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kylorengarbagedump · 4 months ago

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Playing Soldier: Chapter 4

Read on AO3. Part 3 here. Part 5 here.

Summary: Ohh, okay, so that's why he's called The Butcher.

Words: 6100

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence/animal death

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia <3

YAY finally some horny content oh my god we were literally salivating to write some of it. Very much appreciate everyone reading and interacting - it literally makes our day!! I think we probably just have to admit to ourselves at some point this is becoming a full-blown fic, but what can we say, we simply love this petty cunt of a man LOL. Love y'all so so much! <3

“Colonel,” you said. “May I ask you something?”

William Tavington exhaled softly through his nose. “My answer to this inquiry is irrelevant.”

You twisted your lips in thought, nodding to yourself. He understood you well enough.

The ride so far had been quiet—you’d slept through most of the day and evening prior, awoke with horse hobbles on your ankles, and had them exchanged for rope when the redcoats had packed up camp. Before you’d left, Tavington had gathered you back on his mount and bound you into a human rucksack once more. You weren’t sure what time you’d set out, but the sky was still dark, and the crickets still chirped in song between the hoofbeats of the horses.

The sleep you’d had was deep and halfway restorative. With the addition of water and food, your head had stopped pounding and your body had stopped quaking. Despite the horrific obscenity of your thirst the day before, you vacillated between grateful for the colonel’s offering and furious you’d even been put in the position to be grateful for it.

There was also the confusion that it happened at all. Even if the British weren’t supposed to treat their prisoners the way he treated you, you’d thought you’d had an accurate read on him. He should want you weak. Suffering. Compliant. Since betraying that, he’d wound you off on a new, inspired approach.

“What is the plan for when we arrive in Charleston?”

“Give me the benefit of assuming that I am not inclined to reveal military strategy to you.”

“Not military strategy,” you said. You lowered your voice. “It’s about Grace.”

“Ah, first the soldier, now the negotiator.”

“Try to use those large ears of yours to listen,” you said. “I’m aware of why I’m being taken to Charleston. But Grace—she really doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t belong in those prisons.” You knew as well as most that the conditions inside the prison ships were as good a death sentence as any formal order to hang. The thought of her sick, starving, alone—your heart quickened. “She… I…”

“Your sister has, whether knowingly or unknowingly, aided and abetted the enemy.” The lack of interest in Tavington’s voice dripped from his teeth. “She will receive her punishment accordingly.”

You sighed in frustration. “She hasn’t, though,” you said. “I handled everything. I was the only one to speak with my father. I was the only one he trusted. I am the only one you want.”

“And we have you,” he replied brusquely. “Was there a point to this conversation other than demonstrating to me your capability to recall simple factual information?”

Leaning closer, you implored him. “I’ll—I’ll do whatever is needed. I’ll comply with your orders. I won’t try to run.” Desperation congealed in your throat. “Trade her for me. You lose nothing, and you gain my cooperation.”

“You know,” he said, “you may be an even worse negotiator than you are a soldier.”

“I’ll pledge loyalty to England!” you said. “Let her go and I’ll swear allegiance to King and Country.”

He snorted. “Certainly you don’t believe that to be of any conceivable value.”

“If you refuse, you get nothing from me,” you spat. “You can torture me or starve me or—or do whatever your general demands. I won't speak a word. I'll die. With everything I know.”

“Ever the little lionheart.” He tutted. “Fearsome.”

“You…” Blinking, you let out a breath. “You don’t think I can withstand it? You think I’ll break?” You balled your fists, your bandages shifted uncomfortably under your restraints. “After everything you've seen?”

“Your death is all but guaranteed either way,” he drawled. “I don’t see why your chosen path to the noose is of any consequence to me.”

“The consequence is—”

“My court-martial?” He said it so matter-of-factly that your jaw shut with a click. “Ah. You see, I think you’ve rather misjudged my standing with the General. Delivering you to Charleston will be more than sufficient to avert it, but thank you ever so much for your concern.”

