Yes, I am back. Yes, this is a new, rewritten chapter. I don't have a set schedule yet, as I also have school and another fanfic I am working on, but I will work to get one out as soon as I can. And while I've been gone, thank you to those that have followed and favorited this story. Enough rambling, enjoy the chapter!
1864
Peyton
So, this is how it was going to end. Me making a stupid mistake. Stupid. Why did I even do this? Now, I lay on the hard dirt, shot, and a red stain covering most of my, well, his, white shirt.
Why did I even believe I could do this? How could I have that naive hope that I would make it through this? Live to see him again?
At least it wasn't him. He was important, the one who had a bright future. Me, I was most likely to be married off, to just sit around until my husband wanted a child or something to do. Patrick, he would take over the business, make the world a better place. That's the type of man my brother was.
Those were my last thoughts before darkness took me.
24 hours earlier
"Patrick, no fair!" I yell, chasing him. He smiles at me mischievously, never missing a beat. That was until he abruptly stops.
I crash into him, finding myself on the grass. I quickly hop up, glaring at Patrick's smug expression, and smoothing out my navy blue dress.
"I can't help that I'm taller than you, Pey." He smirks, his hazel eyes, identical to my own, twinkling. The object I was trying in vain to get was a paintbrush, one that I needed.
Now, I wasn't short for my age. Patrick was just as tall as a giant.
Patrick Warner is 19, a year older than me. He had short brown hair and was at least 6'6. I stood at 5'6, with waist long blonde hair and hazel eyes. Picture the perfect southern belle and you would have me. The only difference was I didn't act like it.
Anyway, while I was supposed to be married in two years (ew), he was supposed to inherit our father's business. Patrick is the kindest and funniest person I know. He was the perfect child. Me, I was a troublemaker.
Rolling my eyes, I jump up, messing up my waves, and missing the paintbrush.
"Please?" I beg, hoping that my puppy dog face would work. I get the result I wanted; his expression morphs into one of adoration almost immediately.
"Alright." He mutters reluctantly, lowering his arm to hand me the paintbrush. I beam at him, before snatching the item and dashing back to the house.
I throw open the door, remembering to close it. That was only because of the many lectures I had concerning the subject. Whoops.
Back to the house. My family lived in a three story mansion. To me, it was too much. So, I mainly stayed in about two rooms: my bedroom or the dining room. And that was only when I wasn't in the gardens, walking the cobblestone paths.
Yeah, I hated staying still.
I continue through the house, trying to get to the dining room as fast as I can. I may or may not of tripped several times on the way.
Finally, I reach the dining room. My latest painting lay propped up on a stack books, my makeshift easel. Beside it was my sketchbook, sprawled open to show a cottage, intricately detailed. I wanted to build it one day, yet I know that was most likely never to happen. Unless vampires or some type of technology existed.
I was the artist of my family. I love drawing, painting, anything related to it. My father had even hung some of my works throughout the house.
I also happened to be the outdoorswoman too.
Patrick was the musician, with the angelic voice and natural affinity for any instrument he touches. I loved to play the piano alongside him and sing while he played his violin.
Mother was the chef, the definition of a goddess in the kitchen. She's one of the best in town, though many men aren't happy about that.
Father was the intelligent one. He was one of the most successful businessmen in the state. He could probably sell air and it would get an amazing profit.
I was pulled out of my thoughts by a knock on the door. I put down my paintbrush, picking up my skirts and running to the door.
As I open the door, I first see a flash of jet black hair. Once the door is fully open, I see a face I knew all too well. He was smiling his signature charming smile, but his blue eyes cold and calculating. I used to talk to him before he became arrogant and a bit obsessive. Now, he was a councilman in town. Also, he has a wish to marry me.
"Cole Edmond." I sigh, mentally wishing that I didn't pay any attention to someone at the door.
His smile widens as he sees who answers the door. It was almost like I could read his mind. At 18, I was the prime marrying age and as many suitors say, gorgeous.
I have been refusing to marry most of them since I was 16. I wanted adventure, not just some arranged marriage. If I were to marry, it would be for love, and I was perfectly content being by myself.
"How may I help you, Cole?" I ask, trying to sound polite. He smiles wide.
"Hello Peyton." He takes my hand, kissing it lightly. Remind me later to burn that hand. But for now, I wipe it on my skirts with a suppressed scoff.
"I see you still have that feisty spirit that I love so." He smirks.
Throughout the village, I was known to be independent, rebellious, and sarcastic. I don't follow rules that well and I certainly don't respect my elders unless they respect me also. Not very good in the eyes of the 'proper' townspeople.
"It's lovely to see you, my little flame." He winks. I roll my eyes. "But unfortunately, I am here for your brother, Patrick."
"I'm not yours." I protest, my eyes narrowed.
"Yet." He says. "Now, is your brother in?"
"Patrick's in." I tell him reluctantly. A bad feeling had started to form in my gut. "Come on in while I fetch him."
