A/N: For usxuk's Summer Camp event! You should also note that the amazing zombie4pie has drawn me two AMAZING pieces for this! You can find the links in my profile!

WARNING: May contain some graphic, non-sexual, imagery, depending on how vividly your imagination works. (Potential triggers may be blood, death; this is an American Civil War era-ish fic.)

Day 20: Supernatural

America has a pet alien, and England has his fairy friends, making a supernatural an ideal theme for the pair. Ghost stories, legends, mythology, horror, aliens, fairies, beasts of folklore. If it involves something not entirely of this world, you can do it here.

The day was hot, and so Arthur Kirkland took off the baseball cap he'd finally given in to wearing. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, wiped the excess perspiration from his face, and downed the remaining half of his bottle of water. The Georgia sun beat down on him, making him wonder just exactly what protocol was in the US regarding men taking off their shirts to less the heat. (At least he'd thought to wear shorts instead of proper trousers.) He put the hat back on, the sun shining unforgivingly in his eyes, and found that writing in his notebook would have to wait until later if the white paper insisted on reflecting even more light into his eyes.

Arthur was a twenty-three year old graduate student doing some extensive study for his curriculum. Self-study, in any case. The actions he'd taken had not been required. His own money had gone into the trip, and in all honesty he felt as though he was learning more than he had in the classroom. He was studying history, just briefly, and the effects of war on human nature and vice-versa. Through suggestions, his self-imposed study abroad had taken him to Andersonville, Georgia, to Camp Sumter. Not only was it a good example for his topic, but legend had it that it was haunted, and that intrigued Arthur a rather lot.

Arthur winced a bit, thinking about it. Camp Sumter had been built during the American Civil War by its prisoners and impressed slaves, ordered by the Confederate Army. It was large, but was nowhere near large enough to house its Union inhabitants, if such a word was unkind enough to describe the poor souls trapped within its confines. Thousands were held, and not just soldiers. Women and children; pregnant and even birthing women whose only hope was to be granted parole. Shuddering, Arthur walked through the camp's ground, swearing that he could see flashes of bodies piled on top of each other; he could hear the dying moans, and smell the decaying bodies and human waste baking in the sun. He felt his throat constrict, and he shook his head when, from across the way, he saw a young-looking Union soldier leaning back against the Dead Line, and staring straight at him. This was silly. He was seeing things.

Maybe. Arthur had always been particularly gifted when it came to the supernatural and paranormal things of life. Mystical creatures such as fairies, gnomes, and unicorns had become his friends when he was a little boy, and had stayed his friends since then. Granted, he kept them secret once it became apparent that others didn't quite possess the same gifts he did. Along with seeing creatures long-since forgotten, Arthur found himself particularly blessed with the ability to perform minor spells. He had never dared to tempt fate with a spell larger than helping his roses bloom larger and fuller, nor had he seen any of the paranormal apparitions such as ghosts, but…. Even for as haunted as his own nation of England claimed to be, never before had Arthur felt this sensation. This sensation, like ice flowing down his spine and stinging him.

He believed in ghosts. He had never doubted their presence, and they were here. Ghosts were among him, and he was getting the feeling that they knew he was there. He, with the ability to see and, possibly, even communicate. Arthur never imagined that he would have an issue with ghosts, and he still believed that. He had just hoped that maybe it would be on better terms: Unfortunately, Arthur was getting the idea that and ghosts in Sumter's vicinity were, if not unfriendly, then violently restless, for lack of a … better term.

The ice that had run, like liquid, down his spine started crawling back up. His lower back had frozen, but then it started to heat up and that heat, almost lava, shot straight up with a scream. The scream of a woman. Arthur gasped, shaking, and turned around to catch a glimpse of a woman holding her dying husband. Arthur could feel the sweat on his skin being shaken off, and he paled as his skin cooled rapidly. It was as if his blood refused to run. The image of the man and woman disappeared, but that young Union soldier was back, still leaning against the palisade and just staring.

