Bleeding Out
Pairing: Alfred F. Jones/Arthur Kirkland (America/England)
Summary: Arthur wanted to leave, not just the battlefield, but the war, this uncivilized mass of trees and dirt sitting in the Pacific.
Revolution AU one-shot
Word Count: 1,078
A/N: Review if you want me to add other paring one-shots.
Arthur charged forward, bayonet pointed forward, eyebrows furrowed in a harsh concentration.
This was his fourth battle, and he'd already buried a quarter of his regiment.
Almost one hundred thirty-eight men.
One hundred thirty-eight out of five hundred fifty.
The sounds of metal against metal and the pained screams of dying men and the smell of blood and smoke and death filled his senses.
'For Britannia!' It was a mockery of respect, of hope, of loyalty.
These small rebellions had no affect on England in the long run, they'd survive, and this goddamned war was costing millions to keep fighting.
It was like sending a lion to eat a dog's leftovers.
He knelt down behind an unidentifiable body, almost retching at the odor of rotting flesh. Arthur hurriedly reloaded his musket, looking around him at the ongoing carnage.
He wondered, briefly, if in another life, he would be the unidentifiable body, and this man would be loading a gun behind him.
The blond stood, breathing heavily and rushing through the smoke, swinging at the rebellious army.
Arthur grunted as he stabbed another man, blood coating the knife at the tip of his gun. He wasn't going to waste his bullets, stock was hard to come by in America, seeing as England was approximately five thousand miles away.
Five thousand long, dreary, godforsaken miles away.
"Hey! Red-coat bastard!"
Arthur looked up, wrenching his bayonet free from a man's spinal column with a sickening snap. A tall, blond, and enraged colonist stood in the smoke, hands gripping the gun, face and clothes dirty with grime.
Untrained.
Unsynchronised.
Brave.
Bold.
The boy ran forward, explosions and shaking the earth and dust flying, he slashed at Arthur, movements unfocused and untrained.
Arthur parried, grimacing as another blast sounded near them. The boy yelled, stabbing at Arthur's abdomen, narrowly missing his mark.
"Goddamn Brits! Just leave!" The dirty boy jumped back, gritting his teeth.
'Too many emotions.' Arthur jabbed at the boy's legs, leaving his flank open to attack.
No need to guard. There was not thought put into this boy's technique.
Arthur caught a glance at a paper wrapped around the makeshift boots the boy wore, 'Alfred Fitzgerald Jones.'
So nice, the name, Alfred.
So... foreign.
The boy, it seemed was prepared to die, and had a sort of name-tag latched onto his boot.
'Can't be more than 20, such a shame.' Arthur grunted as Alfred, the newly named boy, twisted on his feet, knocking the side of his musket into the Red-coat.
The Briton groaned, falling to his knees, a still healing set of broken ribs were throbbing at the hit.
"Get up." Alfred stopped attacking, ignoring the death and destruction climaxing around them.
Arthur searched the blue-eyed gaze that glared down at him. "What are you waiting for? Kill me."
The blond shook his head, dirt caking his face, "No. That ain't got any dignity. Get up." Bullets flew past them, miraculously missing the pair, an American flag flew in the cold wind, staff planted in the mud.
America, such impudence.
So stupid.
The colonies just didn't understand, King George was right, always was, always will be. And if the king said they would stay colonies, that's just what had to happen.
British colonies. Not American.
Didn't matter what the bastard patriots had to say.
Arthur reached for his gun, stumbling to his feet as he narrowed his emerald eyes at the colonist. He wiped at his face, pushing back his sandy colored hair, "I have to kill you."
Kill.
Murder.
Execute.
Terminate.
Eliminate.
Annihilate.
Exterminate.
Slaughter.
Butcher.
Massacre.
So many words for one action.
No matter how you put it Arthur hated that word and anything like it.
That ugly, horrifying, undignified, repulsive word.
Alfred readied his musket, free hand prepared to grab the hunter's knife that sat in a holster at his side.
"It's what we gotta do."
They were always killing.
They killed in lines, in piles, and in droves.
Endless blood and bodies.
A canon went off, sending a large metal ball shooting forward, shrapnel implanting itself into whatever was near.
"Surrender."
Alfred shook his head, bringing the musket to his face, closing a eye, "I'd kill myself before I did that."
Arthur wasn't religious. Never had been. But now, as he faced down a musket, ready and aimed, he remembered the verses his mother would read from her favorite bible.
'Ecclesiastes 3:8- A time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.'
'Numbers 10:9- And when you go to war in your land against the adversary who oppresses you, then you shall sound an alarm with the trumpets, that you may be remembered before the Lord your God, and you shall be saved from your enemies.'
'Exodus 20:13- You shall not murder.'
'Acts 5:9- But Peter and the apostles answered, We must obey God rather than men.'
Hypocrites. Always telling him and his brothers to fight in the name of the king. To believe whatever the hell those fools told him to do, as they sat on their asses and watched.
Alfred had his gun ready, and Arthur truly wanted him to fire.
A yell echoed through the battlefield, Arthur's general, calling for a retreat.
"If I go now, will you shoot?" Arthur wanted to leave, not just the battlefield, but the war, this uncivilized mass of trees and dirt sitting in the Pacific.
Alfred lowered his gun slightly, eyes wary, "Go. Now, or I'll kill you."
The pain, utter exhaustion, the filth.
Arthur moved backwards, staring at his enemy, only turning his back on Alfred as he saw the blue-eyed man do the same.
'I'll kill you next time, Alfred Fitzgerald Jones.'
'This was your only break, Red-coat.'
A/N: I don't really like this one, I hope it's okay to ya'll. Read and review if you want me to add other one shots about other pairings.