If the British army had a commendation for obstinacy, you were certain he would have been the incumbent winner for the past lifetime. The letter you'd discovered from Cornwallis didn't say, deliver some colonial woman to me and be forgiven. It said actionable intelligence. And you were feeling far less than actionable at the moment.

“You’re bluffing.”

“Willing to bet your life on that?”

“Yes,” you said. “You know as well as I do that your general expects results. Without what I know, I'm nothing. I'm nobody.”

You wondered if Tavington suspected you to be bluffing about your supposed knowledge as egregiously as he was bluffing now. But you guessed he wasn’t willing to risk his career on abandoning the only lead he had—at least, far less willing than you were to risk your life for your sister's.

For a moment, all you could hear was the familiar sounds of the South Carolina nighttime chorus. Each of you rocked with his horse’s gait, back and forth, steps syncing with your breathing. There was no indication of his thought process, no tensing of his stomach, no twitching of his arms.

The last tool you had was supplication—which would require precision, but not deception. There was truly nothing you wanted more than to secure your sister’s safety. But the moment he sensed any deliberate manipulation of your tone, you knew he’d deny you.

You held your breath, became even quieter, murmuring towards his ear. “Colonel Tavington,” you said, a tinge of that desperation working its way onto your tongue. “Please. I’m… I’m begging you.”

Tavington straightened in his seat. Only by a hair—but he straightened. “Are you, now?” he said. “I don't believe I heard you.”

It took nearly all the strength you'd managed to gather over the past evening to swallow your rancor. Bastard.

“Please,” you said, only slightly louder than before. “I'm begging you, Colonel. Please, release Grace.”

“Hm.” Tavington was silent for a moment, then exhaled, lifting his chin. “No.”

Your jaw dropped. You weren't sure why you expected anything different, but it struck like a boulder to your chest regardless.

Fingers twisting together in your bondage, you ran through your options. You'd have to find some way to bargain for her freedom. If not for yours, then for something. Your home, the little patch of land your father had built it on, anything at all. You'd figure it out, you were sure of it, you just needed one person at Charleston to hear you out and—

“Enough with your ceaseless fretting,” Tavington said.

You blinked. So what if your brow was drawn and your lips were pursed and your forehead was crinkled—that didn’t give him the right to say that. You were allowed to think about whatever you wanted whenever you wanted. God, he irritated you. But the thought of giving him the satisfaction of your response irritated you more.

“It does no favors to your face.”

“I—excuse me?” You needed to stop making promises to yourself that were so easily broken. “I suppose instead I should adopt a habit where I look down my nose and sneer at everyone I pass?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “It would be more respectable than wrinkling your nose like a farm animal at every fleeting thought.”

“Do you have a talent for making all women feel this special, or did you reserve your charm for me?”

Tavington hummed. “I’m not certain what part of you qualifies as a woman.”

Heat came to your cheeks, and you barked a laugh. “Oh, no, I think you can remember which parts qualify,” you said. “If you think very hard about it.”

For one truly blissful moment, Tavington did not respond. Triumph resounded within you, deafening the tiny whispers of confusion that this past minute had wrought within you. What did he mean, does no favors to your face? How closely had he paid attention to your face? What about being reminded of your body had managed to quiet him, even for a breath? After all, he was the one so disenchanted with your breasts to begin with—you couldn’t imagine that his memory of them was particularly appealing.

“Hm?” he said. “Were you saying something?”

Or maybe he was still just toying with you, as he ever was.

To your right, your group passed a church that appeared still unoccupied for the moment. The sight had you rise in your seat, tighten around your captor. You must’ve arrived in Dorchester. You glanced behind you, seeking Shaw and Edwards for confirmation of your curiosity, but they avoided your gaze, craning their necks and shifting on their horses to focus on the road ahead. Beneath you, the ground flattened into a trodden dirt road.

The sky had lightened, the horizon spilling cream into its inky breadth. Just beyond it, the sun would rise—and you would be another day closer to rescuing Grace.

