Tavington
Chapter One: A Child of the Blood, part I
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first fanfic for fanfiction.net. Basically, I'm a big Tavington fan. I've written lots of stories about him but this is the first one I'm submitting. It's not finished yet. This is just chapter one. Don't worry, there's more coming soon.
Basically, I wanted to write about Tavington's past, present, and (disturbingly enough) his future.
ATTENTION READERS: If you like this fic, write fics yourself, or are a fan of The Patriot, the Revolutionary War, or Dragoons in general. Then please come and check out the first BRITISH DRAGOON MESSAGE BOARD RPG! Everyone is welcome to apply to become part of the game. http://pub34.ezboard.com/bthenewlegionrpg
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the characters from The Patriot, all of the other characters in this story are (to the best of my knowledge) original creations.
"Alive! Of course he's alive. Did you think a little something like that could kill someone like him?"
He knew that voice; time couldn't erase memories of a voice like that. It was brash, good-natured, common, but there was something about it. It was a voice with an edge like a well sharpened saber. It was a voice with deadly intent.
"And don't ask me what I'm doing here or how I got here. It'll get back to that Thompson fellow somehow. Then I'll never be rid of him."
"Yes, m'lord."
"Why the Parliament doesn't go about exterminating cockneys is beyond my imagination. They multiply like rabbits. That Thompson came from a brood of thirteen. Thirteen! Can you imagine that? And the mother was drunk the whole time."
"Yes, m'lord."
"Oh, stop saying 'yes, m'lord' already. I'm retired. I don't go about in a red jacket anymore. Do I?"
"No, m. I mean, no, sir."
Col. William Tavington struggled against the effects of the laudanum. He hated the drug. The pain in his neck was better than dulled senses. He could have ignored any other voice. Captain Wilkins? Lord Cornwallis? What did they matter? This voice, however, belonged to someone who did.
"It's yours," Dr. Moorville said in his distinctive voice, smiling. "It does my heart good to see it back where it should be, in the hands of a rightful heir, a child of the blood."
"Honestly, hasn't the poor thing been through enough already?" Morganna Tavington exclaimed with great exasperation. "His dear mother dead all these years and his father only just yesterday buried. And now you want to take him away to God only knows where and train him to be one of those horrid dragoons."
"We're not horrid," Mooreville replied in a hopeless attempt to pacify the outraged woman. "You only say that because you still hate your father. He was a great man you know."
William Tavington XIII, age nine, stared at the silver pendant dangling from Mooreville's clenched fist. He liked it very much indeed, and was quite disappointed by the fact that his Aunt seemed to be doing everything she could to keep it from becoming his. Why was she so angry anyway? And what in the world was a dragoon?
"Oh, everyone tells me my father was a great man. They didn't know him like I did. No one can rightfully judge my father except his own children. No one. Not even you. I don't care how many times he came to the aid of his king or his country, he was still horrid. That's the only word that can describe him. My brother may have been a fool and a drunkard, but, at least, he had enough sense to stay away from you and your horrid ways."
Mooreville ran a hand through his shiny silver hair. He was barely forty, but already gray. His hair was a perfect match for the pendant he held, a pendant in the shape of a silver dragon.
"We didn't want your brother. Your brother didn't have the talent."
"There is no such thing as the talent," Morganna stated matter-of-factly. She turned and grabbed young William by the wrist. Her dark blue skirts stirred up dust from the long neglected floor of the library.
Mooreville reached into one of the pockets on his red jacket with green trim, pulled out a box, and replaced the dragon pendant inside.
"There is. You just refuse to believe it."
Morganna scrunched up her face defiantly. She was twenty-eight but looked like a sixty year-old matron. Her expression of defiance wasn't a pretty sight.
"I think we've had quite enough of your ramblings for today, Mr. Mooreville. I would show you to the door, but I believe you know the way. You should have no trouble showing yourself out."
"Very well, madam," he bowed quite low, turned, left the library.
Alone now, Morganna focused her attention on the child whose wrist she was still holding. Those eyes.
"What's the talent?" he asked.
The question startled Morganna. She had so hoped he wouldn't ask that she hadn't bothered to prepare a reasonable reply.
"Nothing you need concern yourself with, child."
Young William was not so easily discouraged, a trait he shared with his twenty-eight year-old matron of an aunt.
"Tell me, Aunt Morganna."
For the first of innumerable times in their relationship Morganna Tavington's pleasant personality gave way to her own inner darkness.
"You are never to ask me about that again," she stated darkly. "You will never ask me again. Do you understand?"
William didn't say anything.
When the headmistress of St. Agnes' Academy for the Training and Refinement of Young Ladies (Tavington had always thought it an altogether too long name) finally passed away after losing a long battle with consumption the last person anyone had expected to replace her was Morganna Tavington. First of all, she wasn't even a noblewoman. She was simply the daughter of a minor officer in the king's service. Secondly, she was a prime example of the inherent flaws that were common to those with Tavington blood. She was dark and severe, unwilling to put up with any sort of foolishness, quick to anger, and possessed a certain dignity quite unnatural to members of her social class.