A creaking sound caught his attention, and with a quiet gasp and sharp spin around, Arthur realized with embarrassment that it was just a gate opening to allow a tour group through. He looked back, only to find the Union soldier had disappeared. Well, that was a bit odd, and a little unsettling, especially as he didn't spot the soldier anywhere else. (More than it already was, anyway.) Arthur looked around him, making sure no one was paying any particular attention to him before he jogged over to where the soldier had stood. If Arthur was looking for any kind of clue, he found it in the form of folded parchment shoved between the wooden logs. Again he made sure the tourists were occupied, then worked the paper out and hastily unfolded it.

Meet me at the unmarked graves in the cemetery at three hours past midnight.

It was quite the interesting find. Yellowed parchment, written with ink from a well. It looked almost fresh, if the smudged spots of ink were anything to go by.

Something about it didn't sit right within him as he gulped down the growing lump in his throat. It wasn't even just the letter. Whether the concern was for the ghosts being disturbed by these tourists, or for the people coming by; whether or not they knew the horror they were parading through—he didn't know. But, if any of them thought they would walk away without any kind of chill, Arthur hated to think of just how wrong they were. It wasn't his business, of course, but his own situation being what it was, part of him couldn't help but think he was at least partially obligated to do ... something.

Inadvertently folding the paper up and shoving it in his pocket, Arthur took a step forward with the plan to disguise his concern as questions to the tour guide, but felt a tap on his shoulder. It was a soft tap, like someone trying to grab his attention, so he was only being polite when he turned with a, "Yes?" on the tip of his tongue. No one was there. He shivered, realizing that he was in too deep, though he'd only barely taken more than a few steps in. He'd disturbed nothing that he knew of, but if they knew of his ability, maybe that was just the ticket to arsing them. With an inward groan, Arthur gave a final glance around, feeling something slip past him. Something like a cold blast of wind swept through him, chilling every piece of his being more than the shiver he felt already; chilling it to such an extreme it was almost painful. Thankfully, it ended soon enough, and once more the day's heat went back to trying to fry his skin.

He had to get out of there; at least for now. He would wait for a cooler day. Arthur turned on his heel, walking with intent towards the Dead Line. He brusquely passed the tourists, his only concern getting out of the prison. His heart sped as he became closer and closer to the first exit, and then…

He tripped. With a strangled yelp, Arthur fell to the ground. His bag flew open, his papers, pens, and pencils scattered about him. His mobile flew out of his pocket, and he was fairly certain he'd have a nasty bruise on his left shin for the better part of the next two weeks. He cursed to himself, scrambling to put his things back in his bag, and he shoved his mobile into his pocket. He looked up before he could withdraw his hand, and sat back with a gasp as he watched a skeletal man be ripped of the few shreds of cloth that hung on his body—if one could medically call it such a thing.

Arthur's heart skipped as the scene finally faded, his hand relaxing it's suddenly very firm grip on his phone. Something scraped against his fingers, and Arthur recalled the paper he'd found, with the message of the meeting upon it. Arthur still stared where that last scene had taken place before him, and he bit his lip. He berated himself: Was he honestly thinking about venturing to the cemetery? Don't be a fool, Arthur Kirkland…. This spells trouble, and you know it! You're tempting the Fates, and history!

With a shake of his head, Arthur went to lift himself and stand, but his hand landed on what felt like a piece of mulch. On closer inspection, he found an uprooted chunk of wood, several chips broken from it. He moved his hand. The chip his palm touched looked smooth; worn, but smooth. (Well, as smooth as wood could be without sanding and polishing, he supposed.) He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It was rather oblong; crudely shaped, almost as if made by hand. As it turned, dirt fell off of it and the pad of Arthur's thumb found grooves. Not just grooves from warping by water, or temperature, but manually carved grooves.

Still sitting there, Arthur worked his thumbnail to clean off as much dirt as he could. Surprisingly, it was the most peaceful part of his visit to the prison thus far, even with the sweat daring to drip into his eyes. Almost two minutes later, with the dirt now residing under Arthur's thumbnail, he could take a look at what he'd uncovered.

Pllved F Jones

…If that was supposed to be a name, who the hell named their poor child Pllved.

Just shaking his head, even more curious now, Arthur finally stood. He stared at the named carved into the wood. He could probably soak it in warm water when he got back to his hotel to rid it of any extra dirt, then do some researching at the library. Surely they would have some kind of list of the inmates at Sumter? He readjusted his bag and his hat, and pat himself off. (Not that this was very effective, as his skin was wet with sweat. A shower was very much in order.) He gave one last tentative glance into the camp, the last image being of that same, young Union soldier running his hand along the palisade of the Dead Line.

