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It may as well have been raining. The young soldier shivered as he pulled his soaked coat closer to his chin, unsure whether the snow-drenched material was helping or hindering the chill threading into his bones. His comrades were trudging through the snow both before and behind him, the braver ones daring to voice out their discomfort, and darkly joking that they would have preferred to face a whole contingent of British soldiers, if only so the flash and smoke of gunfire could warm them.
The drifts around them were at least knee deep, the flakes of ice clinging to cloth and leather, and sinking invisible teeth into already shivering flesh. The Continental soldiers kept in smart formation, less out of respect for their commanding officer, than for the convenience of pushing through a snowdrift already trampled down by many feet. The craftier of them fell back behind the supply carriage they were meant to be guarding, stepping into the rifts the wheels plowed for them.
The young soldier grinned tolerantly as the man beside him - his brother-in-arms, who often shared his campfire and good-naturedly stole portions of his meals - made a snide comment about the men lagging farthest behind, nonchalantly insulting their manhood. He brushed off a suggested wager on who would next lose their footing on the ice, and looked instead to the forest around them, which too seemed to begrudge the weight of the settled snow.
The white-cloaked trees were surprisingly noisy now that the snowstorm had abated; both wind and unseen creatures periodically dislodging the snow cupped between their branches. Night was only spare hours away, and the setting sun sparked the occasional cascade of snow into molten metal. The soldier observed this, bemused, almost forgetting to watch his step as he tilted his face to the maze of branches, which honestly seemed a kinder path than the one he and his troop walked.
A flash of wings as a bird took flight from just above him, and the soldier followed its path with mild interest, until his eyes alighted on a tall shape several feet away, which stood balanced on one of the snow-covered conifers.
He blinked, startled at the abrupt shift of light as it touched not upon crystals of snow, but on white cloth and lines of metal. The man - for, he only just comprehended, that was what the distant shape was - turned his head to him slightly, as if curious. The other was too high up for him to really see his face, but the soldier thought he caught a flash of gold from under the hood, much like firelight reflected in a beast’s eyes.
The young soldier paused for a second, and then rather instinctively touched a hand to his tricorne in a hesitant salute. He froze in a terrified moment of wondering whether the man would take offense at the act, but the soldier managed a nervous smile as the other simply nodded once in response, and jadedly turned his attention away from the motley contingent stumbling about below him.
The soldier recognized him, if only from the stories his comrades exchanged as they crouched close together, and warmed their hands over the fire. The Assassin, they called him, or (less kindly) the Savage who did not know his place, the Stray that answered to no one, and interfered with their glorious revolution. Many would recount tales of the man simply appearing on their battlefields, unpredictable as the wind, and taking the life of a single man - sometimes a lieutenant, or a general, or just another soldier crawling in the dirt - before vanishing again into the trees.
The Assassin was neither with them nor against them, and the Continental officers had taken to instructing their men to treat him as any other wild beast - should he prove a threat to them, he was to be shot without question. Although, the young soldier admitted, that was easier said than done. The man seemed a ghost if anything, a shadow that knew these woods far better than they.
Abruptly, he realized that the Assassin had straightened, and was staring far to the south; the tension in his stance like that of a wolf scenting danger on the wind. Just as quickly, he had vanished, likely moving off to inspect whatever he had noticed. The soldier frowned at his departure, feeling a slight chill not entirely from the winter air. If there was reason for such a man to be so cautious, perhaps it was something that threatened them as well.
The young soldier touched his brother’s shoulder, and motioned for him to follow as he pushed ahead to his commanding officer’s side, claiming to have heard a disturbance nearby. The permission to investigate was granted, and the two of them hurried to catch up with the Assassin that neither of them could see.
His brother questioned him crossly of what exactly they were doing, wasting their energy by plowing through fresh snow on their own. He only quieted him rather impatiently, and focused on not stumbling from the pinpricks of threatening frostbite in his feet. He admitted to himself that he could not answer the question, unsure as he was of what they were looking for, and he could only hope that the native had moved directly towards the invisible threat.
It took a few minutes of walking, but they finally came within earshot of what the Assassin’s inhuman senses had seemed to pick up, and the two soldiers slowed as the voices drifted towards them on the cold air. The crimson of all too familiar coats flashed out at them from between the trees, and the two ducked reflexively, taking shelter behind a shoulder-high outcropping of rock. His brother met his eyes, hatefully mouthing the word that was in both their minds.
