Ch. 1: Injury
AN: Hello! This is an Ace family, human au fic (with other characters mixed in) set during the American Revolutionary War. There will be no pairings and the story mostly focuses on platonic relationships. Feedback is welcome! :)
And a special thanks to a guest reviewer who fixed the google translate German.
Warnings: Some violence, some physical abuse in the first few chapters (mostly implied, nothing sexual or graphic), character death (only in the first chapter), and research was done but there will probably still be historical inaccuracies
September, 1777
Arthur clung to the tree root beside him, struggling to keep his breath steady. Just don't panic, he told himself, squeezing his eyes shut. You are a Kirkland, and you will make it out of this alive. But the words sounded false, even in his own mind. It had been hours since he had last seen his comrades, and here he was, lying on his front, inches deep in mud. Come on Kirkland, if you quit Ludwig will have your head. His chest clenched at the thought of Ludwig, but he ignored it. He could not believe that it hadn't even been an hour since he and his friend had been drinking merrily at the town bar.
Arthur knew he had to move if he ever wanted to be found. The trees blocked any view his fellow soldiers may have had of him, and though the pain in his sloppily tourniqueted leg had numbed, each attempt to shift his leg sent an agonizing burning sensation rippling through him.
He clawed at the muddy ground, rocking toward the side and pushing hard against the floor. Arthur repeated the motion several times, each time hissing as the movement sent a fiery heat up his thigh. He cursed under his breath as he forced himself to roll onto his back. Allowing himself a moment of rest, the soldier took a steady breath. Again, he pushed against the ground, despite the protests from both his leg and his sore arms. Eventually, he found the strength to sit up, using his arms to push his back against a tree trunk.
Whether my allies or the colonials find me, it will not be pleasant, he thought. Arthur considered his options: being caught by enemy militia, or being punished by his own regiment. Either option would undoubtedly lead to pain. Glancing down at the mass of blood—-much of it dry, but more still running freely out of the bullet wound in his thigh—-he shook his head. If someone does not find me soon it won't matter who it is, I'll be dead. He let escape a hysterical giggle. 'Imagine that, dying before I've even seen real battle.'
Arthur found himself staring at the body several meters from him, its torso covered in blood. The corpse was that of a young man, and judging from his build, Arthur guessed he couldn't be much older than he was. If only he hadn't—
The Englishman sighed. He could dwell on the consequences of his actions later. For now, he needed to concentrate on surviving. Not that you really have much to live for, a voice inside his head whispered.
Arthur grimaced and looked up at the sky, feeling his vision starting to blur. Maybe he should have visited his brothers more often. Maybe he should have spoken more kindly to the staff. Maybe if he had tried harder, he could have convinced Ludwig to stay at the camp. His gaze settled upon the North Star, just visible through the treetops. He chuckled. Well, you came out here to be something—-someone—-more. Look where that got you, he chided himself.
Arthur did not know how long he stared at the light above him, but soon, the view of the sky was interrupted by the face of a young, blue-eyed boy. Arthur could tell he was shouting something. He scrunched his eyebrows together, trying to process the words the boy spoke, but the sounds echoed into a surreal static. A strange sense of peace cleared his mind before he slipped into darkness.
"Ludwig, this isn't a good idea," Arthur said, stumbling over a tree root.
"Ich weiß," Ludwig replied. "But we may not get another opportunity."
The two were headed toward a small town they had noticed when patrolling the area surrounding their camp. At first, Arthur had been surprised when Ludwig, who he had always seen as one to strictly adhere to the rules, had suggested sneaking out of base for a pint of beer. But then, alcohol had been on lockdown since a few soldiers had drunk themselves into a stupor only a few days before. Arthur could only assume his friend was getting desperate if he was willing to go behind the corporal's back just for a drink, and there was no way he would allow Ludwig to get himself into trouble on his own.
Arthur shuddered, recalling how a few drunks had been picketed for their misconduct. He could only hope that if they were caught, it would be by their own squad. Their corporal was rather lax, handling punishment on his own and giving much lighter sentences than that of the colonel who led their regiment. Arthur knew that if news of their corporal's mercy ever reached the higher ups, their squad leader would face serious charges.
A pint of beer is most assuredly not worth the risk to ourselves and our squad leader, Arthur thought. But Ludwig's not thinking clearly enough to listen to reason. He eyed the back of his friend's head, holding tight to his musket. I suppose if you can't beat them, join them.
The two entered the town, feeling more secure than they had in the woods. One of the scouts had informed them that a majority of the town—-called Madison, Arthur was told—-consisted of loyalists, so they didn't expect any trouble from the residents, themselves. Arthur and Ludwig were confident that not only would the citizens accept their presence, but would be hospitable to them if they sought out refuge for the night at a local bar. Arthur told himself that their only problem now would be sneaking back into camp. If only he hadn't been so naive.
(Insert Line Break)
"So, what's it going to be for you two boys?" asked the bartender, a kind-looking woman with a round face and heavy eastern European accent.
"A beer for me," Ludwig answered. She turned toward Arthur, who opened his mouth to place his order. "He'll have water," Ludwig said before Arthur could get a word out. The woman raised an eyebrow at the German man. "He can't hold his liquor," he explained.
The woman chuckled. "Not even a beer?"
"Nein."
Arthur glared at the friend beside him, but nodded slowly, knowing there was truth to the man's words.
"Be right up in a second," the woman said.
She shortly returned with their drinks, and the two consumed their beverages in silence. After a few minutes, Arthur felt Ludwig's eyes on him.
"Do you need something, Ludwig?" Arthur asked without looking up from his drink.
