Wounded Love
folder
M through R › Patriot, The
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
2,760
Reviews:
12
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › Patriot, The
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
2,760
Reviews:
12
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own The Patriot, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Wounded Love
CHAPTER ONE - 1780 - South Carolina
"It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees" - Delores
Ibarruri
The air was thick with smoke and the stench of blood. Bodies lay strewn all over the field, some dead, their bodies riddled with bullets, or sliced by bayonets, and others lay motionless but still breathing. The battle had raged for hours and could be heard for miles. It would have been a beautiful spring day, the sky was blue, the birds were chirping their sweet song of summer yet to come, the smell of death and decay hung heavy in the air.
Colonel William Tavington groaned and attempted to sit up. Immediate
searing pain shot through his body causing him to howl in pain. His vision was blurry as he tried to focus and remember what had happened. The battle had been a disaster, for England anyway. All he could remember though was Benjamin Martin, charging at him with an American flag. He remembered Martin shoving the point of the flagpole into his horses' chest causing William to be thrown violently to the ground. As soon as he stood up, Martin shot him in the shoulder with a pistol, causing a rising wave of fury to rise within him. He charged Martin with his saber, making him bring out his hatchet in defense. They battled for a while until it seemed that William had the upper hand. He was about to strike the final blow when Martin turned around and thrust a bayonet into Williams's stomach. Pain shot through his entire body so intense he thought it could get no worse. That's when Martin picked up another bayonet off the burning ground and impaled William through the throat. He wanted to scream out in agony, but all that came out was a low gurgle and some blood. He thought he had died right there, on that field in front of that smug colonial, that "ghost". Collapsing on to the soft, green grass, he attempted to drown out the cheers and shouts coming from the filthy colonials. Feeling the world slip away, he let the darkness engulf him.
When he finally opened his eyes some hours later, he was neither in heaven or hell. He didn't know how he knew this at first. But in his mind he had always pictured hell as a hot, desperately depressing place and heaven as a warm, welcoming paradise that he would never see. This place was neither. It was cold, that was the first thing he noticed. It was so cold he shivered as he looked around trying to focus. Everything was white, the ground below him, and the sky above. A figure dressed in an off- white robe approached him but did not speak. Raising a gloved hand, the figure pointed to an area that appeared to look like some sort of wall. All of the sudden images of Williams's life began flashing in front of him. His father sneering at his mother before he backhanded her, his mother cowering in a corner while his father stormed through the house. He saw himself watching with curious detachment as his father ordered his mother around like hired help. He didn't really see any point to all of this. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on when the images changed. The next images were of his first few years in the Army. He excelled when people thought he would fail, quickly rising through the ranks. He had just made Lieutenant when he got word that his father had gambled away every single penny of what was to be his inheritance. He went through a period after that where all he did was drink, and gamble. Many of the seedier houses of ill repute knew him by name.
The next scene was one that he had been trying to forget for a long time. The colonials were just starting to raise a fuss about taxes and everybody was gearing up for the inevitable war that would come. William had gone home to visit and immediately wished he hadn't bothered. His father started in on him the minute he stepped in the door. What he always found almost comical was the fact that his father would berate him for the very same things that he had done the drinking, the gambling and the female company.
Williams’s mother was no help, but of course she had to look out for herself. To contradict his father was to bring his wrath upon her. William had learned that lesson quite painfully many a times when he was younger.
The day he left to return to his unit, his mother surprised him. She gave him a bundle and told him not to open it until he returned to his unit. When his father found out he was livid. He screamed at her, causing her to withdraw back into the house. Turning to William he spat out, "Don't ever come back here. You're no longer welcome. I always knew you'd amount to nothing but a rotten lush. You'll never make anything of yourself."
William could smell the liquor on his father's breath as he turned to leave. “Your one to talk father." he said as he left.
He never saw his father again after that. A month after he arrived in the colonies he got the word that his father had died. He didn't shed a single tear for the bastard. He was so angry with him that he had no room for anything else. His anger and rage at his father came out whenever he had to deal with the insufferable colonials. They had the nerve to demand independence. The whole rotten lot deserved to be killed in his opinion. Arrogant, ungrateful group of traitors they were. As if whatever was projecting these thoughts could somehow read where his mind was wandering, the images changed again. He saw himself shoot the Martin boy in the back. The stupid boy deserved it. Attacking His Majesties Soldiers, what the hell was he thinking? Images of a burning church rushed before him. He almost felt regret for that. But if the villagers had just cooperated in the first place he wouldn't have had to revert to those measures. Finally the image of the older Martin boy gasping for air above him came into view. That actually brought on a small, twisted smile. The bloody coward was about to stab him in the back while he lay there wounded. William had never had time for cowards who wouldn't face him.
The images stopped and the mysterious figure pointed at him. "Your second chance will be your last," the figure said in a melodic voice.
