"Let all their wickedness come before thee; and do unto them, as thou hast done unto me for all my transgressions: for my sighs are many, and my heart is faint." Lamentations 1:22
There was blood. There were tears. Broken hearts and broken souls. Families were being torn apart and innocent children were being slaughtered. But all is fair in love and war, right?
The blond soldier stood on the battlefield; still and resolute. On his shoulders hung limply the royal blue uniform of the American army. His face was coated in blood (only partially his own) and mud from days lying in the trenches. Before him lay the land he once called his own. Where he grew up laughing. Now, it was a barren wasteland; ravaged by the fires of greed and hate. Crystal blue eyes were filled to the brim with tears though, and it wasn't because of the sight in front of him. It was because, on the other side of this all; the people that he was supposed to hate with such a passion and kill brutally; over there was his heart. Over there was where his love lay. And that man was trying to cut down everything he stood for.
The too-thin form fell to its knees. The salty tears rolled down his cheeks, caressing the dirty flesh. He couldn't take this anymore. He didn't want to be here. Sure, he may have helped started this war, and maybe this is what he believed in when the beginning, but not now. He wanted to go back to his little Briton. He wanted to apologize, to tell him it was okay. But he couldn't. He was on the other side of hell, gun slung around his shoulder, and bound to his country but an oath he should've never made. He either fought till America won it's independence, or died trying.
A hand one could've mistaken as comforting landed on the boy's shoulder. "Mon cher, do not mourn. For this is what you wanted, non?"
Feeling too drained to retort to the manipulative Frenchman he called an ally, he bit his lip to choke back the sobs that threatened to rack his body.
The taller man, known as Francis Bonnefoy, knelt next to the youth. "Listen, Alfred, I know you 'ate me. And I 'ate you in return. But this is your war. You started this and you have to finish it. Cry if you want to, for there will be no time to mourn in victory."
The American named Alfred supposed those were supposed to be comforting words. But it didn't work. They cut deeper than any bullet he received on the front lines.
His broken, anguished sobs filled the empty landscape as the French soldier walked away smirking, winning his own personal battle of breaking the 'brat américaine'.
Time stretched on slowly in the ravaged field. The red sky showed cruel apathy to all under it. Clouds rolled in the distance, promising the coming onslaught would be big. Yet all our brave hero could do was sit there and grieve for his stupid decisions, and stupider emotions.
He wasn't seen until the stars shone mercifully down from the Heaven's, covering his shameful display.