Winter approached at an expedited pace. Silence covered the land. The cheerful duets of crickets and songbirds no longer graced the forest surrounding Annabelle's tiny town. But no matter how silent the outdoors had grown, the inside of the church had its own way of further stifling noise. Even when she lived alone, Annabelle never cared for silence. Especially, the deafening silence of domesticity. If she was to live in a house, or any structure for that matter, she wanted it to be filled with laughter, song and of course, the freedom and encouragement for recitations and conversation. Reverend Chelsea offered companionship, yes, but that seemed to be the extent of it.
She missed her father more and more with every passing day. He sent her a letter before the holiday season, asking her to forgive his absence. The second letter that Solomon sent in January, however, caused her greater pain.
Her lessons were moved to the schoolhouse again. She'd integrated her life into the community once more- or rather, as much as Annabelle and the townsfolk would allow. In the early evenings after her lectures were over, she would bundle up, collect her post and take Rascal out for a brief ride. The evening that she received this message was no exception. Except, of course, for the anticipation of reading her father's words once they reached the quiet hilltop where Annabelle had grown accustomed to reading both books and her post while Rascal nosed around for soft grasses amidst the frost.
She slid off of Rascal's back, plopped down on the driest patch of ground that she could find and tore into his letter:
My Dearest Daughter,
In less than two week's time, I will be fighting in the front line of what has been deemed the war's most decisive battle. To say that this summon does not terrify me would be a lie. However, knowing that I have someone to write home to- especially someone as brave as you, has granted me a sense of courage that I have been so desperately needing; while the knowledge that I have your prayers grants me a divine and precious sense of comfort that I will carry with me onto the battlefield. Please know that I am still praying for you and your William. I am almost certain that he and I will be sharing the field. It is my fondest hope that the three of us will be together someday soon and that we will graced again with the gift of family that we have both been desperately lacking over the last year. Remain joyful. For your joy has always been my greatest treasure.
Your Father,
Solomon Casey
At this point in her life, Annabelle was becoming very skilled at listening for current events. Most of the news that she received about the war was by way of gossipers on the streets or in church. She knew about the impending battle. Since Solomon's letter needed time to be delivered and the words of the townsfolk didn't indicate otherwise, she knew that it hadn't happened yet.
Before leaving, she held the letter close to her heart and prayed silently for her father… and for her William. She thought of him often, yes, but at this point, William Tavington seemed like nothing more than a pleasant dream she'd dreamt long ago. The incredibly thin hope of a future with him had been tucked safely away. It was too fragile, too precious for her to take out and admire. Until she learned of his fate, she forced herself to remain indifferent to the matter, save for the conversations that she had about him with God.
She decided that a longer ride would help her to clear her mind this evening. So, after allowing Rascal and herself enough time to rest up and enjoy the view, the pair headed into the forest and followed the stream for a while. The cold air was clear and easy to breathe for the most part, but after heading half-a-mile downstream, Annabelle's nose filled with the familiar and unpleasant scent of a burning building. Since the season called for woodfires in almost every household, she assumed that one might have gone awry. No more than ten minutes later, her suspicions were confirmed: on the horizon, a large structure; possible a ranch house was all ablaze with amber flames; large billows of smoke poured into the sky.
They drew closer, ready to provide assistance to anyone who might have been affected by the fire, but the surrounding area was clear. Annabelle and Rascal continued their search. They headed across the plain and back into the forest a ways. It wasn't long before they heard voices coming from the stream.
Even from far away, she recognized William Tavington. He was situated on a large rock beside the water, a handheld mirror in one hand and a blade for shaving in the other. His jacket had been removed and was hanging from a branch nearby; his hair, which was usually tied back neatly, was resting in dark waves on top of his shoulders. As she moved in, he caught sight of her reflection in his mirror and turned. His light eyes seemed to burn with frustration, as if she had disrupted a private ritual that was very important to him. He dropped his mirror in the stream and, possessed by his inner demon, drew his pistol.
"William? It's me."
