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Walk On
by kel

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"I have found nowhere so rich in fantasy as the depths of human
desperation."
-- The Cognosc

"I killed a Tripod.  Me.  Nobody else.  Me!  And I'll do it
again, and again, and again, and again..."
-- Henry Parker


Mont Blanc, November 2089 AD


It's fucking inhuman, thinks Henry, his head buried in the folds
of the dirty grey blanket that's the only thing between him and
the biting cold.  Like the others, he's been stripped, pushed
into a tiny, freezing cell; shivering and in pain, waiting for
... well, it could be anything.

The Capped have no strong passions, they say.  But it doesn't
take passion to get to someone, not really, not if you get what
you want at the end of it.   Black Guards, and their crossbow-
bearing bullyboys.  Six of them, and three of u-

And two of us, and we're all locked up alone at the base of the
fucking White Mountain with no-one around for miles.  And
they're fed and strong and used to the cold, and we could die
here, and nobody would ever know.

Something doesn't make sense, thinks Henry, failing not to cry
out as he shifts to stop his spine locking; he'd slipped,
running to take cover from the falling Tripod and the shrapnel
from the goose egg, and what with that and a night spent
cowering against sleet-covered rocks something's gone wrong with
his back.  Nothing too bad, but the colder he gets the stiffer
he gets and the harder it gets to ignore.

He hadn't paid it any attention at the time; too exhilarated for
words because he'd killed the fucking thing. Stone dead,
whatever it was.  Smoke and shale flying in all directions, and
the putrid, rotting stench as it vomited its life all over the
abandoned cutting.  Stinking ooze everywhere, the colour of the
algae on Squire George's pond when the streams dried up and the
ducks died, years ago; the colour of the phosphorescence on dead
foxes under the bridge.

He'd killed whoever drove it, too.  Because Will had been right.
There was someone in there.  Or something.

He hopes, he really hopes, it wasn't human, for his sake.  And
he hopes it was, for Will's.

He's been crying for nearly an hour.  It took him nearly that
long to realise that the cold on his face was the action of air
on tears.


=== * ===


Earlier


Four Guards in total, he thinks, and the thug with the crossbow,
who'd watched them all strip with every sign of enjoyment,
laughing at Henry's panic when he searched his body for Tripod
controls.  Slapped him hard, made the others hold him down, and
belted Will when he'd reacted.

And the leader's disappeared with the scribe, and the thug's
who-knows-where, having called them away.  And he's sure he
heard him say they'd needed three to deal with Beanpole, and
he's frightened stiff at what that could mean.

And that leaves two of them here, with Henry; in a small cold
cage in a small cold room, naked and shivering, clutching a
blanket that reeks of fear and other people's piss.

There's no need for this.

He's told them everything.  They all have.  Went through it all,
from Wherton to here, twice.  Together, now separately.  And it
mightn't be the whole truth, but there's nothing untrue been
said.  And they haven't believed him.

They left him alone, for an hour or so.  Cold, frightened,
thinking about what the Captain had said.  That Henry can be of
use, be made a Guard; perhaps even in the Jura.

It isn't a bargain.  How could it be?  Henry is sure it would be
pointless, that the Capping will tell them all no matter what
happens.  But it is a chance to survive with his conscience
intact.  Tell us, the Captain had said.  Of those who helped you
in your foolishness.  If they have done no wrong, they need fear
nothing.  And we may in turn help you.

He has offered Will the life of Eloise in return for
information; a return to the Château with her on his arm, or on
his conscience if he says nothing.  Offered Beanpole his sight
if he co-operates, and Vagrancy in the mountains if he does not.
And offered Henry nothing, nothing at all.

For Henry shall be Capped and made a Guard, he says; he shall
have Kirsty, and a family.  A place, a home, a purpose, a life.
And it means nothing, nothing without the others.   Without
Will.

He wouldn't be here if it did.

 "Go on, bawl all you like," says the big one, the second-in-
command with the strange accent and big, dark circles under his
eyes.  "Nobody will hear you, except your friends.  And they're
busy with their own problems."

"Especially that pretty cousin of yours.  He's got a lot to
think about.  Well, they both have, haven't they?  About what
they've done to you.  Starved and cold, and a long way from
home, for nothing.  In their beds, for nothing.  Getting
touched, for nothing.

Because you don't like being touched, do you, Henry?

Did he rape you, Henry?  The uncontrollable?  He's had your
cousin, and hurt him. But then your cousin seems to like that
sort of thing."

