Quartering Acts
By Ahro

Rated M for sexual situations, violence and language.

Chapter 3

The forge was far larger than both the barn and main house combined, as well as the most well built. Heavy brick was inlaid forming the foundation and sturdy walls, while glass windows and large barn doors opened up at either end of the building. The once red bricks were almost black from the years of soot that had caked onto them, leading Arthur to believe it had been in the Jones' family for some time. Even with the few lit lamps and windows allowing in the morning sun, it still felt dark and stifling.

Not to mention frightful, as Arthur grew concerned for his life as he moved further inside. Every wall and inch of ceiling that was available had a hook brandishing a different sharp implement or another. From farming supplies to woodcutting tools, and of course a wide arrange of swords, muskets, and pistols. It was a regular arsenal the man had created. If Arthur hadn't already know the man lived alone, he'd have expected there to be five or six blacksmiths working in one building.

Hoping there wouldn't be a sudden earthquake, Arthur began to look around for the owner, finding it odd he was no longer here. Perhaps he went off to grab more coal for the hearth? The fire had begun to settle down, while a piece that looked to be forming a bayonet was sitting unfinished in the simmering coals.

Before he realized it, Arthur had begun to look over the smith's handiwork. The man was still so young yet he seemed to have picked up his father's trade with a style all his own.

Each weapon was beautifully crafted and had its own unique flare of details that made them look more like a display piece than a weapon of war. His hand glided down the barrel of one particular musket that had caught his eye. The markings seemed old, yet were finely cut into the metal which secured their permanence over time.

As he lingered over them, Arthur realized that they were not just designs, but words. Startled, he picked up the musket for closer inspection.

For liberty.

He's a rebel.

Just as he was about to hide the musket a loud bang came from the far rear door, startling him into practically dropping the weapon.

Alfred came stumbling in, a beer in his left hand and a very familiar pistol in his right. Noticing Alfred hadn't spotted him yet, Arthur rested the musket back where he had found it to confront the smith.

"You're in my forge, why?"

Even with Alfred's stumbling, his words did not falter. Either he could hold his drink well, or was just clumsy.

Arthur cleared his throat, "You have my pistol, sir." Feeling being polite with a slightly drunk man around a multitude of weapons would be a wiser choice at that moment.

Alfred had turned to face him directly now. He stood six feet away, tall, yet solid in his stance. He rested back with his weight on his heels, one hand raised slightly at his side keeping the drink from spilling, while the other hung loosely, the pistol aimed at the floor. His blue eyes were calculating as he stared almost through the soldier. Sizing him up as if he was ready to start the war right inside the forge.

Catching Arthur off guard, Alfred suddenly flung the pistol at the soldier, causing him to fumble to catch the flintlock.

"What are you-?"

"Misfired."

"I beg your pardon?"

Alfred stood up straight this time, still eying the soldier while he drained the bottle of the last few drops of beer before tossing it along the far wall. He then moved past the soldier who still stood there uncertain as to what the smith was up to, and picked up the pair of tongs to begin working on the unfinished bayonet once more.

A few minutes passed before Arthur couldn't take it, "Might I ask that you elaborate on what exactly you said just a moment earlier?"

The smith looked over his shoulder absently, half a cigar now clenched in his teeth while his glasses had slipped slightly down his nose.

"I said, that pistol o'yours would have misfired had you shot it last night." He then turned his back on the man and proceeded to bring the hearth back to life. "I took the liberty of making a few adjustments so you won't have to worry about any misfires in the future."

Arthur couldn't help but wince at the word.

Liberty.

"How can I trust that you did not tamper with it to the point that it will blow off my arm instead?"

The smith's movements were fast and Arthur was, again, caught off guard as Alfred took the weapon from the soldier's hands, and suddenly aimed it at the soldier's head.

Arthur could feel the sweat dripping off his brow now, his eyes staring into the other man's blue depths, trying to read the smith's thoughts as the barrel of the gun threatened.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, waiting for the end to come, the smith suddenly moved his arm away, and fired the pistol at the far wall. The blast rang through Arthur's ears as he released his breath in a heavy exhale, his eyes never leaving the smith's.

Alfred then clicked off the ramrod from the underside of the barrel, clutching it in his teeth as he did, then loaded the barrel with black powder, filling it with experienced precision. Following it with lead shot and a replacement ball, he packed it all in with the ramrod, replaced the rod, and handed it back to Arthur. Loaded and ready to take another shot whenever desired.

Arthur continued to stare at the smith, even as he turned his back on the armed soldier to attend the fires in the hearth.

Is he giving me another free chance to shoot him in the back? With the weapon he modified and reloaded for me? Another request to end his life?

He didn't even realize what he was doing as he aimed the weapon at the man's back, half-cocking the hammer with a resounding, familiar, click. The smith's movements never faltered as if he didn't hear that same sound many men would hear with their last breath.

With a soft exhale, Arthur uncocked the weapon again, and lowered it to his side.

