Circle of Revenge
The sequel to "His Father's Son"
Genre: Angst/Romance (Let's face it, that's all I write)
Summary: The deed is done, satisfaction has been had. The war is over but the unrest is not. William Tavington the second continues his life, his father's memory the driving force in his life. What happens when the unthinkable happens and he falls for someone he's most definitely not supposed to even care about?
Author's note: I had this story in my mind as I was writing His Father's Son. I'm sorry if you think it overly melodramatic and not plausible, but I think I'll write it just the same. Also, you may ask me why in gods name am I writing a fic from the POV of a fictional son of Tavington. The simple answer is that I have an odd Father figure complex for which I am tormented mercilessly. Perhaps my father being present in body but not always in mind, had terminally effed me up. I dunnae. I'm not a psychiatrist. You decide. Also, my death scene complex… Death has fascinated me to no end since I was small. I dwell on it, I obsess over it. I write about it and subject you poor readers to the morbid and often poorly written outcome. So read on, dear literary connoisseurs!
Disclaimer: Dunnae own nuffink but the OC's you see. I don't really want to own "The Patriot", after all, Mel Gibson has turned into a bit of a… well… we won't get into that. Needless to say the only characters in Patriot I like are Tavvy and Margaret.
I awoke days after I had arrived at the doorway of the Loyalist family. They told me I had been feverish for nearly a week. The exhaustion of weeks of sleepless nights, combined with Martin's lucky blow had put me out of commission.
I sat up in bed, blinking my eyes to adjust to the brightness of the room. The first thing I did was search the room for my dragoon jacket and sword. Those items were all I had left of my father and I wasn't about to lose them. My heart began to pound in my chest when I could not find them in the room. Just as I was trying to pull myself out of the bed, the door swung open. A young woman, brown haired and slender of build, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, entered the room carrying a bowl of water and some towels. She saw me awake and her full lips broke out into a smile.
"Oh good! You're awake! I was so very worried!" she exclaimed, setting the bowl of water down on the bedside table next to me. "How are you feeling?"
I stared at her.
"Who are you? How long have I been here? And where are my pants!" I demanded, not very politely, I might add.
"My name is Emma. You've been here about a week. And your pants are in the dresser. Now, why don't you lay back and let me have a look at your wound. Why are you so restless?"
"Where are my belongings?"
"Father has them. They're safe. Why do you need them?"
I frowned at her. This little brown haired sprite asked too many questions for my liking. I struggled to stand up, but found my legs would not do my bidding.
"You lost a lot of blood before you came here, just lay back and relax." she insisted, pushing me lightly back onto the pillows.
"I'm fine. I need to leave. They'll be looking for me. I must leave-"
She held me easily down, pulling the blankets up over me.
"You're fine are you? You can't even stand, much less ride a horse. And they are looking for you. They came by not an hour after you came to us, searched the whole house but father was smart, he hid you in the cellar. When they left he moved you up here. They've come back a few times since then and we kept them away by saying we were nursing a sick family member." she said all this very fast. "I'm Emma Mitchell. My father is Arthur Mitchell, he knew your grandfather. Oooh wait till Sissy and Phillipa hear that we have a real live British fugitive in the house! They'll be so upset that they went to visit Grandmother!"
Again, I frowned at the baffling young woman in front of me. She continued to chirp on cheerfully as she went about cleaning the deep gash in my side. She babbled on an on about her sister and how jealous they would be to find they had missed out on meeting me and how her father had such high hopes for her. I just stared at her throughout the entire one-sided conversation. She finished bandaging my side and stood up.
"You haven't said a word this whole time. Is there anything I can get for you?" she asked cheerfully.
"I…Tell your father I would like my jacket and sword back, please."
"Oh! Is that all? We were just going to have you coat washed-"
"NO!" I exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in bed and wincing as my side twinged painfully.
"Do not wash that coat! Whatever you do! Please!" I beseeched her.
She stared at me for a long moment, then turned and walked toward the door.
"Alright then. I'll tell Father. If he hasn't already had it cleaned."
Emma looked at me once more, a long searching look, before turning and going down the stairs. I sighed deeply and sank back into my pillow. About ten minutes later she came back, my father's red and green dragoon jacket was folded over her arm. I struggled to sit back up and held out my arms to receive it.
"Thank you." I said softly.
The girl looked from me to the jacket and back to me.
"First tell me what's so important about this old thing."
I glared at her, anger flaring up inside me. It was my coat. My possession she had her filthy traitor hands all over. I tried to tell myself to stay calm, reminding myself that even if the Mitchell's had stayed after the Seperatists had won, they had cared for me when I was unconscious.
"It has… sentimental value, to me."
Emma stepped closer to me.
"What kind of sentimental value?"
My patience was growing thin; she was a few feet from the bed, just out of my reach. I frowned at her darkly. I wanted my father's jacket.
"It belonged to my father." I said shortly, my hands still outstretched to receive the article of clothing.
"Yes, belonged. He was killed. In battle. This and his sword are all I have left of him. Now please, may I have it back?"
She smiled suddenly and handed me the jacket. My fingers clenched in the rough material as I held it tightly. I lay it on the pillow next to my head and held onto it as if it were a blanket.
"I've got to go into the stores with my father. We'll be gone fore several hours. Martha will be here if you need anything. She's the house servant. Just call her and she will come." Emma said softly.
And then she did the last thing I expected. She leaned close to me and kissed my cheek. Her lips were soft against my unshaven face, she smelled overly sweet; like too much honeysuckle. Emma laid a gentle hand on my shoulder, giving me a long look before leaving the room and closing the door softly behind her.
When I heard her footsteps going down the hall, I sighed a deep shuddering sigh. I turned my face into my fathers jacket; inhaling the scent of sweat, gunpowder, blood, and the faint smell of his cologne. They say that smell evokes the strongest memories… Perhaps that is true…
I remembered back to my sixth or seventh birthday, he had come home on leave and swept me up onto his shoulder. I remember my mother fretting about like a nervous hen as my father swung me around effortlessly. He took me out riding on our property, placing me in the saddle in front of him, allowing me to hold the reigns every now and again... Even the cruelest of men have families…
The noise of the streets outside my window broke me from my reverie. Horses and carriages went by on the cobblestone street. People talked and yelled below my window. I shut my eyes and pulled the jacket around me and willed myself to sleep, as if in simply dreaming, he could be there with my mother and I; a family once more.