For some reason, Alfred always thought he would go out with a bang. He thought that his life would end like the storybooks; he dreamed of dying a hero's death. But now he was afraid, and alone, wandering through the pitch black of the woods, and he wished that being a hero wasn't so important to him.
Every step on cracking leaves was loud, every rustle of his jacket magnified itself times ten, and his breathing was a garish racket, rousing the entire forest. He stopped and kneeled to fumble with his cold gloves and pull the compass out of his pocket, checking to make sure he was going north. He may have been separated from his regiment, but he knew which way they were going. And hopefully he could find them before the British found him.
Pushing himself up, he continued softly into the night, letting the light of the moon guide his walk as he weaved through trees and ducked beneath quiet hanging vines. Despite the danger, the forest was his home and the wilderness was his heart. He had never fit in in any of the big cities. He was too awkward and hated the way suits felt, itchy and scratchy, and missing all of the informality of nature. He never understood those city people. They looked at nature as if it was a marvel, painting pictures and staring at fine scenery from comfortable cliff tops. These kinds of people came to places like this as if it were a party; a black tie social event of the highest ranking when in reality, nature was nothing more than a casual event, a place to visit in soft faded britches with hair uncombed and smiles bright, unforced.
Suddenly, his trained ears noticed a rustling sound, the soft and hidden footfalls of leather boots, and the quiet cussing of a man. Frozen for a moment, Alfred felt his heart drop and he swallowed, forcing himself to move to grab the musket off his back and load it with trembling fingers, flinching as he the powder went in, pushing the gun up to its unfamiliar spot on his shoulder as he waited, the barrel of the gun his entire world.
Eventually, he saw the shape of a man emerge from the underbrush, but it was too dark and faded to notice his coat color. Red or blue, he could not tell, but he did notice the awkward way the man moved, stumbling over roots, swearing at each bush that swung this way. So it was a city man, he thought. If he's a redcoat, he should be an easy kill. Even with this reassuring thought, his breathing was still shallow and he stood tensely, finger gripped tightly around the trigger as he waited, convinced he was ready for his first kill.
He shuffled awkwardly, impatient and nervous, and shifted his foot. Stepping on an old branch, the wood gave a loud crack and the other man froze, lifting his head and seeing Alfred for the first time, and diving behind the brush nearest to him. Alfred barely had the time to notice the other man and he pulled the trigger, his bullet ricocheting harmlessly off of a tree a few feet from the now absent man. Now panicking he tried to find his gunpowder and desperately reload his gun, but as he fumbled with the muzzle, he dropped it. Bending down to pick it up; that was when he heard him.
"Drop the gun." He looked up to see the man again, gun loaded and pointed at his head. Scowling, he let the musket fall and stood up to face him.
The man chuckled, not moving his gun. He was closer now, and Alfred could see that he was indeed a redcoat. He noticed that his musket was straight and still, and his shoulders were relaxed- he had definitely killed before. Alfred gulped.
"Go sit down by that tree, love" the man commanded, smiling triumphantly. Alfred, still glaring, managed to stomp over to the nearest tree, and slide down to the ground, crossing his arms. Something in his mind told him that maybe he shouldn't act like this, if he wanted to stay alive somehow. But the other side, the louder side of his mind was just angry. Angry because he couldn't kill the man, angry because he'd be leaving his twin, Matthew, alone. Even though Matthew was a loyalist, he just knew that he'd see reason after they beat back the British. But now he was going to die, and the only ones who even knew his name would soon forget it, as he wasn't that important of a solider. He was just another man, running in the frontline to the impending battle.
But even that wasn't good enough. He could have died a brave death, in honor of his country on a smoky battle field. But no, he had to die here in a dark forest, alone and embarrassingly lost, trying to find his regiment.
He hear a shuffle, and looked up, still growling, letting all of his hatred shine through his eyes at the stupid musket in front of his face.
"Hands out" the voice told him, not cruelly. But definitely not gentle either. There was not room for dispute in his words. They were firm and sure, and Alfred, the frightened boy felt himself compelled to obey. Arms stiffly in front of him, he turned his head sideways and stared into the woods, willing the tears that were swimming in his eyes to go away as he felt deft hands tie secure knots around his outstretched hands. Then he felt his hands drop back into his lap, and the Brit sat down comfortably next to him, back resting on another tree. Quickly, the gun was lowered and lay quietly on the ground. Alfred noticed that his hand was still on the gun, casually, and he knew there was no way to get away.
He let his eyes roam around curiously. He had never seen a live redcoat- at least not since the war started. The dead ones he had seen hanging by the roadside were ugly things, purple and swollen and broken, knocking against the trees they were suspended from. But this one was alive and well, and different than how Alfred had imagined they would look like. Quiet blonde hair crowned a pale, regal face- unmarked by sun and snow and rain and war. Bright green eyes stared back at him calmly, serenely glittering without malice. All in all, Alfred had to admit, the Brit actually looked innocent. He looked nice. He looked like the kind of person he would have liked, would have been friends with, were it not for the fact that life was war, and his coat was red.