Why couldn't he shoot this man? Alfred had tried to kill him the night before, and now he had reason to believe the man was working with the rebels. For all he knew, the smith had a stash somewhere of weapons ready to be distributed to the militia at a moments notice.

Straightening up, still eying the smith as he began to work the metal in the heightening flames, Arthur found his voice again. "Thank you... for repairing my weapon."

No reply.

"You... probably just saved my life."

"Teh-" the smith spat out the end of the cigar into the flames, turning to face the shorter soldier, "You'd save your life by not going to war, and returning back to where you came from."

"Wha- who said I was going to war?"

"Don't play me! The whole reason your King reenacted the Quartering Acts is to try and dissuade the uprising. He knows very well we're on the cusp of war." The smith looked to the pistol, "if you can't even fire your gun at a man who threatened your life, what will you do on the battle field when those seconds are what stands between you and a ball between your eyes?"

The smith's words dripped with venom and truth. Was it that obvious? He had never shot anyone before. He had once been scared of going to the colonies, as he knew he'd be on the front line at some point, but it was his only chance at ridding what haunted him night and day. Perhaps finding some form of solace in fighting for his country and dying for it would rectify his sins.

But if I can't even shoot this man? A man who is obviously ready to face death with no fear only to put fear in his enemies. Almost as if Alfred was personified death.

Before Arthur could regain a semblance of composure, he felt his face heat up as the smith moved towards him, resting his large, callused hands on his shoulders as he did. Arthur felt himself stiffen, unsure of what to do as his eyes never left the others.

"You were never ready for this world." The man's hands tightened on his shoulders, eyes searching, "go home."

With those final words, the man turned back to the hearth to take the bayonet to the anvil nearby to begin hammering away on it. The sound seeming to erase the words that clung to the air as he did.

Arthur, for the first time in his life, seemed without words to reciprocate. He felt like a single leaf having fallen with its brethren, yet landing in a river on a course he had no chance of changing.

Feeling nothing else would come from their exchange, he simply left the forge, the hammering continuing, unaltered by his leave. A cool breeze had picked up as the afternoon continued on without him. He wasn't sure if his face was merely hot from the forge's heat, or something else, and the thought sent a chill down his spine.

Worthless. Even that man knows it. You try and escape yet you face the same thing here.

There was nothing left to do, so he decided to head back to the main house and try to dig up some food and prepare for supper. In doing so, hopefully, coming across some beer to stew his thoughts in as well.

As he neared the house, he couldn't help but notice the smith's wood stock was considerably low. Had the man been so busy with his work to have neglected replenishing his wood supply? Winter wasn't far off, and if the weather was any similar to that of England's, he knew they were going to need a lot more.

Seeing a chopping block with a well sharpened ax laying along side it, and a large pile of logs ready to be chopped in two nearby, Arthur curled up his sleeves, and headed over to it.

It was impossible for the soldier to leave. Alfred knew as much as he did even while he said those words to him. He was sworn to serve, and could never return to England if he defected. He would have to hide in the colonies, and then avoid the colonists as they'd be out for his blood knowing he was English.

"I'm not some child in a man's army." He picked up the ax, weighing it in his hands as he flipped the blade up to admire the smooth edge. It was heavy, but even though he was small, he wasn't meek. Picking up a log from the messy pile next to the block, he placed it on the old stump and lined up his shot. With a clean arc, the ax sliced through the log like butter, with a clean ring as the head stuck into the stump below.

A smile lit up his face at the smooth cut. He had never chopped wood before in London, but it seemed like there was nothing to it. He had two perfectly cut haves that were ready to be piled up on the wood stock. This could prove to the smith he wasn't some worthless city boy.

Picking up a second, he placed it on the block as before, and arcing the ax back above his head, sliced down, only this time, falling off balance as the ax strangely glanced off the log and only cut a corner of it.

Arthur stepped back, his face contorting with confusion as he stared at the log. He had done everything the same as before. Shaking it off and going back to lining up his swing, he came back down on the offending log and this time cut through, but at another strange angle.

His hand went up to scratch his head as to why he was suddenly having trouble until a chuckle erupted from behind him. He spun on his heel to see non-other than Alfred, standing there grinning at him.

His shirt had been untucked and fell loose around him, while the tie at his neck had been undone to allow the fabric freedom to breath. He had been working hard after Arthur had left him, as his exposed chest glistened with sweat. Arthur felt heat rise in his face again, and like before, he couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment, or something else.

"At least ya' tryin'." The man chuckled again. Arthur scowled as he sunk the ax back into the trunk.

"I was not trying to prove anything."

Alfred's lips spread in a smile; heat flared in Arthur's face again, "Sure you weren't."

Arthur tore his gaze away from the rude man, but was suddenly engulfed by him at the same time. Protesting words seemed to fail the soldier then, as he saw out of the corner of his eye Alfred leaning down along side him to pick up the ax only to wrap Arthur's right hand under the head. The smith then took Arthur's left hand, and placed it farther down the shaft of the ax.

