It was one of those rarest of spring days in the English countryside. Not a cloud marred the April sky, the bright sun casting the land in hues of emerald. A young blond Englishman sat astride his horse, looking upon all that he owned. Wide open pastures spread out before him in the rolling hills, dotted by small villages stricken with disease and poverty. Deceptively peaceful despite the battles that had been waged upon the land in recent years. It settled upon the young gentleman's shoulders like a heavy mantle, responsibility weighing upon him as never it had before.

The gentleman, Arthur, turned his gaze from the pictorial setting and to the wood that was the object of his excursion. He had received reports from the local commission of the peace that there had been an unnatural storm about a month prior. Stories of green lightning and spiraling clouds, signs of Divine wrath visiting upon little Lacanshire. Arthur had (for better or worse) slept through the evil storm in the safety of his manor and was apt to believe that the common folk were making tall tales as they were wont to do.

However, then came the reports of an unnatural fog that seemed to cloy to this particular wood, which was setting all of the farmers on edge. Whispers arose of another recurrence of miasma, the Black Death and divine wrath. Yet no one dared to go anywhere near the wood.

Save for Arthur, who now thought himself a fool for being skeptic of country superstition.

Arthur liked not the look of it, but that had been reportedly where the miasma had been sighted. If it was true. If the Black Death had come to his borough, he need know. Steeling himself, he put a gold coin upon his tongue to protect him from the bad air, then made a cross over his heart. Slowly, he guided his horse along the road into the patch of trees.

The pastureland disappeared from view, leaving Arthur eerily enclosed by the wood. His unease grew, but spurred his horse gently along to try to find any anomalies. Beratements began to whisper at the back of his mind that he ought to have brought someone along with him. A clergyman or at least a servant. What were he to do if the source of the miasma were witchcraft or a Devil's relic. Oh no, he just had to prove himself as the new lord of the manor. Completely lost all sense of self-preservation.

As he distracted himself with such thoughts, a large stony outcrop yawned up above the road, blotting out the sun. There was a curious object in the road. Something that looked like a piece of blue cloth. To take a better look, he dismounted from his horse and glanced at it. It was a knotted piece of beautiful blue ribbon. Frowning, he picked it up to examine it, attempting unsuccessfully to undo it.

He should have noticed it was too quiet. That not even the crickets or birds sounded in the trees. He did notice the howls of men descending from the wood, graplling his arms before he could find his sword. His horse screamed and bucked, trying to get away as his master was unceremoniously thrown into the hands of some common thugs. Before he realized it, the tip of a dagger pressed up underneath his chin. A hooded face leaned in close, what patches of skin shewn heavily scarred.

"Well, look wha' we 'ave, boys," the presumed leader jeered. "I think we managed to catch ourselves a little lord. Wha' are you doin' all on your lonesome out 'ere, yer worship?" he asked, rolling the title off his tongue like an insult.

"Take thy hands from me, thou brute," Arthur snapped, wrestling against the hands that bound him behind his back. He looked around and counted at least six within sight, probably more, if he heard the extra horse hooves right. "Have the people of this county naught been through enough that thou wilst take advantage?"

"Talkin' 'igh and mighty fer someone at our mercy," the thug replied with a cruel smirk. He jabbed the dagger in a little deeper, nicking the skin and letting blood drip down Arthur's neck. "Now, 'ere's wha' we're gonna do. Yer gonna take us back to yer manor. Yer gonna-"

A gunshot rang out, interrupting him. Before his next heartbeat, Arthur thought that he had been the one shot. Then he realized that the man in front of him was staring at him with vacant eyes, blood coursing down around his ears. Dead he stood, before his body crumpled to the ground like a rag doll. The horses and the men howled around him, trying to find the source of the gunfire, when suddenly more shots burst into the air in ambush. Chaos ensued, Arthur forgotten as the men tried to duck for cover.

Then just like that, the firestorm ceased and around him the highwaymen dropped like flies. All of them dead. Impossibly fast, the life winked right out of them in less than a breath. It was a massacre.

Arthur could make no sound now, fallen back on his haunches as he surveyed the pile of dead flesh. To be sure, he had seen his fair share of blood, but never had he seen death so swift it was like the divine hand of God sweeping over them. It rattled him to the core, his only excuse for still sitting on his arse like a frozen rabbit when he heard a rustle from the underbrush through the ringing of his ears.

A single figure stepped out of the dense wood and into the open. At once, his apparel shewn him to be yet another highwayman, dressed for rough nights in the wood and away from the law. The first thing that struck him was just how tall the man was. The pistol at his hip did not escape Arthur's notice, nor did the long sleek instrument across his back that was undoubtedly a musket.

"Cuss'd wasta bullets," the highwayman muttered to himself, as he toed at the dead men. Kneeling down, he sifted through the robbers' purses for coin or other useful treasures. Now that he was closer, Arthur was better able to study him, although he kept an ear out for the others who were no doubt still hiding in the brush. The man's apparel was plain but incredibly fine for someone desperate to resort to highway robbery. He had a wide brimmed hat, a great long leather overcoat, richly dyed blue shirt, grey waistcoat of Persian fashion, and tightly fitted breeches made of an indigo material he had never seen before. He wore fine green tinted spectacles over his eyes and around his face was a red kerchief so vivid that Arthur had thought his face covered with blood, making him gasp softly.

At the sound, the highwayman suddenly looked up over his spectacles, locking his gaze on Arthur. The gentleman froze where he sat, as much from the intensity of those steely blue eyes as from being noticed. Then in an act that was almost genteel, the highwayman tipped his broad brimmed hat in greeting. "Howdy, stranger."

Well, it appeared as though he would be spared Death's cold blade today.

"I'll be getting those horses," the stranger informed him with an accent that was both familiar and utterly bizarre. "If you don' mind me taking them as payment for savin' yer hide."

"I... yes, of course, sirrah," Arthur replied hesitantly, after deciphering the gist of the odd tongue. "I woulde be pleased if your bande woulde hath them."

"My band?" the man asked wryly, his smile hidden away behind the colorful kerchief creeping up to his eyes. "Ain't got no band. Jus' me."

Arthur started at that, then he scoffed before he could stop himself. "Right. As though one man coulde fire ten perfect shots in less time than one takes a breath. Unless you hath eight more pistols hidden away in the bush."

Much to Arthur's irritation, the stranger let out a chuckle, but didn't elaborate. Instead, he turned his gaze turned to the horse trail. "Well, I best be getting after those horses. Gunfire'll 'ave sent 'em packing. Don' spose y'know if there's a bounty on these 'ere cockchafers, is there?"

Once again, it took the gentleman a solid pause to understand what the man spake. He knew the commoners' speech was coarse, but such was not the case for this fellow. His speech carried an odd mix of Scotch, Welsh and foreign accents, but there was enough ease in his tongue that he must be a natural born English speaker. His diction, however, was befuddling.

Seeing as though the man (and his band) were not intent on doing him any ill, Arthur pushed himself up to his feet and brushed the dirt from his his sleeves and rump. "I doubt that the village constable woulde be so free with his coin," he replied as he looked the man up and down, "or that you woulde find much coin to be had for your horses."