A scream echoed in the distance. Then a gunshot. Multiple gunshots. Tavington turned to stone beneath you, as did his horse. He raised a hand for his lieutenants to halt. You pressed closer to him, peering over his shoulder. Fire flashed in the darkness, shadows moving around the tabby walls of the fort you had been approaching. Your eyes widened, and you curled tighter to his back.

“Colonel?” said Shaw.

“Militia. Lieutenant Shaw, alert the garrison,” Tavington said. “They’re raiding the magazine.” A growl rumbled deep in his chest—his hand landed on his sword and whipped it free. “Charge!”

The horse exploded forward. You clutched around Tavington’s middle, your thighs clamping down to stay balanced as the grass turned to a blur beneath you. As gunfire and shouting grew closer, your heart leapt up your throat.

Tavington’s body felt like wrought steel, an extension of his blade that flashed in the dawn glow. Then it arced downward, and sprayed the grass with red.

The air around you fractured into bursts of light, cracks of powder, screams of death. Beneath you, the horse leapt forward, and Tavington’s blade cleaved flesh once more. Warmth splattered your neck, your mouth, leaked copper between your teeth. You burrowed into his spine. Willed yourself to think. To react. To do something.

But there was nothing you could do. Nowhere to move, no action to take but to cower behind your living blade and pray that each ensuing blast wouldn’t herald your death. Your own helplessness clawed you, squirmed and writhed like a panic-blind animal.

Flashes of battle swung past the very corner of your sight as Tavington’s mount slowed, turned. Bodies littered the grass, a row of gore sown in his wake. Beyond them, more men rushed the fort, meeting with fire from its defenses. The tabby wall loomed above you, now on your opposite side. Tavington was peeling back around for a second charge.

You tucked down again as the horse bunched and sprang. Between your arms, you could feel breath rolling through Tavington in a rhythm as wild and steady as the hoofbeats jarring your bones. A distant part of you wondered if he even remembered you were there.

Daring to look up, you glimpsed a familiar, reedy form fighting by the opposite treeline. Edwards, now on foot, had one of the minutemen flanked. Frail sunlight illuminated several more strewn on the ground around him. Then two shadows surged forth from the trees, and a bayonet emerged from Edwards’ sternum. He toppled forward off of the slickened blade, and then the barrel turned—directly upon you.

“Colonel—!” you screeched just as his sword split a throat, and the musket flashed.

The horse bellowed. The world dropped away. For a moment, you were weightless. Then you and Tavington struck the dirt in a rolling, conjoined heap.

You coughed, groaned, trying to wriggle away, but found your whole arm pinned underneath his torso and feeling somehow wrong. Tavington felt your movement and scrambled alive, throwing your arms from his body like a garland. Pain erupted through your shoulder and your arm fell limp, useless, back to the ground. Hissing, you rolled to your stomach with a sickening shift of bone somewhere below your clavicle.

On his feet, Tavington spied his sword yards away and retrieved it, his hand on his pistol as he barreled into the fog of iron and smoke.

The man before you became an instrument of war, his body singing every note of battle. It was a refrain, you could tell, he’d rehearsed hundreds, thousands of times—the slaughter a symphony, and death a dirge only he was tuned to perform. Men toppled before him in a crescendo of entrails, his sword carving through flesh like a metronome. His pistol fired, a staccato, skull-cleaving coda.

Musketfire crackled, exposing his silhouette to the light, and your jaw fell in awe. He was smothered sanguine, his chest heaving in exhilaration, his eyes wild with a fervor reserved for men at the foot of their marriage bed. He was electric with excitement, dripping with desire for more, more blood.

Breathless, you found yourself transfixed, the reality of the fight waging around you drowned in the weight of your—your—

An unintelligible whisper by your ear, and you screeched, jerking around. You came face-to-face with one of the minutemen, crouched, his attention flicking between you and Tavington, who was currently reloading his gun and seemed focused on far more important things.

“Miss,” he said, waving you toward him, “miss, come with me. We can get you out of here.”

You shook your head. “What?”

He glanced at your bound wrists. “You are a captive, miss?”

