Alas, this is a little short story, set in three parts. The idea just kind of came to me, when I read something similar. This is a little darker than what I'm used to writing, but I felt I needed to expand my writing knowledge. This will be interesting, writing something like this. Here's a rough draft of the first part. Nothing is final yet, but I'm thinking of publishing all three final parts into a separate book. What do you guys think about that? I also would like suggestions for titles, because I'm not the best when it comes to those things.

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1776; American Revolutionary War

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The first time they met, Drew first had his back pressed to one of the many trees in the forest, the bright sun shining on his face. He was exhausted. And lost.

Lost was one of the bigger problems at hand.

But right now, Drew just wanted to enjoy the feeling of freedom, as he had before all of this. Leaning down to examine a butterfly that had landed near his feet, he couldn't help but wonder during his seventeen years of life, if he'd ever been as free as this butterfly. No one telling it what to do. It could do what it wanted. It could fly to wherever it wanted, or it could just lay there and enjoy its surroundings.

Drew stared at the orange and gray insect, wondering why everything seemed so calm. This was war, right? How could it be so quiet... so peaceful? Then again, he had only been in the army for a couple weeks, thus he had not been as experienced as the other men he had met, with their wounds, their scars, and their frankly terrifying stories.

The butterfly flew away, and he sat down on the soft grass, still leaning against the rough bark of the tree. His jacket, pack, and rifle were nearby, and he welcomed the light breeze blowing over his hair, cooling him off.

He needed to get back to his regiment soon; to be honest he didn't even remember how he'd gotten so lost in the first place, or when he wandered so far from the rest of the group.

In the trees, a mourning dove cooed a soft, short song. And it should. It was named a mourning dove for a reason, and there was no better time to sing its mourning song then wartime.

In the distance, Drew could see a patch of water. He had plenty already, though his quirky curiosity of what he would call a "mysterious water patch" got the best of him. He carried his discarded things and moved over there, half-alert for danger.

The patch of water had in fact only been a mere part of what was a very large lake. Drew couldn't help but smile as he examined the sparkling blue water, and he sat down on a log, putting his things next to him. Eyeing his stuff, he found it amusing as well, how little he and many of the other soldiers were given.

He splashed a little bit of the cold water onto his face, and let out a small, quiet laugh. What was he doing, goofing off like this?

If this is war, it's not so bad. He let his hands drop besides him, the sun reflecting off the lake and giving it the impression of being a giant sapphire.

Everything was quiet.

Drew felt the intruder's presence before actually seeing them; a faint rustling of leaves, the slight and sudden shift of the wind.

He inched his hand towards his rifle, removing his jacket. Once he grabbed hold of it, he stood up and turned around.

A British soldier stood before him, his coat a flash of fire against the cool colors of the forest around them. His light brown hair paled to a dark blonde in the sun. He held up a rifle of his own...and it was pointed at Drew. "Lower your weapon, rebel," he demanded. Drew bristled at the new threat.

He had never been so close to the enemy before. He had sometimes seen the dead soldiers, their bodies strewn across the bloodstained battlefields. Some of his unit even laughed at them. Drew never laughed. All he could focus on were the blank, unseeing eyes of the dead, and wonder if they had died peacefully; if they had laid down their lives, content with their fate, or if they had died full of regrets, knowing there were things they would no longer be able to do or redeem for themselves. He didn't know which was worse.

Those types of eyes haunted him for days.

This soldier standing before him now was very much alive. His lake-blue eyes narrowed, waiting for Drew's next move.

It was nerve-racking to be this close to the enemy, who was this real, this alive. Drew's eyes flew to the British soldier, then to the rifles in both of their hands. This was all he had to protect him. He tightened his grip on the weapon uncertainly.

He needed to get out of there. He had very few bullets; he had counted them earlier out of boredom. There didn't seem to be an exit, unless you counted the lake behind him.

"I said," the soldier began again, "lower your weapon." His voice took on a more threatening tone.

Drew held his breath, and it took a while to properly observe the man. He seemed about ten years older than him, with worn boots. His red jacket was laced with gold, and a small, tattered pouch hung by his side. 

"Did you not hear me?" the Brit asked louder this time.

Then it suddenly hit him. Drew had seen this man, many many times before. They had been together through early childhood. Through the tough time of moving to America, going their separate ways.

Almost without thinking, Drew blurted out what had to be the most blunt question he's ever asked. "Thomas?"

The soldier then did a double take, confused as to how this rebel knew his name. Why would he? Did they meet somewhere? He took in the American's appearance and thought quick and hard. Then those eyes of his widened, and he tensed even more, clutching his gun. "...Drew?"

Finally, Drew couldn't help it. He laughed. He tried to compose himself, but only laughed harder when he realized why he was laughing in the first place. He should have considered the possibility of meeting his relative; after all, he was part of the British army.

