Title: "Pro Patria Mori"
Classification: character drama Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: My idea for this short fic developed while I was flipping through my favorite book of poetry, The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen. Owen was a British poet who was killed in the final days of World War I, a week before the armistice was signed. His war-time poems paint a pretty moving portrait of the British soldier, and I saw a strong connection in them to our dear Colonel Tavington. The fic's title stems from the poem "Dulce et Decorum Est," and translates roughly as "To Die For Your Country."
This poem and a few others can be found here (University of Toronto, Representative Poetry Online): http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/authors/owen.html
Plot Summary: In the blink of an eye before his death at Cowpens, Colonel Tavington reflects on his actions and opens his arms to fate.
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"I knew that in that flower he saw a hope Of living on, and seeing again the roses of his home." ~"Beauty" Wilfred Owen, 1917
Martin spun, a bayonet tipped rifle raised in his hands, and in the split second it took Tavington to register his enemy's movement it was already too late. An explosion of pain rocketed through every fiber of his body, centered somewhere in his midsection. The vibration spread from that center point, rippling outward, and for a moment it consumed him. A brilliant flash of white light dazzled his vision, and he reflexively blinked, trying to hide from its cruel brightness. In aftermath of that harsh split second, a cooling darkness engulfed him. The wave had passed, and in its place a cold numbness began to radiate through his body. Compared to the hot, searing pain of a moment before, the numbing chill was pure relief.
Time seemed to stop for him. Tavington knew instinctively what had just occurred, but his mind was in a sort of dull shock. All he wanted was for that moment of darkness to go on forever, because he knew that as soon as the moment broke and his eyes reopened, the pain of the living world would flood back again. A strange sort of awareness came over him then. It was as if his body had completely ceased to exist, and all that remained of William Tavington, Colonel in command of His Majesty's Green Dragoons, was a core of emotion. The feelings he'd suppressed for all of his adult life suddenly had complete control, and he was unable to resist as they flooded through him.
Grief and regret lashed out first, freed of their prison at last. Tavington remembered a farm, and a family. Something had happened... the emotions were so strong they almost blocked out the details of the memory. A boy... yes, a young one. The boy had done something- something for the sake of his brother. And then a reflex. Tavington remembered raising the pistol, pulling the trigger. Doubt never touched him then, but now it too rushed out of his being to swell the memory.
And something else... A church? A pretty little thing, in a quaint town. Many people were around then. Their emotions touched him no more than his own. This time the reflex came in words. An order given, and then there were flames. Emotions crushed by "logic," justified brutality. He was as deaf to their cries as he was to those of his own heart. A heart no longer plated with steel, stripped of its stone. Now it broke.
Something different... a happier memory... Friendship? Yes, even he'd had a friend, though he'd never dared to think of the man as such before now, much less treat him like one. A brother, a comrade, as much as a subordinate... Tavington struggled to find the name, as the details began to fade... Bordon! Yes... But this man was gone now, one of many to pay for Tavington's crimes. His cruelty and blindness had, in the end, spared no one, friend nor foe... much less himself.
Himself... his own... fate? Reality started to creep back in, and Tavington tried despirately to push it away, shove it back into the shadows. But it was persistent and his strength was gone. There had been a battle... he'd ordered a charge... yet another thoughtless mistake. What had become of his men? He was blind to them, and saw only the enemy... there, across the field! So close! That man!. Fear and confusion, a memory of anger? Hatred? Yes, he was tied to this man... their fates interwoven. Tavington remembered charging... the horse's footfalls were fast and hard, his sabre raised. And then... air... the horse was gone! Pain and anger again... they fought... Tavington remembered hatred. His own did not at all compare to the hatred in that man's eyes... His eyes!
His core seemed to ripple, and for a moment light returned. A flash... smoke and men running... and that man. He was saying something, but Tavington could not hear. The window began to close again. Suddenly he wanted to stay, to beg... Don't let the dark come back! Help me! But the man's eyes were colder than the dark had been... the man... memory said his name was Martin... He was holding something, but the light was already faded too much for Tavington to see what. Something tickled at his throat, and the window closed, bringing darkness down around him... He reached out to it as his mind echoed one final whisper...