I lead him inside, to the living room before heading out to the patio. As I was leaving, I could feel his eyes on my back, making me have the chills.
As I head outside, I feel so much calmer. Patrick loved the outdoors almost as much as I do. He used to take me out to the forest when we were younger, when I was bouncing off the walls from boredom.
One day, I must have been at least eight, we saw a doe out in the woods. What still surprised me to this day was that the creature had nuzzled my hand before dashing off.
"Patrick?" I call out. "Come here!"
A disheveled Patrick appears from the trees, sheet music tucked under his arm.
"What is it, Pey?" He asks, stopping beside me.
"You have a visitor." I grumble. Almost immediately, his aristocratic behavior kicks in. I burst out laughing when I see all the leaves tangled in his brown locks.
"Let me fix that." I tell him, laughing softer. I pick out the remaining leaves, Patrick sending me a sheepish smile.
We start towards the living room, Patrick discarding his notes in the dining room. After, Patrick leads us to the living room.
As soon as we walk through the doors, Cole stands up, offering a hand to my brother.
"Ah, Patrick! It's nice to see you again." Cole states warmly. My brother glances at me from the corner of his eye.
"I've already had the pleasure of speaking to the lovely Peyton. I was quite happy to see her also. " Cole leers, sending a smirk my way. Patrick stiffins. He may have been a year older but he had always viewed my as his baby sister.
"Now, to the reason I'm here. I come on behalf of the Confederate Army." My eyes narrow as Cole says this. We lived in Virginia but we were neither on the Union or Confederates side. If you asked me, I would choose the Union.
"You have been drafted into the war." Those words took a second to sink. My mind starts to race, thoughts of Patrick holding a rifle. My kind hearted brother, who didn't even like killing flies. Patrick, my brother, my best friend, the sweetest person I know, leaving, fighting...dying in a war.
"Please be a dream." I whisper, fighting back tears. Patrick would go. He would be forced to go. He would leave me, his family, his friends, his home behind. But he would do it. I knew my brother. He would do it.
"This letter informs you where you are to go to be registered." Cole smirks my way for the thousandth time. This time, his eyes were shining. He knew Patrick was my world. And I was going to do my damndest to keep Patrick safe and away from the war torn fields. Away from that bastard.
Patrick could tell that I was plotting. He sends me a look that says 'Don't even try' and turns back to Cole, adopting a false smile. I could see in his eyes that he was terrified beyond belief. I hated seeing that look on his face.
"Thank you." He grounds out, taking the piece of paper. "I'll look it over."
"Perfect." Cole smiles. "I shall see you tomorrow at 2 pm!" He grins at me one final time and promptly walks to the front door. I hear the click after it shuts. I slowly turn towards Patrick, my face probably showing my heartbroken expression.
"Tomorrow." I whisper. Patrick's expression mirrors my own.
"One day." He mutters sadly. He pulls me into a hug, allowing me to hide my face in his chest.
"I might never get to see you again." A tear drops down my cheek.
"I know." He replies. We stay like that, holding each other, and crying silently until Mother barges in, Father close behind. She pulls us into a hug, Father close behind, and holds us like we were still children.
By morning, I had a plan. Overnight, I had packed a bag of Patrick's clothes, hats, and hair ties. But first, I was going to enjoy my time with him.
We ended up on the patio, me painting a landscape, Patrick playing his latest song on the violin. These were my favorite memories of him, us singing and playing into the night. Unfortunately, all things come to an end.
"Patrick?" I ask. The man looks up from his music. "You remember that painting I was working on that I refused to let you see?"
"Yeah." He murmurs hesitantly.
"Well, I finished it. Wanna see it?"
"Of course!" Patrick follows me up to my room, every step bringing a fresh swell of guilt. As he opens the door to my room and walks far enough, I slam the door shut, locking it. I hear Patrick start to bang against the door.
"Hey!" He shouts. "Peyton, let me out! I have to leave soon!"
I stifle a sob, about to lose my composure. "I can't let you do this." My voice breaks. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I attach my latest sketch, a drawing of a raven, to my letter. My goodbye letter.
"Peyton! Peyton! We can talk about this!" Patrick pleads. "Oh, who am I kidding. You're way too stubborn to back down. All I can say is be careful. Come back home to me when you can. If not, well, enjoy your life. I'll always love you."
"I love you too." I start to sob. Those were the last words I ever hear from my brother.
Hours later, I arrive at the campgrounds. On the way, I had changed into Patrick's clothes, now appearing as a shorter than average man.
Now, to the campgrounds appearance.
It was crowded, very crowded, almost to the point that the camp was twenty degrees warmer. And then there was the smell.
The camp was slightly uphill, a good strategy for extended visibility. It's what I would have done if I didn't have a bad feeling about the whole idea.
Tents were set in random places and crammed to create as much room as possible. Around the living areas, the grass was an unhealthy green, with the planning tent towards the middle. The skies at the moment were a dark gray and if I could paint my mood, it would look as gloomy as those clouds.
