Snow slowly drifted through the trees. The crys of of battle had finally stopped as Alfred wound his grey horse through the trees. The silence of the forest was haunting, and he stood in stark contrast with his blood-stained navy jacket, and most of the blood wasn't his. He was starting to think that it was hopeless-that he was the only survivor. For hours he had been wandering through the frozen forest, calling out for someone, anyone who was still alive,

"Is anyone there?! Please! Answer me!" he screamed. There was no answer. His crystal blue eyes filled with tears and he dipped his head in sorrow.

"H-hello? A-anyone h-here? P-please h-help m-me," a voice stuttered from behind Alfred. He shot his head up and spun his horse around. As quickly as he could, he made his way towards the voice. At first, he only saw a chesnut horse standing with it's head lowered. At a closer look, however, Alfred saw a bloody hand clinging to the reins. Alfred jumped off of his steed and sprinted over to the horse. When the British soldier saw Alfred's Rebel uniform, he tried to scramble behind the tree he was leaning against, but he could barely move, much less escape. Alfred squatted down in front of the Englishman and looked him over. His peridot eyes glared at him under shaggy, straw colored hair. He looked shorter than the Rebel, but not by much. His forehead had a nasty gash in it, and was bleeding badly. The red jacket that defined him as a Loyalist was shredded, and was soaked with blood.

"I want to help you. Please don't run. I don't want to hurt you,' Alfred reached out to touch the soldier. He tried to back away but sagged against the tree in defeat. Alfred brushed the shaggy blond bangs from the Brit's forehead so he could see the wound. It was deep but not fatal. Alfred sighed in relief but his relief was cut short when he realized that the soldier was running a dangerous fever," what is your name?" he asked. The Loyalist sat in silence for a moment,

"A-arthur Kirkland," he finally chocked out," what is y-yours?"

"Alfred Jones," he tugged on Arthur's jacket but stopped when he yelped in pain. Alfred looked to see the sun starting to set. He looked back down to see Arthur shaking violently. The colonist whipped off his jacket, wrapped it around Arthur's shoulders, and gingerly picked him up off of the ground. Surprisingly, the Brit didn't protest, but instead curled up in his arms. A slight blush formed on Alfred face when he realized how beautiful Arthur was. He had met cute, handsome, and even sexy men before, but Arthur was the first truly beautiful person he had ever met. He was turning to leave when Arthur whispered something,

"Checkmate," he murmured. Alfred stared at Arthur, confused. When he felt hot breath on his back, he realized who Checkmate was. He grabbed the reins of the chesnut horse who had come when Arthur called him and tied to his horse. As carefully as he could, he mounted the grey steed while still holding Arthur. The Loyalist's eyes had become dull and listless, and his face was white. Alfred knew that he was in dire straits,

"Please, just, hang on Arthur," he whispered. As quickly as possible, Alfred wound his and Arthur's horse through the woods until they reached the road that led to his town. Holding on to Arthur with one hand and his reins with the other, Alfred galloped towards home, away from hell, through the still-falling snow, and under the setting sun, illuminating the pair, Rebel and Loyalist, and ending the chapter of war in these young men's stories, who never should have had to write it to begin with.