After a moment's decision, Arthur said, "However, if you are truly on your own then I will be glad to take you in and rewarde you for your good service." It was impulsive to be sure, but this odd man intrigued him. Not to mention had saved his life. There were enough eyes in the Hall besides to make sure his guest kept peace. "My name is Arthur de Kirkland," he said, giving the man a brief bow. "Tis a pleasure to meet you."

The stranger regarded him a moment, before he took off his hat and revealed a head of tousled blond hair. He pulled the kerchief down from his face, revealing a startlingly handsome visage unmarked by pox. Hell's bells, Arthur might even want to keep him around just to look at.

The stranger held out an empty leather-gloved hand, a gesture of peace. "Name's Alfred Jones. Pleasure's all mine."

Arthur could not help but smile at the odd turn of phrase. Though he was still uncertain what sort of stock the man came from, he took the man's hand and gave it a firm shake. "Jones?" he queried as he let go. At least there was something familiar about it. "Dost you hail from Wales?"

"Bit further than that," Jones replied, sliding the broad-brimmed hat back on. At the gentleman's expectant look, he finally offered, "...Virginia, 'riginally."

"Virginia!" Arthur cried in satisfied epiphany. "The colony. Oh yes, of course. That makes perfect sense." He noticed the troubled look on the man's face, but he was bubbling with too many questions to care. "What is it like there? Are you a frontiersman? Didst you fight natives? What brings you here to England?" Between the politics and the plague, it seemed that more people were leaving England than coming back.

"That's the question of the century, ain't it," Jones replied cryptically. Before Arthur could ask him to elaborate, he turned away and said, "Best be getting those horses 'fore they're miles away. 'Cluding yers, I reckon. Stay here. I'll be back."

With that, the Virginian took off into the greenwood, leaving Arthur with the uncertainty that he was still being watched. Despite what Jones said, he knew there had to be other men in the brush, or at least more firearms. To achieve what his rescuer did on his own was nigh impossible. Against his better judgement, he stayed with the dead whilst the stranger went off to collect his reward.

Breathing shakily, Arthur sat on a boulder and surveyed the massacre and thought of how close he had come to sharing the same fate. He had very nearly left his family without a proper heir, save a distant relation in Scotland. Not even a wife to pass his lands onto. His grandfather was likely rolling in his grave, having died trying to impress upon him the importance of lineage. Arthur had thought himself too young to think upon such things, especially when he had to get used to responsibilities that he had never expected to have as a second son. Perhaps this was a sign that he ought to take a wife, and soon.

Jones returned, having left Arthur to his grim thoughts for nearly an hour. He had found Arthur's mare and the two stallions of the dead men, one of which he was riding. They nickered nervously at the corpse, but his mare did not protest as Arthur brought himself back up to his saddle. "Thank you," he said, as Jones handed over the reigns. "I had forgotten to express my gratitude before. Please pardon my manners."

"It's quite alright," the Virginian replied, giving him a faint nod. "Anyone would be shook up. 'Spose it was lucky I was nearby."

"I do not believe in luck," Arthur retorted softly, still haunted by his gloomy thoughts. "I see the Grace of God in you, for saving not only me, but my legacy. For that, you will always hath my gratitude." The words seemed to shock the stranger, who stared at him wide eyed silence. "My apologies if I do offende," Arthur added, unsure of the man's reaction.

However, Jones merely shook his head to dismiss the thought and gave him a handsome smile. "I was jus' thinkin' that yer a pretty serious fella." Arthur wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult, when the stranger went on a different tack. "Be gettin' dark soon. Should we mosey on out?"

Arthur looked the man over with some skepticism. The horse carried saddlebags, bedroll, and a stiff rope, but otherwise there seemed no signs of the other firearms than what the man already carried. "I don' have any more guns," Jones insisted, both amused and exasperated as he correctly read the gentleman's thoughts. "And there ain't no ambush waiting. God's honest truth."

At His name, the young gentleman was forced to relent. "If you insist," Arthur sighed, before he turned his horse back towards his manor. "My manor is not far. We shoulde be back in time for supper."

At the mention of food, Jones' stomach made a hungry gurgle that startled them both. Red with embarrassment, the Virginian scratched at the nape of his neck. "Sorry, been a week since I've had a hot meal."

Arthur blinked, but then a slow smile spread over his lips. "Quite alright," he replied, "you at least deserve your fill after what you did today." With that, he spurred his horse on to lead them out of the wood, meanwhile thinking of how comely Alfred Jones looked with a blush upon his cheeks.

~o~

In an hour the pair returned to Kirkland Hall just as the sun was beginning its afternoon descent. The two story brick home stood like a beacon against the otherwise shambling villages nearby, demonstrating the continued success of the family's estates despite the recent political state of affairs. A modest garden surrounded it, creating a subtle barrier from the manor and the outside world. As they came up to the doors, the usual servants came to attend to them.

If his servants took exception to the arrival of the new armed man, they certainly did not show it. Instead, they silently took their horses to be stabled and groomed, whilst Arthur ordered Jones' belongings to be sent up to the Green Room and to send for the village constable in the morning. Like him though, they did take a pause to study the stranger's bizarre apparel and his unusual height. It was a common theme as Arthur led the way into the great hall, where the pair of them might have more chance to speak before supper. Not before Arthur ordered some salted fish, bread and wine for his guest to at least settle his stomach in the meantime.

Once he was sure that Jones was reasonably comfortable, Arthur settled in his favorite chair by the fireplace where his two hounds found him and curled up at his feet. He was more tired from the day's events than he realized, fatigue beginning to settle into his bones. His guest looked to the two hounds, taking a sip of wine. He didn't seem to care for it, but he had the grace not to complain. "What's their names?" he asked, nodding to the dogs.

"Demetrius and Lysander," Arthur answered with a smile. "From one of my favorite works."

"Shakespeare?" Jones guessed. "The one with the fairies, right?"

At this, Arthur frowned. "Yes, Midsummer Night's Dream," he said slowly. "Hath Shakespeare already made it to the colonies?"

"I... musta picked it up somewhere," Jones replied evasively, once again looking uncomfortable. It shamed Arthur to have brought him to that state.

"My apologies, I was merely surprised," he said gently. "Pleasantly so, of course. I did not expect that there woulde be much interest for culture in such untamed lands." Or that this fellow could read, to be quite frank. Though he knew better than to voice that aloud. Considering that he thought for a time that the colonies were his only future, he ought to be more humble.

Deciding this was not a productive line of thought, Arthur's attention turned to the musket and pistol that his rescuer had settled against his chair. "I hath never seen such beautifully crafted firearms," he said, looking to the sleek and polished instruments. "They seem so small and fine that one woulde think them ornamental. And of a design I hath never seen before." Indeed the pistol looked quite strange, akin to an exotic snaphaunce revolver (which did at least explain how Alfred could rescue him singlehandedly). Even the musket was odd with additional levers and complications unknown to him. "Perhaps you coulde shew me how you shoot them."

At once, Jones' demeanor grew even more guarded. "You didn' get enuffa that today?" he asked as he took an immodest bite of bread.

"I did not see much of the marksmanship from your perspective," Arthur replied, his curiosity only growing. "I coulde take out my father's musket if you woulde make it a contest."

However, his words did nothing to assuage the troubled expression. Slowly, Jones shook his head, "Sorry. I'm thinkin'... I best be savin' my bullets for more 'n showin' off." There was a finality in that tone that stayed Arthur's tongue from saying he could easily replace the balls and powder for him.