“Oh. Yes, yes, I am!” You inched forward, wincing as you raised your arms to him, one supporting the other like a hook dangling a fish. “Can you untie me?” Your rational mind sputtered alive again. You had an objective. “Can you get me to Charleston?”

He grimaced, wagging his fingers like it would make you move faster. “We need to move.”

It wasn’t as if you could refuse, so you nodded, sneaking a glance at Tavington. He was studying the treeline, just about finished reloading. Throat tight, you rolled onto your knees, and the man hovered above a squat, his arm waiting to prop you up, but you staggered to your feet without him.

“Quickly,” he murmured. He grabbed your hands. “Follow m—”

The man’s head popped like a pressurized cherry. Something hot splashed your face. He went limp, and hit the ground.

You turned, finding Tavington’s gaze trained straight on you. A snarl crested on his upper lip, and he returned to the fight, crouching low as he reloaded his pistol again. Gunshots pierced your ears and you dropped to the ground with a gasp, realizing you’d stood in the middle of a fire fight.

The remaining men were torn between Tavington and the magazine barrier. Above the half-bastion walls, a Galloper gun fired—thunder split the air, dirt spewed to the sky, bodies collapsed in pieces. Some of those still standing broke rank and tried to retreat, finding themselves impaled on Tavington’s sword as they fled.

Chest to the grass, you attempted to assess your surroundings. The fort: near-victory. The militia: almost all dead. Your would-be rescuer: definitely all-dead. Your captor: a harbinger of bloodshed, and exquisitely, grotesquely alive. You: uncertain if these facts terrified or elated you.

Outfought and outgunned, the few living minutemen fell to their knees in surrender. The Butcher gutted, slit, and bled them as they begged to live.

Horse hooves rumbled by the treeline, and in the emerging dawn, you saw Shaw, charging forth with his pistol drawn. He was passing the two men still hiding in the woods who remained unaware their regiment had been obliterated. They’d catch him, you realized. Your heart flipped. He was going to die. For a brief, confusing moment, you wanted to warn him.

Before you could reconcile that urge, a bullet burst through his chest, and he tumbled from his mount in a crumpled heap. Wincing, you watched as the horse galloped off without its rider, revealing the two colonials that had broken into the field. One was reloading. The other was ready to shoot.

Tavington raised his weapon, pulled the trigger. The latter man dropped. The former scanned the field, realized he was alone, and his movements became frantic, desperate to get off the shot and vanish unpursued. But Tavington was casual, pouring powder into the barrel with the urgency of a lion stalking a meal. Despite his confidence—or perhaps because of it—the colonial moved faster, nearly fumbling his gun as he slipped the ramrod free.

Tavington was too damned stubborn to see he was outpaced, or he was too bound by bloodthirst to care. Either way, it was plain to you he was about to get shot.

The realization catalyzed you to do something. The dead man in front of you had no need for his pistol. You lurched forward, grasping it in your tied hands. There was no shake, no tremble to your grip, no heeding of the pain in your shoulder as you stood and raised it, only the hope that the pan was properly primed, that a bullet was waiting in the barrel.

The two men stood beyond your muzzle. Tavington was pumping his ramrod into his pistol. The colonial was pulling his free, tossing it to the side. He was ready to fire. If you hesitated, Tavington would take the bullet. Or, it occurred to you, you could turn the gun on him yourself.

In any tale, this was your moment of triumph—David slaying Goliath with a stone slung through Goliath’s red-jacketed back. In any tale, this was where you’d escape, where you’d scamper into the woods with your fellow colonials and find your way to Grace with their help.

In any tale, you realized, except this one. In this tale, you needed Goliath as your ally. And you wanted him alive.

You shifted your stance, aimed your shot. The colonial, your dread mirror, aimed his at Tavington. You pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck the colonial dead-center, and he scanned the field, eyes landing on you in horror. Like a deer, he wobbled, groaned in disbelief. He heaved, spit blood down his chin and crumbled to his knees. Tavington paused and turned his head, his eyes wide as they settled on you.