Suddenly, being in his hotel room, in his bed and under his covers, seemed like a really good idea. Hell, being back in England seemed like a really good idea. No: Instead, he'd let his curiosity get the better of him. Instead, he went out to the cemetery at three in the morning because he didn't want to miss out on something that might have involved ghosts.

Smart move.

So Arthur sat there against a tree, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for something to fucking happen. Not only was he scared out of his mind, but he was tired. What was he doing out here? Waiting for a sign from God? Nope. Just a ghost. Or something. He checked his wristwatch, reading 3:00. If nothing happened by 3:01, he was going back. This was stupid, and a waste of his time. He couldn't believe he'd convinced himself that this might actually be worth someth—

"Awesome! You came?"

It was as if electricity had decided that every nerve in his body was a veritable lightning rod, and Arthur was sure that his hair resembled that one character's from Kiku's Final Fantasy Whatever-Roman-Numeral game. He could see nothing—where had the voice come from? The wave of power gathered in his stomach, and finally vomited itself as some sort of strangled scream of fright. His body scrambled to its shuffling feet, trying to find the quickest way Anywhere But There, but it seemed that—that things, the ghosts, were Anywhere But There.

Apparently the ghosts weren't as concerned with being seen once the sun was gone from the sky, and rather than sit inside the camp and re-enact, they went around freely without worry. Arthur fell back after stumbling on his feet a bit, and scuttled as far away from them as he could, only to run into something cold, hard, and flat. Tentatively he turned his head, thousands of possibilities flying through his mind. He released a sigh of relief to find it was just a blank gravestone. He relaxed only for a moment, soon realizing that the young Union soldier he'd seen earlier was sitting atop the one next to it.

Another sound began curling in his throat, but—no. No. This—! He was used to the supernatural! So he'd never been around ghosts until today, but still! He … he could handle this.

"You're really jumpy," the soldier said.

Whatever sound had gathered in his throat finally came out as something between a 'huh' and a whimper. Whatever it was, it sounded pathetic. That wouldn't give the ghost any ideas, would it? That he was an easily-frightened man, and was, possibly, and easy target?

Arthur lowered his pitch, and didn't care if it would come out sounding awkward. "I-I'm not!" he insisted, scooting away from the apparition. He couldn't do this; he just couldn't. Such a hands-on experience could be left to the field experts. He'd book the next flight to London, and read for the rest of his project. This was not for him.

"You've screamed, stumbled, whimpered…. I'm kinda surprised you haven't wet your pants."

Well there went those plans. Arthur turned scarlet. Who did this guy think he was? "I am not so weak or frightened to wet my pants! I, you uncouth prat, am a gentleman! Gentlemen do no such thing!"

The ghost shrugged, jumping off of the gravestone and … moving like a corporeal body. He looked young; certainly no older than 20, if not younger. Rather than the stereotypical blue hues of ghosts' stuff, this boy looked as though he'd just walked out of an old 1860's photograph, with dim, greyed colorings. He was still translucent, but he seemed to shine in the night. His uniform looked like it had seen better days; dirt and blood decorated it, and it looked ripped and torn. He didn't wear many medals. His hands appeared to have been caked in blood, and his right ear looked as though it had been clipped. Arthur cringed, then noticed, at the ghost's neck, just below his ear….

"Pretty gnarly, huh?"

Arthur blinked, but wasn't shocked at being discovered. Rather, gnarly? "You are a ghost of the American Civil War, yes? Am I correct in that assumption?"

The ghost nodded.

"Then why would you use more … modern colloquialisms?" Never minding, of course, that the word was in fact rather out-dated.

Again the ghost shrugged. "I just pick up words from the tourists. I gotta say, though, some of those words are pretty out there," he laughed, smiling. "But anyway." He pointed to his neck. "That's where I was shot. Pretty nastical, huh?"

And he used words that weren't real. Wonderful. What kinds of ghosts were these? "Y-yes…." He cleared his throat, glancing away from the ghost's bloodied wound. (It still seemed so fresh that Arthur felt he was going to be sick….) "Was it you," he began, now pulling his back towards him and digging through for first his flashlight, then the note. "Who left this?"

