if there was any way Jason could convince Charlie to just leave her uncle there, he would. His father (probably) wouldn't kill him until Miles led him to Monroe, and in the meantime, Jason could get Charlie safely - and quickly - away.
Then Miles shakes off Nora and Charlie and saunters up to Jason like he's not wearing the shredded, blood-soaked remains of a coat. Okay. Jason will give him that he's one insanely tough bastard. "Jason." It's a greeting that's both acknowledgement and test – one that Jason is gratingly familiar with from his own father.
"My fa– Major Neville – won't be far behind us," he answers Miles' unspoken question. Jeez, the whole clearing smells like blood, but Miles most of all. It's a good thing his father isn't riding with tracking dogs, or they'd all be royally screwed. "I slipped ahead to warn you, but he sent trackers out, and they can't be more than a quarter hour away."
He glances at Charlie, but she's either avoiding his eyes or studying the blood spatter on the ground, and he tries to ignore the little pang of hurt he feels over that.
There's a brief silence before Miles grimaces and tries to speak –
– and Rachel cuts him off. "I know where we can go."
Miles doesn't turn – and maybe the tough thing is an act, and it's really taking all of his energy just to keep standing there – but he waits in silence for Rachel's suggestion.
"I have…friends –" Jason doesn't miss the slight emphasis or the way Rachel shifts her eyes briefly to him before finishing the second half of her sentence. " – in New York City."
"New York?" Charlie voices Jason's exact thought.
There's no way Miles can ride to New York in that condition. No one could. Of course, Jason doesn't say that. Instead, he just offers, quietly: "That's about seventy miles' ride from here." He hasn't earned enough trust with any of this group to offer more than the facts, unvarnished by his opinion. (Which is that Rachel's idea is insane. In good health, on good horses, thirty miles a day, in six to eight hours, is pretty standard for a small Militia patrol, which means that they'll have to outpace that to stay ahead of his father's men. And that doesn't seem likely.)
Slowly, Miles turns to face Rachel. The two lock eyes for eight or nine seconds, having some sort of wordless conversation Jason can't even begin to fathom. Then Miles limps over to his horse, takes the reins from Danny, and growls a single, two-word order: "Mount up."
Rachel climbs up onto her horse immediately, but for a second, no one else moves. Nora's voice, weighted with unspoken meaning, breaks the silence of the pause: "That's a long ride, Miles."
In answer, Miles buries one white-knuckled hand in his horse's mane, reaches a foot into the stirrup, and hauls himself up by what has to be sheer force of will. Jason avoids wincing only by looking away at Charlie and Nora. As the former General settles into the saddle, he snaps in a dry, tense voice, "Let's go. You're not making it any shorter."
Jason turns to find Miles' horse bearing down on him, and as he sidesteps quickly, Miles pulls to a halt. "Got a horse?"
Jason nods, and jerks his head to indicate the direction. "Not far."
Miles gives a "good soldier" nod. "Go get it. You're on point."
It's not exactly "watch our backs," but it's still more trust than Jason had expected. He takes a couple of jogging steps before Miles' gravelly voice stops him.
"Hey, kid."
He turns to find Miles staring intently at him, brown eyes glittering in the darkness, and for a second, he can't tell if he's about to be thanked or threatened. Then Miles holds out an open hand, palm up. "Sword."
Ah. So, neither. Jason spins the short sword he's still holding and hands it back to Miles, hilt first. Miles sheathes the sword, Jason turns to go – and then he stumbles forward as Miles kicks him lightly in the shoulder with the toe of one boot.
"What the hell – " He whirls back angrily, but apparently the kick was Miles' equivalent of a pat on the back, because the next words out of the former General's mouth are:
"Nice moves, kid." For a second, Jason can understand how this guy was the revered and worshipped General of the whole Militia, because that one little phrase, from General Matheson's mouth, fills him with a sudden, unexpected surge of pride.
Then he considers how much of an understatement it actually is. "'Nice moves?'" Seriously? "I saved your life."
There's a half-second pause before Miles grunts, "Yeah, well, don't get cocky about it," and nudges his horse past Jason.
He'll probably never fathom this guy's arrogance. He takes a step in the direction his horse is tied as Miles passes. Then he pauses again as he feels a light tap on the shoulder of his leather jacket. He brushes at it with two fingers – sticky, hot. Blood.
Holy shit. He'd figured Nora and Charlie had gotten that bleeding stopped better than that. Miles looks like he can't even feel it. Jason has heard all the campfire stories about this man, of course (whispered quickly, nervously, behind Monroe's back, but always with that undercurrent of worshipful awe). He'd never put much stock in them – which, in retrospect, was probably the reason he'd been the only volunteer to track down Matheson via Charlie all those months ago – but it occurs to him now that maybe Miles actually has a little, teeny tiny bit of a right to be so arrogant.