And the youngest one steps between them, not fast, but firmly
enough to keep Henry at a safe distance, and says "Listen,
Henry...  We know about you.  All about you.  You've told us the
truth, haven't you, Henry?  But just one little thing more.  You
can have your clothes back when you tell us about the tramp who
sent you, and the family that helped you, and the girl you're
going back to when we let you go.  Because we will let you go,
Henry, if you tell us the truth."

And the bigger one says "There's no if about it, Stephane.
When, Henry.  When.  Don't lie to us, Henry.  To be dishonest
now won't get you anywhere.  Any of you."

And there's a scream of pain, cut off abruptly, from somewhere
down the hall.

"They're finding that out now," he says, taking Jean-Paul's
lunettes out of his pocket and idly rubbing a dirty thumb
over the lenses.

"You can't do this," says Henry, furious as hell and starting
forward.  "When they find us... if somebody hears..."

"There's no-one to hear, Henry," and the bigger one hands the
little-moons to his friend, and the world explodes in white
light as Henry falls to the ground, excruciating pain curling
and clawing its way along his injured spine.

"Not even us, Henry," says the Guard, stepping back with
annoyance and rubbing clean a scuff on his precisely polished
boot.  For the blanket was a horse-blanket, once, and there are
sharp-edged buckles on it, and one dangled above Henry's knee
when he kicked it out from under him.

And somewhere, somewhere else, there are panicked shouts of
Henry's name, and abuse in French and English, cut off quickly.
Far too quickly, and far too textured silence after it, and
maybe ten seconds later a sharply-barked summons in a language
Henry doesn't know.

 "Scheisse," says the second Guard, under his breath, and
leaves the room at a run, shouting at the younger one to step
out and lock the door.

And he does, and approaches Henry from outside the bars.  And
Henry, crumpled and white-faced, curls in on himself, shrinks
away from him, the young man from the Jura who brought him food,
as he crouches and tries to take Henry's knee in gentle hands.

"I wish he had not done this.  You must find him as bad as the
bandits," he says in gently flavoured English.  "But you must
let me see, Henry Parker.  You may be damaged.  Please.  I can
help, perhaps.  I have training in these matters."

And there is genuine concern in his tone, so Henry lets him
uncover his leg, touch gently the discoloration and swelling
already forming.

"This will be very bad to stand on soon.  Put it against the
floor, so, keep it cold.  Please. It will keep it down.  I
cannot leave, or I would find you something to bind it with.  My
Captain may allow a draught for pain.  I will ask later."

And Henry, almost too cold to feel anything, lets the boy push
his knee down gently.  It doesn't hurt all that much now.  But
it's going to.  Any fool can see that.

"Please, you must not be angry with Georg.  His daughter, she
died of plague some days ago, and the message arrives only this
morning.  He is from Cologny, do you see?  This is a long duty.
He cannot go home, and his sons are without the Cap.  He is gone
a little Vagrant today, I think.  To lose a child ... perhaps to
lose more, do you understand?"

And Henry nods despite himself, although he does not believe it;
does not want to believe that the Capped feel anything that
strongly.

The young one searches in his pockets for something, and gives
up regretfully. "This was not a good time to be found, Henry.  I
apologise.   I hope he will become more civilised as the day
goes on.  I hope he will remember himself.  But we cannot ask it
of him now."

He reaches out, pulls the blankets a little tighter around
Henry, talking as much to cover his own discomfort as Henry's.

"Grief is a terrible thing.  My brother, he drowned when a
little boy.  It made my mother Vagrant for a time.  This may
happen to Georg, also.  It is so, sometimes, when there is love.
When the children die, or when they are gone.   Sometimes when
they run away.  Your mother must miss you, Henry Parker.  To not
know if you are alive, if you are hungry... "

"Shut up," says Henry, through gritted teeth and the stupid,
childish threat of tears.  "She's dead.  You know she's dead.  I
told you."

"I cannot know this, for certain.  And nor can you.  We both
need to know the truth, Henry," says the Guard, and sits down
outside the bars.  Closer than Daniel had been when they half-
strangled him, and utterly trusting.

"What do you mean?"

"I think my Captain is right.  You heard what he said, before.
If the Tripods have made you... oh, how to say... if you are
conditioned with the ...button?  With the button, to find the
bandits and the ones who will help, then you have done what you
had to do, Henry, and now you can stop.  You can go home, Henry.
Do you not want to go home?"

"I have no home," spits Henry.  "I never have had.  You're
wrong.  I'm not working for them, I wouldn't, not for anything."