Even so, Arthur was starting to get a bit vexed by how mysterious his rescuer insisted on being, when Jones decided to strike up another conversation. "So, you live here all on yer own?" he asked gesturing to the empty great hall, "I mean, 'sides yer servants."

It was always a sobering thought, diverting his attention from his vexation. "My grandfather died recently, leaving me as head of the family. My mother died in childbirthe along with an infant sister. My father..." Arthur started, before the words stuck to his throat. As they always seemed to when it came to his father and elder brother. Not because of any special affection for his departed family, but one needed to mind one's words in strange company. Then again, was not Virginia known for being a safe haven to the royalist cause? After a pause in which Jones patiently waited, Arthur finally asked, "Hath you... any opinion on our civil war?"

Jones started as if struck, but recovered himself through a long draught of his wine. Even so, it was a bizarre reaction. "No," the Virginian replied thickly, "not on the one here. And I promise that I won't breathe a word of whatever you'd like to tell me. Or don' tell me. Don' matter. I'll understand."

There was a strange quality to the stranger's eyes just then. Haunted and ageless. Of one who had seen more than his fair share in his lifetime. It made Arthur wonder. How much of the war had spread to the colonies? Was it no longer a haven of refugees guarded by sympathetic cavaliers? Even so, something in Jones' gaze both grieved and comforted him, compelling him to speak.

"My father and elder brother fought for the king," Arthur spake softly. "They both died at Marston Moor. Mercifully, Parliament let our estates go unmolested as my grandfather disregarded them as foolish boys."

"You didn' fight?" Jones asked in gentle tones, his nourishment all but forgotten.

Arthur shook his head and laughed ruefully, "Much too young. Besides, we coulde not hath all three heirs run off to war, now coulde we?" And what good it did to have a spare, in the end. "Now I need to disavow them as well or else..."

A sombre pause fell as the Virginian digested this. Then as if in response to Arthur's quiet pain, he offered in a rare moment of candor, "I was too young too. Went to the front anyway. Stupidest thing I ever did. Watched brothers fighting brothers, families torn apart. In the end, I lost everything and everyone." Then he shook his head at a distant memory. "Had to move out West to get away from it all."

"You seem to hath missed the marke," Arthur jested gently as Lysander took a head to his knee and he scratched it absently.

That sparked a bark of laughter, alleviating the dark mood. "So I did," the Virginian agreed with a smile. "Did my fair share out West though," he said, once again speaking ofWest as though it were an idea rather than a direction. "Wouldn't trade it for the world."

"You will hath to tell me how you made it back to England then, Mr. Jones," Arthur mused, his imagination rife with thoughts of the untamed wilderness, treasure and native tribes.

"I'll let y'know soon as I figure it out meself," Jones replied. "And please, call me Al."

Now Al sounded entirely too familiar. A pet name for a loved one. However, Arthur supposed he could meet him partway. "Alfred then," he conceded. "You may call me Arthur."

"Was plannin' on it," Alfred replied somewhat cheekily.

It was too good-natured for the young gentleman to take much offense. Arthur merely tutted at him, before he sensed his servants on the other side of the hall putting down dishes for supper. The air was soon filled with the smells of hot bread, roasted meat, and sweet almond tart. "Well, I promised you a hot meal," Arthur said as he waved the hounds off of him and rose to his feet. Alfred eagerly followed, obviously still hungry. At the table, the young lord picked up one of the utensils and held it out. "By the by, I hath taken to using this new Italian instrument at the table. It's called-"

"A fork, I know," Alfred replied absently, looking down at his own plate setting with a frown. Unfazed for long, he went up to his things and returned with his own utensils as proper guests should. A fork among them, though it was strangely curved and four prongs instead of two. Alfred seated himself down and used his own fork to eat with far more ease than Arthur had yet mastered. Yet completely forgetting about saying Grace. Or waiting until the lord of manor took his first share. Though Arthur cared naught so much, it was uncouth all the same. Truly a bizarre mix of the savage and the civilized.

"You will never cease to surprise me," Arthur said amazed. He dug into the roasted veal, tossing bones to the floor for his hounds to pick up. He only half paid attention to the food, his mind and eyes wandering to the stranger with whom he shared his meal. Sometime during the repast, Alfred had shrugged off his leather coat and took off his broad hat, leaving him in just the fine blue shirt and grey waistcoat, bright red kerchief still wrapped around his corded neck. It was easier now to see how well adventuring seemed to suit the Virginian with his incredibly tall and athletic build. The foreign waistcoat only accentuated the broadness of his shoulders. His tanned skin was like warm honey from a lifetime in the sun. Moreover, he moved with such fluid ease for one of such height, as though rough life had sanded away any unnecessary impediments to his natural grace.

Arthur silently chided his poet's heart. Yet it still struck him how very much he would like Alfred to stay. Despite his better judgement. Suddenly blue eyes flicked up to his and he started as the Virginian caught him staring. Coughing awkwardly, the young gentleman nodded towards Alfred's sleeve. "I was just admiring your attire," he lied. "Tis of deceptively fine quality for something so plain. I woulde nearly accuse you of being a Puritan, though you do not reek of moral self-righteousness. Moreover, I hath never seen fabric quite like your breeches." Some part of him wanted to reach out to touch it, but he could not stoop to feeling up the man's leg with such scant justification.

"I do okay for myself," Alfred said, not seeming to notice his gaze. "Well, did," he amended, seeming to recall his strange circumstances in coming here. "Or will ," he muttered, perplexing himself as much as his host. Shrugging, he washed the veal back with more wine. "Speaking of, thank you for yer hospitality. Yer the first kind face I seen since comin' here."

"You did neede save my life first," Arthur reminded him with a smile. "I do apologize for my fellow countrymen, however. Wars hath a way of bringing out the barbary in people, as I am sure you can imagine." Which still begged the question as why Jones was here, though he knew better than to ask again. Even so, he meant to find out. "By the by, you are welcome to stay for as long as you like," Arthur said as the servants came to clear the dishes, though they cast curious glances at the bones on Alfred's plate. "If you hath nowhere to go, and I suspect that you do not, I coulde make use of someone like you in my householde."

Alfred arched an eyebrow, giving the young gentleman a hard look that immediately made him doubt himself. "As what? I ain't no coon butler," he said with a derision that made Arthur's skin crawl.

"H-hardly," Arthur replied, wondering what he did to set the Virginian on edge (and what on earth was a coon butler ?). More cautiously, he said, "I woulde expect that someone of your experience woulde be put to far more use as a bodyguarde?" There was more hesitation in his voice than he cared for as he prayed that the reviled position was some sort of domestic post. Then again, Alfred's clothes and weapons were so fine, perhaps he used to be part of the landed gentry in the colonies and was merely down on his luck now. Meaning the offer was a slap in the face. Hell's bells, what had he done?

His worry appeared unwarranted as Alfred relaxed a moment later. "I actually do have somewhere to be," he said, a note of apology in his voice. "Trouble is, I ain't got any idea how to get back. Appears I'm plum stuck 'til I can rightly figure it out. So I'll decline yer offer to become one of yer servants. But if yer offerin' food n' a bed, I'll make sure no trouble comes yer way long as I'm here."

Slowly, Arthur relaxed himself and smiled. So really all that Alfred Jones truly objected to was losing the peerage of an honoured guest, while gaining the sanctuary and security of a tenured servant. It was unconventional, but Arthur hardly thought that Jones would budge from his position. More importantly, it kept the man here and accessible.