Men were everywhere. They wore gray uniforms, were carrying weapons, talking to fellow soldiers and nurses. Some were in heated arguments, even fighting. Those were the ones that I tried to avoid.
I hoped the terror I was feeling wasn't showing on my face. For a fleeting moment, I wished Patrick was with me. I banish the thought from my mind. The whole point of this was to keep him away from this hell.
I had always been the toughest out of the two of us. I remember a time when I came across Patrick near the treelines. Me, being five and curious, plopped down next to him. I remember asking him what was wrong. His response had infuriated me, even at such a young age.
Some children during his studies had been giving him a hard time for having such high marks. Victor, the main bully, had caused my brother to cry because he felt he couldn't do anything. I ended up breaking his nose. Patrick was left alone soon after that and the other children knew better than to bully him.
Tears started to form. Why did I lock him in that damn closet? I could have gone in the dead of the night. I wouldn't have this consuming guilt that made me want to turn around and ask for my family's forgiveness.
No, I was not going to cry. I did this to protect my brother. I did this to ensure he would live to inherit Father's business. I did this to ensure that he would live to have children and maybe see their children. Even though I will never get to see it.
Even if I did survive this war, I wouldn't be able to return home. I had broken several laws and most likely would be imprisoned or killed.
As I thought of it more, I realized how important Patrick was. He was the one my parents favored, smart and strong and talented. He couldn't be doomed to the misery of combat. Me, on the other hand… Father and Mother would heal, Patrick would move on. He would have to.
-o-
If I were to paint my mood, it would be different grays, blacks, and whites. The clouds were now a dark gray, showing a storm that would soon come. The camp was quiet, the first time all day. The bad feeling had only grown since I had arrived hours ago, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. I was on edge, and the sound of occasional arguing didn't lessen the feeling.
I was laying in the grass, trying to escape reality, when the feeling grew to an all time high. I try to ignore it, going back to my thoughts.
I was not book smarts, nowhere close to it actually. I was street smarts and a strategist. I had a vivid imagination and an artistic mind. I didn't do well with writing or verbally expressing my feelings.
Shouts ring across the grounds, interrupting my train of thought. I jump to my feet, searching for the threat's location.
The noise was coming from the north end of the camp. I was to the southeast. Now, why?
I find my answer in the form of blue uniformed soldiers. They were like ants from where I was, but spreading fast. The sound of gunshots follow the discovery of the soldiers.
They were attacking the camp.
I freeze, barely breathing, although my mind was racing. If I was caught, I was as good as dead. And I would be found soon.
That's what thaws me out. I spring into action, making a plan.
I rip of my hat, letting my hair fall free. My oversized boots are left in the grass. My gray coat is stripped from my body, leaving me in a white undershirt and black pants. I also made sure I had my knife sheathed.
I start to run, feeling the adrenaline pump through my veins. I run faster than I had in a long time. I run like a bird would fly in the wind. I run as if my life depended on it, well, I guess it did.
My survival instincts were kicking in, thoughts of Patrick and my family only propelling my legs. I dodge rocks, low branches, small hedges, anything in my path until I reach the small hill not far from the camp.
As I reach the hill, I start to smell the gunpowder. My shirt was damp with sweat and my ears rang from the gunshots. My hair was wavier than usual with the heat.
I knew I shouldn't of, but I turned back to the battle. Every gut feeling I had told me not to. Huh, I didn't even listen to myself.
The Union was winning. The few gray coats they had kept alive were shackled, and quite frankly, looked terrified.
Thunder starts to rumble and lighting lights the sky in bright white. Rain starts to pour, drenching me in seconds.
I didn't even see the one Union soldier that had grown closer and closer. Not until it was too late. When I did see him, he already had his gun raised and aimed.
Everything occurs in slow motion. He smiles in an unsettling way for what seems like a year. His finger slowly tightens around the trigger. A shot rings throughout the clearing. The bullet is released. The gun jerks backwards. I feel a burning pain in my stomach.
I look down at the source of the pain, my eyes widening with shock. A red splotch had formed on my undershirt. I look back up at the soldier before crumpling to the ground.
I hit the cold, wet earth with a thud. My hands fly down to the wound, feeling the sticky substance pouring out of the gunshot wound. It takes me a moment to comprehend what just occurred.
I was dying. I was dying slowly. I would never see my Patrick again.
Why was I so stupid? This was the most reckless stunt I had ever pulled. How did I even think I would survive? I didn't even make it a day! Just stupid.
"At least it wasn't Patrick." I whisper, as the world starts to fade.
The last thing I see is a pair of concerned, golden eyes.
So, I did delete the other chapters, but this is, to me, is better than the original. This chapter was really just a better written first chapter, but of the 13 original chapters, this is one of the few that are not changing. Also, looking back at the original chapters, I decided to change Peyton's power. It's going to be unique but similar to one of the Cullen's powers. I'll explain that in the next chapter 8D.