Ludwig cleared his throat. "There has been some, how do I say, buzz around camp about you."
"Oh?"
"They say the name Kirkland is well know across the British Isles."
Arthur hummed in response, knowing where the conversation was going.
"They say the Kirklands, despite having some stigma surrounding the family, are considerably wealthy."
"And you wonder why someone wealthy such as myself is here as a soldier instead of an officer." Arthur stated.
"You do have the money to become one," Ludwig pressed.
Arthur nodded, staring into space. "I suppose I simply wasn't interested."
"Verzeihung?" Ludwig asked, his forehead creased.
"I mean, I am wealthy, yes. But there was really nothing for me back home. And I don't particularly want to be a leader. I came out here to find… purpose, I suppose—- to find myself." Arthur laughed. "It sounds strange, I know. This just felt like the right thing to do."
Ludwig grunted in response, taking one final swig of his drink. "We should leave. It will be wake-up call soon."
Arthur groaned, rising from his seat. "Sneaking out like this was a bit childish," he said. Then, noticing the guilty look on his friend's face, he continued, "But I suppose it's alright as long as you've got your drink." Arthur grinned. Ludwig returned his smile, or at least, Arthur thought he did. The man had lifted the corners of his mouth slightly, and Arthur assumed that for him, that qualified.
They stepped out of the bar, and Arthur breathed in the cool night air of the Rhode Island town. Despite the tremendous and irresponsible risk they had taken tonight, Arthur found himself feeling content. It was the first time in a while he had allowed himself to simply relax and enjoy a friend's company.
An ear-splitting crack interrupted the silent night air. Ludwig fell to the side, his entire body weighing down on the smaller man beside him. Arthur immediately tried to catch the man, but all he could do was help soften the fall.
It took a moment for Arthur to process what had happened.
Then he saw the blood.
A gunshot.
Ludwig's chest was covered in the sticky, dark red liquid. His erratic breathing overpowering all other sounds as some of the town's residents caused a commotion around him. Arthur ripped off his coat, putting pressure on Ludwig's chest. His stomach lurched when he realized gravity of the location of his friend's wound.
No. No, please. Arthur prayed that the bullet had missed Ludwig's heart.
"Someone, help!" Arthur shouted to the small crowd around him. He had some experience with aiding wounded soldiers, but this was different. There were no other soldiers, no medics, to help him. The townspeople didn't move. "What are you all doing! Someone fetch a bloody doctor!"
Still, the townspeople didn't make a move to help. Arthur glanced up at their faces. Most looked indifferent. Some looked… smug? Before Arthur could further consider their reactions, a hand touched his. He jumped back, hand moving to his dropped musket, before realizing it was the bartender.
"Dear, there isn't anything we can do," she whispered.
Arthur's throat felt dry. He reached forward and took Ludwig's pulse.
Nothing.
Arthur stared into his friend's eyes, now staring glassily at the empty skies above. He choked back a sob and reached a hand to close them.
In battle, he was prepared to lose comrades, but this wasn't battle. His squad had never even seen the battlefield yet, and here he was, mourning the sudden death of a friend.
He turned his attention back to the crowd. Arthur recognized hostility in the eyes of many. Wasn't this supposed to be a loyalist town? He thought, glaring at the crowd.
"Who did this?" his voice croaked.
None of the townspeople answered, though he saw a few eyes flicker to the right. He turned to see what drew their eyes.
A man with a long rifle.
Arthur's vision went red. Before he could think about what he was doing, his hand grasped his musket and he raced off toward the man. His sudden movement caused the man to jump, and he quickly turned to flee from his pursuer.
Arthur chased the man into the surrounding woods, determined not to lose sight of him. "Stop!" he shouted.
The man halted, turning to face him. Arthur almost rammed into the man, surprised that he had actually complied to his order.
"Why?" he demanded, keeping his musket at ready. He hadn't had time to load it, like he was sure this enemy had, but the bayonet attached at the end would still do damage.
"What do you mean why?" the man spat. "You filthy redcoats think you can come into our town and drink our beer? You have no place in this country."
Arthur's head spun. "But, this is a loyalist town, why— "
The man laughed. "Well I believe you were misinformed. What did you think we would say when an entire regiment was stationed right at our front door? The others were too afraid to say anything when you and your buddy showed up tonight, but I'm not them." He aimed the long rifle at Arthur.
Without thinking, Arthur charged. A gunshot rang out, and Arthur felt a sting in his thigh, but he ignored it, trying to grab the gun from the other man's hands. He punched the man in the jaw as his other hand held tightly to the long rifle. The punch caused the man to loosen his grip enough for Arthur to yank it out of his hands. The Englishman raised his musket to hit the man over the head, but his opponent's hands snapped up to grab Arthur's gun. They struggled with the musket, each throwing jabs and kicks at the other.
Then, the man smiled. This threw Arthur off-guard, and he unconsciously loosened his grip on the musket. "You know," the man began, "I wonder if the townspeople will still be afraid to fight if one of you lobsters kills one of their own."
Arthur's forehead creased as he tried to interpret what the man meant with those words. He gasped when he felt the musket being ripped from his grip, the bayonet pointed toward the American man. Arthur stumbled back as the man forced the blade into his own stomach.
He watched as the man coughed up blood, and for the first time since the horrid night began, Arthur realized just how young the man looked: either in his late teens or early twenties. The events of the night since they had left the camp flashed through Arthur's mind, and he was aware of a warmth spreading around his thigh.
Tears streamed down his face as he ripped a strip from his shirt off and began tying a tourniquet around his leg.
How foolish we were, he thought. How incredibly foolish.
Another sob escaped his throat before he fell face-first in the mud.