Disentangling himself from his thoughts, he asked the only obvious, blaring question, "so when you gonna kill me?"
The green eyes blinked, and Alfred realized that the man hadn't been staring at him; he had been daydreaming, lost in some other world besides this dark night. His face twisted into a slight smirk, and his eyebrows knitted together as he answered amusedly, "I didn't know you were so eager to die."
Alfred forced his shoulders to shrug in what he hoped looked like nonchalance. "Just wondrin' how much time I have left." Inside, he hissed with pleasure that he had managed to speak without a single tremble, strong and venomous like he should.
The Brit just pulled his – rather large- brows up to the top of his forehead, and laughed a loud, easy sound. "Probably in the morning. I can't just kill you like this- it's not battle." Alfred watched him rub the back of his head awkwardly. "They'll make you hang after a fair trial, I suppose."
Alfred looked back to the ground trying to control his breathing. "I'd rather you kill me now" he spat quickly, feeling tears blur his eyes yet again.
The Brit frowned. "I can't do that. It'd be murder."
"But you'll let me suffocate to death on a rope as my face explodes, and that's okay?" he cried out, finally letting the first tears slip down to roll across his face, as he shook and trembled and sniveled. Then there was a soothing hand on his back, rubbing soft circles. He tried to shift away, wanted to get out, but he found that he couldn't. His body needed, craved the touch. Even if it was his enemy and indirectly his executioner.
"You know, you don't have to die. If you just swear loyalty to the crown again -"
"I can't do that" Alfred burst out between his racking sobs.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not a fucking loyalist, and you stupid redcoats! You don't get it" He bit off his rant, knowing it was pointless to continue on. Both sides knew the 'why's' very well- the problem wasn't understanding each other, it was greed and power and Britain.
The man just cocked his head sideways and smiled reassuringly. "We'll talk about it later." After Alfred had calmed sufficiently, the hand was removed from his back, and the Brit sat back down against his tree. "So what is the name of the man I've had the pleasure to meet today?" he asked politely, pleasantly.
Alfred glared angrily. "It was no pleasure, you moron, I'm a captive." Then softer, "Alfred."
"I'm Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. Sorry again."
"If you were so sorry you would shoot yourself, and leave me your musket." He bit out.
"Touché" the man smiled again. "But my regiment needs me. See, I'm in command and I was just taking a nice stroll through the woods, when we, ah, met."
So he was a commander, Alfred thought worriedly. He looked at the man's coat and realized that there was, in fact, a badge of honor resting proudly on his chest.
"So how did you end up here? Because frankly, I wasn't expecting one of you silly yanks around here."
Alfred turned his head, blushing. "I was lost."
"Wow! You're one of the more intelligent I've seen. You must be quite the expert at this losing business."
"I'm new." Alfred spat out, cheeks aflame. How dare the stupid Brit treat him like this? Even if they were enemies. He waited sullenly for another snide remark, but it never came. Instead the Brit sighed and looked at him sadly.
"This war is beyond me. You are too young, too young to die."
Alfred stared down at his hands quietly. "I have a brother, you know. Missing an arm- he can't work. I have to take care of him. I joined the army to be free." Biting his lip, he looked up nervously, embarrassed that he had said so much. But the Brit was just looking at him oddly.
"No, don't stop…. Please."
So Alfred told him. He told him about his brother and his parents, his pet dog and his farm, the reasons that he fought. Why not? He was going to die. And the Brit talked too, after he had run out of things to say. They shared tidbits of life and humor, laughs and tears as they learned each other's lives, page by fragile page, until the pink light of the early morn.
By then Alfred had noticed the sky, and was looking at it wearily, beyond nervous. The reality of the situation, and his imminent death, came flying back to plaster itself inside his mind. And nothing, not even the easy charms of the Brit, could shake him. Finally, the sun had risen, and Arthur stood up. Alfred tensed.
"I'm ready." He said, quietly, strongly. Even though he wasn't ready, and his mind screamed at him to run, to beg, something. But the porcelain mask was too rigid on his face by now, and he pushed the terror back into his mind, zipping it shut. He would die bravely, no matter what.
Suddenly he was pulled forcefully to his feet, and he gasped, surprised at the sudden rough treatment. A knife came out of nowhere, slicing his hands free, and he looked up into the face of the Brit, confused. The man had a strange look on his face, terrible and yet beautiful.
"Get out of here" the stoic city man broke his composure.
"But, I- I" he was cut off by a sharp slap to the face and a shove, pushing him back to his knees. He scrambled back to his feet, moving away from Arthur.
Suddenly Arthur's expression changed to something guarded. To some sort of expression Alfred was almost glad he didn't know, and he raised his musket back to Alfred's face. "Run" he commanded.
"I can't fight this war anymore. Not against people like you." Arthur's hand shook this time, and the musket barely stayed up in the air, "Run." He repeated again.
So Alfred turned and ran, blindly, tripping and stumbling away, letting the tears fall freely from his eyes even though he had so many questions. And he kept running, kept going even after he heard that single musket shot and the silence that followed, the silence except the heartbroken sobs of the hero who hadn't managed to save anyone.