"But if you are with the button, Henry, you would not know.  And
I think this is why Georg has not realised..."

Henry throws open the blanket.  "Do you see a fucking button?
Go on, have a good look.  Your friend with the crossbow did."

The Guard looks away, embarrassed.  "Please cover yourself,
Henry.   It is cold, and this is not helpful."

He's actually blushing, this one.  So very young, thinks Henry,
heavily.  My age.  Will's age.   Much younger than Daniel.  He
writes faster than Daniel did, and he looks much more closely at
Henry when they talk, as if there are vestiges of curiosity in
him still.  Very thin and very tired; not fed properly.   If he
didn't know better, he'd think he was ill.

It must be hard out here, thinks Henry.  What a horrible posting
to have.  He probably believes he loves it.

"The button, it may be an illusion, a...  It is beyond me, this
science, the words.  Let me think...  have you seen the men who
make sleep at the fair, Henry?  You sleep, and they wake you,
and they say dance, Henry, and you dance; or: make the noise of
the chicken and kiss that girl, Henry, and you cluck-cluck and
you sweep her in your arms.  The Tripods can do this, if they
wish, with men.

They make a Cap of spiderweb, if you like.  It is there, but it
is not there.  In your head.  It is done with young men
sometimes, for precaution.

I think perhaps this is what happens with you, Henry.  Because
you are a good citizen, at heart.  You are not like your
friends.  On this all your stories agree.  I think you are given
such a Cap, and in Wherton your Cap says Henry, keep watch for
strange things, and do what you must.  And when your cousin is
misguided, you follow him, you come here and find there is
nothing, and all is well.  And you bring us these criminals, and
that is well also.

Admit this is possible, Henry."

"Get stuffed."

"But it must be," says the Guard, decisively, and leans against
the bars, ticking off points in the dirt on the floor as he
speaks.  "Do you not see, your story makes no sense.  You make
no sense.  Even an unCapped could see this."

"To say you have no home... nobody has no home, Henry.  And your
mother... for a Capped woman to die, of illness?  It is not
possible, and not to know what that illness is, less so.  And
for a father not to care for his son?  This is nonsense.  One
has only to look at Georg, or even my Captain.

And loving boys, Henry.  You say you do, and do not; and they
say you do and do not, and it is not possible for you not to
know which is correct, is it?  For them, yes, they are not in
your mind, and may believe anything.  But for you, no.  You must
know.  If you do not, then this is the Cap, yes?  To me, it is
obvious."

"Half your fucking luck," says Henry sourly.

"It is confusing for you, I think.  But it need not be.  There
is a simple test.  Did you want boys, in Wherton?"

And part of Henry says always, and part says no, and part says
only Will, and the truth is all of them.  All of them.  Always
and only Will, and that's not 'boys', is it?

"Then so.  You see?   To care for your cousin, Henry, is well
in the end, for he will change.  He is salvageable, Henry; he
can be useful, and safe from abusers.   And the other one... well,
you need not pander to him, any more.  We will not let him hurt
you again.  People like him cannot be predicted, I think.  You
have done well, sacrificed a great deal, more than anyone could
have asked.  This will be recognised."

"For fuck's sake, how many times...?  He didn't hurt me.  Do you
understand?  Where the hell did you get that idea?"

"You need not protect him, Henry.  He has confessed everything.
If it were not for him, you would not be with boys, is that not
so?   He is a man, you are not, and so.  It is harm under the
law, Henry.  You will understand, when you are Capped in full."

"If you were younger, the Tripods would send you to another
place, and you would be useful again, in the same way.   But you
are too old, I think.  No bandit will believe you wish to be
free now.  You have done your work, and done it well.  We must
make you whole again, Henry."  And he pats his arm,
reassuringly.  "No more nonsense."

"You're the one talking nonsense," says Henry, although he's not
as sure of it as he'd like to be.  He can't concentrate, in this
cold.  He tries without thinking to sit straighter, to pull his
leg upright, and is sent reeling by the pain.  Whiteknuckled and
determined not to cry, or cry out, it is some minutes before he
can think straight again, and in that time the Guard has left
and returned with rags and painfully cold water.

He passes the sodden cloth through the bars and waits patiently
for Henry to bind his knee, already swollen a third beyond its
normal size.

"I have spoken to my Captain, outside," he says, eventually,
when Henry is sitting straight again.  "We disagree.  It is
unusual to deny conditioning for so long.  Normally to be
reminded is enough, and one remembers..."