Though most still argued that the position of headmistress should have been given to Lady Margaret Worthington, the senior member of staff, no one could disagree with the fact that Morganna was an efficient manager of people. The girls were always on time for meals, classes, and church. They were clean, neat, respectful, and spoke perfect English. These were the things that Morganna demanded from them, and everyone had seen her fiery temper flair enough to know that they didn't want to disappoint her.
Everyone knew that Morganna's father had left her a rather substantial inheritance, most likely all he had managed to save during his decades in the army, but the headmistress absolutely refused to touch it. She preferred to dress in plain clothes that she had sewn herself, her dresses were either gray, navy, or black.
"Money is the root of all evil," Morganna often reminded her students. She often reminded members of the staff of this as well, but with them she often added. "I would know. My father was certainly evil."
"Dreadful man," Morganna remarked more to herself than to her young nephew she was half-leading half-dragging up the stairs. Morganna tended to do everything quickly, climbing stairs was no exception.
William was by no means an idle child he simply couldn't help but stare. He was accustomed to the house of his drunken father, pools of ale on the floor, broken glass, smoke, cards scattered about. Compared to that, St. Agnes' Academy for the Training and Refinement of Young Ladies could have been Buckingham Palace.
"Come along boy!" Morganna snapped, giving his arm a painful tug. "You act as though you've never been inside a house before. It isn't polite to stare, you know."
William did know, only he had always assumed that it was impolite to stare at people. It wasn't like chairs, tables, and windows cared if you stared at them.
They turned off the stairs and into a long hallway lined with numerous doors. Some of the doors were marked with names, others with numbers.
"Dreadful, dreadful," Morganna continued. "Father's dead. Why can't they leave me in peace? It isn't as though I believe in any of their tomfoolery."
They came to a set of large double doors. Morganna reached for one of the French handles and flung the door inward. This was another of her very unladylike qualities. She had never been gentle, neither with people nor with things.
The room beyond the doors was quite large. The ceiling was tall, and massive windows let in shafts of golden light. In thirty or so chairs arranged in a crude semi-circle were seated the students of St. Agnes'. They were all daughters of noble families, prim and proper, dressed in fashionable new dresses. The teachers and other members of staff stood behind the rows of girls, all wearing their sternest expressions.
Morganna shoved William into the room, in full view of the students and staff. He felt oddly self-conscious, though he didn't know that was how he felt at the time. Up until then he never had a need to feel that way. What did it matter how you looked when your father only bothered to look at you when he was about to hit you?
"May I present my nephew, my late oldest brother's son, William Tavington XIII."
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first fanfic for fanfiction.net. Basically, I'm a big Tavington fan. I've written lots of stories about him but this is the first one I'm submitting. It's not finished yet. This is just chapter one. Don't worry, there's more coming soon.
Basically, I wanted to write about Tavington's past, present, and (disturbingly enough) his future.
ATTENTION READERS: If you like this fic, write fics yourself, or are a fan of The Patriot, the Revolutionary War, or Dragoons in general. Then please come and check out the first BRITISH DRAGOON MESSAGE BOARD RPG! Everyone is welcome to apply to become part of the game. http://pub34.ezboard.com/bthenewlegionrpg
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the characters from The Patriot, all of the other characters in this story are (to the best of my knowledge) original creations.
"Alive! Of course he's alive. Did you think a little something like that could kill someone like him?"
He knew that voice; time couldn't erase memories of a voice like that. It was brash, good-natured, common, but there was something about it. It was a voice with an edge like a well sharpened saber. It was a voice with deadly intent.
"And don't ask me what I'm doing here or how I got here. It'll get back to that Thompson fellow somehow. Then I'll never be rid of him."
"Yes, m'lord."
"Why the Parliament doesn't go about exterminating cockneys is beyond my imagination. They multiply like rabbits. That Thompson came from a brood of thirteen. Thirteen! Can you imagine that? And the mother was drunk the whole time."
"Yes, m'lord."
"Oh, stop saying 'yes, m'lord' already. I'm retired. I don't go about in a red jacket anymore. Do I?"
"No, m. I mean, no, sir."
Col. William Tavington struggled against the effects of the laudanum. He hated the drug. The pain in his neck was better than dulled senses. He could have ignored any other voice. Captain Wilkins? Lord Cornwallis? What did they matter? This voice, however, belonged to someone who did.
"It's yours," Dr. Moorville said in his distinctive voice, smiling. "It does my heart good to see it back where it should be, in the hands of a rightful heir, a child of the blood."
"Honestly, hasn't the poor thing been through enough already?" Morganna Tavington exclaimed with great exasperation. "His dear mother dead all these years and his father only just yesterday buried. And now you want to take him away to God only knows where and train him to be one of those horrid dragoons."
"We're not horrid," Mooreville replied in a hopeless attempt to pacify the outraged woman. "You only say that because you still hate your father. He was a great man you know."
William Tavington XIII, age nine, stared at the silver pendant dangling from Mooreville's clenched fist. He liked it very much indeed, and was quite disappointed by the fact that his Aunt seemed to be doing everything she could to keep it from becoming his. Why was she so angry anyway? And what in the world was a dragoon?
