Quartering Acts
By Ahro
Chapter 1
The smith took a step back from the Brit at his words.
The King had reestablished the Quartering Acts of 1765? How had he not heard the news? He had been rather secluded for the past few months due to the amount of work he had piling up. It didn't help much either that his home was built far from the main settlement in Quincy. That and his neighbors rarely spoke to him after his father had passed. Even their son seemed mute around him, only coming by to take care of his horse.
Scoffing to himself he knew there was nothing he could do about it, but it didn't mean he had to be a gracious host. "Well, Mr. Kirkland," he drawled, "If you're going to be living here, first, mind your boots at the door. This isn't a barn."
"Really? I'm afraid I could not tell the difference."
He could feel the hair at the back of his neck bristling. His fists clenched ready to punch the smug Brit, but calmed himself down with a heavy exhale.
After finding his composure, he reached around the doorframe and picked up a broom that had been resting next to the wall. Wondering if his attempt would even be reciprocated, he looked back to the Brit, eying him carefully, and produced the broom in front of him.
"If you must live here, for the time being, you'll need to at least make an attempt at keeping my home respectful. To start, you could sweep the mud and dirt you so ungracefully tracked through the foyer back outside."
The Brit stood there just staring for a minute, seeming perplexed by the smith's words. After what seemed like an hour the man's bushy brows arched and he nodded slightly in agreement. The soldier held out his hand to the smith for the proffered broom, causing the taller blond to pause a moment in hesitation. As if expecting a sharp retort or quickly using the broom as a weapon to put the colonist in his place. However, the expected reaction never came as the soldier took the broom and moved out to the foyer to do as the colonist asked.
All the smith could do was stand there and stare in absolute shock as the man silently swept. He hadn't dealt with many British soldiers on such a close level, but he had heard enough that the soldiers were far from hospitable. Perhaps he had been given a break?
"Thank you," he began, finding it difficult to say such words to the Brit, "for doing that." The soldier remained silent as he continued sweeping. The smith continued, clearing his throat as he did, "I'm Alfred Jones-"
"Is this how you colonists generally treat your guests?" The Brit suddenly interrupted, returning the broom along the wall, "Thankfully for you, I'm a gentleman." The soldier added, folding his arms in front of him to stare the smith down.
Perhaps he wasn't so lucky.
Rubbing his eyes, much too annoyed and tired by this point to deal with the Brit, he ignored the man and headed down to the cellar for a drink. No word of protest was issued as he did.
It was already past supper, but the haddock needed to be cleaned and salted before they could be cooked or stored. He'd be skipping another meal, but there was too much that still needed to be finished. However, ridding himself of his oncoming headache with a beer sounded much more promising.
"Would you happen to have some tea in this hovel of yours? I had hoped upon hearing I would be quartered with a blacksmith you would have been better off." Came the soldier's voice, raised a few decibels to be heard above the sound of opening and closing cupboards from the floor above.
He didn't even want to honor the man's question with a response, so instead, after pouring himself a beer from the large keg in the back, began setting up his cleaning table to prep the haddock.
His mind began to wander as the footsteps above began to quiet. He was still somewhat shaken by the soldier's move to listen to him and sweep the floor. Sure, his retort afterward fit the persona he had already built up of British soldiers, but the act still spoke volumes. He wondered if the man was merely putting up a front to antagonize him. It had worked, but actions always spoke louder than words. Why was he giving the man the benefit of the doubt anyways? Was he so starved for human contact over the years that he hoped he could somehow befriend the soldier?
"AHH! SHIT!" His knife fell to the stone floor with a clang as blood quickly pooled around it from the gash in his thumb. His mind had run off with his wild thoughts of the soldier and he carelessly missed the fish and cut his thumb instead. Grabbing for his beer, he poured a small amount of the brown liquid over the throbbing injury, a hiss escaping through his clenched teeth as he did. He then quickly tore a scrap piece of burlap from a nearby empty grain sack to staunch the bleeding.
He paused after the wound was tied off to hear any movement from above. He knew he was certainly loud enough, but was content the man above was ignoring him. All he needed was for the soldier to comment on his carelessness to send him over the edge that night.
It wasn't until the wafting smell of chamomile, drifting down through the floorboards above, did it trigger as to why his unwanted house guest had been so silent and chose to ignore him.
Leaving the fish behind still unfinished, he bolted to the stairs, taking them two at a time, to enter the small kitchen. Locating the hearth, he immediately noticed the small kettle that had been pulled away from the fire to let steep what were obviously the few dregs of chamomile tea he had saved since the boycott.
His movements were stiff as he looked into the pot, exacting his suspicions and silencing what he had hoped was just his mind playing tricks. The Brit had found the small packet of his father's favorite tea and made a pot without even consulting him. It had been one of the few things left that reminded him of his father, and he had planned on saving the tea for a special occasion in remembrance. Now, the very person who held ties to the people who had killed him had squandered it.
As if on cue, the man in question rounded the corner from the bedroom the soldier had marked his own, sipping contentedly at a cup of the tea in question. The smith knew his expression had to be seething, yet the Brit looked at him as if Alfred was wearing a smile.
"To think you had some of my favourite tea in your cupboard. I almost thought you had planned on my arrival till I realized you only had one pouch full. Pity there is so little. I believe I may have finished it off as well. You should resupply in town so we have more for the cold months ahead."
If the soldier could sense the atmosphere around them, he certainly wasn't letting on, as the smith's rage was palpable in the air.
Before Alfred even knew what he was doing, he had grabbed for the still hot kettle, and with an outraged wail, pitched the kettle and what contents remained at the man in the hall.