He wipes the blood from his jacket and wonders if this will go down in history as the mission that finally killed General Indestructible Matheson.
…
The kid finally jogs off to get his horse, and Miles blinks back a couple spots from his vision and focuses on breathing. One, two. One, two. One… Two…. The spots clear, and he grins and turns to look for Charlie, embracing the rush of fire that shoots across his back. Pain is good. Pain equals conscious.
He'd always been shit at math, but that one he's got down.
Plus, he's learned this on campaign before – "It's important not to look like you're dying in front of the men?" was the way Bass had paraphrased Miles' insistence on riding out to congratulate the troops with a hole through his abdomen – and he's figured out that the trick isn't ignoring the pain – it's making it your new normal.
Actually, that had been pretty much the trick with everything since the lights went out.
Miles heels his horse forward – at least both his legs still work; he's still having trouble with that left arm – to the rest of the group, and stops to address them like they're his goddamn cavalry.
"Nora, you're on rearguard with me." God, his voice sounds terrible. Like he's talking through a bucketful of phlegm. "Charlie, you're up front with Jason – make sure he doesn't lead us in a goddamned circle." She grins brightly, and he momentarily reconsiders his decision to put Romeo and Juliet on point together.
"Danny, Rache – " he blames his sticky throat for the fact he can't make it through her whole name " – follow Charlie. You hear a gunshot, swords, yelling, anything behind you, and the four of you run like hell."
Surprisingly, it's Danny who eyes him assessingly. "What about you and Nora?"
Nora comes to his rescue, for which he's actually grateful, since it seems to be getting harder and harder to talk. She gives Danny an even look and a humorless grin. "We don't need you in the way when we're dicing up Neville's men into little pieces."
Miles nods, and that's that. The six of them move out in loose formation. For the first couple of hours, it's not so bad. Nora doesn't try to talk to him – and he's immeasurably thankful he's got one professional on this damn trip – and Miles counts steps, counts breaths, and focuses on the way each of his horse's individual footfalls shoots pain up into the base of his skull. After an hour, he's managed to reach that blanket haze of half-dissociated agony where all of his senses still work – he can hear the crackle of sticks under Nora's horse's hooves, behind him; smell horse sweat and blood and caked dirt – except for his eyesight.
He can see, of course – the dark shapes of trees, edges blurred in the moonlight; Danny's horse as it slows and wanders in front of him for the fiftieth time – but his eyes and his brain have gotten together to toy with him, and he's starting to have to decide what's real by whether or not his horse reacts to it.
For instance, that eight-foot lion, crouching in the bushes over there – his horse hasn't flared a nostril, so he's going to shelve that under "not real." That halo of gold around Rachel's hair in the moonlight – well, probably not real either, but it's pretty to look at, all the same. That gleam of light off a soldier's musket – his heart jumps, but his horse doesn't, and when he looks again, it's just a spider-web covered tree limb. Shit. At least his hearing is still functioning. He focuses in on Nora's horse, walking behind him: crackle, snap, crunch, crackle, crackle, crunch, snap. The sound is actually pretty damn relaxing, and as the shadows continue to coalesce into hallucinated monsters, Miles wishes he could just close his eyes.
And it's funny what your brain will dredge up at unexpected times, because suddenly, Miles is thinking of the only line he can ever remember from the only poem he'd ever liked.
And miles to go before I sleep…
Sixty-five more miles, at least. Miles forces his eyes open, and the hallucinations crowd right back in.
…
The bridge crossing at Trenton is both easier and more harrowing than Jason had anticipated. Easier, because they basically waltz right through the Militia bridge guards with no resistance. More harrowing, because he has to do it all with a bag over his head.
It had been Miles' idea. Rumor ran faster than horses, and, between the "do not engage" order and mention of a "high profile prisoner," every outpost and crossing guard between Philly and the border was tossing around the rumor that Miles Matheson had actually kidnapped General Monroe.
All of which led to Jason – the only one both wearing a Militia uniform and not expected to be part of their group – with a bag over his head and his hands "tied" in front of him, pretending to be Sebastian fucking Monroe.
Charlie's gun (borrowed from Nora) pokes into his ribs a little harder as they ride up to (presumably) the guard post at the bridge and stop. He'd been touched, actually, that she'd insisted on being the one to pony his horse and hold the gun – it demonstrated a level of (probably justified) concern that her uncle might decide to just shoot him in the side for fun. This pleasant train of thought is interrupted by a rapid-fire clicking of muskets being cocked – Jason counts at least five – and a voice barking out, "Halt! Who goes there?"
