I really wish there was a "historical" genre, but I have to make do with what I have...anyway I know I should probably be working on "Tolkien's England" but until then, I needed to get this story down, as a way both of reconciling some ideas and issues of my own (as well as to apply what I've learned from APUSH). Anyway, for the background info, this is based off the 1637 Massacre at Mystic, during the Pequot War, in which English colonists burned down a fortified Pequot village to avenge previous Pequot attacks. It was the first full-scale attack and slaughter of Native Americans by the English, and this fic is to explore the event from the POV of England and America. Anyway, read, crit & comment pls, hope you enjoy.

How fast everything had caught alight! The fire hadn't even been part of the original plan, but how furious, how rapid the flames had leapt from the soldier's torch, spreading through the dry branches that formed the scattered huts of the village with the wind carrying the sparks further until there was not a single hut left that was not burning. It was if some terrible, divine hand was aiding them as they struck down the wailing villagers vainly attempting to scale the walls they had built to protect them from danger, but now only served to trap them inside the growing firestorm.

The shadows changed, flickering every second as more flames spread upward, the silhouettes of the men and women fleeing fell and became still as the dead and living alike were illuminated with the same fell light.

The attackers quickly made their way outside of the village walls as the fire raged and destroyed any of the Pequots remaining within. After they had gained enough distance between themselves and the blaze, Arthur Kirkland stood with the rest of the colonists and their Mohegan allies to witness the aftermath.

"Oh God," he murmured aloud. "It's done."

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder–it was the minister who had accompanied them and had given them a prayer and a blessing before they had attacked. "It certainly is, Arthur." He smiled, only his face visible in the orange glow. "You did what was right. Now you can go out and claim what is rightfully yours–the land and everything in it. That is what you wanted, isn't it?"

Arthur nodded silently, then winced as he noticed a small, stinging pain on the side of his head–he reached up and felt a thin, shallow–but definitely bleeding–cut running from his temple to the bottom of his chin that he had probably gotten while running through the thickets.

There was a sudden snapping and rustling sound to the side of the group. "Who's there?" the shout went up from the men at the front of the group, causing every man to wheel around, pointing their muskets towards the nearby underbrush. "Show yourself!"

The crunching of leaves and pine needles suddenly stopped at the command, startled into silence by the cold and hostile line of musket barrels leveled in its direction.

Slowly, with multiple hesitations and halts the face of a young child emerged into the firelight. Arthur immediately recognized him, and so did the rest of the men, who then lowered their muskets abruptly.

"Alfred!" Arthur called out to the child. "What are you doing all the way out here? I thought I told you to stay at home; this is no place for a boy!"

Alfred didn't respond, but stared fixedly in the direction of the inferno, a horrified expression gradually spreading over his face as he saw the fallen villagers' bodies, twisted and illuminated by the fell light, as if out of some illustrated nightmare.

"Alfred," Arthur repeated in a softer tone, putting his musket down and kneeling to his little brother's level. He put his hand on Alfred's shoulder, but the boy still refused to look at him, his attention still captivated by the grim scene before them.

"Leave him alone, Mr. Kirkland," one of the soldiers said. "He's in shock, a green lad like him–how the devil did he follow us out here?"

"If it's Arthur's brother, I'm not surprised," said another. "That little boy's capable of some rather great physical feats if I ever saw any."

"Come along, Al." Arthur took his brother's hand in his own and attempted to lead him in the direction of the group. "We really shouldn't tarry, and I can't leave you here. You shouldn't have followed us into the woods by yourself! It's not safe, so you'd better stay with us on the way back home, alright?"

"No..." Alfred's voice came out soft, fragile–but defiant nonetheless.

"We're going now, Alfred, and you must come with us." Arthur tried to be firm, but Alfred's unexpected presence made him uncomfortable, almost ashamed–and even more anxious to get away from the battleground as soon as possible. He clenched Alfred's hand harder and tried to yank him towards the group. "Let's go!"

"No!" Alfred wrenched his hand out of Arthur's grasp, finally turning away from the burning battlefield to face his brother, then glancing back at the flames, and then back again to Arthur. "What happened?" he demanded. "What have you done?"

Arthur stared intently into the darkness of the forest, trying to avoid the sight of the firestorm and the illuminated face of his brother and the ghostly disembodied faces of the soldiers behind him.

"Something irreversible."

Thanks for reading! If you find any inaccuracies or have any comments, please let me know! The next chapter will come up soon, so stay tuned!.