Arthur brandished the note out, opening it and held it for the ghost to read. The ghost smiled widely, and nodded. "Sure did! I'm glad you got it!"

With a puzzled stare, Arthur folded the note back up. Oh, the questions he had. "I always beleived that ghosts were unable to do earthly things, such as hold solid objects."

"I guess some can, some can't. I just—"

"How did you get a hold of paper and an old fountain pen?"

"I-I dunno, I just found them in some of the tents in the camp." He looked a little confused. Apparently, being a wandering sprit for nearly 150 years wasn't long enough to understand these kinds of things.

"Why did you call me out here?"

At that question, the ghost lightened up. "I was curious!"

Ah, a curious ghost. "About what?"

"Why you can see us! Thousands, maybe millions, of people have visited Camp Sumter, and of those people, a few hundred have come to try and see us, but none of them have ever really been able to." Finally the ghost did something ghost-like, sitting Indian style in midair. "Then you walk in, and it's just like someone turn on the proverbial—uh…. What do you call it?" He flicked a finger up and down. "The electric light tab thing?"

"A … light switch…?"

"Yeah! It's like someone flipped that on, and it's like, 'Hi! I see you!' Kinda freaky, bro."

Arthur almost choked on his saliva. "Oh, of all the knowledge, and of all the words you could learn, you picked up bro?"

The ghost's face fell a little bit. "Hey!" he said defensively. "That's a really popular one, right now!" He huffed, and crossed his arms.

Arthur rolled his eyes, letting go of an, "Ugh…." He fixed himself a little more comfortably on the ground, pulling his bag closer to him. "Well, I'm sorry to answer you like this, but I have no idea why I can see you. I've never been able to see ghosts before; fairies, and other so-called mythical beasts, yes, but ghosts? Never."

The ghost stared for a moment, then started laughing. A happy, modern-talking 19th century ghost. Well, this was going to be a decent blog entry. "F-fairies?" the ghost laughed again. Arthur noticed it was a rather … empty, hollow laugh, though maybe that had to do with the fact that he was a ghost. "You mean to say you actually believe that kinda stuff?"

As the ghost went on laughing, Arthur bristled and turned pink. "It's not funny!" he declared. "T-that's rather rich, coming from someone like you! Someone who's dead, yet still walking the earth!"

The laughing finally tapered off as the ghost floated down to the ground with an amused grin. "Okay, okay, sorry," he said. He still grinned, and seeing that content look on the ghost's face seemed just … so contradictory to the rest of his appearance. He didn't give off any kind of troubled aura; it was just so odd for Arthur to try and accept. All these things he'd been told about ghosts being upset souls trapped amongst the living, and here was a ghost: smiling, despite the clear trauma he'd experienced when he was still alive. He supposed it wasn't quite as bad as Stephenie Meyer making vampires out to be sparkling supermodels, but still.

"So, you're British."

Well, that brought Arthur back to the conversation. He felt himself blush a bit, not sure why he was doing so. "Yes. I'm from England."

The ghost still watched him. It was almost unsettling. "You remind me of someone," he finally said

Arthur gulped. "O-oh? Of whom?"

There was a sudden, soft fondness in the ghost's eyes. It felt like he was staring directly into Arthur's soul, reading him. If he could, Arthur would shut those pages on him, but he couldn't.

"My best friend. He was a … um..." The ghost struggled for a good few minutes, before sighing. (...Ghosts could sigh?) It sounded as if he'd given up on what he'd been about to say, and began a story.

"Well, he was from England, too. Our fathers did business together, and every year since we were six, we'd alternate going to either country for the summer, except for the two summers of 1860 and 1861. We hadn't seen each other those two summers, and…." Suddenly, the happy demeanor had completely gone from the ghost's face, and he looked as if every light had been taken out of his life. (Or, uh, lack thereof.) He'd drawn his legs up, together, resting the side of his head on his knees. He resembled the ghosts that were depicted in literature, and films, and Arthur wasn't sure he liked that. A moment later the grin reappeared, but it was a very, very sad grin. "I hadn't enlisted into the Union Army yet, but out of nowhere, I had a surprise visit from him in 1862, on the day of my birthday. That … was the best birthday I'd ever had, and the best summer. Even though I was killed two years later…. Those two years were the best." The ghost didn't look up. He didn't move.

