A steady breeze traveled through the camp, rocking the foundation of their tent. As Annabelle gained consciousness, she realized that her body was drenched in a cold sweat. The icy breeze from outside stung her skin as she moved, but any discomfort seemed to slip away when she saw who was by her side.
He was seated in a flimsy wooden chair, resting his head atop both of his arms which were folded on her cot, inches from her ribcage. The side of his face peeked through a curtain of his dark waves and Annabelle could see that his eyes were closed in sleep. She took a moment to admire him before speaking his name into the darkness.
As Tavington awoke, Annabelle tried to move closer; but the crippling pain in her abdomen from where the bullet had been removed prevented this.
"You must lie still." He whispered, stroking her damp forehead.
Annabelle reached for his hand. "I had to do it, William. Please understand. I had to do it to save you."
After a moment of searching for words, he nodded, expressionless. "Rest now."
Annabelle tried to shut her eyes, but it was impossible to relax. The more she hunted for an explanation for her actions, the more her body seemed to tremble in response to the cold. He moved back to his chair and pulled it as close to her cot as possible and, with great carefulness, rested his head against her heart. He listened closely, savoring every one of its beats.
"I do love nothing in the world so well as you." Annabelle recalled aloud as her shaking subsided.
He smiled at this. "I thought you'd appreciate some Shakespeare. His words are immortal."
"My poems won't last a year after I'm gone." Annabelle said, half joking.
"Oh, my love. That is where you are wrong." He held back his tears as he listened to the weakness of her heartbeat and the shallowness of her breath. "The world has already immortalized you. You see Annabelle, you are like one of your fireflies; destined to grace this world with your light for a short period of time. But everything that you brought light to on your journey; every darkened pathway in the wood, every tree that stands lonesome and forlorn in an empty field… will remain eternally grateful for the gift of light that you bestowed upon them in their darkest hour."
Annabelle laughed only slightly as she meditated on his words. "As will every charming soldier who had no idea what fireflies were before meeting me." She traced the edge of his face with her trembling finger. "I loved you instantly."
"I still have no idea why." After a moment, he rose. From outside of the tent, he could see the softly diffused light of morning against the horizon. "Promise me something, Annabelle. I am to leave for battle at daybreak. Promise me that when I return, I will find you waiting."
She breathed deeply, feeling for the first time in her life, shrouded by her own mortality. The space was so cold and the world seemed to be growing darker despite the rising of the sun. She didn't want to make a promise that she could not keep.
"There is a piece of land," Tavington continued, passionately, "that I have been promised with my victory today. I wish to take you there with me when all of this is over. Just imagine, Annabelle, a vast expansion of rolling hills and tall trees of your very own to explore and seek inspiration within. You would be queen of your own country and I would be your king." He rose and started to prepare his attire for the day.
She smiled, enamored by his whim. "And this would be your last battle?"
He turned on his heel, piercing her soul yet again with his pale eyes. "I am nothing if I am not victorious."
There was so much more to discuss; but they didn't have time. For in this same moment, a call for Tavington came from outside of the tent. He crossed to Annabelle's side. Before sliding on his leather gloves, he smoothed his bare fingers across her golden crown of hair.
"Promise me." He reiterated.
"I promise."
A second call sounded. Feeling torn, he stood and headed for the outside. But something stopped him. Annabelle watched intently as he moved back, hoping a fool's hope that he'd changed his mind. There was no exchange of words, however. Only his kiss. It was deep, passionate and while it was unlike her own, it was still administered in a fashion that made Annabelle feel as though she was the most precious thing in all the world. Despite her lack of strength, she pulled him in for more. When the soldier outside called his name for a third time, she could feel his breathing was disturbed. Several heavy tears fell from his eyes and streaked the curvature of her face.
"I need you to promise me something, too, William. Return to me. Even if it means compromising your plan."
He retreated into his own space, but only slightly. As the light touched his face, Annabelle could see that his veil of strength had been lifted once more. He could not report like this. He needed far more comforting than she did in this moment. She shifted, fighting against the pain and with her forehead pressed against his, affectionately, recited her most recent poem:
He came to me at summer's end
The man with tempest eyes
He was neither foe nor friend
But all the same, disguised
He seemed to me a passing storm
The kind that wounds the earth
And departing, leaves nature torn
While promising rebirth
In time, I came to miss the rain
This man with tempest eyes
Perhaps if I endured the pain
I'd find truth in his lies
He saw the whole world, after all
Through a foggy lens of grey
Perhaps, if I unbuilt this wall
He'd glimpse the light of day
"I believe with all my heart that you will be victorious, William. But if you ever have to choose between victory or love, I beg you, choose this."
Then he left, like a cold wave departing a warm, sandy shore.
