Disclaimer: I own no one in this. All characters are from the Patriot.
The night sky had barely begun to lighten to early dawn, yet he had already been up for an hour, never one for much sleep. Glancing over at the other tents that surrounded his, he listened to the silence, broken occasionally by the neigh of a horse or a particularly loud snore from one of his men. They would be waking soon.
Walking with no certain purpose, he left the crowded area of tents and wandered into the nearby woods, marveling at the surroundings as his sharp icy eyes took in every detail. The massive trees keeping watch over all that happened below as their wide boughs blocked out nearly all of the light. The swift and alert squirrel that scurried across the needle-ridden path before him and disappeared into a nearby bush, only to appear moments later as it scaled its way up a tree and into the fog that hung low over the wood. As he continued on the path, needles and dead leaves crunched softly underfoot while the small, yet haunting cry of a bird echoed within the trees. Indeed, this was a mysterious and beautiful country.
Making his way to a small stream nearby, the man knelt down, reaching his hands into the biting cold water and splashed some on him whilst he reveled in the refreshing feel of its icy fingers upon his face as he looked down at his reflection, laughing a soft and cruel, yet doleful laugh, for that was simply what it was. It was what he was. A reflection of his former self. Who was he? What had molded him to the point to where he was hardly more than a ghost? Was it society and its strict expectations that it had placed upon him? Was it the turmoil that hung over him like a constant shadow? Was it the pain and rage that ate away his soul and ability to feel? Or was it simply the hard and strenuous military life that he led?
He shook his head but continued to stare, his eyes intense and unblinking. He remembered coming here in search of a new life, to shed his old skin and start anew. But hope for that seemed dimmer now as disapproval was all that dwelt in the eyes of his superiors who were naught but angered at his efficiency and brutality, and many wanted him dead. Even his own men would not have been too upset if a bullet slapped him and ended his days.
The man raked the water with sudden violence, marring his countenance on its surface. He shook his head and stood up slowly, looking down at his war-roughened hands and smiled to himself. The fools! It wouldn't be a bullet to end his life. It was much too late for that. No, William Tavington had died years ago, long before the war had begun.
Turning back towards the path, the Butcher breathed in the the crisp, lightly scented autumn air as he strode back the way from whence he came and disappeared into a thick blanket of fog.