Ice pooled in your chest, your gut, as you watched the man you betrayed slump forward into the grass. Though you swallowed rising bile, the breath you took was steady. As if reassuring you of your choice. Tavington eclipsed the dead man’s shape.

He was a storm. Raging a path straight toward you, carnage in his wake. His eyes sparked. His shoulders rolled. You were witnessing the very last sight beheld by so many men on this battlefield. He tossed his sword to one side, his pistol to the other, gaze never leaving yours. And you could do nothing but lift your chin and meet his advance.

He slapped the gun from your grip and his palm slammed your throat, lifting you onto your toes.

“You—” He was an inch away, eyes searching between yours. You couldn’t fathom what he found there. It wouldn’t be fear. Nor shame. Some wild tempest of your own had brewed in this chaos. It was licking to the surface along the seam where his grip met your neck, where your hands had come up to clutch a sliver of his bare wrist.

“Colonel!”

His head whipped to the side. Two redcoats were quickly approaching from the fort. Tavington’s gaze, however, fixed upon the gate from which they’d emerged.

He wrenched you around until you were facing them, and you coughed when he released your throat. His grip moved to your arm, crushing down to the bone, and he shoved you forward. The two redcoats staggered to a halt as he began to advance with you.

“Sir, we a—”

“Begin a perimeter sweep,” Tavington barked.

The men jumped out of his path with stuttered affirmatives and made for the treeline.

The gate approached fast until you were shoved through it, meeting with the wide gazes and stiffened spines of several more soldiers as their eyes fell upon Tavington. His arm shot out to your periphery, pointing at a pair of redcoats who instantly became an inch taller.

“Meet the garrison when they arrive. Brief them on the attack.”

The men sprang toward the gate and disappeared. Tavington turned to the remaining men, glassy-eyed and waiting.

“Clean up the bodies. I want a full report.”

“Yes, sir.” They followed suit without hesitation.

The fort stood empty aside from the powder magazine, a small building hunkered in the middle. You were alone. Your breathing stalled. A lurch, and you were moving again.

Tavington bashed open the door to the magazine and marched you through. You had barely blinked against its murky interior before the door slammed behind you and you were wrenched backwards. Your spine hit solid wood, your arms were pinned above your head, and the Butcher’s body collided with yours in the darkness.

“Why?” he hissed.

Pain screamed through your shoulder, mangled your thoughts. Reeling, you shook your head.

“I… I don—”

The fingers of his free hand clamped around your jaw, forced it up until you were looking into his eyes. You could just make them out, reflecting the weak light that bled beneath the door. They were shining. Deranged.

“The colonial,” he growled. “You killed him. Tell me why.”

With his grip still locked on your jaw, all you could manage was a muffled mmph in reply. Then he released your face, and his hand delved to your hip, your thigh.

“Who sent you?” He sought your pockets, the seams of your trousers. In the darkness, his hand brushed between your legs. You gasped. “Was it Cornwallis? Did he order you to spy on me?”

“What? No, I—ah!”

His hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers plundering your waistband. The leather glove was supple and warm against your skin, trailing flames in its wake as it slid from one hip across your belly to the other.

“What are y—”

“Shaw and Edwards,” he said, panting. His breath fanned your neck as he continued searching, his hand circling to the small of your back, then around to brush across your ribs. “Did they know? Were they part of this?”

Beneath your shirt, his knuckles skimmed your breast. Every flame left flickering across your skin shot straight down between your legs, and you yelped. It was too much.

“Get off.” You bucked hard, your hips colliding with his.

He drove back against you, pinning you flush between the door and his body.

“You were trying to escape,” he gritted, the words skimming the shell of your ear. You squirmed and felt the hilt of his sword prod your hip. “Tell me why you shot that man.”

“I’m not… I’m no spy.” Thrashing, you achieved nothing but to impale yourself again on his…

He’d left his sword on the battlefield.

“Tell me.” He thrust forward with such force that his knee slipped between your thighs and his coat buttons grazed your nipples. That same hardness ground against your lower stomach.