"Welcome to Kirkland Hall, Alfred," he said as he toasted to their agreement. "I suspect that life will be far from dull with you around."

~o~

With their arrangement in place, Alfred quickly settled in one of the unused suites of the manor. Much to Arthur's dismay, his guest remained as secretive as ever over the next few weeks. The Virginian took to disappearing out into the countryside on horseback for hours at a time after he breakfasted in the kitchens. The only times that Arthur seemed to see him was when they sometimes took supper together, where he resisted all of the young gentleman's probing questions. The only new information he got out of the stranger were anecdotes from the servants about the man's strange customs, such as practicing throwing rope in the garden or burning small rolls of parchment in his mouth.

His curiosity burned brighter than ever the longer his guest stayed and made himself more permanent a fixture. He would dream vividly of his guest and his past, then dream not at all as he lay awake and stared up at his ceiling. Just wondering.

Out of desperation, his manners failed him and he instructed a chambermaid to "reporte if their gueste hath any odd accoutrements if she so happened to spy them." Which they both knew was blanket permission to search Alfred's belongings while he was on one of his excursions.

Unfortunately, she came back so spooked by all of the strangeness of his tools that she was convinced that their guest was some sort of malefactor or Devil in their midst. Arthur had no choice but to have her caned out of her hysteria and sent her out of his sight. With no recourse, the young gentleman needed to investigate himself lest more rumours of witchery circulate in the house.

Slowly, he tread lightly up to his guest's quarters, though he knew his man would warn him if their guest approached the house. Even so, knowing this was the height of ill manners kept him from being sure-footed in his own home. Shutting the door behind him, he surveyed the Green Room and found it remarkably untouched. Then again, Alfred did not seem the type to spread out and settle. So he spied the two saddlebags and knelt down to study them.

As was the usual theme with their guest, the craftsmanship of his accessories was exceptional. The leather bags were finely and evenly stitched, the leather worn but solid. Arthur undid the buckles and carefully sifted through Alfred's belongings. The first thing he noticed, which utterly debunked his chambermaid's hysterical raving, was a copy of the Holy Bible. (Not a Book of Common Prayer, but he wouldn't hold that against him.) Yet, it was a version he had never seen, with neat but unornamented script. Moreover, the paper was incredibly white . So much so that Arthur was nearly afraid to dirty it with his fingers.

Uneasy of the implications of his strange guest having such an unnatural and holy thing, he set it aside for now and continued to search. There were some standard items one would expect for a huntsman - horseshoes and rasp, extra reins, woolen socks and bedroll, flint and kindle, canteen and plate. Alfred also had a beautiful compass, the like of which Arthur had never seen. Finer and more delicate than anything he'd seen shewn at noble homes. Similarly the razor and small mirror were of exquisite quality, polished to such a shine that he could clearly his own reflection. As Arthur set these things aside, he began to believe that Alfred Jones might hail from a family exceedingly more affluent than his own.

However, all thoughts of that departed as he picked up two brown and green colored boxes with bold and neat foreign font. After a moment's study he realized that it was all in English. Yet the words themselves had little to no meaning to him.

50 CARTRIDGES .44 CAL
FOR
WINCHESTER RIFLE MODEL 1873
CENTER SOLID
FIRE HEAD
MANUFACTURED BY THE
WINCHESTER REPEATING ARMS CO.
NEW HAVEN, CONN., U.S.A.

On one side of the box was a depiction of Alfred's unique musket. On another a strange warning:

These Cartridges are made especially for our Model 1873 Rifle , and guaranteed to be superior to all others for use in that gun. We urge their use and decline to guarantee any gun except when used with our make of Cartridges. Winchester Repeating Arms Co.

Frowning, Arthur gently shook the box and heard the sound of metal clinking inside. it was likely the strangely shaped musket balls depicted on the box. Created by gunsmiths he'd never heard of and, if New Haven was some sort of town, from a place unknown to him as well. Though it made sense now why Alfred would find his ammunition so dear if he could not easily obtain more, dozens more questions now flooded him. Yet Arthur knew one thing for sure.

Alfred simply could not be from the colonies. They were simply too rustic and backwater to produce anything the like of which his guest carried on his person. Perhaps he did originate from there as he said, but his family made their fortune in tobacco and then traveled the world to pick up such fineries both strange and familiar. It was the easiest explanation, the one that he could tell his servants to settle their qualms. However, one fact did flicker and burn in the back of his mind, making this fabrication untenable.

Wherever Jones came from, every indication shewn that the common tongue was English. Were the Cartridge boxes in French and the bible in German, he just might be able to accept this worldly fancy. However, it seemed as though his guest simply dropped out of a different world entirely, yet one that belonged to the Commonwealth ( née Kingdom ) of England. One where brother fought against brother, where Alfred's world had been torn asunder. Arthur had no doubt that was the truest thing he knew of Alfred yet, when he spake that painful admission. Their pain was much too similar that he would have seen through any falsehood or insincerity.

Dimly, Arthur recalled the stories months prior of the wicked storm that had blown through the county. Of the green lightning and the unnatural fog that followed. Something unworldly and supernatural had happened. Then lo' and behold, he finds Alfred Jones, who is so strange and familiar, civilized and savage, and who just so happened to save his life at the precise moment Arthur needed him most. Cutting down ten men in one breath with just two firearms.

The thought sent a chill down his spine, his eyes flicking to the pristine white bible laying by his knee. Perhaps he should be thinking of his guest as less of a who than a what.

A knock at the door brought him out of his disturbing thoughts as his man warned him that Alfred was coming up over the hill. Carefully and quickly, Arthur put all the small treasures back exactly as they were found, ducking out of his guest's quarters long before he arrived back at the manor.

The young gentleman met him at the door, watching as the stranger entered his home with a frustrated sigh. It took Alfred a moment to notice him lingering, but the man awarded him a weary smile. Arthur offered a weak one back, looking over his guest anew. He looked so solid, casting a long shadow along the wooden boards, yet he was just so tall , so well-hewn and fair of face and just... perfect.

Something compelled Arthur to verify his very existence. He reached a hand out, taking Alfred's forearm and feeling the soft leather of the coat and the strong muscle underneath. The gunman cast him a quizzical glance, but did not seem alarmed by the sudden contact. "Somethin' wrong?" he asked, taking off his broad-brimmed hat as his blond hair lit up from the rays of the setting sun.

"I..." Arthur started, but he had not planned for anything but to touch Alfred to make sure he was real. His mind floundered, before offering up some excuse at last, "I wanted to invite you to go to the village with me tomorrow. To Churche? It's the Sabbath." If Jones were an otherworldly being, he should at least check that he was the right kind of otherworldly. "Honestly, I shoulde hath asked you previously, else you may be reported to the Magistrate."

His guest merely blinked, but then gave him a warm half-smile. "Well, sure. Been longer than I can remember since I been able to go. Might even I need to look to the Lord Hisself to provide me some answers." Then he gestured to his attire, which had not been so much as laundered once since he first arrived. "Is it alright to show up like this though? Ain't my Sunday best."

Arthur looked him over and realized he had become so accustomed to the man's clothes they no longer seemed so strange. However, the villagers would not have been afforded the same opportunity and his guest would stick out in unsavoury fashion.

