A/N: I never thought I'd be writing literature fanfiction. Vanity Fair was too good though, and I loved the ITV series. I've done my best to imitate Thackeray's style, but no doubt it's fallen short by a bit. Still, I tried.
The summary is an oft-abused quote by John Donne. I love it too much though and will carry on abusing it. Thackeray never described George's death in detail, but the ITV portrayal made me wonder, and so I wrote this.
How many of us, I wonder, truly pause to consider 'the end', as it rushes upon us all with ineluctable certainty? How many of us throw ourselves into life's tantalising embrace, amuse ourselves with its shallow pleasures, keeping our eyes fixed upon its dancing lights, and indulging endlessly in its briefest of merriments, in an effort to evade the beast which lurks ahead? How many of us, I ask, are truly prepared when Death raises its ugly head and throttles us, so that even the most dignified of Kings are left with their tongues lolling upon their beds, or the most gentle of souls caught in the cacophonies of agony, stripped of all their pride and civility and all that made them human, reduced only to their true distorted, primal form? With each rolling year will the date of our death creep past, innocuous as a fox, and we who remain are left only to pray, with chilling futility, that our time will be delayed further yet. Indeed, dear reader, I must confess to you that this sombre, frightening thought is not one which I often like to dwell upon.
And so, it must be said, was this feeling true for our friend Captain George Osborne. Enraptured as he was with the thrills of life – as the young men of his age tended to be – he was more reluctant than most to concede to the idea that one day he, too, shall become fallible. As with all men in the foolishness of youth, he held fast to the naïve belief that, so long as he had the desire, the world would roll as he wished it. He had every intention of seeing the war to its end, and thus, he acted as one who believed he could deflect each jarring gunshot with willpower alone, living as though his life would end only at the moment of his choosing.
And so it was that when the bullet first entered George's heart, his mind was still wild with visions of glory. In his mind's eye he saw himself heralded as a hero, with a hand clenched firmly around the flag of England and oceans of navy bodies swathed around his feet. Already he could hear the roars of cannons transforming into the joyous whistle of firecrackers and lights, and the primal cries of battle were becoming frenzied cheers from adoring crowds. He saw in his desperate fantasy the General, presenting him with a medal of honour for all his courage in service. And behind the General he saw an elusive figure, a figure that made his shredded heart pulse and contort with delight.
O, how cruel is the selfishness of man! If Fate had had mercy, it would have been Amelia who stood in his vision – this poor, sweet, pathetic creature, who prayed with all the ferocity her gentle soul could muster to salvage what remained of his. And yet, alas, as the General of George's impossible world stepped aside, who should be revealed behind him but our very own Mrs. Rawdon Crawley? With her knowing smile and enticing eyes, her hair tumbling beautifully over sleek, ivory shoulders and her face filled with joviality and vigour, she moves to embrace and congratulate him with a sort of doe-eyed admiration the real Becky would never succumb to. Even in the clasps of death the captain's soul shuddered under the weight of temptation, and so it was that the last thing the young Captain George Osborne truly saw was the smiling features of another man's wife.
O, twisted, evil vanity! How wicked are its warped veins to strip George of his final shred of salvation! If, dear reader, we could only step out of the young captain's mind for a moment, and consider the truth of the situation, then we would realise that, had the bullet entered any other, non-fatal location, then he may have had the time before his final demise to spare thought, for example, for his dear father, and pray sincerely for a reconciliation after life; or else some time could have been shed for faithful old Dobbin, and some recognition, at least, bestowed to the other's unwavering loyalty and companionship through all the years. But most importantly, he may have cast his dying thoughts towards loving, undeserving Amelia, and find it within himself to summon a final, meaningless swell of regret for shirking his duties as a gentleman, a husband, and, if he had known it, a father.
But alas, the blow was too strong and death was too quick to spare the young, prideful man this final mercy of redemption. Poor George did not know his life had ended until it did, and when he finally fell, face down into the mud, he had no thought for either family, friendship, or love. Only vanity. Cruel, twisted vanity, and his own soul's desires.
O, Fate! Take this sorry, broken puppet away, and cast him to the side with the others - he has entertained us for long enough. Let us instead pass now to bigger adventures, and move on without further ado to pastures new.