A wave of molten heat flashed up your neck, soaked your lower abdomen, and a whimper escaped your throat. The pressure that flared alive in your center dizzied you. Pressing your thighs together against it, you met only the firm length of Tavington’s leg between them.

“You were—he…” The explanation tried to form on your lips, but nothing seemed to make sense any more beyond his body covering yours. The warmth of him, the weight of him against you, the vicious thrill through your thighs. The scent of copper, gunsmoke and sweat flooded you. “I just…” Your own voice sounded far away. Breathless. Needy. “I just needed to—“

He snarled, his hand coming up to lock around your throat and silence your pathetic attempt to form a sentence. It squeezed, sending cotton through your vision, and his face brushed past yours. You felt a breath skim the slope of your neck.

The charybdian maw of your desire opened, ravenous, his breath on your skin the gale that would deliver you. As your body melted to his, ready to succumb, one final thought pierced the squall like a pinprick of light.

“Release Grace,” you heard yourself croak. His grip loosened fractionally. You gulped at the stale air.

“What?”

He had gone still as marble. You craned your neck under his grasp until you were looking at him again. The tip of your nose brushed his, your breaths mingling in the gloom. Pools of blackest ink had devoured the blue of his eyes. You sucked in a breath, heart hammering under his palm.

“Release. Grace.”

You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare struggle, terrified you’d spur him on, more terrified that you wanted it.

Tavington’s lips parted. He examined your face, attention falling to his hand on your throat, your trembling chest, the junction where his hips were pressed to your belly. A short, sudden intake of air broke him free from you, the tempest vanishing from his gaze. His brow pinched together, and he shouldered you aside to open the door, pushing you out before shutting it behind him.

As he marched you forward by your good arm, a new redcoat—a captain, you thought—approached the gate, backed by what looked like at least a couple dozen soldiers, perhaps more you couldn’t see.

The man tipped his hat toward Tavington. “Colonel.”

“Take her to the holding cells at the barracks,” he said, jostling you toward the captain. “Ready a transport to Charleston.”

“Oh.” The captain halted you as you stumbled into his arms. “Sir—”

“Did my orders confuse you, Captain?” he snapped. “See it done.”

The captain blinked, then nodded, turning you around and pushing you toward his subordinates. They received you silently, trading looks of concern with their superior officer before guiding you out of the fort.

The walk to the barracks in town was silent and relatively short, your head spinning to catch up with the past half-hour. Shaw and Edwards’ bodies joined you in a cart pulled by a couple of privates, their limbs jostling from the uneven path.

You certainly didn’t mourn them, but to see them in death felt strange, like recognizing a face you’d long-forgotten. You remembered how your mother looked when she died—though you were small and Grace too young to recall—and found no similarities there. She’d appeared to be how you imagined serenity. These men laid with mouths gaping, clothes festering with blood.

When you arrived, you were placed in an outdoors holding cell with several other prisoners of war. With your restraints and clearly limp arm, you appeared to fit right in. A relief, since you weren’t sure how welcoming these men would be if they knew you’d just killed one of their own.

Their eyes followed you as you sat in the corner, sparking awareness again of what you’d been wearing and the fact that you were the only woman being held. The attention felt unwelcome, uncomfortable, like you were a rabbit wandering into an enclosure of wolves. For a brief, despicable moment, you wondered how bold they’d be if you’d been standing next to that very same colonel.

The thought twisted your stomach. Standing next to Tavington, indeed. Blinks of memory—breath on your neck, hand on your throat, hips crushing yours, his… his—

You shook your head. The entire encounter was befuddling. And it seemed to have befuddled him, too. He’d almost lost control. Almost lost control on you. More befuddling still, between his performance in the fight and your apparently traitorous inclinations, you were nearly disappointed.

Every man you’d grown up with, every man you’d met since had been a plain-parchment imitation of a person. Talking with them was tedious, their behavior when courting was saccharine, and their estimation of you was frequently, constantly deficient. Grace often teased you about never getting married, but it didn’t bother you. The idea of spending your life with someone who bored you to the grave seemed far less appealing than the idea of spending it alone.