Thomas just watched him in shock and confusion, taking a step back. "Are you experiencing violent mood swings?" he asked seriously. He had a hard time understanding how he could be so serious and quiet one moment and burst into a fit of giggles the next. This just made Drew laugh even harder.

Taking a deep breath, Drew composed himself. Come on, act serious! This is war! But...what am I doing, just standing here with the enemy?

"How are you, brother?" he blurted out again without thinking.

Sometimes Drew just wanted to punch himself in the face when he was faced with situations like these.

"I'm fine," replied Thomas, then took a deep breath himself. Why did he just reply to him? "But never mind that! I'm telling you to put the bloody gun down, Drew."

"You put your gun down first."

Thomas blinked, as if he was just told to shoot himself in the foot for a half-burnt biscuit. "I think not."

"Oh well. Neither will I."

"Drew!"

"Thomas," he mimicked.

"My God, quit fooling around!" Thomas's voice was tinged with annoyance.

What was he doing? Drew seemed to be asking that question a lot lately. "But you're my brother. We haven't seen each other in seven years. Do you really expect me to act all serious around you?"

Thomas scowled. "We're on different sides now. It was a bad idea for you to join the rebels."

"So, have you had any cool adventures with the army so far?" Drew continued calmly, though still eyed the weapon in Thomas's hands.

"I could shoot you right now if I wanted to."

"So did you?"

"Jesus Christ, Drew."

"It's been a while, y'know. Seven years to be exact."

"You already said that!"

"So?"

Thomas's grip on the gun tightened. "So, you... You know what, just—just drop the gun," he demanded.

"Well then it seems we're at an impasse, because neither of us want to."

Thomas said nothing else, only stared at him intensely. It was baffling to think he was acting like a little child right now. Was he blind to the rifle in his hand?

And he continued. "You're so serious now, Thomas. That's not healthy."

Oh dear God, why hadn't Drew punched himself in the face yet?! This was no time for small talk! Drew wanted to shut up, but some voice in the back of his mind kept on telling him to talk.

Thomas took a deep breath before speaking. "Captain Williams."

"Sorry?"

"Don't call me Thomas. I'm Captain Williams."

"Captain?" Drew let out a low whistle. "Fancy. I'm just a private. You must have been in the army longer than I thought. You lost or something?"

"No I'm not," Thomas replied in a harsher tone than intended, taking a step towards him. Drew instinctively took a step back, lake water soaking his feet in the process. It lapped at his ankles, heavy and biting.

"Oh. Well, since I've only been in the army for a few weeks..."

"A few weeks?" exclaimed his brother suddenly in utter shock and—was that the faintest hint of worry? "That's it?"

Drew continued, ignoring the outburst. "...I was just wondering if you were lost, since, y'know, I haven't seen anyone of you guys before. Captain," he added at the end, to sound at least a little respectful.

Thomas grew most annoyed by that statement, frowning. "I'm a veteran of over ten campaigns. I don't get lost."

Drew nodded slowly. "Okay, I didn't know that. So, can you tell me where we are? 'Cause I...kinda...am..."

At first his older brother just stood there looking at him before letting out a brief laugh. "Is your militia really this unorganized? Were you not given a map?"

Ah. Drew didn't think of that. He bit his bottom lip. "Actually, I do have one. I think it's in my pack..." He bent down to put his weapon on the ground.

It wasn't until he caught a glimpse of Thomas's smug face and his rifle was already on the ground, did Drew know what a stupid mistake he had just made. He tensed, cursed under his breath, then stood back up. He glanced at his abandoned weapon laying in the grass, mentally kicking himself. He should have done it. He should have punched himself in the face and shut up a long time ago.

"There. Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Thomas managed to look superior, and yet sympathetic at the same time.

Drew was surprised greatly when he himself put down his weapon. "You're not gonna shoot me?" he asked. He hesitated in relaxing himself, wanting to see if this was another trick.

"You're unarmed," was the reply he was given.

"But still. Aren't Englishmen supposed to shoot us rebels?"

Thomas rolled his eyes, sighing at his little brother's naivety. "You were an Englishman before you moved here, you know. Would you have shot an unarmed man? Rebel or not?"

"I guess not." Drew ran a shaky hand through his hair. "But isn't that why we're fighting the war?"

"Why are you fighting anyways? You're barely old enough." Thomas sounded genuinely concerned, avoiding the question. Clever soldier.

Why was he fighting in the war? Drew took a deep breath and thought long and hard before replying. "Because our father did. When we moved to America, leaving you and Mum behind in England, he fought with the Patriots when the rebellion started."

Thomas scoffed. "Well he was always an old fool anyways."

Drew couldn't help feeling annoyed at his tone of voice. "He was right, you know. America should become independent."

Thomas's gaze hardened. "You two are traitors to Great Britain."

Drew was not in the least bit intimidated. "How'd you like it when the Bostonians threw your tea in the harbor? It was very entertaining to watch, in my opinion."

