1774, a rainy Sunday.
Alfred looked down at Arthur. He had always thought that the Brit had beautiful eyes, ones that matched the terrain Alfred had grown up in. Arthur looked like he was about to cry, though he kept his face expressionless. His eyes, however, were a different matter. Alfred hated seeing such hopeless eyes. Alfred removed his gun from his shoulder and unscrewed the bayonet from the barrel.
"No…" Arthur whispered, moving forward as the rifle and bayonet hit the grass. Alfred would have prefered that they had been indoors, but it now meant that Arthur would have to carry his things back to his fort himself. Alfred removed his powder horn from his hip and let the dust spray across the earth between them, rendered useless by the rain.
Alfred wondered if he should be doing this, but pushed it aside. This was his home, and no one could tell him what to do with it. No one could force his hand, not anymore. He was done. Alfred didn't know much of warfare, for Arthur had kept him from it as long as he could. Even then, he had been stuck far away from home in Virginia. Why couldn't Arthur see that he only wanted to help his people, his country?
Arthur stepped forward again, placing one hand over Alfred's, as they began to unbutton his red jacket from the top.
"Alfred…Not like this…Please." Arthur begged softly. For a moment, looking down at Arthur's face, upon which he now let show his fear and and anger and everything in between, and most of all, genuine concern for Alfred.
"Y-You are going to die if your people declare this war!" Arthur said, now shaking slightly. Alfred sighed slowly.
"I have to do this. I'm not in charge of anything but my heart, and right now, it's telling me that I need to follow the path I've made for myself." Alfred hesitated momentarily, then threw his arms around Arthur, collarbone bumping into his medallion.
"And don't you think for one second that I'm not coming back for you."