He remained unchanged by her presence. Several of his comrades began to stir from behind the nearby trees. When they realized that the approaching woman carried no weapon and posed no real threat, they returned to their complacency.
"Don't you recognize me?"
He lowered the pistol slightly, allowing Annabelle to move closer and closer. His face relaxed but those eyes, those terrible tempest-colored eyes continued to glare. Until at last, Annabelle reached out and touched his hand, forcing him to drop the pistol to rest beside the mirror in the shallow water. Her hand moved upwards, softly grazing the sharp, handsome features of his face. With each caress, the storm behind his eyes settled more and more. She leaned inward, weaving her fingers slowly through his dark mess of hair.
Neither of them spoke. The only reciprocation that Annabelle received in that moment was the slightest lean in her direction as he pressed his forehead to hers. His breath, once again, was warm and intoxicating. It moved across her lips like a phantom's kiss. One brief moment of this sensation sparked a longing within her to explore him further. She closed her eyes, gathering just enough courage to take her life's greatest leap of faith:
To Tavington, it was unlike any kiss he'd ever received. It wasn't heavy or filled with lust; but instead, as delicate and gentle as the water that was lapping at their feet. She paused only slightly, awaiting his confirmation. He granted her further passage with the sweet, unusual gesture of untying the old white ribbon at the base of her braid and storing it in his pocket as a simple souvenir of this moment. Then, Annabelle proceeded in soft intervals of contact and breath, giving him the sensation that a fairy had landed on his lips with every touch.
He could never rest comfortably anymore. Whenever Tavington found himself lost in admiration for the world around him, he was always pulled back into reality by occupational demands. It came as no surprise to him that it was a call to arms that pulled him from Annabelle in this moment. He tore out of her sweet kiss and collected his pistol and mirror.
"Get yourself away from here." He started to prepare himself for combat as Annabelle shadowed him in defiance. From a distance, Annabelle saw a line of familiar men on horseback.
"I know them, William. Gabriel Martin is my good friend. Please, can't we try to reason with-"
"What did I just say, Annabelle?! Have you ever stopped to consider just how much trouble you would have saved yourself if you'd listened each time I've asked you to run?" It was not a demand, more like a plea. "Stay by the river and keep low. I will come to you when it is over. Will you do that for me, my love?"
Before either of them could move, gunfire broke out. Despite her desire to remain at his side, Annabelle was unarmed and intent on following through with his wishes. She watched from a distance as her friends fell one by one. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. Keeping her eyes locked on him, the man she loved, as he dodged death one second and delivered it another, didn't help in the slightest. When it came down to two, him and Gabriel, Annabelle started to gravitate towards them. There was no chance of reasoning with them earlier, yes, but perhaps now things would be different.
Neither Gabriel nor Tavington were aware of her approach. Even if she'd called out, they wouldn't have heard her in this pivotal moment. All that mattered was their dual, their marks, seeing the other dead at last. She saw that Gabriel had an edge before he did and that is why she ran- without giving it any thought, she ran. She leapt in front of the bullet and before it could reach him, it embedded itself deep in her mid-abdomen. Tavington dropped to her side in a cry.
"How?!" He asked, abandoning his pistol for her bloodied hand. "How could you do something so foolish!?"
"If you don't know by now, you are the fool, not I." The precious blush that nature had gifted her with was gradually vanishing from her cheeks and lips.
Gabriel watched them and seemed to know. "I know her." He said, seeing her face come into view as he moved closer.
"Take one more step, Boy. I dare you." Tavington warned, pressing on Annabelle's wound with all of his might to prevent any further blood loss..
"Please, let me help her." One glare from Tavington later, he knew that this wasn't going to happen. He matched his intensity, "I lost my wife today at your hand, Colonel. And I'm curious… how does it feel?"
There was no response. Gabriel escaped in the silence, knowing far well that vengeance could not be served under these circumstances. Meanwhile, Tavington remained by the stream, watching helplessly as the life of his beloved Annabelle spilled onto the cold ground in pools of crimson.