A/N: And we're there! Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoy this final installment.

Nora was dressing, watching Miles sit on the edge of the cot clad only in his boxer briefs. His skin was still glowing from the heat generated by their bodies. He was furiously writing in a notebook. Her eyes traveled to the familiar M on his forearm. He could leave the militia, but he'd always bear its mark. Perhaps that was appropriate. Nora wondered with sharp trepidation what would happen to the militia without Miles as general. Things could get a lot worse for the Republic.

"Sir!" Robert suddenly called through the thick canvas of the tent without opening the flaps. "Capt. Baker to see you!"

"Just a minute!" Miles jumped up to put on his pants and whispered urgently, "You've got to hide, Nora. Under the bed. Don't make a sound."

Nora flew under the bed and felt Miles drape a blanket over the sides, obscuring her vision of the room. It was stifling under there, and she willed herself not to breathe. She heard Jeremy enter.

"Sorry, sir. Didn't know you were changing," came Jeremy's familiar, lazy drawl.

"It's fine. I was just about to come and find you anyway. I have urgent orders for you and Tom." She heard the scratching of Miles' pen again. Then his gravelly voice asked Jeremy, "Sorry-there was something you wanted?"

"No sir, urgent orders are urgent orders. What is it?" she heard Jeremy's voice thicken with concern. She braced herself for Miles' lies, hoping they'd be believable.

"I need you and Tom to ready a brigade and put down a border disturbance. It's the Georgians again."

"A whole brigade? This must be a sizable threat."

"It is. I'll send Robert with you to command with detailed orders."

"But…you're not coming? You usually come when it involves that many men."

"Can't. Rachel's hurt. She might be dying. I'm relying on you to be a good leader, Jeremy." Miles' voice was particularly raspy. "Lead from the front, don't take credit for the troops' sacrifices, reward them for their efforts. You remind them, you impress upon them, that an army is a team. They're not to let stupid individualism or false bravery distract them from taking care of each other."

"Sir?" Nora heard Jeremy say with apparent confusion in his voice. "Are you dying, Miles?"

"What?" Miles' voice masked irritation.

"You're dispensing an awful lot of folksy wisdom for this mission," Jeremy responded. Nora heard a pause.

"This one's dangerous, and I want my soldiers back alive."

"They're all dangerous, Miles. Look, you don't need to make speeches to me about leadership. I've watched you all of these years. That's all I need to understand good leadership." Nora heard Miles scoff. "It's true!" Jeremy insisted. "You're like Patton, for Christ's sake! How you traveled the space from a sergeant to a general in an instant, I'll never understand."

"I didn't, Jeremy. I've fucked up more than you'll ever know. Sometimes I miss taking orders instead of giving them."

"Since, apparently this is 'Miles feels nostalgic day,' here's what I've learned from you. Do with confidence and truly love your men, your women. Love them. After every battle there you'd be, laying hands on them, thanking them, praising them, saying their names. So many fucking names! And here's the part that can't be learned: be a total badass motherfucker under all circumstances."

"Jeremy," Miles warned.

"I mean it, Miles."

"War is terrible. And I'm tired."

"I know. Me too. We all are. But it could get a lot worse, if it weren't for people like you; people who can lead."

"Ready the troops, Jeremy. I want veteran units on this one."

After a moment, the blanket was lifted to reveal Miles' dark eyes peering at Nora. "Hey," he said softly.

Nora crawled out and stood eye to eye with Miles. "Are you sure you're doing the right thing?" she asked.

Miles' face was incredibly weary. "Oh, Nora. I'm not sure of anything anymore. But it's like Jeremy said, I'm a general. I know how to commit to a plan and carry it out like it's God's own destiny. And that's what I'm going to do."

Miles fetched Nora a uniform, but insisted that she stay inside the tent until the troops had departed. It wasn't until the morning that she saw him again.

"Well come on then," Miles said to her when he had reappeared, looking haggard. "They've gone. You won't be recognized by anyone who would suspect you."

Nora felt odd dressed in the Monroe blue. The cap obscured the bright light of morning. Soldiers were milling about, each a cog in a well-oiled machine. As Miles approached, they stopped what they were doing to salute him, looks of pride and delighted surprise creeping into their faces at the general's special interest in their quotidian tasks.

Miles led Nora toward the main house, but stopped short at the sight of a squad of young troops engaged in PT. They were doing push-ups in the mud. When he walked up, the sergeant in charge looked like he was going to call them to attention, but Miles waved him off.

"Looking good, soldiers. Keep it up!" he shouted. Nora noticed contentment, even joy on his prematurely lined face. His dark eyes danced with energy.

Eventually the sergeant dismissed the troops and a few jogged up to Miles saluting happily. "Sir! General, Sir!" they called.

One stayed behind, looking like he wanted to speak to the general.

"What's your name, private?" Miles asked, smiling.

"Stevens, sir. Philip Stevens."

"Stevens, you did well out there."

"Sir, I just wanted to thank you for giving me the chance to protect the Monroe Republic. It's an honor to serve under you, sir. I've not been on campaign yet, but the officers tell stories about you. How at Trenton, you ran straight into enemy fire to retrieve a fallen soldier, and then made it back without getting hit! They said you've killed fifty men all by yourself with just a blade and on horseback, too, sir! They say you can do anything!" the soldier was babbling jubilantly. His sergeant shot him a withering glance, but Miles just laughed.

