1783, a cloudless and humid August day. Massechusets.
Alfred dismounted the horse, and patted it's dark neck softly. He thanked it for carrying him, and walked away. If the horse were to leave now, there was nothing he could do. Or rather, he would not care.
He gazed up at the sky, the cloudless, blue sky as he walked through the city. With each step, his heart sunk further. As he neared the crowd of people who were gathered around the center of the square, their jeerings of filthy loyalist reached his ears. One of those things was wrong. The other was slightly less so. With his heart in his throat, Alfred scanned the clearing. The cries grew louder.
There was nothing in front of him but the crowd, a seeithing, living being, with one mind. If one woman were to move slightly to the right, they all did. If one man craned his neck for a better view, they all copied him in unison. Alfred, however, was not one of them.
Finally, his eyes caught sight of a barrel that sat next to the corner of a stone building. Within the minute, he had run to stand upon it. With the addition of three feet below his own, Alfred coud see over the heads of all those who crowded around the hangman's noose.
Alfred couldn't move. Alfred was too afraid, rooted to his spot. Heroism had failed him when the box was kicked from under the man's feet, and he fell. The man had always been short, and he had been standing on his toes to begin with. Now, his legs churned the air, and he swung madly from side to side as he tried to free himself.
Alfred couldn't look away. The only thing that would hurt more than watching the man die would be to hear his strangled cries for help, drowning in the mix of jeers against him.
The man's green eyes met with Alfred's, glaring accusingly.
Sorry, Alfred mouthed. He had never meant anything more. The recipiant would never know what he had said, for Arthur Kirkland was dead.