Chapter Text
George gnawed at the callous on the side of his thumb in a failed attempt to peel away some of his anxiety. He had not raised an alarm--nor would he. No one could know what had happened here. That a man had snuck into his tent while he lay sleeping, and almost ended this war. It would shake the men, it would expose his weakness…
“Your Excellency, you wished to see me? We came as soon as we received word.” George didn't look up from his lap, only pausing to respond after he had torn away a bit of roughened skin.
“Come in, Alexander...something’s happened.”
Alex crossed the tent, kneeling down in front of him to meet his gaze. Lines of worry creased Alex’s youthful face-- a sore reminder that this war was fought by children. God, Ben was just a boy, how could he let this happen to him?
“Sir, what's happened to you?” Alex whispered, his keen eye drawn to the lobbed off segment of hair framing George’s face. Though Billy Lee had coaxed him inside, and dressed him, he could not smooth back the mutilated curl. It fell from his braid, tickling his cheek as a phantom hand from his assassin.
The note was still in George’s hand, and Alex eased it out of his pinched fingers, careful not to rip it. It only took a moment for Alex to speed through the threats.
“This is outrageous. Sir, I would not let this shake you. Our love for you is unwavering. A good night’s sleep will smoothe this from your conscious. Our sweet Benjamin will look into what fiend sold his honor to deliver this letter.” Alex glanced around the tent.
“Where is Benjamin?”
George clenched his jaw, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Alex looked up at him from the floor, terror starting to fill his gaze.
“Where is Benjamin?”
George felt Alex’s hand dig into his knee, all that pent up juvenile rage waiting to boil over--to fight on a moment’s notice. He could not manage to look him in the eye as the word slipped past his lips.
“Gone”
Another set of boots entered the tent as Alex let out a short cry of anger.
“My dear Alex, what has happened?!”
George bit down on his thumb. This was the alarm. He couldn't handle the noise. The panic. He was both numb and in turmoil. But now he needed to be in charge, as those closest to him had a penchant for chaos...and revenge.
“Arnold has taken him. He's taken Ben.” Alex spat, his words like venom hit the floor by Gilbert’s boot. Panic overcame him as well, dropping to his knees in front of George, seizing his lapels, wrought with terror.
“It cannot be! How did they get here? Who---” Gilbert’s gaze was drawn to the rogue curl. “Who took a razor to you?” His words were slow, colored by fear and his lingering accent.
All George could feel was shame, hot and rising uncontrollably throughout his body. He had let this happen to Ben. He was careless. He shouldn't have slept so deeply...woken when Ben had and kept a close eye on him. Like he's been doing for weeks. His most sleepless nights came when they were all together; Ben laughing on the floor with Alex and Gilbert, whilst he sat on the bed, eyes straining to keep open. They were his family, Ben the closest of all. And he let him fall into dangerous hands without a fight.
George put a steady hand on Gilbert, peeling the boy from his lapels. “Alexander...how long could you pretend I am still in camp?” Alex’s balled his fists.
“NO. NO----”
“How. Long.”
Alex ran a shaky hand through his hair, angry tears glossing over his eyes. He was thinking it out--- all the routes, the possibilities, the risks--- cross checking them with their plan thus far. What exposed them. What concealed them.
“Three days. Four tops, but---”
George rose from his chair, that was all he needed to know. “I'm going after him.” Alex clutched his legs, looking more like a petulant child than an aide-de-camp.
“You've gone mad. We cannot lose you. Gilbert and I will go---”
“No, I need you here at camp. My eyes and ears. I’ll ride out immediately.”
Gilbert rose to meet him, his face hard set with determination. “No. We need to cover your tracks. You will go at nightfall.” He turned to open the trunk at the foot of George’s cot. “We will take you to see Monsieur Evans. His manor is close, and he is sympathetic to our cause.”
Alex scrambled to his feet, not having any of this. “Gilbert, NO! Do not humor this madness.”
“Your Excellency will feign illness, some affliction brought on by stress and lack of a good hearty meal. No one would dare disturb you as you recovered, save for the two trustees who serve as your figurehead.” Gilbert said, filling a small tin cup with water from the basin.
George nodded, ignoring Alex’s incessant looks of protest.He had hoped to ride out immediately, but Gilbert was right. It was too obvious. Too many heads would turn, and word would spread that he had fled camp. He tried to smooth back the lop sided curl, exhaling sharply.