"I will hath something made for you," Arthur decided, though that may delay his taking his guest out to Church. "Something a bit less... conspicuous. I will send for the seamstresse on Monday."

Alfred's nose suddenly scrunched, casting a sidelong look at Arthur's attire that the gentleman could only interpret as distaste. Arthur could not help but be both amused and affronted at once. "Oh, what is that look?" he demanded with a bark of laughter, folding his arms over his chest. "Tis not I that wouldst be ogled if I so much as walked through the village square."

"Really?" Alfred quipped lightly, peering at him over his green spectacles, "Woulda thought you turned all the ladies' heads."

For reasons unknown, the innocent remark sent a rush of blood up to Arthur's cheeks in an unseemly blush. His jaw wagged, trying futilely to come up with some witty rapport. However, when none was forthcoming, Alfred smirked at him and he knew he had lost. Giving it up, he said instead, "You will turn all heads and will undoubtedly be subject to more of those pesky questions you so loathe to answer. At least let me help you alleviate some of it by making sure you do not look so out of place."

His guest thought about it, before releasing a long resigned sigh. "Alright, fine. I know yer right. 'Spose I should be grateful yer helpin' me out like this." He gave Arthur a pained look. "But do I really need to wear such... poofy pants?"

Arthur assumed he was not referring to drawers, though his cheeks darkened nonetheless. "I will endeavoure to make sure you are comfortable," he replied stiffly, "and mimic your own attire as best we can in our current fashions. In any case, I see nothing wrong with your leathers. Your coat is strange, but of such fine make twoulde be a shame not to use it. Everything else is... problematic. Particularly your waistcoat."

Alfred looked down and tugged at the grey material. "What? My vest? What's wrong with it?"

"It's womanly," Arthur informed him quite frankly. "Most hath not seen any depictions of Persians or the Orient in general, so their only experience are the waistcoats that ladies wear over their smocks."

"...Oh," Alfred said, a frown deepening.

" Oh , indeed," the gentleman said with an impish smile. He beckoned Alfred follow, since supper now awaited them. "Now come, let us dine. You look like you hath suffered another long day of riding."

~o~

In the end, Churchgoing with Alfred did need to be put off and Arthur sent for the seamstress at first light on Monday. He lent a shirt and breeches to Alfred for the occasion, though it was obvious that nothing was of the right length. He did not dare try a doublet. Alfred really was irritatingly tall and... broad. However, he did take some small pleasure in seeing his guest so awkward and discomfited, as he kept trying to adjust and readjust his clothes.

"It jus' don' feel right," he complained for the tenth time that day after the seamstress took measurements and instruction. Then found out to his dismay that Arthur had sent his clothes off for laundering, preventing him from changing back.

"Well you do not want to catch ill," his host explained to him most reasonably. "Your clothes were absolutely filthy. Tis a wonder you hath not been sick already."

"That's not how you-" Alfred started, before he seemed to think better of it and let out a frustrated growl. "Don' know why 'n tarnation I ever agreed to this," he scowled, stomping up to his room as Arthur cackled with gaiety after him. His mood only improved when his clothes were returned to him a couple days later, though he gave Arthur one last dirty look before he immediately went up to his room to change back.

With Alfred's new clothes still in the making, Arthur knew that his guest would set to riding the next day and subsequently cleared his schedule. Thus he was waiting at the door in his hunting gear, armed with sabre and musket, ready to follow. Attired in his (un)usual riding clothes, Alfred gave a start at the Hall's doors when he realized that he was to have an unexpected riding companion. "What're you doin' up?" he asked warily.

"I thought I might join you today," the gentleman replied cheerfully. His hounds circled excitedly about his heels, easing some of the wariness in Alfred's eyes. "Perhaps even go hunting. Demetrius and Lysander do enjoy the sporte."

"Weren't plannin' on hunting..." Alfred replied cautiously.

"That's quite alright. Perfectly happy just to accompany you," Arthur said, undaunted. He waved a hand towards the stables. "Shall we?"

His guest studied him for a long minute, as if trying to find some malevolent interest in his affairs. However, after a time, he released a sigh and started towards the horses, "Spose there ain't any harm in it. Long as you let me handle any bandits we come by."

Arthur's eye twitched in irritation. "Mr. Jones, I am not some storybooke damsel in distress. I am perfectly capable of handling myself," he snapped, following at the other man's heels.

"Uh-huh," the gunman replied with amused skepticism.

"I am!" Arthur insisted, even as Alfred just chuckled and spurred his horse down the road.

Thusly, the first hours of their ride was spent in silence as the young noble nursed his pride from Alfred's insulting jest. However, his curiosity was slowly getting the better of him as he watched his companion stop every so often to either get his bearings or to survey the surroundings in seemingly random spots. It was early afternoon and the thirtieth stop, when finally Arthur could no longer contain himself. "Alfred, what are you doing?" he demanded as the other man dismounted his horse to study a rock.

Alfred rose to his feet and kicked the boulder in obvious frustration. "Tryin' to find a pattern," he muttered, "somethin' like that, I dunno. I dunno what I'm even lookin' for most days." Arthur frowned in confusion, but waited to see if some sort of explanation was forthcoming. It was not often that his guest indulged in sharing his thoughts. The day had been long and both of them were tired, less guarded. Alfred paced out his vexation, his leather coat whipping at his legs with each sharp turn.

Arthur was finally rewarded, when Alfred continued to speak his frustration aloud to no one in particular, "I don't know if this is an act of God or some mystic revenge plot by a Comanche ghost. Might even be I'm dead and I jus' don't know it. All I know is I was one place, 'n then 'fore I know it I'm stuck here ."

This news was more than a little alarming as Arthur slowly let the other man's words sink in. "Alfred," he said softly, his eyes wide, "do you mean to say that you really did drop out of the sky?"

Alfred's steely blue eyes flicked up towards him, uncertain how to respond as his host waited with bated breath. "Spose I am," he conceded somberly, before his gaze hardened. "Gonna burn me at the stake? That's what you people do, right?"

Arthur opened his mouth, but could not find any satisfactory way to respond. Alfred was living proof of the supernatural at work, a thought that made his blood run cold with fear. Yet... he simply did not know if this was the work of the Devil or of the Divine. In his heart, he knew which he prefered. That his savior was an agent of Heaven. "I..." he spake softly, unsure of how to address his guest now, "no. I won't, sirrah. Your secret is safe with me. No matter what you are, you'll always be the... the one who saved my life."

The gunman relaxed marginally, his gaze shifting from challenging to tired. His hand shifted away from the butt of his pistol, a motion Arthur hadn't even noticed before. He'd been ready to shoot if his host had given the wrong answer. Alfred stepped closer to his horse and despite himself, Arthur trembled at his proximity, unsure of what the being was planning on doing. Carefully, Alfred took his hand, unfisting it from its trembling hold on his reins. Then he pressed Arthur's naked palm against his cheek, where the skin was warm and weathered and so very real.

"I ain't a what," Alfred told him, "or a 'Sirrah'. I'm jus' me. Jus' Al. Alright?"

Heat seemed to spread from that simple touch, tracing along his veins until it warmed the back of Arthur's neck. It was suddenly difficult to meet the gunman's intense gaze and his own green eyes darted away in awkward embarrassment. "A-aye, alright," he breathed, his voice but a weak rasp. Coughing lightly, he stole his hand back from Alfred's cheek, though his fingertips still seemed to be entirely too warm. "Shew me?" he asked, glancing down at the gunman from the corner of his eye. "Whence you first came. I shoulde like to see it."