"Well I don't.  Get this into your thick skull," says Henry
tightly.  "I don't, and I won't, because it's rubbish.  I'm not
Capped, and I've done what I've done."

"Do you prefer to be misguided, by this... what was his name, this
madman, the one who sends you?"

"I don't know," says Henry, wearily, "for the fourth  time.
I've told you, Will told you, we all told you, we don't know.
And he's dead anyway."

The Guard looks down.  "You see, I think you must be with the
button,  Henry.  A babbling Vagrant tells your cousin a
fairytale, a story for fools and children, and your cousin tells
you.  And you leave your home, where people have loved you and
cared for you since you were a little boy, to come to the
mountains where there might be nothing?  No food and no fire?
No family?

If this is true, what you say, why did you come? "

Do you think I've never asked myself that, thinks Henry, who's
never believed in the Freemen, and believes in them most of all.

"Because I love Will," he says, surprising himself.  "Because I
wanted it to be true.  Because Capping is wrong.  Because I'm
happy, now.  Like this."

"Oh Henry... listen to yourself.  This is not you, I think, to
be happy as a pervert, and a thief.  Are you happy to lie?  To
leave your father, perhaps your mother, if I am right, grieving
with no word?  To leave a good friend tied alone and starving in
the cold, where nobody will find him?  To tell a girl you love
her and will come back, and then run away in the night to steal
food and make sex with criminals? "

And it wasn't like that, it wasn't, and Henry's been asking
himself the same questions for weeks.

"Are you happy to kill innocent men?"

"I've never killed anyone", says Henry, sharply.

"But the Tripod, Henry... the Tripod you claim to have
destructed."

"Destroyed," says Henry, automatically.  "You mean destroyed.
That was a machine."

"Thank you," says the Guard, just like Beanpole would.
"Destroyed. Destroyed.  The Tripod you destroyed, it was a
machine.  But I think you know there were men in there.  Many
men,  perhaps.  It carried three, at least.  There are sometimes
more.  Men with jobs to do, and families to keep.  Men with
wives, and sons who love their fathers.

You are a murderer now, Henry."

And he says it so very, very gently, and Henry can't look at
him.  Because there had been something that looked very like a
Guard's hat, buried in the stinking mess of the Tripod's
innards.  And a hand, torn from its owner.  And more, much more,
but he'd chosen not to see because of the terrible exultation on
Will's face.  And, he thinks, on his own.

"Did you want to murder?  I do not think you did, Henry.  I do
not think you destru- destroyed the Tripod.  I think it was your
friend Jean-Paul.  If he did not destroy it, then he made you do
it."

"It was me."

"He has made you do many things, has he not, Henry?"

"No.  I --"

"Then you must be with the button, because you are not a lover
of men, Henry.  Are you?  You are not like Jean-Paul, or like
your cousin.  The button makes you do this.  It is a very
successful disguise."

"No.  It is me.  And I killed the Tripod."

The Guard leans against the wall, and looks up at the ceiling.
"Perhaps.  But the button would not let you do this, Henry.
Unless there were good reasons.  Perhaps there were good
reasons.  But I think it is more likely Jean-Paul threw the
grenade.  Not you."

"It was me.  All of it."

"This cannot be correct, unless you are not with the button.
And if you are not with the button, then you travel for nonsense
reasons, and your friend rapes you, and -"

"No! I wanted him. I told you.  I told you.  And he's never...
I wouldn't..."

"Then your mother is dead, and you are a liar and a pervert and
a criminal who has killed many people.  Is this what you wish to
be true?"

And Henry buries his head in his arms.  "No," he says, barely
audibly.  "But it is, it is. I know it is."

"Then your friend--"

"Is my lover.  Leave him alone.  It's not some imaginary button,
it's me.  And I'll fucking well kill you if you hurt him."

And Henry makes himself look hard at the Guard, who does not
flinch away; merely nods quietly and makes another note in his
little book.

"Very well.  Then your situation is criminal.  Do you understand
this?"

 "Selbstverständlich," says the bigger one from the shadows,
and stalks his way back into the cage with fresh scuffs on his
shoes and Will's belt wrapped tightly around his hand.  Under it
his knuckles look raw, hastily cleaned of something once wet and
red.   "Enough."

He unlocks the door, beckoning to the younger Guard to join him.
"Still looking for cobwebs, Stephane?   You must excuse my
colleague, Henry.  He has not been here long.  His first runaway
was sent by Tripods, and now he thinks you all are.  He has not
yet learnt that cowards like you make atrocity all on your own."