A man had never, ever stirred you before. Never, of course, until now.

Not that you wanted to marry a man who happily murdered surrendering innocents. But your body certainly had some ideas of what it wanted with such a man.

The ghosts of his hands retraced your skin, dragging shivers in their wake. Your eyes fluttered, tried to close. You almost didn’t see the man approaching from across your cell. Almost.

You shot to your feet, squaring your shoulders to him with eyes wide. He held his hands up to you like the skittish animal you surely resembled and slowed his pace. Back pressed to the perimeter, you measured his approach.

He wore a tattered Continental Army uniform, dappled with blood and dirt. The shadow of a beard clung to his face, his cheeks not yet hollow enough to be starved. A line of dried sweat and dirt encircled his receding hairline where a wig recently sat, and his eyes—brown and strangely familiar—were still bright. He couldn’t have been imprisoned for more than a few days.

“S’all right,” he murmured, taking in your bunched shoulder and challenging stare.

You gave him no reply, grappling to assess the threat he posed. The man was a colonial. He should be your ally. Shouldn’t want to bring you harm. But then again, Colonel William Tavington was a redcoat who should have wanted nothing more than to bring you harm. And he had thoroughly, vexingly, defied that expectation. It would be foolish to default on assumptions now, given everything the past few days had taught you.

“You, uh,” he continued, glancing back at the other men before stepping closer. Your feet shifted beneath you, lending strength to your stance. “You were at the battle? We heard shots.”

After a small hesitation, you nodded, sending a bolt of pain through your shoulder that you ignored. He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Continental forces? How many?”

“Militia,” you replied, counting the number quickly in your head. “Thirty-two.”

He frowned, raised a brow in thought, then looked back at you. “Any other survivors?”

You grimaced. “None.”

His face fell, then flickered with hope again. Another vague spark of familiarity struck you. “Y—you’re sure you didn’t see soldiers? The militia could have been a cover. They could be coming to break us out.”

It wasn’t likely. But you couldn’t begrudge the man his hope. You simply shrugged your good shoulder.

“You—“ He blinked rapidly, frowned as he took in your attire. “Were you… with the militia?”

There was no good way to answer. No, I shot one of them to save the Colonel of the Green Dragoons didn’t seem like the best option. A change of subject did.

You nodded toward his uniform. “Where were you fighting?”

“Oh.” He followed your gaze down to his own torso and back up. “Waxhaws. North of here.”

Your eyes widened. A wheel of memory slotted onto its axis and turned.

“I know you,” you whispered.

He blinked again. “Begging your pardon, miss?”

“Or…” You shook your head. “You know my father. Michael. He left to join the Continental Army with you in the Wilksburg company.”

He muttered your father’s name under his breath, recognition expanding in his eyes. You leaned forward, pulse picking up a gallop.

“Do you know what happened to him? When did you last see him?”

“At the battle,” his brow furrowed, like he was conjuring the memory with some difficulty. “Three—three days ago? Some of us were captured. He escaped.”

“Do you know where he went?” you implored.

The man shook his head. “He didn’t return home? Or send word?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Deflating, you leaned against the wall behind you. “Redcoats took me and my sister from our home that night. They were looking for him.”

The man’s brow creased with pity. You felt an irrational stab of anger—you didn’t want his pity. You wanted answers.

“What was his objective?” You straightened, meeting his gaze again. “You battled at Waxhaws, were you ambushed? By whom? Where was your regiment heading?”

“S-slow down.” He took a step back, raising his palms. Only then did you realize you had advanced on him.

A jeer sounded from across the cell. Your head snapped in its direction.

“Scared of the girl, Wilson?” one of the other men called, laughing to and with himself only. “Don’t worry if she’s a biter, I’ll still make her purr.”

You glowered over Wilson’s shoulder. Perhaps some of your assumptions about men still held water. Wilson shook his head and let out a sigh, long-suffering. Your attention shifted back to him, still awaiting an answer.