"It sounds like he was a very good friend," Arthur tentatively offered.

"…I'm dead, it doesn't matter. He was my lover."

"Oh." Arthur paused. "...Oh! O-oh, I-I see." Arthur wondered just how fast one's heart had to beat before becoming loud enough for others to hear it. And he, Arthur, reminded the ghost of his ... lover. Well, things had certainly taken a slightly awkward turn. Arthur felt his face begin to flame, and he bit his tongue, trying to focus on something ... very much the opposite. "How did you die…?" he finally asked. "If it's not too invasive."

The ghost shrugged, slowly working himself back to a decent position. "You know that wall I was standing at when you left earlier?"

Arthur nodded. "The Dead Line."

"Yeah. Well, I was reaching over to grab something that had fallen. My hand wasn't even all the way out before the sentry spotted me and offed me, right in the neck." He let his finger tap at the gnarly wound on his neck. "It…. It was horrible. I mean, it hurt, but what freaked me out before I actually died was that one of the women was around, and…. It was just horrible. The gravestone I was sitting on is where my body is." He pointed to the headstone.

With such answer, Arthur decided his own inquiries were over for the moment. Yet, his silence hadn't stopped the ghost.

"Do you know why there are ghosts?" he asked, still looking out to who-knew-where.

Arthur gulped something down, and quietly said, "Lingering regrets, they say."

The ghost sighed. "My regret was never dying, or having gone off to war. Not even being stupid enough to get captured. Before being captured and taken to Sumter, I had been hit pretty hard on the side of my head with the butt of a rifle." He moved a bit, pointing to his clipped ear. "It knocked me unconscious and when I woke up…. I couldn't remember my name. I couldn't remember his name. I couldn't remember my mother's, or father's names; not even my brother's. Over time I recalled my family's names, but….

"My biggest regret is forgetting his and my names. When you die, your regret is your punishment until something happens that your regret is fulfilled, or whatever, and you can move on."

Arthur listened on, raptly. He of course knew the regret clause, but he'd never thought of applying the word punishment to it. It made it all sound much more horrible, and listening to the ghost's story, he wished he could change just that one moment before his imprisonment. He even wished the ghost could have the ability to cry—anyone would cry from something like that. One hundred and 50 years of being forced to walk amongst graves, with that regret always on your mind? Arthur would have died. (If he hadn't, hypothetically, already been dead.) "No one from your platoon, or company was there to tell you your name, or identify you…?"

The ghost shook his head, silent, then sighed. "I can't remember his name," the ghost repeated. "More than my own name, I hate that I can't recall his name, and I can see his face!" The ghost turned towards Arthur, his expression an odd mix of fury and tranquility. His eyes, though; though his eyes were just as translucent as the rest of him, they were still all-telling. Arthur's breath caught when their gazes locked, and guilt, yet also contentment, settled in his stomach. "I can see his face," the ghost repeated softly. Arthur gulped. "I see yours, and I see him, but at the same time it's not you at all. Like, when you have a dream, and you know who the person is but you can't see their face? It's like that, and it's so...! It's frustrating!"

Arthur felt himself growing more and more melancholy. This ghost was laughing just moments ago! It should have been against the rules for that same ghost to now be so sad, and Arthur felt like it was his fault, though he knew he had nothing to do with it. That liquid ice-turned-magma he'd felt earlier returned, only this time it was in his chest and doing something … strange. The feeling wasn't unpleasant, but he wasn't sure it was very comfortable, either.

"He liked to say that he could see fairies, too."

Arthur deadpanned. "…Flattering."

A sad chuckle left the ghost, and the two sat quiet for an extremely long minute. Arthur cleared his throat, hoping that he wasn't overstepping boundaries. "Do, ah," he began. "Do you think he's a ghost, as well?" he asked.

The ghost moved so that Arthur could now see his face. Arthur wasn't sure if he liked seeing all of that sorrow, and wondered if he perhaps preferred the ghost's previous position. "I … don't know…. I hope not!" the ghost exclaimed. His face soon grew shocked, then a deep and honest look of fright overtook him. "Being a ghost is rather lonely, and … he hated being alone. More than anything, he hated being alone."

