Authors Note: This is my first fanfiction ever! One shot w/alternating view points between Alfred and Arthur during their battle in the American Revolution. Rather different story line from Hetalia though. Hope y'all like it! Please review, I will try to reply back and thank y'all asap~!
1779
Ominous gray clouds hang in the late afternoon sky. A low rumble sounds as a storm approaches. Alfred Kirkland, a young colonial soldier ducks behind the cover of a wide oak. He's panting heavily while clutching his rifle against his chest. Sweat drips into a cut over his left brow and a single drop of blood runs down the length of his jawbone. He has spotted a Redcoat on the other end of the field, and he waits for his chance to strike.
The grass crunches under the heavy boot of Arthur Kirkland, an experienced British soldier. It hasn't rained in weeks and Arthur welcomes the coming downpour that seems to be looming over the forest canopy. Back in England it rained very often, and he took for granted that daily shower that he now missed.
He slightly lowers his bayonet after thrice checking his surrounding and finding no enemy soldiers. His goal is to cross the clearing ahead of him. He hopes that the close proximity of the trees on the other side will provide good cover for him to find a way into the so-called "patriot's" supply reserves. He slowly takes his first few steps into the open field.
Then, he freezes. He spots an enemy soldier disappear behind a battered old tree on the other side of the field. Crouching low to the earth, he continues walking toward the center of the clearing unsure whether he's been seen yet or not. His eyes never stray from their mark as he silently moves forward. His bayonet is loaded.
Alfred takes a minute or two to catch his breath behind the cover of the ancient oak. The main battlefront is taking place about half a mile to the east. He can still hear the cannon fire, explosions, and gunshots.
The Americans are defending Fort McKinnley against British attack, and Alfred came to the northwest side of the fort to protect their valuable supply reserves. It's across the clearing behind the fort that he spies an enemy soldier and dashes behind the nearest cover. Alfred just hopes he hasn't been noticed yet.
Alfred loads his rifle quickly, and after a short mumbled prayer, he leaps out from behind the tree and runs full speed toward the Redcoat ahead of him. He stops after a short distance for a good shot. He lifts his rifle and aims it at the Brit's chest, about where is heart should be.
Bang!
The bullet didn't come from Alfred's rifle.
Regaining his balance after taking a shot at the American soldier, Arthur's eyes dart hopefully along the grass, looking for the soldier's body. Instead, he sees the enemy clamoring back to his feet. Arthur can't understand what went wrong. Suddenly, he spots his enemy's brimmed hat on the ground about ten feet off. There's a bullet hole in it.
The two men stare each other down as the first drops of rain begin to fall. Arthur first looks at this young soldier with hatred and disgust. Then, his expression turns to confusion.
Why has this foolish boy not shot me yet? He clearly has the upper hand with his loaded rifle, yet he merely stands with a blank expression. Ugh, Americans. Truly foolish people.
Finally, as Arthur begins to study what he could make of this enemy soldier's face, his expression falls in pure horror. If he isn't terribly mistaken, the young colonial soldier standing before him is Alfred Kirkland, his little brother.
Alfred stands with weak knees and a slightly slacked jaw in front of his older brother, Arthur Kirkland. His rifle is still in a defensive position, but his finger no longer on the trigger. He hasn't seen Arthur for nearly 3 years. At that, their last night together in Boston ended in a huge argument over loyalties.
Alfred had lived for the past thirteen years of his life alternating between the colonies and England, the country he was born in. He started his schooling, at the age of six, in the colonies when his parents came to America after buying a vast area of land. Arthur, who was thirteen years old at the time, chose to stay and study in England and attend an all-boys boarding school near their grandparent's house.
Every summer after that, the two brothers would alternate in coming to the other's side of the Atlantic. While Arthur's loyalties remained with Mother England, Alfred found himself loving the American Colonies more and more with each passing year.
Finally, three summers ago, tempers flared between the brothers as they got into a hot argument about a potential American revolution. Arthur stormed out of his brother's home Boston after he disappointedly learned of where his brother's loyalties lay.
Alfred's thoughts are interrupted as Arthur suddenly cries out and runs at top speed toward him. Arthur's bayonet is pointed at his little brother's heart.
At that moment, the floodgates of heaven open up and a torrent of rain and wind sweeps toward the two soldiers.
Arthur lunges and strikes fiercely with his bayonet but is stopped short by Alfred's quick reflexes. Arthur blinks and realizes that Alfred has managed to block the bayonet's spear with the long wooden barrel of the own rifle. They stand eye-to-eye, guns interlocked, muscles trembling; a battle enraging as they fight to over power their enemy and knock the other's gun away. Alfred pleads with his eyes to his brother. He doesn't want to do this. He can't fight his own kin no matter their differences.
Arthur's eyes only grow hard, and he takes advantage of his brother letting his guard down. He uses his weapon to swing Alfred's rifle completely up and out of his hands. It lands with an echoing thud on the moist ground. Now nothing stands in the way of Arthur's bayonet and his brother's chest. Alfred looks back at his brother in defeat. He is going to lose. All the American soldier can do is wait for the Redcoat to strike. But…Arthur doesn't.
Instead, his knees buckle from under him, and he falls to the ground with his head hanging. The British soldier is glad it's raining, so Alfred can't see the tears running down his cheeks. All he can do it think about his little brother. Memory after memory flashes through his mind. He never stopped loving him, and now he's never felt so ashamed of himself for trying to kill his only brother.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he yanks off the spear end of his bayonet and stares deeply and apologetically into his little brother's eyes.
I'm sorry. The words never leave his mouth before he plunges the spear into his own heart.
"NO!" Alfred cries in vein. It's too late. The deed is done.
The thunder of the storm drowns out Alfred's heavy sobs. He drops to his knees beside his brother's body, and he and caresses his head. He lays his cheek across his brother's and cries until his tears run dry.
Then, Alfred slips off his coat and replaces it with his brother's bloodstained, red one. He picks up the spear less, unloaded bayonet and walks back toward the colonial camp. The gun is pointed, his head is high, and his red-coated chest is puffed out. If all goes right, Alfred will be seeing his brother again very soon.
Authors Note: Again, please review if you liked it...or didn't that's fine too. Thank you for reading ^^