"Sure thing, partner," Alfred agreed, swinging himself back up into the saddle. He turned their horses to the west, towards that fateful wood, and led them over the hills. Now that he knew their direction, Arthur could see that there had been some method to Alfred's survey. They had spent most of the day in an arc around this single point. Alfred simply must have started in the center and worked his way outwards in an expanding circle. It was incredibly telling of Alfred's capacity for reason and mathematics, whether he knew it or not.

Once they were inside the wood, Alfred led them carefully off the main path and down a gentle slope. "Came to near the crick down here," the gunman explained, hopping down from his horse as the path grew too uneven. Arthur followed suit, growing more uneasy as the wood grew darker and wilder. Even more so, when Demetrius and Lysander refused to go further, baying and whining as their master headed down the slope.

Then he became aware of the smell of rotten flesh and he immediately pulled a kerchief over his nose out of aversion to the polluted air.

"Jus' my old horse," Alfred said, though he took similar action in covering his face. They found the poor beast near the bottom of the hill, now a heaping feast for maggots. "Broke both legs. Had to put 'im down," the gunman explained grimly. "Near took me out too when we came through."

Arthur nodded and past the carcass to the surrounding area. Then he stopped short as his eyes found a ring of dark green grass amidst the floral bed. His guest noticed the sudden stiffness and asked, "You see somethin'?"

The gentleman did not reply immediately. Instead he searched his person, pulled out an iron hoof pick. Then he grabbed Alfred's hand without warning, pulled off his leather glove and placed the iron against his naked palm.

The end result simply had the gunman staring at him in confusion. "...Am I 'spose to do somethin' with this?" he asked, holding up the pick.

A well of relief and concern filled the young gentleman as he took the hoof pick back. "I was merely testing you," he replied, before he pointed towards the ring. "Didst you come from hence?"

Alfred frowned. "Don' rightly remember," he replied, looking upon the ring with a healthy dose of skepticism. "Why? Is it special?"

"Hath you never hearde of a fairy ring?" Arthur asked. When the gunman shook his head, he wondered once again where the man had come from. The colonists were not so long gone to the New World that they would forget about such things. "Tis a thing of evil, made from the dance of witches or elves in the moonlight. Horrible ills befall those who are ensnared by fairies. They can go mad or turn to ash upon eating human food. More often than naught, they are stolen away to the fairy realm, perhaps for many, many years, without any recollection that they had been spirited away once they hath returned."

"What? Like Rip Van Winkle?" Alfred asked, though the incredulity on his face did not abate in the least.

Arthur blinked. "Who?"

"Man who slept through the-" the gunman started, then once again changed his mind mid-sentence, "Ne'ermind. So yer sayin' I was taken here by witches, or elves... or fairies." He gave Arthur a queer glance that immediately made the man's hackles rise. "You actually believe in that bull?"

"Hath you a better explanation for how you came to be here?" Arthur challenged back, his eyes narrowing.

Alfred looked as though he were about to argue for a moment, before he clicked his jaw shut and looked back at the fiendish circle. "Spose I ain't got room to talk," he said in that strange jargon, though from his tone the Englishman assumed he was conceding. "Ain't got the first idea how I got here, so witches 'n elves is as good as any. Ain't no mattera me sleepin' through a few centuries though."

"I assumed as much," Arthur replied curtly. Though his mood eased with the gunman's concession. Moreover having some definitive answers was doing wonders for his mind. "However, I am naught an expert on fairies. I hath but rudimental knowledge from folklore."

"So... I'm guessin' you don' know how to send me back then," Alfred said, his cheer dimming even as Arthur's brightened. It knocked the gentleman off his stride as he remembered that the man was mere victim to cruel magic.

"I... From all accounts, the damage done by fairies is everlasting and that you should feel blessed you are even still alive," Arthur replied, his voice soft and apologetic. "I woulde not presume to say anything save for the fact that you hath been victime to dark work. However, I fear taking this to the Vic- the Minister-"

"The Preacher?" Alfred offered, eyebrow raised.

"Yes, that," Arthur muttered, glad his guest cared naught for his fumble, "for fear that you might be branded a heretic at least because of your strangeness."

"Gee thanks," Alfred said sarcastically, but Arthur coughed politely and ignored it.

"We coulde... try to find someone from Scotland to ask," he said, his eyes stuck to the fairy ring like a fly to honey. "They hath far more expertise in these matters and woulde not report you to the Deanery. We are not so far from the border, though the ride may be perilous due to recent conflicts."

"We?" Alfred said, both eyebrows rising. Arthur had never seen his blue eyes so wide. "No, I can't ask you to do more fer me. Y'already done more 'n enough. I handled my share of raiders 'n bandits, 'n I can't put you in any danger on my account."

"Alfred, do not be absurde," Arthur argued back. "You hath no idea with whom to speak. Moreover, the Scots are a rude and superstitious lot, who despise outsiders. You are likely to get yourself killed or worse." And they were Presbyterians, the lot of them. Although he could not very well say that aloud, could he.

"I can't imagine why, with y'all as neighbors," Alfred said in a tone suspiciously flat, making it hard for Arthur to tell if he was serious.

"Well," Arthur said, his voice clipped, "I will admit our past dealings hath been adversarial at best. Now that we hath some tenuous union with them, they should try to be more civil." However, noting the still troubled look on his guest's face he said. "Very well, if you fret so over my security, I will write first to my contact in Edinburgh. I will simply tell him I am interested in putting together a compendiume of fairy lore and see if he knows of one whom I should consult."

"'N you'll let me head there on my own once you find out?" Alfred asked warily.

"...I will think on it," the gentleman replied, which was as good as answer as the gunman was going to get at the moment. "In the meantime, let us leave this evil wood. I woulde rather us not be both be caught by an elven spell."

The pair of them headed back up the slope, much to the hounds' relief, and onto the main path as the wood began to darken even more with the evening sun. With the promise of a hot meal and a safe bed, they were both eager to head back to the manor. "Art, I have a dumb question," Alfred said, along the ride.

"After your experience, I woulde not deign to call it such," Arthur replied as the lanterns in front of the manor came into view. "Pray tell, what is it?"

The gunman looked down at his hands upon the reins, the broad brim of his hat shielding his expression from Arthur's probing gaze. "...What year is it?"

The noble sucked in a small breath. So. He was right. This man did not belong to this world. At least not the world as he knew it. "The Year of the Lord 1654," he replied quietly, wishing that he could see Alfred's face as he spake.

Yet he knew in the way Alfred's shoulders hunched and faintly shuddered that it was not the answer the gunman wished to hear. He took a long breath, before he straightened up and looked on ahead, his face as grim as tombstone. "Alright," he said, "Alright then." Then he lapsed into silence, as though he would not, or could not, say more.

It took a moment before Arthur found the courage to speak. "Alfred...? When are you from?" he asked softly, as the numbers 1873 burned in the back of his mind like a cold brand.

An interminable silence followed, as the other man wrestled with the decision whether or not to reply. "...Reckon it's best that I don't say," the gunman murmured finally. "Best that nobody knows what I know 'fore their time. I'd kill myself 'fore I put the future in harm's way." More darkly, he added, "May be that I should, if I ain't got a prayer in goin' home."

