1776

The wind was cold and the night bore a sense and aura of mystery and magic. The street lamps were lit with their kerosine and flickering wick, and shadows jumped on the old brick walls. One shadow in particular moved down the cobblestone street, her house-coat floating elegantly behind her as small, delicate hands grasped the frayed edges together, to protect her body from the wind. Red locks of hair trailed freely behind her, layered and going down to her mid back; her pale skin was whipped a raw red and she struggled to push forward, going against the opposing force. She wanted to get home, oh in the name of the Lord she wanted to get home, safe within those four brick and wooden walls that would protect her, and cause her no harm.

Yet there was nothing ultimately to fear. The British guards had left their posts, and America's own militia had replaced their spots, with old rifles at hand and their three corner hats firmly on their heads despite the intense blowing. She passed a few of these guards, left alone, without celebration. Everyone was to celebrate. Almost everyone, that is. But for her, she didn't want to celebrate. Upon hearing George Washington's speech at the end of the Revolutionary War, and seeing the soldiers returning home...and not seeing a few select people, Elizabeth Crone's heart was shattered in two.

A button flew off her jacket and Elizabeth's head spun around to watch it fly away freely, without harm, just severed off her coat like it was destined to be that way. A tear ran jaggedly down her face, creating a slick wet line as she watched the button go away. In a way, Elizabeth thought as she turned forward again and traisped forward, the button was like her beloved. He had gone off to war, to help this new country, and fight for his life...just floated away from her and there was nothing she could do except turn and watch. Elizabeth was helpless when she watched Michael go away. He was ready, he had told her. But had she been ready for his sudden leave? She most certainly had not...

"Look, Eli..." He crooned, his soft yet calloused hands running down her cheeks as he took her face into them. Eli...that was his pet name for her. She felt guilty oftentimes because she didn't call him anything other that his given name, Michael...but still...Eli. She felt like the only other person in the world when he called her that. "I want to fight. Your father is fighting, he sets an example for me. I will follow your father, we shall keep each-other company and safe."

Elizabeth turned her head slightly, averting her brown gaze and tearing the magic that his green eyes held. Red curls fell down her shoulders and bounced slightly at her sudden movement, no matter how soft. "Michael," she whispered, her voice waivering. "That's the whole entire point. I don't think I can deal with both you and Daddy going off to fight. I love you both, but I can't loose you."

Michael's green gaze turned hard, yet sparkled with promise. "Elizabeth Mary Crone, I will come back to you, and marry you like our father's said. I swear to it. I swear..." Then, in uniform and tears adorning both their eyes, Michael jammed his cap onto his head of brown hair, slung his gun over his shoulder and left with the recruits. Her father waved sadly from the crowd, and Michael...Michael didn't look back.

Elizabeth's cloth covered hand touched the cool metal of the doorknob. Looking back over her shoulder, by the light of the street lamps, she could see the faint outline of Independence Hall. Flashes sparked behind her eyes and she tried hard not to invision Michael and her family sitting there, her father behind her, not missing in action, but all alive and kicking, her sister, her mother...Michael's arm draped around her tiny shoulders. She turned to face the wooden door, the numbers ''23" followed by "Independence Avenue" in metal upon it. Jamming the key into the lock, the lock itself turned and she jiggled the rusty doorknob, the door opening with an onimous creak.

She shut the door behind her, and stepped over the sleeping hound-dog, ears covering his eyes, a few embers left in the fire-grate. Pulling a match from a box laying on the mantle, Eli lit a single wax candle, the drips falling onto it's metal stand. A newspaper was illuminated upon the table, the headline blaring obnoxiously. "AMERICA - WE HAVE OUR FREEDOM! :: The Philidelphia Times". The small print was hastily written, she expected, in joy as it was smushed into the copy machine but the Headline was the only thing that mattered.

The ink was blotched as a tear escaped again.

Freedom doesn't come free...and always has a cost...