Completely caught off guard, the soldier dashed to the side just in time before the kettle could collide with him. Only after contact with the wall, the scalding hot tea that remained leapt out and managed to sear onto the Brit's chest, causing him to cry out in pain, his glass teacup shattering on the ground as he fell.
It was the perfect opportunity, and the smith was on the fallen man in a flash, the thought of his actions against a British officer being irrelevant at that point.
Alfred's burned hands were around the man's throat, while a glimmer of fear filled those emerald eyes that stared back at him, satisfying the pain the smith was feeling if only a little.
"Get... off me! You git! I'll see you hanged for this!" The officer fought against the much stronger smith's callused and burned hands but to no avail. At the man's words, he simply tightened his grip causing the man to gasp now, and attempt to beat his fists against his assailant.
Is this what I want? Kill this man here and risk hanging before I have the opportunity to really make a difference? Would father want this?
Questions he never thought he'd worry over bothered him as he felt his grip slacken, and just as they did, he could feel his eyes grow blurry with oncoming tears.
Was he this weak? Was he afraid? Or was it out of fear in disappointing his father?
By now, Alfred's hands had fallen to his sides while he remained straddling the soldier who had also grown silent with caution. The soldier's flailing had stopped, and his eyes were now searching the smith's face for answers to his own questions. The Brit would be left to wonder though, as Alfred finally stood up, and quickly left the small dwelling through the rear door. A creaking silence being all that was left in his wake.
The moon was cresting over the large pines that stood behind the smith as he approached the water. Nothing but the quiet chirp of crickets, and the occasional call of a jay could be heard. The water was calm, allowing the moon's face to show clear in its reflection. Stars dotted amidst the deep navy waters without a single cloud to block their light from creating a speckled landscape in the dark. To be able to lose him self out there amidst the waves, only the light of the moon and stars to guide his way, had always been a dream, a dream that seemed always hindered, and forever out of his reach.
"You left me alone," Alfred began; feeling his fists clench, while the tears that had been threatening, finally start to gently fall down the slopes of his face. "To try to figure out your plans while I didn't even know my own."
The sudden click of a hammer being cocked, and the feel of cold steel pressed against the back of his head was enough of a response to his unspoken question.
"I could show you my plans," the accentuated voice behind him began, "I do not believe you would live long enough to see them though." The barrel of the pistol dug further into Alfred's blond hair to emphasize the soldier's words.
Even in the cold air, he could feel sweat breaking out across his forehead, while his hands grew clammy. He couldn't even feel the burns that covered his palms any longer, as if the breath of death had already begun to tug his soul from his body.
He would die. He had the chance to kill the man, but he had walked away. Hatred. Pain. Guilt. He was never the man whom he aspired to become, and perhaps this just proved he had failed. Failed him self. Failed his father.
The man behind him had gone silent so Alfred took a slight step back, forcing the gun to dig deeper against his skull.
"What are you-?"
"I assaulted a British soldier. The penalty is death." He then turned now to capture those green eyes with his own cool blues, the barrel now pointing directly between his eyes. "It is your right under the Crown to pull the trigger."
Alfred's hand, now steady and without fear, gently moved up to wrap lightly on the soldier's hand that grasped the pistol, holding it steady in front of the smith's face.
Green eyes searched blue for some sort of explanation that would never be given, as sound seemed to fade away around them both. Time almost stilling in that moment, only two heartbeats filling the space.
One beating rapidly.
One beating softly.
The soldier's hand wavered under the smith's controlled grip, and without further resolve the pistol was uncocked and dropped to the dry grass at their feet.
Silence continued to linger.
Heartbeats quieting.
"I can not end a life that wishes for death." The soldier said, now dropping his gaze to stare at the fallen pistol. "We share more similarities than differences it seems."
The soldier continued to eye the pistol for a few moments longer until he finally turned his back to the smith, and looked up to the moon. A breeze had picked up, causing the tops of the tall pines to sway in rhythm with each other, breaking up the steady stream of light on their faces.
"I will not report what happened tonight to my superiors." The soldier began. It seemed as though he had meant to say more, but whatever it was seemed stolen by the wind, as he then started back to the main house, leaving his pistol at Alfred's feet.
Alfred watched the man go, disappearing into the house with out so much as a glance back. Candles were then lit, the windows beginning to light against the darkness. They remained lit for fifteen minutes as the smith continued to stand and stare. Another ten minutes seemed to pass until he finally felt his body coming back under his control.
His limbs felt as if they were made of the bronze and steel he melted down everyday in his forge. Nothing but dead weight at his sides. He made to finally take a step to test his shaky legs only to be snapped out of his revere by the brush of cold steel against his foot.
He looked down to see the pistol still laying forgotten at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, and knocked the small iron ball from inside, lifting it to eye level as he did.
"A shot meant for me." He said to the wind, half expecting an answer that he knew wouldn't come. He then took the small ball and pocketed it. He wasn't sure why he had planned to keep the musket ball, or what the true reasons were on why he was still alive at that moment, but he could feel something strange had happened between them during that moment. Nor what, when, or how would be answered then, or even ever in their lifetimes, but he did know that part of his father's plan was not for him to die there.
"Arthur... Kirkland."
A/N: Major angst! I know! It's absolutely ridiculous for so soon but I promise more light hearted stuff is to come. At least before the war starts. ;P
Also, I'd just like to say thank you so much to those who have already reviewed, faved, and alerted to the fic! I was quite surprised to see so much come from a prologue at only just over 1k words. As I said previously, reviews keep the muse running and so far it's going strong. :D Thank you so much for reading as I have much planned for this fic and I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I have been writing it.
Do check out my tumblr for USUK fanart (as well as select scenes I'm illustrating from "Quartering Acts"), also for updates concerning the story's progress.
Happy readin