An icy chill went down Arthur's spine at this proclamation. Before he realized it, he snatched the gunman's forearm, squeezing it tight enough to bruise. "Do not dare ," he breathed, his green eyes bright with fervor. "I will not hear of it. I swear on my honour I will never put you into a position where you deem that necessary, even if we cannot find the answers you seek," he said even as part of him burned with curiosity. Yet it was a part that he could suppress for his saviour's benefit. "Promise you willst not speake of it."

Surprise marring his grim expression, Alfred looked down to the hand on his arm before they met with Arthur's intense gaze. His eyes softened and his lips turned into a crooked half-smile. "Sure, Art. I swear on my Ma's grave," he said, making a cross over his heart.

"Good," Arthur declared, though embarrassment crept into him from the sheer intensity of his own actions. He coughed lightly, not quite able to meet those amused blue eyes as he pried himself off of his guest's arm. "Let us return. I expect that supper is waiting," he said, spurring his horse into a cantor so that he did not have to meet the gunman's eyes.

~o~

Now fitted with a plan in place that did not involve roving over the Lacanshire countryside, Arthur received the unexpected boon of finding Alfred around the manor more often. Life was significantly easier with the Virginian, (Alfred insisted he spake not a lie since he arrived, including his origins,) now that the truth had been aired. Though the gunman's circumstances in coming were no less incredible than his imagination portended, the young gentleman could no longer find anything sinister in Alfred's strange custom. Moreover, Alfred became far less guarded around him, easy with his smiles and his speech, though he kept tight-lipped on anything related to his own world. Arthur was content instead to study the gunman's mannerisms to search for clues in what the future held, when no explanations from Alfred himself would be forthcoming.

In the time that preceded news from Edinburgh, Arthur learned that Alfred was either quite wealthy in his time or that the richly commodities that he held so dear were now far more common. The gunman had the audacity to ask for his tobacco and sugar as he had run out of his own. In the same hour, he gifted a richly deep blue kerchief to Arthur after he admired his red, which he so happened to have as a spare.

More problematic was Alfred's distressing desire to bathe his entire body. In hot water.

"You really don' own a bathtub?" the gunman asked in complete bafflement, staring at his host as if it were Arthur that was the ludicrous one. "I woulda thought you had ten. I mean, I gone months without bathing 'fore, but yer entire life?"

"Why on earth woulde I hath a body basin?" the gentleman demanded shortly, not at all enjoying the way the gunman insinuated that their collective lifestyle was so uncivilized. Not to mention, the thought of Alfred stewing naked in a glorified soup pot was cause enough for flusterment. "Tis completely unhygienic."

"Unhy-" Alfred started incredulously, before he threw up his hands in exasperation. "Ne'ermind, I'll jus' go wash in the river. Done it afore."

"That is even worse!" Arthur cried in horror. "You willst let all the bad air into your pores!"

Needless to say, they did not come to any sort of agreement on the matter. Alfred went off to the Wyre to do who-knew-what to himself, whilst Arthur tried (unsuccessfully) not to think about it in any form or fashion. Honestly, it was a miracle they were not all dead in the future. Although the fact that Alfred seemed to thrive gave some hope they wouldn't all die of the Black Death one day.

And while Alfred would not show him his marksmanship, he did put Arthur to the test with his riding and roping skills. He acquired some poor calf and set him out into the garden, where he managed to impressively show off how to 'round up' cattle and ruin his lawn at the same time. Yet it was somehow worth his ruined garden to hear Alfred's bright laughter at Arthur's meagre attempts to duplicate his efforts.

In any case, somehow in his study, Alfred Jones had wormed his way in Arthur's mind as a solid fixture in daily life and a dear companion. He became used to his presence and his odd mannerisms, seeing past them to the good soul that the Virginian guarded underneath his rough exterior. Silently pious and patient, he paid Arthur's hospitality back with humble gratitude and demonstrations of even temperament to any given situation. Unsophisticated as he was, he nonetheless had a wisdom borne of dire circumstance and hard living. It put Arthur's own hot temper to shame.

However, even the young gentleman did not realize to what extent Alfred became so dear to him, until the day Alfred's new clothes and the letter from Edinburgh arrived both at once.

There was nothing to account for the sick, gut wrenching feeling in his stomach when he held in his hands an invitation to meet the wise woman in some unpronounceable village in the Scottish highlands (advising that he speak as little as possible whilst there). Nothing save that his close kinship with the Virginian would soon be at an end.

"How's this look?" a voice queried, drawing Arthur's gaze up from the letter and to the Virginian. He stood at the doorway, looking quite uncomfortable in his new attire. Taking pity on him, Arthur tried to make use of his existing clothes as much as he could. Nonetheless, Alfred wore a ruffled white shirt with a lightly laced falling band, a fashionable modestly-dyed blue doublet adorned with many buttons, as well as matching breeches fastened at the knee and the waist with yellow ribbon. All his leathers remained, even the coat, though it was now partly hidden away by a burgundy collared cloak trimmed with braid, worn casually over one shoulder. He even had a new satin ribbon and feather for his hat. (His short hair was rather unfortunate, but one could not remedy that without a plague-ridden periwig.)

Aye, it was all very fashionable and current. Yet Arthur stared at the Virginian anew as though he turned a Moor. "Strange," the gentleman answered in all honesty, "I believe I favour you better in your own attire. How fare you?"

Alfred grimaced. "Stuffy. The feather's plain stuck up. Spose the pants (' Breeches,' Arthur hissed ) ain't as bad as I thought, but I look like a Pilgrim," he said, as he tugged at his falling band. "Cept fer I ain't wearing all black."

The gentleman assumed that he was not talking about one of those pious pillocks who traveled to the Holy Land. "Who?"

"A Pilgrim ," Alfred said with a sigh. "I know you have those already. Came to Massachusetts on the Mayflower in 1620. Those folks."

"Oh those people," Arthur replied with the same heavy derision he applied to all Calvinists. He felt perfectly comfortable airing his innermost thoughts and feelings to the Virginian by now. It was not likely that his guest would run off and report him. "What mean you, all black? They do not wear black."

"...They don'?" Alfred asked, suddenly baffled.

"No, of course not. Black is a terribly expensive dye," the Englishman replied with a smile, always enjoying the rare moments when he confuddled Alfred. "Tis a sin to show off such vanity and flagrant displays of wealthe," he added with a roll of his eyes.

Never had Alfred looked as though his entire worldview had been shattered, staring slackjawed long enough that Arthur coughed politely to draw him out of it. "I woulde not worry, Alfred," he said, "You hath entirely too many buttons and lace to be palatable for their tastes. In any case, the more important thing is that you appear not so strange to the local populace. Or to the Scots," he added darkly.

That drew his guest out of his stupor quickly enough as he noticed for the first time the letter in Arthur's fingers. "That from yer Scottish friend?"

"Acquaintance," the gentleman replied stiffly, "Aye, tis." Alfred made to snatch it from his hands, but Arthur was entirely too quick for him as he wrenched it out of sight. "I am going with you," he spake with as much authority as he could. As much as one could muster whilst one played keepaway with the precious letter as children would a favorite toy.

"You said you weren't gonna," Alfred declared, a streak of impatience finally shewn through as he was continually denied.