"I can still shoot you." His eyes instinctively went to the weapons on the ground. 

Alarm flashed in Drew's eyes and he quickly raised his hands up in acceptance. "Fine! How 'bout a momentary truce between us two?"

Thomas seemed to consider this. They were kin after all; they should at least spend a little more time together before their lives could possibly be cut short with bullet fire or the like. His gaze softened; just a bit. "Fine. But just calm down for a moment, yeah?" He reached into his pouch and took out two small oranges, ripe and freshly picked. "Here. I found a tree nearby."

Drew stared at the fruit wearily, blood pounding in his head after the close encounter. "Are you really...?" he asked with a pointed finger, utterly confused at this behavior. But then he realized that Thomas was never really one to be hard to convince.

The Brit rolled his eyes once more, with the slightest hint of a smile on his face. "Just take it."

Soon Drew found himself sitting next to Thomas on the grass by the lake, weapons discarded, and admiring the view of the shimmering body of water and its surroundings. He bit into the orange slices, savoring the sweet and slightly tangy taste. For a few minutes, they sat in silence with Drew eating his snack and his brother just watching him. 

Then they heard a quiet chirp. Drew turned to look around first, and was also the one to spot the source of the noise. "Oh. Look at this!"

He sifted through the grass nearby and held up a small mourning dove. It chirped weakly in response, trying its hardest to fly out of his gentle grip. "I think it's hurt."

"Let me see," Thomas said, carefully examining the bird. It eyed him warily, letting out a shrill shriek. He let out a brief hum when he found what he was looking for. "Leg's broken. I've got cloth in my pack. Could you—"

"Here you go," Drew cut him off. He already had the bandages in hand, and was giving them to Thomas. With a little confusion, he took them and began fixing up the dove's leg. "And...done. Nice and tight."

He put the bird down on the ground, and the brothers watched as the mourning dove looked between the two. It looked down at the bandage on its leg in what seemed to be surprise. It let out another chirp and limped in a circle once before ruffling its tiny wings and flying away. Drew let out a brief laugh. "Not even a thank you?" Thomas just stayed quiet.

They continued sitting calmly by the lake. It had been a while before one of them started a conversation again.

"Hey, Thomas," Drew started, looking at the sky, white tufts of clouds floating lazily by.

"Hm?"

"When the war is over—regardless of who wins, do you want to meet up here and just watch the sky for a while?" At Thomas's look of confusion, he tried to explain himself. "I don't know...it's just nice to watch. Who knows, maybe we'll even see a flying pig," he joked, pointing upwards at the slowly darkening sky.

Thomas tried to hold back a tiny smile. "I think I'd like that," he admitted. "Alright then. When the war is over, we'll meet up here."

Drew's eyes lit up. "And watch the sky!" His brother nodded.

Thomas then noticed a comparison that he hadn't made in seven years. "Did you know? Your eyes match the sky. It's quite nice if you ask me."

"Really? Well, your eyes match the lake," replied his little brother.

The blue sky, and the blue lake. In the same family of colors, though not completely the same.

Drew started thinking of the events leading up to now. It was quite amusing, if he thought about it. He wondered what Thomas was thinking of, staring into the distance as he was. 

"Do you think we'll meet again?" he asked suddenly. "You know, before the war ends?" 

It was the first either of them spoke of departing. Thomas sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's highly unlikely." He knew he needed to go soon—the rest of his regiment would go frantic without him.

"But if we do meet again..."

"We'll be trying to kill each other." He finished his sentence, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Drew tried to ignore that statement. "It'll be fate." He nodded slowly after saying this. "Yeah... It's fate! Perhaps we'll be in a similar situation next time!"

Thomas suppressed an eye roll. "Fate. Really?"

"You don't believe in fate?"

Thomas decided to be honest. "No. I just think it's something that gives people false hope."

Drew shrugged. "I don't think that's what fate is."

"Well that's your opinion, Drew." A brief pause. "We should probably part ways now." He turned, giving a half-nod. "If we meet again," he said in farewell. He began to stand up, gathering his weapon and other things.

"When we meet again," Drew corrected him, watching him take his leave. 

Thomas sighed. "Fine. When."

When they locked eyes, they were a mixture of confusion, relief, amusement, and hesitant acceptance. Then they broke away from each other's intense gazes, and Thomas turned to go.

Drew felt inexplicably and immeasurably worried to see his brother go, with death a big risk in both of their lines of work. As he walked away into the forest, his back straight and proud like a true captain, Drew couldn't help but notice how much the greens, blues, and browns of the environment blended with his bright red and gold uniform, his pale brown hair, those blue eyes of his that matched the lake.

He could hardly tell which color was which anymore. The colors were nearly indistinguishable.

It's been a while, ol' friend...

He had to wonder if fate would bring them together again.

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To be continued...