His name was Benjamin and he was a soldier.

It hadn't always been this way. There was a time when he didn't worry about soldiers, when the movements of troops and how much ammunition they had and could they be stopped didn't occupy his mind. He didn't worry about his men because he didn't have any men to worry about, and he didn't have to devise any secret ways of communicating with them. He never wore blue, then. In fact, he hated the color. On the few occasions when he was forced to wear it, when his mother would frown and straighten his coat, scolding him for squirming and dirtying his clothes too quickly, he would scowl and find a way to muddy up the color. There was a time when he didn't believe in fighting and he certainly didn't believe that he'd be fighting, because the girl who lived across the street from him, with the pretty brown hair and the wide, bright eyes was too distracting. He'd see her in the school house and stumble over his Latin. He'd see her in town, laughing with her brother or helping her mother with some chore, and he'd freeze in his step, just to watch her, always half wanting to be noticed and half wanting to be invisible. Who could worry about soldiers or think there'd be war when she'd turn to smile at him, ever so briefly, before returning to her chores? Why would anyone be fighting at all?

That was a long time ago, Ben thought to himself. That was before his mother died while he was joining the continental army. It was before Yale, when he knew everything and nothing at the same time but he still hadn't learned what loss feels like yet. It was before he'd seen blood spilled and had heated arguments about what it meant to be free—really free.

It didn't really matter anymore, but he thought about it sometimes. When Caleb had Simcoe's hands tied from a rope and he threw a bucket of water on his face, and Simcoe taunted them about how they couldn't return home. He thought about it then. When Caleb went off to meet with Abe, or Abe did something that could get him killed, he thought about all of the moments they'd spent together as children, the trouble they'd gotten into. He'd remember Mrs. Woodhull sharing a look with his own mother when they'd return from some adventure, covered in dirt, with twigs in their hair, refusing to answer honestly about what they'd been doing. Abe's brother would act superior about the whole experience, as if he'd be caught looking so unkempt, but the minute they were away from the eyes of adults, he'd want to know all the details about who'd done what and how it had all happened. Caleb would never worry what people thought about looking so dirty and what they'd think he'd been up to, and somehow, somehow—though Ben never knew how—he always had a way of getting out of trouble. He thought about home when he'd seen Abe again in his root cellar, showing him the invisible ink, when she'd come by and he hid to surprise her. She'd grown up since he'd seen her last and he'd long accepted that those smiles, the ones he'd dreamed about as a boy, weren't really meant for him. When she hugged him, he remembered those happy, carefree times, when they were all children who lived in the town, and even though their parents rarely saw eye to eye, nothing could shake the bond between four kids who liked to have adventures and keep secrets.

They weren't those kids anymore, though, and even though they still had adventures and they still kept secrets, nothing was the same. Abe's life was back home and his secret meant that at any moment, he could be hanged as a traitor. He had a wife and son who Ben had only seen once, feeling alternately pride for his friend and sadness that he'd been drawn away from such a life. Anna was married, too, her smiles meant for still another person, and even though her husband was now in the army and Anna was still at home, Ben would think back on that girl who smiled at him and still feel the same way about her. Caleb was about the same as he ever was and Ben now knew about Caleb's adventures—knew almost too much about some of his adventures—he didn't need to hear about all of the women, after all.

And Ben was a soldier. He was a soldier who fought for freedom. He led men, good people who he cared about and wanted to survive the war. He thought about battles, about if his men had provisions, about the best way to defeat the enemy. He thought about death, the people he killed, whether he would survive to see his home again or even see the sun set that night. There was no glory in this, he thought. He fought for a righteous cause, he knew, but he'd realized that first time, in the heat of battle, when he heart was beating angrily and his hand was reaching for a knife, and he'd felt the warmth of another man's blood on his skin…this was not the way that men were meant to live. This was a half life. His heart was still beating, he still ate and slept and worked, and he still fought valiantly, passionately, for the most worthy cause he could imagine. But this was not living. He would live afterward, if he lived that long at all, when there wasn't a need for soldiers any more, and when his home was more than simply a memory, fading each time it came to his mind.

Maybe he'd find a wife and have a son, then, and they'd have friends who had adventures together and keep their own secrets. Maybe there would be happiness then, a full life, lived well. Maybe.

But for now, he was a soldier.

So, I'm taking some lit classes now and I figured I'd take a break from reading Kafka and Tolstoy and write something, and this just sort of came out in a ramble...and turned out surprisingly Anna/Ben oriented. What do you guys think? I'm so ready for season three! Reviews or follows are always welcome, and I'm looking for good stories to read, so if you're working on something, let me know!