"I never said that. I said I woulde think on it," the Englishman replied, "and think I hath. I am accompanying you."

"I ain't gonna be responsible fer anythin' happening t'ya!" Alfred snapped. He took Arthur by the shoulders with hands as unforgiving as stone and pushed him against the mantle of the fireplace. "Now give me the letter!"

With his back to the fire, so to speak, there really was only one thing that Arthur could do. He dropped the letter behind him, to be consumed by the flame. Alfred let out a cry of outrage, yet it was too late. The message was lost to him. He turned back to Arthur then, his blue eyes blazing with an emotion that the gentleman did not expect. Hurt.

It caused Arthur's heart much disquiet. However, he squared his shoulders and spake, "Now you hath no choice but to take me. You do me too little credit. Or do you think me so soft that I must be handled as delicately as a flower?"

"Yer the most mule-headed -" the Virginian growled in sheer frustration, his hands fisting at his sides. "Wouldja even thinka goin' to Scotland if it weren't fer me? If somethin' was to happen to you while we were on the road and if yer kin were spose to fight in some great battle in a hundred years, it could change everythin' ."

The gentleman's jaw set, gritting sharply as his temper flared. Was that all he was to the other man? Some seed out of a family tree? A clockwork complication? "If thou wast truly concerned with such things," he spat, "then thou shouldst not hath saved my life when we first met!" He turned away from Alfred's stunned expression, unable to stand being in his presence anymore. Storming outside, he ordered his horse ready and rode away from the manor.

When Arthur exhausted both mare and temper, he stopped at a lightly wooded creek. As his anger diminished, he felt foolish for running off as though he were a child with a tantrum. It was no wonder that Alfred thought him so ill-equipped for the sojourn, despite the fact that he had actually been to Edinburgh before. Of course, the Highlands were a different story entirely. Sighing, he sat upon the bank and solemnly contemplated the softly trickling brook.

After a time, the sound of running water was interspersed with the clip of hoof. The gentleman did not look up, though he knew exactly who it was. "Come to collect me for supper?" he asked bitterly, his eyes trained on a small rock in the creek.

An uncomfortable beat followed, before the Virginian softly spake, "Sorry."

The apology took Arthur completely by surprise. He turned around, finding Alfred staring off at the creek as well. As though unable to meet Arthur's eyes. "Didn' mean anythin' like what I said," he elaborated under the gentleman's expectant gaze, "Course I wouldn' let you die. 'N yer right, may be that I did already muck up the future, but I woulda done it again. I jus'..." The Virginian faltered for words and heaved a heavy sigh. He took off his hat, running his hand through his hair in a frustrated gesture. "I lost too many brothers already, Art. I don' aim to lose any more."

Taking in the soft admission, Arthur's temper cooled completely as his heart warmed instead. His lips pulled into a faint smile. "I am a brother to you, am I?" he asked lightly.

Those blue eyes drew to his, peering over the green tinted spectacles. "Nearly," he replied, answering Arthur's smile with a crooked one of his own, "Not quite." Deeming it safe to approach, he dismounted and stood by Arthur's side. "Since yer more stubborn than a skunk bear, I don' trust that you'll let me alone even if I ride off to Scotland without you. Spose the only thing for it is I teach you how to shoot my gun."

At this, Arthur's eyes snapped wide and he quickly bounded up to his feet. "Your musket? Truly? I thought you needed to save your ammunition."

"No, not my rifle ," Alfred scoffed, though the gentleman had no idea why the thought was so absurd, "my Colt. Fer emergencies only, iffen someone gets too close. Also so's you don' go wastin' any bullets. Got yer own gun, don' you? You'd best show me what I'm gonna be workin' with 'fore we hit the trail. You jus' need to swear on yer life that you don' share any future secrets with anyone else."

"I swear it," Arthur replied quickly, eager to see either firearm in action. Besides, who was he to tell? Certainly not the ones in power now. "Come, let us head back. I will finde my father's musket and show you."

~o~

Alfred looked so horrified at the sight of Arthur's musket that it was almost comical.

"It ain't even a flintlock!" he said aghast, as Arthur set up a range in one of the fields to demonstrate his marksmanship. They had but a day to practice with the weapons before their journey north, as letters needed to be sent and preparations for traveling made. However, from all of the protestations of the Virginian, Arthur was beginning to regret this entire affair. Even wonder if a day was long enough to familiarize himself with Alfred's pistol if his own firearm was deemed so primitive.

Alfred stood unnecessarily far off to the side, back in his own apparel with both musket and pistol. The gentleman ground his teeth in irritation as he went through the motions of filling the musket with powder and ball, whilst Alfred utterly distracted him. "Yer liable to blow yer face off," Alfred called at him.

"Fie, I will not!" Arthur objected crossly, though there was no real conviction behind it. After all, they buried more fingers and toes than bodies during the war. He stood 25 paces from the target, very carefully lighting the match attached to the serpentine and not set alight the powder in the musket prematurely. He held the gun up and aimed at the straw dummy and fired. The shot went wide. Of course. Growling, Arthur reloaded the musket again, which seemed a daunting task with Alfred blatantly judging. His next shot went through the dummy's shoulder, much to his satisfaction. He turned to give Alfred a smug grin, though it grew more hesitant at the Virginian's appalled features. "Now what ails you?" he demanded.

Alfred shook his head faintly. "Bad memories," he replied, before he seemed to shake away his dark thoughts. Striding up to Arthur, he said, "Least you can shoot from 50 yards. That's about as far as you can go with the Colt. Still wouldn' try further than 20 if I was you."

Arthur was stunned. 25 paces with the pistol? How far could Alfred's musket go? "Willst you show me?" he asked eagerly, his irritation forgotten. "Please?" he added, when the gunman grimaced. "I pray, just once?"

"...Alright, fine ," Alfred gave in without any sort of relish. Then much to Arthur's glee he pulled out his musket and proceeded to head further away, twice as far as the gentleman had with his own firearm. He took a handful of his strangely shaped musket balls and loaded all of them. Through the side of the musket. Apparently, without any need whatsoever for gunpowder.

That alone was shocking enough. Until Alfred took aim at the dummy and pulled back an extra hook at the top of the musket. Then he fired once, whipped a lever underneath the gun, fired again. Lever. Fire. Lever. Fire. Six shots, all the ones loaded, spent in less than a breath.

And so, Arthur finally saw firsthand just how the Virginian had saved him. He scarcely even noticed Alfred nod towards the target, so fixated was he on the deadly elegance of the weapon. He looked on and saw that the straw head of the dummy was simply no more, a smouldering ruin when there should have been one.

"How- that- you-" Arthur stammered, still shocked to his core. "You did not use the pistol when you saved me, did you..." he said, his eyes widening in realization.

"Nope," Alfred answered simply, slinging his musket (rifle) over his shoulder and picking up the bright metals that were flung from the firearm into the grass.

Arthur was stunned into silence. The reality that Alfred really was from another time never seemed more solid than it did in that very moment. As did the knowledge that there was no one in the world more lethal than his honoured guest.

However, Alfred was certainly not done showing him feats of wonder, when he turned back to Arthur with his pistol in hand. "Alright, lemme show ya how to load the Colt," he said as he snapped his pistol open in two.

It took an hour for Arthur's fingers simply to stop shaking as he trained in the weapon.