Henry tries to stand up, and can't.  "What's happened?  What
have you done to them?"

"Cabot searches your bodies, Stephane searches your minds, and I
am kept here for no reason with nothing to do and no way to
leave.  Dealing with animals like you.  And you, you are a
killer and a liar, and you will be Capped and carried home in a
day.   To your home, that you do not care for.  And your family,
that you do not care for.  How fortunate you are."

And he smiles, coldly and dangerously, in a way that does not
reach his eyes; and the younger Guard hastens his step almost
imperceptibly.  Takes Georg's arm and speaks fast and low in
some incomprehensible language; steps back with indrawn breath
at the answer he receives.

And the shock, the compassion, in his face as he turns to look
at Henry tells him everything he needs to know.

Georg turns back, shaking his head, looks down at Henry with
contempt.

"Your cousin told us of this Vagrant before he--  before.
Ozymandius, yes?  We know this Ozymandius of old.  Sending
innocent boys to their deaths, and worse.  For his own
amusement.  Or perhaps he believes it.  He is very persuasive."

"And it is boys, always always boys."  He crouches beside Henry,
forces him back against the bars, strong enough to hold him
there despite his panicked scrabbling.   "He likes boys,  this
Ozymandius.  Did he have you first, Henry, or just your cousin?
Oh yes," he says, at the look of shock on Henry's face.  "Didn't
he tell you?  Did he lie to you too, Henry?  As he lied to us."
He smiles, grimly.  "Well, he will not do that again."

"Dieser ekelhafte Bettler...  and such stupid boys.  You
would not believe how many of them think he is doing this for
some kind of love.  Over the ocean, he says, quick, quick, hide
and run, and so, you follow, with your little pricks and your
big wide eyes.  And most of you starve and die, or are found
along the way, and we are here to clean up the rest.

It is so very, very stupid of you, Henry.  All of you, but
especially you.  Your cousin was a gullible, dangerous fool, and
I think you are well rid of him -"

And Henry can't start crying again, because he hasn't stopped.

"--and as for the other one..." He spits, to the side, and lets
Henry go.  "But you have a head on your shoulders, boy.  What
the devil did you think you would find, here?

Did you travel with your eyes closed, Henry?  No food, and no
means to produce it.  No water that has not been pissed in by
goats and Vagrants.  If you walk up there, yes, all the way up
there, Henry, in the snow, you might just find a nice little
cave and a starving madman who will promise you anything for
food, and touch you just like this..."

"It is true," says the young one, hastily, pulling Georg away
from Henry, paralysed and white-faced, retching with fear.  "We
had one fellow up there who stole a boy away.  We were taking
him home, and the salop attacked us, took him just like
that.  We found his bones, two weeks later.  Boiled clean."

"True enough," says Georg, heavily.  "Boiled and buggered,
Henry.  That's all there is to look forward to up here."

He ushers Stephane out of the cell; locks the door and leans his
forehead against the bars with his eyes closed.  Exhausted, and
speaking as if to himself.

"The next time that Ozymandius wanders back here, because he
does, you know, every now and then... the next time, I am going
to lock that fine fellow in here with his Alpine brothers, and
see how long he lasts.  He deserves it."

He opens his eyes, hollow and dark with unshed tears.

"Dead children, Henry.  All these dead children.  How many,
Henry, because one stupid Vagrant cannot keep his hands to
himself?"

And Henry looks at the dried blood on Georg's hands, and retches
again.


=== * ===


Less than a hundred metres away, in a narrow, dark room almost
filled by a damp bench of crumbling manmade stone, Beanpole
squints towards where he knows the ceiling must be.  It's
pointless, of course; the only light is coming from ground
level, where an inch or so between the sodden ground and the
splintering wooden door lets in the icy mountain air.

The boys are being held in a small stone house, standing on its
own at the foot of the White Mountain, surrounded by huge black
cylinders of metal.  Pipe segments, he thinks, designed to carry
something over the mountains.  Water to the towns below,
perhaps.  The armed Guards hadn't answered his questions during
the march.

He's almost grateful for it; it gives him something to think
about.  The possibility that the pipe carried things from the
bottom of the hill to the top  is fascinating.  A pump, driven
by men, or horses, or... yes, steam.  Perhaps.  He can almost
see how to do it, for water.  If only the fucking Guards had
left him something to draw with...