"Those stories sound true to you, Stevens?"

"Well…yes, sir. I believe it. Everybody has a different tale about how brave you are and how tough," Stevens beamed.

"I suppose legends serve their purpose," Miles said more to himself than to the private. "You just remember that the most important thing is not bravery, it's training. A disciplined soldier is a soldier who holds up to the test of battle. In the field, everyone gets scared. You must learn to act, because you don't have time to think."

"Even you get scared, General?" Stevens asked with apparent surprise.

"Even me," Miles nodded. "Private? Carry on."

Stevens looked a little unsure of what the order meant, until his sergeant snapped, "You've been dismissed, soldier!"

The sergeant briefly came over to salute and apologize. "They're very green, sir. I'm working on them."

"All good soldiers start somewhere," Miles reassured him.

After the noncommissioned officer left, Nora looked at Miles. "Your troops love you."

Miles glanced at her. "Ah, Nora. They just want to be led. They just want to be led," he repeated staring off, taking in the camp with a look of bottomless sorrow.

Everything was set. Miles was waiting in Bass's office, a few candles aglow, shadows ominously flickering on the walls. Miles felt completely dead inside. Every time a thought entered his mind, he forcibly excised it. No more thinking, only doing. He had to take his own advice. He reviewed the escape plan. Nora was going to get Rachel out and meet him with the horses, after…after Miles was finished here. They'd set off the bombs on the way out. Nora had wanted to blow up the house with Monroe in it, but Miles insisted on killing him himself. He needed to tell Bass why. He owed his best friend at least that.

Miles saw the door knob turn before he heard it. Monroe's figure suddenly darkened the doorway. Something was wrong. Bass's face looked white and hollow.

"Miles."

Could he know? Was the truth written plainly on his face? Miles wondered.

Bass approached stiffly, his fingers twitching at his sides.

"I heard you sent our best men away on campaign to Georgia." The gentle voice-the one Miles knew meant nothing good. The one used to torture, to hate, to hurt.

Miles just nodded. He was afraid to speak. Afraid of what his own voice might sound like.

"A campaign I'd heard nothing about. How strange," Bass continued. His voice remained stilted and light.

"The threat just came up. I didn't have time to send word," Miles finally said hoarsely.

"Miles. We've known each other since we were little. We've known everything about each other. Our first kiss, our first lay. All those moments in combat when we were piss-pants scared. And the moments when we were bold motherfuckers. We've seen the best and the worst in each other."

Miles didn't like the sound of this speech. His mind was searching wildly for an explanation. And it fell suddenly and surely on Robert. Bass did know everything. It was too late.

Miles lunged so suddenly that Monroe collapsed under his weight. The two wrestled breathlessly for a moment, but Miles was the stronger of the two, the better fighter. He pinned Bass to the ground face down and pointed his sidearm at the back of Bass's head. Miles kept staring at his friend's golden curls, seeing the little boy instead of the man.

"Why?" Bass's voice was small beneath him.

Miles had wanted to explain, but now he hardly knew what to say. "Because…this has to stop." Miles' hand was shaking so hard, he feared he'd miss his target even at this close range.

"Before you do it, you should know…Rachel's dead, Miles. I saw the doctor before coming in here. She didn't make it." Bass closed his eyes, which had filled with tears that stuck in place.

An eternity passed with Miles' finger poised on the trigger. Miles felt Bass breathing between his legs. Alive. Part of him; always part of him. And he simply couldn't do it.

Miles got up.

There were tears in his own eyes. "I can't."

"Then don't do this, brother. Don't!" Bass begged.

"I have to go," Miles shook his head.

"No…"

As Miles made to move, Bass shouted for troops, who came pouring in the room in an instant.

Miles' eyes widened as he realized that his moment had passed.

"Miles, you'll never get out of this alive," Bass warned. But Bass didn't appear interested in shooting Miles himself.

In a flash, Miles headed for the window and jumped out two floors. He rolled to avoid harming his ankles and immediately had to fight off a number of soldiers with his swords. His soldiers. He killed several of his men, before pounding off to where Nora was waiting. As soon as he saw Nora and the horses, he realized there was no Rachel with her. Rachel was dead. He took a flying leap onto Zeppelin and hoped the horses could carry them far enough to make it to the river. They were being chased by a number of soldiers on horseback, and Miles panicked thinking that Nora might be out-ridden by his men, but she appeared to be holding her own. He and Nora turned occasionally in their saddles to fire at the men behind. Nora was an excellent shot. They made it to the river, left the horses behind, and plunged into its swirling depths.

Coda:

Nora and Miles had reached the very western border of the Republic, after traveling for a few months. Miles was attempting to start a fire, a difficult feat, considering the icy wind that ripped across the barren grass. Nora watched him, his strong shoulders hunched over his labor.

"So…what now?" she asked blandly into the wind. It wrenched the words from her mouth and tossed them like so many dandelion seeds flung out on their separate journeys. She and Miles had been stealing food, living as vagrants, as criminals. It was exhausting, but they were safe somehow against all odds.

Miles turned to look at her, and then he started laughing. He lay back and stared up at the endless expanse of blue, punctuated by wispy gray brushstrokes of cloud. Nora came and lay down next to him. They held hands.

"Nora Clayton, I have no fucking idea. What do you want to do?"