'I'm sorry...'
Classification: character drama Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: My idea for this short fic developed while I was flipping through my favorite book of poetry, The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen. Owen was a British poet who was killed in the final days of World War I, a week before the armistice was signed. His war-time poems paint a pretty moving portrait of the British soldier, and I saw a strong connection in them to our dear Colonel Tavington. The fic's title stems from the poem "Dulce et Decorum Est," and translates roughly as "To Die For Your Country."
This poem and a few others can be found here (University of Toronto, Representative Poetry Online): http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/authors/owen.html
Plot Summary: In the blink of an eye before his death at Cowpens, Colonel Tavington reflects on his actions and opens his arms to fate.
****************
"I knew that in that flower he saw a hope Of living on, and seeing again the roses of his home." ~"Beauty" Wilfred Owen, 1917
Martin spun, a bayonet tipped rifle raised in his hands, and in the split second it took Tavington to register his enemy's movement it was already too late. An explosion of pain rocketed through every fiber of his body, centered somewhere in his midsection. The vibration spread from that center point, rippling outward, and for a moment it consumed him. A brilliant flash of white light dazzled his vision, and he reflexively blinked, trying to hide from its cruel brightness. In aftermath of that harsh split second, a cooling darkness engulfed him. The wave had passed, and in its place a cold numbness began to radiate through his body. Compared to the hot, searing pain of a moment before, the numbing chill was pure relief.
Time seemed to stop for him. Tavington knew instinctively what had just occurred, but his mind was in a sort of dull shock. All he wanted was for that moment of darkness to go on forever, because he knew that as soon as the moment broke and his eyes reopened, the pain of the living world would flood back again. A strange sort of awareness came over him then. It was as if his body had completely ceased to exist, and all that remained of William Tavington, Colonel in command of His Majesty's Green Dragoons, was a core of emotion. The feelings he'd suppressed for all of his adult life suddenly had complete control, and he was unable to resist as they flooded through him.
Grief and regret lashed out first, freed of their prison at last. Tavington remembered a farm, and a family. Something had happened... the emotions were so strong they almost blocked out the details of the memory. A boy... yes, a young one. The boy had done something- something for the sake of his brother. And then a reflex. Tavington remembered raising the pistol, pulling the trigger. Doubt never touched him then, but now it too rushed out of his being to swell the memory.
And something else... A church? A pretty little thing, in a quaint town. Many people were around then. Their emotions touched him no more than his own. This time the reflex came in words. An order given, and then there were flames. Emotions crushed by "logic," justified brutality. He was as deaf to their cries as he was to those of his own heart. A heart no longer plated with steel, stripped of its stone. Now it broke.
Something different... a happier memory... Friendship? Yes, even he'd had a friend, though he'd never dared to think of the man as such before now, much less treat him like one. A brother, a comrade, as much as a subordinate... Tavington struggled to find the name, as the details began to fade... Bordon! Yes... But this man was gone now, one of many to pay for Tavington's crimes. His cruelty and blindness had, in the end, spared no one, friend nor foe... much less himself.
Himself... his own... fate? Reality started to creep back in, and Tavington tried despirately to push it away, shove it back into the shadows. But it was persistent and his strength was gone. There had been a battle... he'd ordered a charge... yet another thoughtless mistake. What had become of his men? He was blind to them, and saw only the enemy... there, across the field! So close! That man!. Fear and confusion, a memory of anger? Hatred? Yes, he was tied to this man... their fates interwoven. Tavington remembered charging... the horse's footfalls were fast and hard, his sabre raised. And then... air... the horse was gone! Pain and anger again... they fought... Tavington remembered hatred. His own did not at all compare to the hatred in that man's eyes... His eyes!
His core seemed to ripple, and for a moment light returned. A flash... smoke and men running... and that man. He was saying something, but Tavington could not hear. The window began to close again. Suddenly he wanted to stay, to beg... Don't let the dark come back! Help me! But the man's eyes were colder than the dark had been... the man... memory said his name was Martin... He was holding something, but the light was already faded too much for Tavington to see what. Something tickled at his throat, and the window closed, bringing darkness down around him... He reached out to it as his mind echoed one final whisper...
'I'm sorry...'