“We were meeting a detachment from Virginia,” he said. “They gave us dispatches to distribute to the South Carolina commanders. We thought the Charleston forces would never catch up to us by the time they headed back north.”

Wilson swallowed. You leaned in further.

“We—we weren’t expecting the Dragoons.”

“The Dragoons,” you said, as if you barely recognized the term and hadn’t been pinned to a wall by their colonel less than an hour prior. “What, uh, happened with the Dragoons?”

“They slaughtered us,” he replied. “It was a massacre. Over a hundred dead. Maybe two. Your father was one of the few who got out alive.” He paused. “At least, I thought he was.”

You pursed your lips. How comforting to know that the man who stirred you could’ve been responsible for murdering the only important man in your life. God willing, the person you’d killed hadn’t been a father, or anyone important to anyone else on the planet. Though that seemed unlikely. Regardless, you would've killed the man again if it went even a sliver towards Grace's safety. And your newest moral quandary meant nothing as long as you didn't plan to act on it—and you most certainly didn't.

“Well, I have to hope,” you said. “Perhaps he met up with the other riders after escaping.”

Wilson shrugged in a hesitant agreement. “Perhaps so. They rode out all across the colony. Some followed the Ashley River, some followed the Santee.” He found your gaze. “It would take more than a few redcoats to trip up your father,” he said. “He’s a wily man.”

“Wily, huh?” said the awful, annoying man behind Wilson. “Does the daughter favor her father in that regard?”

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you,” you said to Wilson. “I… It’s a relief to know he might still be alive.”

“My pleasure, miss,” he said. After stepping back to the group of men, he added, “Don’t let Paul here bother you too much.”

Paul huffed. “Bother her?” He stumbled toward you, his mouth black with rot and his face damp with sweat. “Am I bothering you, young miss?”

“Not yet,” you replied, trying to retreat but finding yourself cornered.

Wilson made to put a hand on Paul’s shoulder, but Paul slapped him off, inching closer to you, close enough for you to choke on the stench of dirty blood oozing from him.

“Then can you explain for me why Wilson thinks I’m bothering you?”

“Perhaps I can. You’re a tiresome lout,” you returned, your rising panic making you too brash. “Can you explain that?”

Something sinister fell across his face. Your feet ached to run.

“Come, now.” He spoke through his teeth, stepping forward again. “Don’t be unladylike.”

Just as he reached out to snag your collar, you propelled forward and smashed your forehead into his nose. His flesh gave a wet crunch. The man reeled back, clutching his face, blood geysering between his fingers. You felt a trickle of it slip down the bridge of your nose.

“God’s fucking balls!” Blood spewed, smattered the ground as Paul screeched, stumbling onto his backside.

Wilson laughed at him. Another averted his attention, appearing nauseated. The last one scowled at you. Lifting your chin, you returned his glare. Finally, he turned away as well.

Your assailant remained on the ground with his hands over his face, groaning and spitting blood. You sank back into your corner, nodding at Wilson. None approached you again.

The sun had met the sky by the time your transport was readied. New redcoats led you out of your cage full of starved wolves, putting them all in bondage before leading you toward a covered wagon. You supposed that once you reached Charleston, you’d be in an entirely different cage of wolves, or perhaps even bears, and you’d need to figure out how on God’s holy earth you were going to free Grace.

At the front of the line, you spotted Tavington perched atop a new mount, mostly cleaned of blood, surveying his domain. As you stepped toward the wagon, a stranger’s blood dripping down your face, he peered over his shoulder. His stare landed on you.

In the glow of sunrise, his eyes shimmered like water. He watched you board the transport, gaze never leaving yours until you disappeared behind the canvas.

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #fanfiction problems #playing soldier #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA GOD I JUST WANNA SUCK HIS COCK SO BAD WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK #i was just saying to bastillia like i've described kylo ren's eyes so many diff ways and now i'm describing a diff man's eyes #and i literally feel so bad at it like... idk they're the most beautiful eyes on the planet end of sentence?

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