"Oh, everyone tells me my father was a great man. They didn't know him like I did. No one can rightfully judge my father except his own children. No one. Not even you. I don't care how many times he came to the aid of his king or his country, he was still horrid. That's the only word that can describe him. My brother may have been a fool and a drunkard, but, at least, he had enough sense to stay away from you and your horrid ways."
Mooreville ran a hand through his shiny silver hair. He was barely forty, but already gray. His hair was a perfect match for the pendant he held, a pendant in the shape of a silver dragon.
"We didn't want your brother. Your brother didn't have the talent."
"There is no such thing as the talent," Morganna stated matter-of-factly. She turned and grabbed young William by the wrist. Her dark blue skirts stirred up dust from the long neglected floor of the library.
Mooreville reached into one of the pockets on his red jacket with green trim, pulled out a box, and replaced the dragon pendant inside.
"There is. You just refuse to believe it."
Morganna scrunched up her face defiantly. She was twenty-eight but looked like a sixty year-old matron. Her expression of defiance wasn't a pretty sight.
"I think we've had quite enough of your ramblings for today, Mr. Mooreville. I would show you to the door, but I believe you know the way. You should have no trouble showing yourself out."
"Very well, madam," he bowed quite low, turned, left the library.
Alone now, Morganna focused her attention on the child whose wrist she was still holding. Those eyes.
"What's the talent?" he asked.
The question startled Morganna. She had so hoped he wouldn't ask that she hadn't bothered to prepare a reasonable reply.
"Nothing you need concern yourself with, child."
Young William was not so easily discouraged, a trait he shared with his twenty-eight year-old matron of an aunt.
"Tell me, Aunt Morganna."
For the first of innumerable times in their relationship Morganna Tavington's pleasant personality gave way to her own inner darkness.
"You are never to ask me about that again," she stated darkly. "You will never ask me again. Do you understand?"
William didn't say anything.
When the headmistress of St. Agnes' Academy for the Training and Refinement of Young Ladies (Tavington had always thought it an altogether too long name) finally passed away after losing a long battle with consumption the last person anyone had expected to replace her was Morganna Tavington. First of all, she wasn't even a noblewoman. She was simply the daughter of a minor officer in the king's service. Secondly, she was a prime example of the inherent flaws that were common to those with Tavington blood. She was dark and severe, unwilling to put up with any sort of foolishness, quick to anger, and possessed a certain dignity quite unnatural to members of her social class.
Though most still argued that the position of headmistress should have been given to Lady Margaret Worthington, the senior member of staff, no one could disagree with the fact that Morganna was an efficient manager of people. The girls were always on time for meals, classes, and church. They were clean, neat, respectful, and spoke perfect English. These were the things that Morganna demanded from them, and everyone had seen her fiery temper flair enough to know that they didn't want to disappoint her.
Everyone knew that Morganna's father had left her a rather substantial inheritance, most likely all he had managed to save during his decades in the army, but the headmistress absolutely refused to touch it. She preferred to dress in plain clothes that she had sewn herself, her dresses were either gray, navy, or black.
"Money is the root of all evil," Morganna often reminded her students. She often reminded members of the staff of this as well, but with them she often added. "I would know. My father was certainly evil."
"Dreadful man," Morganna remarked more to herself than to her young nephew she was half-leading half-dragging up the stairs. Morganna tended to do everything quickly, climbing stairs was no exception.
William was by no means an idle child he simply couldn't help but stare. He was accustomed to the house of his drunken father, pools of ale on the floor, broken glass, smoke, cards scattered about. Compared to that, St. Agnes' Academy for the Training and Refinement of Young Ladies could have been Buckingham Palace.
"Come along boy!" Morganna snapped, giving his arm a painful tug. "You act as though you've never been inside a house before. It isn't polite to stare, you know."
William did know, only he had always assumed that it was impolite to stare at people. It wasn't like chairs, tables, and windows cared if you stared at them.
They turned off the stairs and into a long hallway lined with numerous doors. Some of the doors were marked with names, others with numbers.
"Dreadful, dreadful," Morganna continued. "Father's dead. Why can't they leave me in peace? It isn't as though I believe in any of their tomfoolery."
They came to a set of large double doors. Morganna reached for one of the French handles and flung the door inward. This was another of her very unladylike qualities. She had never been gentle, neither with people nor with things.
The room beyond the doors was quite large. The ceiling was tall, and massive windows let in shafts of golden light. In thirty or so chairs arranged in a crude semi-circle were seated the students of St. Agnes'. They were all daughters of noble families, prim and proper, dressed in fashionable new dresses. The teachers and other members of staff stood behind the rows of girls, all wearing their sternest expressions.
Morganna shoved William into the room, in full view of the students and staff. He felt oddly self-conscious, though he didn't know that was how he felt at the time. Up until then he never had a need to feel that way. What did it matter how you looked when your father only bothered to look at you when he was about to hit you?
"May I present my nephew, my late oldest brother's son, William Tavington XIII."