Arthur sat there, and he hadn't realized he was crying before a tear fell onto his arm. He tried wiping them away, but they wouldn't stop. He knew Alfred was watching him, and embarrassment overcame him. Letting Alfred see him cry like this—

Then Arthur stopped, and the heat that had gathered in his chest seemed to have exploded. In a flurry, Arthur grabbed his flashlight once more and rifled violently through his bag. If this feeling was correct, he could, in fact, help this ghost. He moved his papers out of the way, and the water bottle, and finally: At the very bottom of the bag, laying with his pens and pencils, was the wooden tag with the engraved name. He snatched it up and held it before the ghost, the flashlight shining on it

"I think this is yours," he said with pink cheeks. "The name on it is Alfred F. Jones. The name doesn't appear anywhere in any of the records, but…. But if you take this, and remember, more clues might appear."

The ghost stared at the tag for a moment, looking at the name. He read it; studied it. He took it, running his fingers over it, and his eyes began to widen. He stood up with the tag, walked back to his gravestone, and then slowly – slowly – a smile grew on his face. His already glowing eyes looked like they were reflecting every bit of light the moon had to offer, and Arthur could feel just how happy he was. It was almost as if he was radiating warmth.

"M-my name. This … this is my name…!" Alfred said excitedly.

Arthur stood as well, cocky look planted firmly on his face as he dusted himself off. "No need to thank me," he said. "I actually tripped on it, earlier."

Alfred snickered. "I remember that, too!"

"That's not what you should be remembering!"

It didn't look like the latter statement made it to Alfred, but … Arthur supposed he couldn't blame him. He'd be happy, too. In fact, he was extremely happy, and while he knew he should be happy for Alfred, he wasn't sure if he should really be this happy. At least, he wasn't sure until that heat exploded again. When it settled, he felt a few more tears come to his eyes. He was still just as happy for Alfred as he had been a moment ago, but these tears…. He hoped they were from happiness, as well, because something else seemed to come to light. No memory flashes, or anything, but there was a definite, concrete piece of knowledge he now contemplated.

Alfred calmed down some in the meantime, holding the tag. "Maybe that's why I can hold solid objects," he said, rolling the wood between his fingers. "Because a clue to my regret is a solid object. Well…" he trailed. "Part of my regret." He looked a little downtrodden, but definitely not as much as before.

It was then that Arthur stepped forward, and carefully placed his hand on Alfred's cheek. His cheek was cold, though warmth still somehow exuded from him. They each regarded the other, and something connected; something clicked. "My name is Arthur Kirkland." He paused, watching as Alfred slowly processed the information and began piecing things together. Arthur rubbed his thumb over the warming skin beneath it. It was … very odd. Arthur had been speaking to a ghost for no more than 15 minutes; his rational side was demanding to know just what he thought he was doing. He couldn't answer that, though, because he didn't know. Instead, he closed his eyes. "I don't know if your Arthur was ever a ghost, but if he was, he's moved on, and waiting for you."

A tear rolled on to Arthur's hand and when he looked back up, he saw that Alfred's grey-dimmed hair was a bright, but deep, amber, and his eyes became a solid, unbelievable blue. Alfred's skin was soft—a little rough, but soft. His uniform, though tattered and dirty and clearly worn, looked as though it was only a few months old. His chest expanded as air filled it, and slowly color returned to his face. The wounds were still there, the dried blood, but they weren't openly bleeding. Alfred cried silently for a moment, as if he was alive again, trying very hard to keep it to himself as they continued looking into each other's eyes. Alfred grabbed Arthur's hand, holding it securely in his own.

"Thank you, Arthur," he said softly, and stemmed the tears back.

Arthur shook his head, feeling himself return a little bit to normal as the heat in his chest abated, just a little of it moving to his face. "I-I didn't really do much!" he insisted. "I just had the tag, so…! It's not like I came here knowing this would happen!"

Alfred laughed, and Arthur found that it was a very nice laugh. It wasn't hollow like it had been before. "Yeah. My Arthur would say that, too." Alfred smiled wide. He had a nice smile, as well. This other Arthur had been a very lucky guy.

Before Arthur could say or do anything, he felt Alfred press a quick, chaste kiss on his cheek. Arthur had cried on-and-off, but when Alfred pulled back, offering that last grin, the tears began once more, and showed no signs of ebbing.