The others are inside, in special rooms on the ground floor of
the house, he thinks; they'd been held in one large cell
together, at first.   They will be a little protected from the
cold.  Beanpole's cell was reached from outside, and opens
directly onto the mountain.  He could kick the door down and
run, with very little effort, but there's no point; he can't see
where he is, he couldn't see where he was going, and without
clothes... It was sleeting when they brought him in, and the
mountains are thick with snow, all the way down.

He'd make very poor sport for the handsome crossbowman, he
thinks, naked, blind and with feet already numb from puddles on
the floor.  Even if he was prepared to leave the others, which
he isn't.

Other.  Other.

He's staying calm, despite the pain, despite the screams,
despite the blood on the Swiss Guard's hands.  And the dreadful
silence afterwards.   There's nothing he can do, and he doesn't
want to make things worse for Henry.

Perhaps numb's a better word than calm.

For Jean-Paul knows a little German.  From books and sailors and
full-lipped runaway boys.  Not much, but enough to know what
der hübsche Junge means.

And tot.

And isn't feeling much of anything any more.

They'd been dragging him here after the first round of
interrogation when the second scream came.  He'd tried to break
free, go to Henry, and been slammed hard into the wall for his
trouble; had fought like hell and been restrained, with far more
force than necessary.  Silenced and winded, but unhurt, for the
most part.  And Will had shouted too, from wherever he was, and
the sound had stopped far, far too quickly; and the Swiss had
come running with blood on his hands.  Had run toward the
silence, and returned, so very slowly, with a curtly muttered
"ein anderer Unfall."

An accident, another accident, they muttered to each other; the
pretty one is dead.  And said nothing to his face; ignored him
when he demanded the truth, struck him as he called to Will in
panic, and dragged him away hearing only silence.

He almost believes it.  Almost.

And the Captain and the Swiss had looked exasperated, more than
anything.  Tired men resenting an inconvenience.  And then the
younger one, with the accent like Vichot's, had come through and
been told curtly to get back and start cleaning up; been handed
rags and a bucket.  And he'd been pale and shaking when he
returned.

And they'd all seemed strangely sobered, as they dragged him
here.  Grimmer, more focused; caring less for his safety.
Dragging him over rocks, through puddles; taking his clothes and
his sight.

If there is more violence coming, real violence, it will be
directed at him, and not Henry.  They want to make Henry a
Guard; they said so.  They do not need to hurt him.  Especially
with Will gone.  For Henry can be Capped, can be useful.  Jean-
Paul cannot.

Henry can live happily, if they have their way.  He will have
Kirsty to wife, and his work will help people.  He will serve in
Dole, with Daniel, perhaps.  And Beanpole smiles, because Daniel
will be joyful he is saved, and share wine with him as they
watch their children grow.

And Will will be a dear, dead friend, whose not loving him won't
matter any more.

So, thinks Jean-Paul, so.  At least there is something to be
thankful for.

Henry will not remember his Beanpole with love, but as the
abuser, the criminal who led him when he knew no better.  And
Jean-Paul gives him his blessing silently.  For Jean-Paul will
remember for both of them.  Jean-Paul will forget nothing, and
regret nothing, and expects to suffer greatly for it before they
are done with him.   For Guards are so very, very predictable.

If they are Guards.

If, if, if.

For Beanpole had had his suspicions at first.  But if he is
wrong, then they are damaged men.  And the pain will not be too
bad, for a while.  And when it is, it will not last long.  He
will not last long.  But there is much which can be learned in
between.  Damaged men take their time, when unrestrained; they
will play, like dogs, or like the tides.  One minute here, one
minute gone, offering the illusion of respite.  And in that time
he may find a way to leave a warning for those who will follow.

Because there will be others.

The light under the door, a bright, blurred line at the edge of
his vision, is changing.  It was morning when they were found;
they have spent perhaps two hours, three, inside, being
questioned, and perhaps that again apart.  So the dimming could
be nightfall, or it could be snow clouds drawing in, turning
everything grey.  The latter, he thinks.  One must expect a day
like this to seem longer than it is.

The wind has risen too, and whistles gently through the gaps
between the panels in the door.  There are marks around them on
the inside; made by desperate, clawing fingers, he thinks.  They
stood out starkly against the dark green paint, before the door
was shut, along with the old and ugly stains on the bench.  And
even in the cold and the wind, there's a lingering smell that
tells of panic and neglect.

Whatever the truth, they are used to difficult prisoners.

Perhaps this is kindness.  It occurs to him, suddenly, that they
may not come for him at all.