“Make it so. Leave my horse here, and acquire one just as fast, as well as some plainer clothes. As for now, I should just...succumb to fever--”
George stopped as the contents of Gilbert’s cup were tossed in his face, soaking him. He clenched his teeth as the water ran down his face, and seeped through his jacket.
“Was that...really necessary”
Gilbert smiled, sweet and mischievous. “Why of course, if you want the flush to look authentic. Alex?”
George cried out as Alex’s hand came down hard across his face.
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They had marched only an hour from camp when Rogers twisted his arm, signaling a hard stop. He forced Ben to his knees, grunting more than commanding.
“Alright, boy, those buff and blues have done enough. Here.” A bundle of cloth was thrown to the ground in front of him. “Put ‘em on before they sog. And be quick about it. I don't need a show”
Ben scrunched his nose in disgust. “Absolutely not.” He spat. He would not be removing this uniform. Rogers crouched down, meeting Ben’s defiant gaze.
“Listen, your highness, this is non-negotiable. That uniform draws too much attention. So we can do this one of two ways. You wear what I've given you, or, I drag you naked as the day you were born til we reach York City. And I can assure you, the latter will leave you with little that Ol Georgie finds interesting. So I’ll say it again; put them on. And be thankful you've been given a pair that fits, unlike this ghastly ensemble.”
Ben remained still. “Then I guess you'll just have to drag me.” He studied Rogers’ face, noting the momentary look of conflict. Rogers needed him on his feet in order to deliver him quickly. He wouldn't make him walk bare through the snow. It would slow them, or kill him. Rogers wouldn't get paid if he didn't drop Ben off alive.
Rogers sighed dramatically, pulling out the same hunting knife he used to threaten George.
“Now don't say I didn't warn you, boy”
The first thing Ben felt was a heavy boot to the chest, knocking the wind from him. He gasped like a beached fish, cold air searing his lungs so painfully he thought they were on fire. His head collided with a rock sticking up out of the icy forest floor, doubling his vision so that there were two hellish beasts looming over him. Two merging knives crudely shearing off his uniform, accompanied by hissing through bared teeth.
“I told Arnold you’d be a hassle.” Fabric ripping. “But no. Alive, he says. So I've got to live with your insolent mouth until he stuffs it.” Ben’s head was swimming, eyes struggling to focus on which Rogers was real. Blue and buff shreds were shorn of in great bolts, and the bite of steel nicked his collarbone as the knife exposed bare flesh. Goose pimpled and shivering, Ben had only one warmth left. His boots.
“You can keep those. Terrain is going to get bumpy, and I'd prefer not to carry your bare arse up and over like a mule. Not enough coin to make me do that.”
Ben’s torn shirtsleeve was used to secure his wrists, and once again he was on his feet. His knees knocked together in the cold. Blood dribbled from shallow cuts where Rogers had miscalculated the density of his uniform. They spotted the splintered frost like crushed berries.
“I give it, oh, ten...fifteen minutes at most before you’re blubbering fat tears and accepting my original offer. March, boy.”
The wind whipped up, sending chunks of ice against his flesh, reddening with cold. It was brutal, stabbing like knives from all angles. Ben ground his teeth. Fifteen minutes. Ha.
He lasted the whole hour.
In fact, he would have gone for longer, had it not been for Rogers’ overwhelming discomfort. Eyes ahead, back straight, he was increasingly on edge. If there's nothing more suspicious than leading around a man in a continental uniform, it's leading around a man stark naked. He took his opportunity to rescind his offer when Ben tripped over a hidden root, and tumbled to his knees.
“That’ll be the cold, boy. I'm impressed. However, you're redder than a beet.” Ben caught the bundle of clothes, twisting his bound wrists awkwardly to do so. “Put them on. Don't be a hero, though hero is not really the word I’d use.”
Ben’s ligatures were cut, and he scrambled off the ground to put on his new clothes. A dingy shirt that used to be white, olive jacket riddled with tears, and brown breeches which, surprisingly, did fit. The last piece was a ratty old scarf, it's red fabric fraying at the ends.
“Let's get a move on. Lots o’ ground, little time. Your wrists, boy.”
Ben pulled a sour face as his wrists were seized and bound again. He needed a way out. He needed some way to signal that he was here. Rogers pulled at his bindings like a kennel master reigned in a wild dog, willing him abruptly forward.
Ben staggered behind, still not quite recovered from the cold. His fingers fiddled at the frayed edge of the scarf, absently mindedly pulling free some of it. He looked down at his hands. Pinched within his fingers, red threads.
He smiled, and let them flutter to the ground.