The young soldier lifted a cautioning hand, and slowly rose on his haunches to peer over the edge of their cover. The British patrol was speaking too quietly for their words to be intelligible, but their intentions were writ in their loose formation, in how their heads turned in all directions as they marched. He ducked again, pressing against the cold stone and signing the number of enemies to his brother, who cursed soundlessly.
They both realized the risk. It did not matter what exactly the Redcoats were searching for - perhaps for them, or the Assassin, or something else entirely - if they continued on their current path, they would catch up with the small Continental convoy within the hour.
A slight rustle of wind overhead reminded the young soldier to look up, and after a moment of scanning, he caught sight of the Assassin a distance above and to their left, settled against the trunk of a tree. He was balancing on a narrow bough quite dangerously close to the Redcoats, remaining still to keep the shift of branches from betraying him.
He was merely observing, the young soldier realized, just as he had done for the Continental troop earlier. His brief hope that the Assassin would turn away this patrol, would save them, was quickly extinguished.
“Where is he?”
His brother’s hushed question nearly made him jump, and the young soldier turned to him with some irritation. The elder Continental had apparently noticed him eying the trees, and knew well the interest he had in the rogue Assassin. He frowned slightly and gestured over his shoulder, whispering back, “About two meters to the left of the patrol, maybe twice that off the ground.”
The other nodded, and looked warily over their cover in the indicated direction, his gaze calculating. The young soldier comprehended too late what his intentions were, and his incredulous protest went unheard as the elder one rose abruptly to his feet, and flung the large stone he had been holding, aiming directly for the Assassin’s back.
The elder soldier silenced his objections with a gloved hand as he returned to a crouch, hissing back sharply, “Better him than us.”
The small projectile struck true, and the Assassin shifted sharply to keep his balance, dislodging a scattering of snow. The hooded face flicked directly towards where the two of them were hiding, and the young soldier flinched at the accusing gaze that burned into them.
“There! Open fire, above!”
The soldier honestly thought that the sweeping jaws of the firing line would kill the man instantly, but the Assassin had reacted in a blur of white, leaping straight into the threat, and over the heads of his would-be executioners. He landed in a roll just behind them, unharmed, and took off at a sprint.
He was fast, but the British were many. They managed to keep pace with him as he ran, spreading out and using their bulk or gunfire to surround him, and keep him from the trees. Though the Assassin was caught in the cage of enemies, he only eluded their grasp in the narrow space, changing direction sporadically, and kicking off against trunks or stones to gain precious ground over the hindering drifts of snow.
The British soldiers struggled to contain him, just barely able to keep him from bolting completely out of sight. However, a well-placed turn caused two Redcoats to barrel into each other, and the Assassin leapt easily through the opening in the ranks they caused.
The young Continental soldier would have only stood agape in awe, had he not realized that the man was heading directly towards them. His brother swiftly dragged him back down, and spat a string of profanity as they both shivered and attempted to become as small as possible.
The Assassin had drawn within feet of them when he hesitated, perhaps finally catching sight of the two, who could do little more than press against their meager cover and pray. The young soldier looked up at him, still and silently imploring, though he was sure that the wolf was willing to tear into them himself for the pains they had brought him.
The native’s eyes narrowed at them, perhaps considering just that, but in a flash, he had changed direction again, heading away.
“...The bastard let us go,” his brother gasped out as he released the breath he had been holding, his tone tight with almost angered disbelief. The young soldier only shook his head as the British patrol turned as well and missed them narrowly, though the two of them peered out again to watch as soon as they had passed.
It was here that he realized with rising guilt that the Assassin’s moment of reluctance had cost him. The British had used the time to reform their rank both before and behind, successfully pinning their quarry between two lines of glinting bayonets, and threats of a second volley.
The Assassin slid to a halt with an audible hiss of impatience, and he had already snatched up an oddly shaped axe from his side when one of the Redcoats stepped forward, his hands lifted to him peaceably as he spoke, “Hold there, Assassin. We only wish to talk.”
The Continental soldier heard his brother scoff from beside him, unimpressed at the obviously deceitful tactic, but the native seemed to think otherwise. He looked appraisingly at the barrels and blades around him, before slowly lowering his weapon, though it remained loose in his hand.
