Title: Circle of Revenge

Sequel to "His Father's Son"

Rating: M (Go away little kiddies! Ha. Just kidding. If you're thirteen and want to read this, be my guest. Nothing I can do to stop you.)

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?

A/N: Uhm… Cabbage? Anyway, apart from cabbage, in this chapter you will find weakness. Have you ever woken up and felt loss? I've had that happen… and it's in here so ya…

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.


Chapter Three

"Under Pressure"

Dinner went by uneventfully. Mr Mitchell regaled us with stories of himself and my father. Emma laughed, a high crystalline sound that assaulted my ears. I remained in tight-lipped silence as I picked at my meal of chicken, dumplings, and vegetables. After a while, I stood up and asked to be excused. I was suddenly unbearably weary. Mr Mitchell laughingly dismissed me and I walked out of the room without another word.

My side burned painfully as I fell into my bed, my hand strayed to the healing gash, touching it gingerly. Sleep claimed me quickly and suddenly I was watching a terrible scene play out in my mind.

"My son was a better man." A younger looking Martin was saying.

His filthy hand held my father's shoulder tightly. The other hand held a bayonet. The sharp steel gleamed in the sunlight. My father's eyes showed a mixture of hatred, defiance, and fear. Without so much as a single hesitation, Benjamin Martin thrust the bayonet into my father's throat. My father let out a choked cry, falling forward as blood streamed forth from his lips. His face, pale and bloodied, seemed to jump out at me.

"William, why!" his voice echoed in my mind.

"FATHER!" I screamed, bolting upright in my bed.

The first thing I was aware of was terrible loss. It seemed that for the first time since my father's death, everything had finally sunk in. Tears streamed down my cheeks in hot torrents. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed.

"Father… Father! NO!"

And suddenly she was there. Emma in her nightgown and shawl, mobcap upon her dark curls and a candle in her hand.

"William? Are you alright?"

I couldn't answer for my grief choked me and made speech impossible.

"Oh William…" she murmured sadly.

Immediately she set down the candle and sat down beside me, enfolding me in her slim arms and stroking my sweaty hair.

"Poor William." she whispered.

She rocked me like a small child, awakened by a bad dream. I cried until I was breathless. The loss of my father overtook me, ingraining itself into every aspect of myself. I wanted him back. I wanted my mother back. I wanted to go back to being a silly little English rich boy, riding horses with my father and having tea in the afternoon. I wanted to forget ever having murdered men in cold blood.

"Papa…" Emma said suddenly.

Her father stood in the doorway, a look split between disapproval and pity on his face. He sighed, then turned from us, closing the heavy door behind him.

"Oh William…" Emma sighed, still holding me.

I let myself go limp against her. I was exhausted. My face felt hot. Emma wiped away the last of my tears and gently eased me from her arms. She stroked back my wet hair and tucked me back into bed.

"Sleep, dear William. It'll be better in the morning."

It'll be better in the morning.

How I wished that were true…


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