splix | FIC: Penultimate Retreat

Title: Penultimate Retreat
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: PG
Word count: 1643
Pairing: Major Jamie Stewart/Captain Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: War Horse is property of Michael Morpurgo.
Summary: Words spoken and unspoken on the night before a charge.
Notes: To cataclyzmic, for cheering me when I felt blue.

Come in this hour to set my spirit free
When earth is no more mine though night goes out,
And stretching forth these arms I cannot be
Lord of winged sunrise and dim Arcady:
When fieldward boys far off with clack and shout
From orchards scare the birds in sudden rout,
Come, ere my heart grows cold and full of doubt,
In the still summer dawns that waken me.

When the first lark goes up to look for day
And morning glimmers out of dreams, come then
Out of the songless valleys, over grey
Wide misty lands to bring me on my way:
For I am lone, a dweller among men
Hungered for what my heart shall never say.

---Before Day, Siegfried Sassoon

*

Two-man tents squatted in irregular little clumps on the blessedly dry woodland floor, lamps glowing here and there beneath canvas tarpaulins as wakeful soldiers still stirred – chattering, writing letters home, cleaning kit, stealing a final warming nip from flasks before bedding down for the night. Beyond and below lay golden, grassy plains, quiet and still in the warm evening.

Jamie trained his field glasses onto the gently rolling hectares of land, but nothing disturbed the smooth canopy of grain.

"You don't suppose something's happened, sir?" the young sentry beside him inquired softly.

"Not at all," Jamie's reply brimmed with confidence, though Sergeant-Major Singh and his small reconnaissance team were hours late. "Singh's a dab hand at this sort of thing. You keep a sharp eye out, Peniston, and notify me the moment he returns." He clapped the young corporal on the shoulder and headed down the ridge to the tents.

The lamp in the tent he shared with Jim still burned. Jamie smiled, doffed his cap, and after giving Topthorn a firm pat in response to his friendly nicker, ducked under the tent flap. "Still at it?"

Jim turned, hastily shutting his notebook. "Oh – no, just scribbling. Has Singh returned?"

"Not yet, but he will. They might have been forced to take cover somewhere. I shan't worry unless he doesn't return by morning."

Jim's eyes clouded. "And if he doesn't?"

"And if he doesn't, we must assume the worst." Jamie sighed and sat on his cot, placing his cap beside him.

"It's a pity we haven't got portable telegraphs."

"Yes, isn't it. Still, we mustn't fret, it's a waste of energy. I have complete faith in Singh. He'll be back soon, you'll see." Jamie nodded towards Jim's notebook. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you."

"You didn't." Jim slipped the notebook into his tunic pocket and shrugged. "I can't seem to settle down tonight."

Jamie smiled a little. "You're not the only one, old man. Half the regiment's still stirring. Shall we go for a walk, as you're still dressed? The moon's nearly full, and there's a silver haze over the fields. Quite pretty."

A slow smile lit Jim's face. "Is it? Then I suppose we should have a look." He got up, doused the lamp, and held the tent flap for Jamie.

They walked for a while in companionable silence, threading through the trees until they reached the top of the ridge. Jamie had a quiet word with the sentry, and they strolled along the crest until they reached a sort of clearing with wide, flat rocks half-surrounded by young trees in full leaf. Jim leant against a tree, peering down at the fields below. "How beautiful," he murmured. "You were right."

"It's lovely country. A shame to trample over it. Still –" Jamie perched on one of the rocks, rubbing a gloved finger over its uneven surface. "Can't be helped." He looked for a moment at Jim's tall figure, limned by moonlight. "Ever been here before?"

Jim turned and shook his head. "No. I've been to Paris, though. My parents took me and my sister on a holiday eleven years ago. I remember wide streets and lots of rain and buildings like grey wedding cakes." He laughed. "That sounds worse than it really was. It was beautiful, and I was in awe of the place." Jim moved toward Jamie with economical grace. "Mind if I share your rock?"

"Please." Jamie indicated the space beside him with a hand. As Jim sat, Jamie took out a pack of Woodbines and lit one, then offered it to Jim, who shook his head. Jamie drew on his cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke. "I expect you miss your family."

"Well, yes – most of the time. Sometimes they're a bit much, particularly my sister, but I love them all the same. You?"

Jamie considered, watching the moon slip behind a cotton-wool cloud. "I suppose so."

"You don't talk about them much." Jim coughed. "That is – not as much as some of the other fellows, and myself. I know I kept you up a few nights ago nattering on and on about them. I reckon you were bored stiff."