The Redcoat who had spoken smiled in some satisfaction, his confident stance quite clearly indicating him as the commanding officer. The Assassin seemed to notice this as well, and when he spoke, the words were pointedly addressed only to him.
“I have nothing to say to you,” he stated calmly, the flowing accent marking him as distinctively as his attire. “Fight your own battles, and leave me to mine.”
“You misunderstand,” the officer said, waving a hand to instruct his men to lower their muskets, perhaps in a show of trust. “We only need you to answer a single question, then we’ll let you go. You can spare us that, can’t you?
As the native only continued to eye him warily, the captain shrugged and went on nevertheless. “There was a supply train of Continentals passing through here, and I have no doubt that you saw signs of them nearby. Which direction were they heading?”
The young soldier and his brother exchanged alarmed looks, and the elder of them swiftly fit the stock of his rifle against his shoulder. “That treacherous savage better not say--"
“Wait, listen,” the other snapped, pushing down the barrel of the rifle, and jerking his head in the direction of the Redcoats and their captive, who had neither moved nor said anything in response to the officer’s question.
As the rather blatant silence stretched into minutes, the captain finally chuckled, shaking his head. “Come now, it’s a simple enough answer. Why bother protecting those Continental dogs? You owe them nothing.”
“True, but neither do I owe you anything. Leave me out of your war.” There was steel in the tone this time, the Assassin’s lip lifting in a small snarl. “Now back away, unless you wish to give me reason to harm you.”
Here, the smirk vanished from the captain’s face, and he spoke out rigidly, “I should remind you, Assassin, you’re equally valuable to us alive or dead.”
The native only turned deliberately away to glance at the soldiers still tensed for their officer’s command, his bored stance all but speaking that he had lost interest in the conversation. His patience cracking visibly, the captain lifted his pistol to the side of the Assassin’s head, snapping out, “Do not ignore me. I'm giving you a chance to settle this civilly, but if you insist that we treat you like the mongrel dog you are, we will.”
Even with the Assassin’s skill and seemingly demonic reflexes, the young soldier knew that it was impossible to avoid such a close shot. The decision came easily to him, and he seized the sleeve of his brother’s coat, dragging him up into a stand as he hissed, “You take that man there, the one closest to the Assassin, and I’ll take the officer. We just need to give him a distraction, and he can do the rest.”
The elder soldier looked to him incredulously, though he obediently took aim; perhaps also feeling the touch of guilt for this man, who had so unexpectedly chosen to spare them. “And what’s your brilliant plan if the Assassin decides to just run and leave us to handle the rest of them too?"
“He won’t,” he answered with more confidence than he felt, shutting one eye as he aimed, drew a sharp, bolstering breath, then fired.
It may have just been his imagination, but in the split second between him pulling the trigger and the shot finding its mark, the young soldier thought he saw the Assassin meet his gaze once again, the curious eyes flashing.
The Redcoats barely had time to gather themselves, and though the second-in-command had the sense to order the present of arms as their officer fell, the split moment of confusion was enough. The Assassin had shot into motion as any beast loosed from a trap, tearing into his captors with a bridled vengeance.
The restraint he showed was admirable, but though his strikes were chosen carefully, his fangs bit down without mercy wherever they fell. The British soldiers resorted to bullet and fist and bayonet, but none even came close to grazing the Assassin as he flashed from one edge of the clearing to the other, and discarded men from him with bone or muscle exposed to the winter air.
The young soldier watched the struggle with a furrowed brow, clutching his rifle to him as he realized all too well that neither he nor his brother had any need to reload a second shot.
Finally, they fled, a leaderless company left barely alive. They disappeared in all directions and marred the pure snow with their blood, stumbling away on their injured limbs, or clutching at their faces, which would forever bear scars of this day. They ran from the white hellhound, and none looked back.
Only as quiet fell again did the two Continentals realize that the only bodies lying on the ground were those they had killed themselves. Even in the flurry of gunfire and blades, the Assassin had not taken any lives for himself, a fact that thoroughly startled them both. It was unthinkable - a wolf that held prey helpless in its jaws, then let it go.
The young soldier realized rather abruptly that the Assassin was standing mere feet from them, having left the scene of carnage to be cleared by passing scavengers. The man regarded them levelly, and the Continental swallowed hard as he mustered the courage to speak to the blood-drenched phantom.
“Thank y--” he managed, before the Assassin turned his back, and vanished from sight in a flurry of fallen snow.
Ending.