"Evenin', boys." Miles drawls in return. "Don't you recognize your own Commander-in-Chief?"
"Probably hard with that bag over his head," Nora's cheerful voice pipes up. "Maybe I should shoot it off?"
Jason hears the hammer-click of another gun, this one much closer to his head. It's suddenly stifling inside the bag – or maybe he's just sweating – and he sucks the black fabric closer to his mouth, trying to draw in a little fresh air and mentally running through his next sequence of moves if this goes south. Untwist hands, pull off bag, grab Charlie's gun and fire in – he listens for a moment – those three directions, then knock Charlie off her horse and out of the line of return fire…
"Nah, no need for that." Miles' words are so casual, it's almost easy to miss that they're spoken through gritted teeth. "'Cause they're going to let us pass – aren't you, boys?" There's a barely audible clink and a creak of saddle leather, and that must be Miles leaning forward and casually resting a hand on his swords.
Sweat trickles down Jason's forehead into his eyes, and the bag chafes against his close-cropped hair. Actually, now that he thinks about it – and he wishes he hadn't – the thing is actually making his whole face itch. His horse shifts under him – an oddly surprising sensation when he hadn't been the one asking it to move – as Charlie's horse starts forward. The sound of the hoof beats changes from thump, thump to a low, hollow clang as they move from the dirt road onto the bridge.
They're all the way across and into the dirt on the other side before Jason stops waiting to hear the sound of musket fire and feel a round or two sink into his back. He lets out a shaky breath and then swears a muffled curse into the bag as Charlie lurches both of their horses into a bouncy trot, forcing him to grab at the saddle horn momentarily with his loosely bound hands. Apparently wearing a bag over your head screws up your balance.
They ride what Jason estimates is another mile before Miles calls a halt and Charlie pulls the bag off his head. He blinks in the moonlight and has just enough time to focus on her blue, blue eyes before she leans in and plants a kiss right on his lips. He freezes for a second, then he leans into it, wrestling his hands out of the stupid, entangling ropes so he can tangle them instead in her perfect, wheat-blonde hair. His whole body tenses like a drawn bowstring – and then his damned horse takes that as a cue and sidesteps, pulling him away from that gorgeous mouth. Charlie beams in the moonlight, and he honestly hasn't got a clue why she kissed him – celebration, maybe? – until she leans in and whispers, "Wanted to do that earlier. Thank you for saving Miles."
Great. Fantastic. Miles. Before he can fully explore the depressing train of thought that is Charlie's childlike awe of her douchebag uncle, the man himself interrupts their moment:
"Yeah, well, if I'd known it was going to result in this, I'd have told him to let me get eaten." Miles gives Charlie a pointed look, and she shrinks back into her saddle, blushing furiously.
Another five and a half hours' ride brings them to the Raritan River crossing, and Charlie is just "tying" Jason's hands up for a second game of "Look! We kidnapped General Monroe!" when a series of enormous, ground-shaking rumbles spooks every one of their horses. Nora flings herself off her crazed steed, cursing as she hits the ground and rolls to her feet, Danny grabs Rachel's reins as her mare tries to take off into the darkness, and he misses whatever Miles is doing to stay on his horse, because Charlie's gelding crashes into him, smashing his knee into Charlie's, and his own horse stumbles sideways and nearly falls before he manages to lean, haul on a rein, and help the poor thing stay upright.
"They blew the bridges!" Nora spits as soon as they've got their horses under control, and she looks ready to blow something up herself in retaliation.
They wouldn't. Not for this. Really? "Both of them?" Jason asks, not quite believing her. She doesn't bother to answer him, which shows how much she thinks of his question.
Then Rachel says, so quietly Jason almost can't hear her, "They can't let us cross, but they can't let us kill Monroe either. It's the only logical solution: take away the option to cross, and they take away our reason to threaten Monroe."
It's probably better if Jason never tells Charlie exactly what he thinks of her mother, because honestly, he's pretty sure that the woman's idea of what is and isn't a "logical solution" is roughly on parallel with General Monroe's.
"Can we go around?" Danny rarely speaks up, and when he does, Jason is always reminded that, despite their being only a few years' removed in age, Charlie's little brother is about fifteen years younger in life experience.
"They'll just blow the other ones." Miles' voice is very, very tired. "Jeremy's thinking like Monroe now. He'll blow every bridge we come to if he has to cut off the whole of the northeastern Republic to do it."
No one actually says, So, what do we do?, but the question hangs unspoken in the air.
Miles looks through the trees out at the dark expanse of river in silence for a long time. He's so still, and so quiet, that it's a little eerie, and Jason is just starting to think maybe he's actually died right there on his horse when Miles gives a decisive grunt.
"We'll swim it."
Well, damn. He'd thought Rachel was the crazy one.