"No, I –" Jamie clamped his mouth closed, and a flush warmed his cheeks. He'd been about to say he loved hearing Jim talk – Christ, he had to be careful. "No. Actually, it was quite interesting. You tell a fine story." Glad for the darkness, he inhaled sharply and blew out more smoke, endeavouring nonchalance as best as he was able. "You didn't mention a sweetheart, though. Isn't there a future Mrs. James Nicholls back home?" Stop, he begged himself. You're treading dangerous ground. He couldn't stop, though, foolish as it was.

Jim chuckled softly. "No," he said. "No, I'm afraid not. Alas for the women of England." He was quiet a moment, and then said, "Do you have a sweetheart, Jamie? Back home?"

Jamie shook his head and then, conscious of the darkness, said, "No." The word sounded harsh and abrupt, and Jamie tried to soften it a bit. "I've never…I've never fancied any particular girl."

"I'm certain someone will fall madly in love with you one day."

"Wouldn't count on it, old man."

"I would."

Silence stretched out between them, gossamer threads too fragile to disturb. The moon emerged from behind its cloud, bestowing its radiance once more, silhouetting them in silvery light. Jamie turned on the pretext of grinding his cigarette against the rock and let out a shivering breath. He ached, body and soul, and as he turned back, he felt the warmth of another human being, the tender proximity of Jim Nicholls' companionship. He could not account for the sudden sensation of loss and unhappiness that permeated him, making him shudder in the soft summer air.

"Are you all right? You haven't got a chill, have you?"

"Fine." Jamie stood briskly. "Perhaps we'd better head back."

Jim didn't move. "Do you think it'll be tomorrow?"

Jamie bit his lip, then looked over his shoulder at the still fields of grain – golden in sunlight, silver now. "Yes. Yes, I think so. Whether or not Sergeant-Major Singh returns, I think tomorrow is the day."

"Are you afraid?"

Thoughtful, Jamie stood quiet for a moment. "I…I'm not afraid of dying, not with chaps like you beside me. I don't want to die badly, though. I don't know if that makes a whit of sense."

"No. I understand perfectly. Jamie…." Jim got to his feet. He rested his hand upon Jamie's arm and gazed at him, his eyes very bright. "Jamie, before we…before all this happens, I just wanted to say…." Jim swallowed, looked down at the ground briefly, and then back at Jamie. "That is…." Jim's hand, innocent of its leather glove, radiated warmth; his face was bare inches from Jamie's own.

At once Jamie yearned with all his heart to take a single step closer. Just one step. His throat tight, he stared down at Jim's hand, that graceful hand touching him.

Jim let out a quick breath and drew his hand away. "Sorry, I – I just wanted to say that I know you'll…I know you'll lead us brilliantly. It's a comfort to me to know that you'll be riding into battle beside me." He took a step back. "It's quite late, and I find I'm tired after all. I suppose we should be heading back before the night gets away from us."

Jamie nodded. "All right."

In silence they moved back down the ridge. Only a few lamplit tents dotted the forest ground now; the men had succumbed to exhaustion. They went inside the damp-smelling canvas hut, and Jim re-lit the lamp. Silently they ordered their clothes and kit. Jamie kept his back turned to Jim, uncomfortably aware of the movements of his lithe figure, and crawled into his cot, resting his arm over his eyes. Outside, he heard Topthorn and Joey having a short conversation of nickers and snorts.

"Lights out in half a mo." Jim pulled his notebook from his tunic pocket and sat upon his cot. As Jamie surreptitiously watched, Jim opened it and gazed down at it for a moment, then stole a quick glance at Jamie. He snapped the notebook shut, tucked it under the thin folded blanket that served as a pillow, and doused the light. The woollen coverlet rustled faintly as he lay down. "Good night, Jamie. Sleep well."

"You too, old man." He drew a breath. "Jim?"

"Yes, Jamie?"

"It's a comfort to me, too."

Three heartbeats passed before Jim replied, a reply no more than a soft sighing breeze.

"Thank you, Jamie."

Some things could only be said in the dark; when the light came again, exercising its brilliant domination over life, it banished the import of whispers, of traded intimacies, of secrets held close to the heart. Jamie closed his eyes in the darkness, listened to Jim's breath as by and by it evened into slumber, and reverently touched the spot where Jim's hand had rested on his arm, fancying he still felt its warmth.

End.

penultimate retreat