"First off, you're holdin' it all wrong." Arthur's face was bright red at this point as Alfred stood at his back, his arms encircling his smaller frame to show him how to grip the ax.

With Alfred's hands wrapped around Arthur's on the ax, the smith brought the ax up in a gentle curve above their heads, and as he brought the ax down slowly, made Arthur's right hand, gently, slide back along the handle to meet his other to allow the momentum of the ax to cut through the log.

Arthur suddenly noted that his own breathing had grown rather husky with the other man's close proximity only until Alfred stepped away to grab a new log.

The bloody hell was that about?

The smith then brought the new log up to Arthur's gaze, throwing off his rampaging thoughts... and hormones apparently.

"You also want to mind the knots in the wood when you're choppin'. They keep the wood together like nails. Also, try to keep the wood grain facin' the direction you're cuttin'. That'll allow the wood to peel apart much easier." Alfred patted him on the back as he placed the wood down in the appropriate position for Arthur to chop it.

Beyond the little lesson, Arthur couldn't get past this man's sudden change in personality. From pushing him away, and practically asking him to shoot him in the back, to being jovial in helping him chop wood, it just didn't make much sense.

Ignoring the questions that kept his mind occupied, he realized Alfred was still standing their watching him. So, rolling his shoulders back and making the same motions Alfred had just, rather intimately, showed him, he cleanly sliced through the wood like his first piece. This ignited a clap from his audience and he couldn't help but show off a smile. His first piece he must have had the wood placed correctly for having made a clean cut, unknowingly when he tried the second.

"If you can fill up the wood stock that'd be much appreciated." Alfred nodded to him. Arthur nodded in return and Alfred headed back to the main house to leave Arthur with his musings.

Leaning forward, Arthur picked up one of the chunks he had just cut to eye how the grain had peeled apart from where he sliced through it. It certainly made sense, yet, Alfred did not.

"Sir! Sir!"

His inner musings were quickly interrupted as he looked to see the small boy from earlier running up to him, waving his arms about as if his calling out wasn't enough to catch Arthur's attention.

"What is the matter, lad?"

"Sir! Alfred has invited me to dinner, sir! He came out to the barn while I was takin' care of your mare like you asked, sir. I was doin' a right job of it too, sir. She even let me pick out her hooves. Gentlest lady I've ever had the pleasure to take care of, sir."

"Yes, that is good to hear, boy. What of the smith?" Arthur chimed with a smile, trying to get the energetic young man to settle down.

"He's grillin' up the haddock he caught the day before. He even has lemons for the meat! You know how hard it is to come by lemons?" The boy rambled.

Arthur nodded and the boy continued, "He told me after I was finished with the horses, and they had water and blankets, to come let you know you're invited as well. He had a strange look in his eye when he thought of you. It was a look that he would always get when he was recallin' somethin' his father told him. Whatever you did, sir, must have been really somethin' for him to have willingly talked to me." He paused and then clapped his hands as something dawned on his mind, "You must be workin' at tryin' to be his friend, right, sir?" He clapped cheerfully.

"Ahh... I am not so sure I went that far just yet."

"Well, I'd say you're on the right track! I'll be back later for dinner! My mom might have an apple pie I can bring along for dessert too. You'll love my mom's apple pie, sir. She brings them in every week to the Common and they sell out within an afternoon. Everyone loves my mom's apple pies, sir."

No matter what Arthur was feeling he couldn't help but smile at the boy's endless amounts of enthusiasm.

"I look forward to it."

The boy grinned from ear to ear, and without another word, was off running back from which he came, only to round the barn and head down the road.

Arthur brought his gaze over to the main house where he could see the flicker of oil lamps in the kitchen where he assumed Alfred was busy getting the fish ready for dinner. Had the boy told him about their earlier meeting? Had that somehow changed Alfred's opinion, if slightly, about him?

He looked down to his hands as they still clung to the ax. The strength, yet gentle touch the smith had shown him as he demonstrated, had lit something in Arthur that he couldn't nail down. It was frustrating, yet he wasn't afraid of it, nor did he really want to run from it like so many other things in his life.

Turning, he picked up another log from the pile, while making sure the grain and any knots weren't in the way of his swing, placed it on the woodblock, and with a clean arc, split the wood in two even pieces. The sound was satisfying as he went for another and cut that perfectly as well. A smile lit up his face as he continued his work. He would be hungry after this.

A/N: Alfred is not bi-polar. There is reasoning to why he suddenly changed from how he was in the forge to by the woodpile. Reasoning which you will learn about in Chapter 4. :3

Thank you all for the lovely reviews! I have taken all corrections thus far and corrected the previous chapters. Again, feel free to leave mentions of any grammar/spelling issues that I miss. I'm always very appreciative of your work in doing so. And of course any comments on the story itself is always a pleasure to read and keeps that muse pumpin' out more chapters. ^^

Thank you for reading! :D

P.S. Enjoy those innuendos? ;P