A/N: So I've been wrestling with the idea of writing a Tavington fic for a while now (like, years, lol) but never could find the inspiration or decent idea for a story. Then i was rewatching the movie for the hundredth time (ugh, it's so good) and I thought of this. It's *kind* of a redemption story, but focused on romance? Idk. I just thought it'd be fun to try. See what you think *insert virtual shrug here*
Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.
There is love in your body but you can't hold it in
It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin
Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks
And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts
Hardest of Hearts - Florence + The Machine~
Chapter one: A Crossing of Paths~
Lukewarm liquid seared down William Tavington's throat, the burning sensation having left him long ago.
He slammed his glass onto the table for what must have been the hundredth time, and the bartender poured him another. He'd been here so damned long he hadn't even had to call for another drink. His mind swam. His gaze faltered. His posture was just barely respectable. But what did it matter? His reputation was already tarnished, ripped to pieces and shredded along with his dignity.
Liberty! The newspapers had declared.
Yorktown Is Won! The headlines had shouted.
The World Turned Upside Down!
Bloody ridiculous. The only one whose world had been turned upside down was his, and not in the least any of these petty colonials'. Good God, how had he gotten here? He had been one of America's most feared men, second only to General Cornwallis. He'd been leader of the green dragoons, for God's sake. And now, to be reduced to...this; wasting his time at taverns and drinking until he could hardly stand, penniless and withering away to nothing. Shameful.
After the war had officially come to an end, William Tavington expected nothing less than to return home and forget the events prior to the defeat of his countrymen had ever occurred. To his shock, however, not only was he not permitted to board the ship home, but the order had come directly from His Majesty Himself. Apparently He had received word that Tavington and his band of dragoons had been using tactics that were...less than gentlemanly, and upon hearing of his apparent failure and brutality, forbade him from making the return trip to Britain.
He suspected General Cornwallis to be the messenger bird flittering around the King's ear, but he would never know; after the Battle of Cowpens, Tavington had broken off from the General, his band of dragoons scattered. He had found Cornwallis' eventual surrender at Yorktown, though reluctant, to be laughable. The man prided himself in strategy yet insisted on sending Tavington to do his dirty work, and still it was he who had been branded a murderous, brutal traitor to his country's standards, and the fat old oaf who got to return home to his wife and children and riches and comforts. Not him. Never him.
The only satisfaction he had was knowing that the same had been done to his other dragoons, though he would never know what became of them, as they had all disbanded and scattered once it became clear they were not returning home. A portion of them had been hanged, or so he'd heard.
He hadn't known what to do with himself those first few months. His fortune was inaccessible from America, and his entire country shunned him as though he were the Devil. Perhaps he was, but his victories far outweighed his defeats. He was certain that, had Cornwallis followed suit in his tactics on the battlefield, things would have turned out much differently. But again, he would never know.
He fled the Carolinas and traveled through Virginia, eventually venturing into Ohio when his curiosity got the better of him. He couldn't help but see the land that might have been his, should have been his. He had been expecting beautifully untamed lands, touched by only savages, but what he had found was...less than spectacular. Ohio was very flat, with nothing but gentle rolling hills and plains for miles. He resided there for several years, having spent the last of his military earnings on the trip, and procured work at a lumber mill under a name that was not his own in order to earn enough to return to South Carolina where he was more familiar. He hated it, having to relegate himself to such a lesser form of living, but he would do what must be done. And that part of him would never change.
It had been seven years now, since he had become a lesser man, degraded to a lower version of himself, and at forty-four years of age, his only consolation was the simple knowledge that his life was at least halfway over. The initial fear and paranoia he felt at returning to South Carolina - to the state he had caused the most grief - faded after a couple of years. Either the people he had tormented were dead, or had moved to other, less tainted areas of the country. Old faces that posed a potential threat to his way of living (if it could even be called such a thing at this point) had long ago faded to make way for new, oblivious strangers. Though there was still one face he feared to look upon again. One that haunted his dreams and floated on the surface of his mind at every waking hour, and one whom he certainly could never forget.
Tavington swished around the ale in his glass before tipping it down his throat, nearly falling from his chair in the process. He slammed the glass down onto the counter once more and glared drunkenly at the tender.
"Another." He sneered.
The man narrowed his eyes at the ex colonel, drying another patron's glass with a rag. "I think not, sir. That will be another shilling at least."
The room became very tense as they exchanged stern glances with one another, Tavington all but challenging him to do something about it. Had he still retained his status with the green dragoons, he had no doubt this man would be quaking in his boots. How dare he deprive him of the one thing he had left in this life to enjoy. Angrily, Tavington reached across the counter, vainly attempting to swing at the man on the other side.
"Wha- how dare you! Out with you! Out!"
He ignored his protests, fighting even when two other men grabbed him and forcibly removed him from his seat. They led him to the doors and threw him out, and he stumbled in the mud as he whirled around to face his offenders.
"And do not come back!" The tender shouted, having the nerve to dust his hands of the filth he hadn't even needed to touch.
The two men who had tossed him into the streets nodded their approval of the man's words, and all three turned back inside.
Brimming with hatred, Tavington spit at their retreating backs, but no clever words or bitter remarks came to him. He turned and turned again, swaying on his feet like a graceless dancer before his surroundings began to vigorously spin around him.
He was vaguely aware of a figure coming towards him when he fell to the ground in a muddy heap, and his world went black.
Margaret knelt down to the man passed out at her feet, gently rocking him to see if he would wake.
She checked him for injury, looking over his person and finding him to be in well enough shape, aside from his drunken state.
"Shall we help him, Miss O'Neil?" Her servant and good friend, Kitch, asked.
She reached down and tucked a muddy string of hair out of his face. She tilted her head.
"Yes, I think so."
Kitch rolled the man over and tossed him over his shoulder, setting him down in the wagon full of goods they had purchased earlier in the day.
A/N: I've got 7 chapters written so far, and I'm really hoping to turn this into a full fledged finished story. We'll see though, huh? Haha XD