This confused William. What second chance? He was really getting annoyed now. This was beyond irrational. Before he could further question the point of all this, everything started to get dark. The pain that had subsided started coming back, causing him to cry out. Eventually the darkness started to take over and he found himself drifting away.
"It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees" - Delores
Ibarruri
The air was thick with smoke and the stench of blood. Bodies lay strewn all over the field, some dead, their bodies riddled with bullets, or sliced by bayonets, and others lay motionless but still breathing. The battle had raged for hours and could be heard for miles. It would have been a beautiful spring day, the sky was blue, the birds were chirping their sweet song of summer yet to come, the smell of death and decay hung heavy in the air.
Colonel William Tavington groaned and attempted to sit up. Immediate
searing pain shot through his body causing him to howl in pain. His vision was blurry as he tried to focus and remember what had happened. The battle had been a disaster, for England anyway. All he could remember though was Benjamin Martin, charging at him with an American flag. He remembered Martin shoving the point of the flagpole into his horses' chest causing William to be thrown violently to the ground. As soon as he stood up, Martin shot him in the shoulder with a pistol, causing a rising wave of fury to rise within him. He charged Martin with his saber, making him bring out his hatchet in defense. They battled for a while until it seemed that William had the upper hand. He was about to strike the final blow when Martin turned around and thrust a bayonet into Williams's stomach. Pain shot through his entire body so intense he thought it could get no worse. That's when Martin picked up another bayonet off the burning ground and impaled William through the throat. He wanted to scream out in agony, but all that came out was a low gurgle and some blood. He thought he had died right there, on that field in front of that smug colonial, that "ghost". Collapsing on to the soft, green grass, he attempted to drown out the cheers and shouts coming from the filthy colonials. Feeling the world slip away, he let the darkness engulf him.
When he finally opened his eyes some hours later, he was neither in heaven or hell. He didn't know how he knew this at first. But in his mind he had always pictured hell as a hot, desperately depressing place and heaven as a warm, welcoming paradise that he would never see. This place was neither. It was cold, that was the first thing he noticed. It was so cold he shivered as he looked around trying to focus. Everything was white, the ground below him, and the sky above. A figure dressed in an off- white robe approached him but did not speak. Raising a gloved hand, the figure pointed to an area that appeared to look like some sort of wall. All of the sudden images of Williams's life began flashing in front of him. His father sneering at his mother before he backhanded her, his mother cowering in a corner while his father stormed through the house. He saw himself watching with curious detachment as his father ordered his mother around like hired help. He didn't really see any point to all of this. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on when the images changed. The next images were of his first few years in the Army. He excelled when people thought he would fail, quickly rising through the ranks. He had just made Lieutenant when he got word that his father had gambled away every single penny of what was to be his inheritance. He went through a period after that where all he did was drink, and gamble. Many of the seedier houses of ill repute knew him by name.
The next scene was one that he had been trying to forget for a long time. The colonials were just starting to raise a fuss about taxes and everybody was gearing up for the inevitable war that would come. William had gone home to visit and immediately wished he hadn't bothered. His father started in on him the minute he stepped in the door. What he always found almost comical was the fact that his father would berate him for the very same things that he had done the drinking, the gambling and the female company.
Williams’s mother was no help, but of course she had to look out for herself. To contradict his father was to bring his wrath upon her. William had learned that lesson quite painfully many a times when he was younger.
The day he left to return to his unit, his mother surprised him. She gave him a bundle and told him not to open it until he returned to his unit. When his father found out he was livid. He screamed at her, causing her to withdraw back into the house. Turning to William he spat out, "Don't ever come back here. You're no longer welcome. I always knew you'd amount to nothing but a rotten lush. You'll never make anything of yourself."
William could smell the liquor on his father's breath as he turned to leave. “Your one to talk father." he said as he left.
He never saw his father again after that. A month after he arrived in the colonies he got the word that his father had died. He didn't shed a single tear for the bastard. He was so angry with him that he had no room for anything else. His anger and rage at his father came out whenever he had to deal with the insufferable colonials. They had the nerve to demand independence. The whole rotten lot deserved to be killed in his opinion. Arrogant, ungrateful group of traitors they were. As if whatever was projecting these thoughts could somehow read where his mind was wandering, the images changed again. He saw himself shoot the Martin boy in the back. The stupid boy deserved it. Attacking His Majesties Soldiers, what the hell was he thinking? Images of a burning church rushed before him. He almost felt regret for that. But if the villagers had just cooperated in the first place he wouldn't have had to revert to those measures. Finally the image of the older Martin boy gasping for air above him came into view. That actually brought on a small, twisted smile. The bloody coward was about to stab him in the back while he lay there wounded. William had never had time for cowards who wouldn't face him.
The images stopped and the mysterious figure pointed at him. "Your second chance will be your last," the figure said in a melodic voice.
This confused William. What second chance? He was really getting annoyed now. This was beyond irrational. Before he could further question the point of all this, everything started to get dark. The pain that had subsided started coming back, causing him to cry out. Eventually the darkness started to take over and he found himself drifting away.