He wants so much to believe that all this is nonsense.  Because
the Cap renders torture pointless.  It must do, mustn't it?
There must be someone here, something to make their journey
worthwhile.

Unless the pointlessness is the point, in which case anything is
possible.  In which case there is so very, very much pain to
come.  Because they are not civilised, and he has forfeited his
right to death.

And he laughs at the thought, because he is so very, very
frightened.  If only Will were still alive, he thinks, I would
have someone to be brave for.   But the words mean nothing, and
do not touch him.  Will's absence is too big, yet, to
understand.  Something far too big to see.

He sits forward to rub his feet and curses, realising that he
has been leaning against the cold stone walls, leaning in steady
rivulets of icy water.  His back and hair is soaked, his blanket
useless, but it does not matter.  He cannot feel either, now.
His fingers are numb and uncontrollable; he has scraped them on
the broken edges of the bench.  Peering close he makes out blood
upon the blanket, and on his hands, but he cannot feel a thing.

And something nags at him about the blood; about Will's blood,
and the Swiss.  But it eludes him, slips past in the dark.

Something is very wrong here.   Perhaps he will survive long
enough to find out what it is.

And perhaps he won't; perhaps he will fight and take one of them
with him, if he can.  For Henry, he thinks, for the boy with the
frightened smile and beautiful freckles.  For the Tripod-killing
boy.

And Will would not have found it disloyal.  But Henry would not
have approved.

The cold, his tiredness, his hunger makes it hard to think.  Too
hard.  It's a novel sensation, and not without its merits.    He
shuts his eyes and leans back against the wet wall, because he
cannot feel it, anyway; leans back and imagines kissing Will one
last time.  Tentatively on dead and dusty mattresses in the
ruins of Parisian markets; gently in fever, and feverishly on
silk; in passion on crushed grass and mouldering wooden floors;
in straw, in fields, on pine needles; on plain sheets after a
hard day's work, and in the cell before the Guards came to
separate them.

And in the ocean; yes, in the ocean, with sand and sunset in his
hair, and skin unmarred by violence.

What a terrible thing, what a waste, he thinks, that Will never
spent time in summer by the sea.  Time without fear, time
without running.  And if he had, and if I had, and if, if, if...

It might have been like... this.

And it seems to him he is entitled to forget where he is, for a
time.

The light is almost completely gone when they come.  At least
three, maybe four, he thinks; they say nothing, but the
approaching plash of their footsteps, the way the wind is
blocked from the door, speaks volumes.

And Jean-Paul stands and pulls his sodden blanket around him,
marshals his wits and faces the muffled sound of heavy keys.
Head up, back straight, and defiance in his sightless eyes: a
Freeman to the end.


=== * ===


Will walks around his cell to keep warm.  Four paces this way,
five that, his shadow shrinking and growing with proximity to
the light, the changing shape haloed by the ghosts of wheeling
moths.  A small, bright lantern hangs just out of reach,
providing no warmth.  Too far away to smash and start a fire
with.  And in any case they'd probably leave him to burn.

Four paces this way, five paces that, and he's trying not to
think about the screams; about the panic and pain in Henry's
voice, the timbre of the guards' laughter every time that
Beanpole is mentioned, or the blood on the ugly Guard's hands.

It's been hours now, he's sure, and they won't tell him what's
happened.   But he heard the Captain talking in the corridor;
talking about burial and papers of notification, about
appropriate forms and custodial deaths and the
incomprehensibility of suicide, even with honour.  Especially in
one so stable, he said, exasperatedly, and then looked up
sharply, saw that Will was listening, and shut the door.

And Beanpole would never give in.  Never.

But neither would Henry.

And the terrible, awful sense of it yawns inside him, leaves him
dazed and numb.  For Beanpole would die rather than be Capped.
And so would Henry.

But Beanpole said in Paris, and in the Maria, and in the cells:
who am I to do their work for them?  Let them kill me, for they
are dogs, they are filth, and they must live with this.  And I
will be looking at them when they take me, coquille, I will
be looking into their eyes, and I will tell them what they are.
Perhaps they will remember my words, next time.

And Henry killed a Tripod, and Henry killed men, in the Tripod.
Six or seven, by Will's reckoning, and it made Henry heartsick
and poisoned his triumph, Will could see it.  And Henry's French
is bad, so very, very bad, and his horror of Vagrancy returned
tenfold in the forests of Jure; and Henry would never serve
those who killed his mother, or give them any of their friends.

And Henry wouldn't give in, he just wouldn't.  But Henry was
starving and cold and injured and terrified.  And if they
touched him... if the bastards touched him...