"I've never been dead before now, so I don't know how this works, but I'm pretty sure I'm about to be on my way. I bet, though, that pretty soon you'll find someone whose name you'll never want to forget."

Alfred nodded somewhere behind Arthur, glancing into the distance. Arthur's eyes widened as he worked on figuring out exactly what Alfred meant. Arthur spun around, seeing in the distance, probably just a quarter-mile away, a flashlight jogging towards them. He stared for a moment, turning back around to … nothing.

That nothing was shock enough to push Arthur back down the ground. W-where had Alfred gone? Was he not just standing there? Alive, and human again?

"Hey—!"

This was almost too much. Ghosts were not in his repertoire, and he wasn't sure he wanted them there, either.

"Hey, buddy!"

Whoever it was with the flashlight stopped, finally, and needed only a moment to catch his breath. Arthur nearly screamed looking at him. What was going on? The other got a decent look at Arthur, then grinned with a small chuckle. The same he'd just witnessed.

"You all right? I heard you scream just as my shift was ending. You look like you saw a ghost!"

Arthur's eyebrows furrowed. That hair, and those bespectacled eyes; that smile, and that laugh. "Y-you might say something like that, but I don't recall screaming."

The other man looked puzzled. "Dude, I just heard a scream coming from this direction a minute ago. Not even."

Arthur was puzzled, and looked down to his watch.

…Well. That was odd. His watch read 3:00—oh, no, wait. 3:01.

"…S-sorry, I must have just … gotten spooked," he said. "Didn't mean to disturb you."

"It's okay! Though…. I'm going to have to report you for trespassing after hours…."

Arthur's eyes widened. "N-no! No, you don't understand! See, I was given this note…." Arthur scrambled for his bag, ripping through it like there was no tomorrow. Unfortunately, there was no note. He froze, looking up with worried eyes.

Apparently, it worked. The man's eyebrows furrowed sympathetically. "You look like you've been through Hell and back. Technically my shift's over, so I guess I don't have to report you…. Say, you look kinda familiar," he said. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Arthur's heart beat a particularly large beat. "N-no," he croaked. "I don't think so. Unless you know any other Englishmen by the name of Arthur Kirkland."

The man stared for a moment, as if thinking, then smiled. "Nope! I don't know you. My name's Alfred! Alfred F. Jones! I'm a part-time security guard."

Slowly, Arthur nodded, and started fixing his things. He wiped his face, standing. He couldn't wait for this night to be over.

"If you're not doing anything, you wanna stop at Denny's for some coffee, or breakfast? My treat."

Blush returned once more to Arthur's cheeks. This couldn't be what Alfred, the soldier, was talking about, could it? That this man…? W-well, maybe. "I … I suppose that wouldn't hurt. I haven't really eaten properly since lunch."

"Oh, man! You should get the Grand Slam if you're really hungry! You ever been to Denny's?" Alfred the Security Guard asked, starting to walk Arthur away.

"No…."

"What? Man, did you like, just get off the boat, or something?"

Arthur's feathers were ruffled as he tried to beat down the pout that manifested itself on his face. "As a matter of fact, yes!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Just two days ago. I'm staying at the hotel nearby—"

Alfred winced. "Ouch. That might cost ya. How long are you gonna be there?"

At the question, Arthur froze inside. He almost felt guilty and worried with his answer, but … he kind of inwardly grinned as he recalled Ghost Alfred's story. "I'll be here for the summer."

"Ffff—you should come to my place. You can stay there, free rent! You'll have to sleep on the couch, though. Do you cook? You can cook as payment! I love to eat."

And to talk…. "Y-yes, actually!" he answered. He warmed considerably. "I actually quite love to cook."

"Sweet!"

The rest of the walk to Alfred's car was mostly in silence, but … Arthur found it fitting, and as Alfred went on talking again, he couldn't help but think about just how lucky Alfred, the soldier's, Arthur was.

END

I'm not going to go into too much historical detail. Just … if you wish to know more about Camp Sumter (aka Andersonville Prison) just Google it. But BE WARNED. Those are some pretty horrific pictures. I cried researching it. It's considered one of the worst prison camps to be erected during the American Civil War, though there were horrible ones everywhere.