Annabelle waited alone, watching as the twilight transitioned into day. Before long, delirium accompanied her fever. In it, she achieved a heightened sense of hearing. Every gunshot, every blast from the faraway cannon's mouths seemed to resound in her bones. She knew that if she allowed herself to rest, she would surely slip into the clutches of death. Instead, she imagined that she was at his side during the hours that followed; fighting the same battle, avoiding the same blows. She thought of her dear father, too, and prayed that both sides would come to a peaceful resolve.
When the echoes from the battlefield subsided, Annabelle's strength began to falter. It was the noises that stayed her consciousness, nothing more. Although she longed to know the outcome, she'd exhausted herself by remaining awake throughout the day. Her heartbeat slowed significantly as she slipped into an empty, dreamless sleep.
Several hours later, Annabelle awoke to find a young man, clothed in a Green Dragoon uniform seated in William's chair. She breathed in quickly, fearing the news that he carried.
"Miss Casey, is it?" The young man asked, politely. "I'm happy to see that you are awake, my name is-"
"Where is he?" She interrupted, uninterested in formalities.
"Two tents over. He wanted to be closer, but we are dealing with hundreds of injuries and proximity is one luxury that we just can't offer at the moment…"
Without a moment's hesitation, Annabelle forced herself upright. She hardly gave her legs the time to find stability- honestly, she didn't need to. His presence seemed to pull her from within. She raced through the campsite, barely clutching her gaping wound. The young Green Dragoon followed closely.
"Miss Casey, I beg you. Take a moment to prepare yourself, at least. His injuries are grievous."
Grievous was not a great enough word. As she approached him, she could see that both his coat and the lovely white cravat beneath his chin were heavily stained with blood. Despite the grisly appearance of his wounds, he appeared to be resting peacefully, without any pain.
"Nobody thought that he would make it this long. It's as good as a mystery." He continued, trying to restrain Annabelle. But it was too late. She fell into the open space beside him as gently as a leaf descends to the earth, never to rise again.
"It's not a mystery at all." Annabelle whispered, settling her head on his shoulder. She monitored his breaths closely. "He promised me that he would return. Now, neither of us will have to go alone."
The tent was open at the front; it was just close enough for Annabelle to look through. She could see that the smoke and dust were departing on a westbound breeze. The opening in the heavens allowed several tiny stars to become visible. She didn't know until he spoke his final words that he was witnessing the same thing:
"So… homeward the stars went." Tavington said in a broken whisper that was only loud enough for Annabelle to hear.
In one final surge of energy, they reached for one another. Their heartbeats seemed to synchronize along with their breaths for only a moment before they slipped away into silence in perfect unison.
Solomon did not learn of his daughter's death until much later. By the time he'd asked enough questions to learn of her whereabouts, Annabelle Casey and William Tavington had already been laid to rest unceremoniously in a large, group grave. The notebook that she had in her possession that day found its way back to him after several months; since it contained Solomon's letters home, it was customarily mailed by the British to the church's address.
Tireless hours of sifting through its pages for answers gave Solomon little satisfaction. So, he penned a handful of letters to the company who mailed it to him and eventually, to Lord Cornwallis himself. He confirmed that Annabelle was associated with one William Tavington and while nobody knew the exact details of this association; they had died of mortal wounds while locked in a tight embrace on the 17th of January 1781.
He initially felt betrayed and tried many times to disprove what he had learned; but the evidence in the notebook was too strong. In time, the grief that he felt for the loss of his daughter outweighed all other emotions.
One evening during the following Summer, Solomon was leaving the schoolhouse with a large stack of parchment that needed grading, when he stopped by the tree for an apple. He chose the freshest one that he could find and shined it against the soft material of his shirt. Before he could take a bite, the apple slipped from his clutches and rolled across the ground, towards the nearby wood. He pursued the apple and picked it back up when it became entrapped in the undergrowth.
As he looked up, he saw that the forest was beginning to come alive with the vibrant glow of a thousand tiny fireflies. He stood and watched them for a while as the distant sun vanished beneath the horizon. He remembered how Annabelle used to capture fireflies in canning jars for her younger sisters. He began to draw parallels with the poetry and sketches in the notebook that he carried with him still to this day. The apple tree, the fireflies, and the watchful red fox… it all started to make sense. This was where they had first met.
Solomon reached into his breast pocket and removed the tiny book. He knew its pages by heart, it seemed. Even if he were to let it go now, he will still be able to recall every letter of every word that Annabelle had surrendered to it. He sought out a place where the ground was soft, dug out a hole with his fingertips and placed the notebook inside. Before covering it with the cold, damp earth, Solomon muttered a quiet prayer. Although this tiny semblance of ground was the only piece of land that Tavington would come to have to his name, you could find within it all of his silent wishes in one:
A quiet place to watch the seasons turn, admire every vein of every tiny leaf above his head and to remain always at the side of the woman who could immortalize each fleeting moment of beauty with a poem.
Fin