And Will keeps pacing, round and round; it keeps him warm but
doesn't stop him thinking, it doesn't dampen the anger or the
fear.  And when the Captain comes in after an hour or so, with
the scribe and the young one, they won't tell him anything.  And
the young one seems as if he wants so badly to speak, but
cannot.

And the Captain ignores his questions, and bullies him curtly
about the writing on his back; has him held down while the verse
is transcribed, while his burns and scars, some opened again by
their flight, are probed for Tripod artefacts.  And Will says
nothing, nothing, as they question him again, and again, and
again, about the help and care and love he must have had.  For
he must have had help, this stupid disgusting country boy,
seducing Vagrants and nameless noblemen.

For he must tell them of this dangerously broken man, a criminal
himself, if the verse he has carved in Will's flesh is anything
to go by.  Contaminated.  Damaged.  He must be sought out, and
punished as his rank dictates.  Perhaps executed, perhaps
repaired.  A Tripod will decide.   And Eloise's family must be
questioned.  For they are Will's family now, are they not?  And
Will has forfeited his family, with his silence.  His real
parents and his adopted ones.

 "All of them," says the Captain, emotionlessly,  "or such as
remain after the questioning.  They will be executed.  You were
warned."

And that settles it, for Will, and he is cold, so very, very
cold inside; he is stone.  Because he knows, now, which of them
he has lost; because he managed to kiss Beanpole, but not Henry,
as they were dragged apart, and had heedlessly, stupidly, paid
it no mind.

Because there is always time for Henry.   Because he has
forgotten his lessons; ceased to fear his loss.  Because even in
Jean-Paul's arms, he looks to Henry for strength.  Always and
only his cousin.

And it's a relief, in a way, to have Henry gone, because
Beanpole has a chance of death, and Will must do what he can to
secure it.  And he'll provoke and push and do what he must, for
love.

And he won't give them Madame or the Comte or Sarlat.   He
won't.   Whatever it takes.

Because Henry didn't.

And Will is proud of his stupid, angry, honourable cousin; and
if Henry could do it, Will can.

Because he knows, now, as surely as if they'd screamed it in his
face, that the Freemen exist.


=== * ===


And Henry is given his clothes and questioned by the Captain
because Georg has gone too far.  And nobody hurts him, but they
make him stand for hours and hours, and when he breaks, finally,
it is because the Captain takes him by the hair, as the mate of
the Orion did.   And Henry screams his hatred of the Tripods
in defiance, screams again and again and again and again, and
collapses, shattered, to the floor.

And Beanpole, surrounded by armed and damaged men, unable to
fight, does as he promised Will; tells the Captain exactly what
he thinks of him in quiet, measured tones.  Resists the urge to
spit in Georg's face, and is taken with dignity back to his
cell, unraped, untortured, having given them nothing.  And he is
given his clothes, and two dry blankets, and left to wait in the
dark.

And Will loses his temper one last time, and screams with half a
year's worth of hurt and pain and defiance.  Shouts at the
Captain of betrayal, of those who will follow; exults in
everything the Guards' actions have revealed, and condemns
himself in the strongest possible terms.

And the Captain smiles warmly, so very, very warmly, and leaves;
and Will, exhausted, can do nothing but sleep.

They all sleep.  And when they wake to open doors and a
Guardless house, even Beanpole is surprised.


=== coda ===


And later, after kisses and tears and worn-off shock, after hugs
so hard and long they bruise; after Will and Ozymandius have
embraced, after Georg takes off his Cap and begs Henry's pardon,
and Cabot shares a smile of more than passing interest with
Jean-Paul; after the boys are fed and rested and warmed and
ready for the final journey to the home of the Freemen, Will
talks quietly with Beanpole by the fire.

Kisses him for leave and blessings given, and leads Henry
outside, to a sheltered corner of the house.  Takes Henry's arm
and watches as rare sunlight makes the White Mountain shine.

And he sits him down and settles behind and holds him, just
holds him, for a long time; as Beanpole held Henry, as Beanpole
held Will, and as he will hold them again.  In the open, without
fear;  sharing warmth, without words.  Because everything's
clear as clear can be, up here; as the ice in the shadow of the
pipes, as the meltwater sparkling on the grass.  In Henry,
Will's strength: in Will, Henry's home.

And they understand each other, at last.  For they are farm boys
in the mountains, with place, and with purpose.  And neither
sees the need to hurry, now.


=== © arjuna 2003 ===