Glory

Disclaimer:  The usual.  Characters aren't mine, blah blah blah...

Author:  Shirley Long

Rating:  2 swords

Synopsis:  a confession...

A/N:  This fic was inspired by the song "One Song Glory" from the Broadway musical/hit film Rent (which, btw, is awesome!  Go see it!).  The lyrics and my plot don't mesh closely enough for this to be a songfic, unfortunately, but I felt that I should at least acknowledge where my muses came from.  If you want to read the lyrics for yourself, you can find them here:  http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/rent/onesongglory.htm

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Bless me father, for I have sinned.  It has been...come to think of it, I'm not entirely sure I've ever bothered coming to confession.  No offense, padre, but, to be honest, I've never really had much use for church.  Religion is nothing more than a crutch for the poor, simple-minded sheep that waste their lives deluding themselves into believing that they matter in the larger scheme of things...again, padre, I mean no offense.

Now, in light of this, I'm sure you're wondering just why I'm here.  Truth is, this wasn't really my idea in the first place.  An associate of mine--one of the few that's still speaking to me--suggested that it might be a good idea to...unburden my soul...before leaving to begin my new assignment.  Loathe as I am to admit it, I actually agreed with him.  There are a few things I'd like to get off my chest, so to speak, and, as a priest, I know that you can be trusted to keep them quiet.

Once, I had everything going for me.  My spineless bureaucrat of a father was gone and, thanks to mother's side of the family--which, besides being wealthy, boasted a proud military heritage--I was able to gain for myself a lieutenant's commission in the army.  And with the war going on, I found myself on the fast track to command.  Youngest man ever to be made captain...that was me.

That's when everything went wrong...when I met her.  Her name...one I'll never forget as long as I live...was Isabella Vargas.  I was wounded at Albuera, and she was a field nurse there.  Isabella was a woman of incomparable beauty, as I recall, and during the two weeks I spent in that hospital, she showed me more attention and affection than my own mother had during the whole of my life.  Needless to say, I grew quite attached to her, and was certain she felt the same about me.  When I had recovered sufficiently to resume my duties at the front, she, of course, made arrangements to accompany me to my new post.  Over the next few months, our affection for each other grew considerably, and we soon found ourselves giving in to...how do you priests put it?  Ah, yes...the temptations of the flesh.  It was war, after all.  Neither of us could be sure that I'd live long enough to take her as a bride, and we were both so much in love....Love...of all the cruel jokes your God has ever played on mankind, love is, by far, the cruelest.  Nothing more than animal lust disguised inside a far more pleasant package.  But it didn't last...nothing good ever does.  Within a month of consummating our relationship, Isabella was dead by her own hand.  As for me...well...it wasn't long after her untimely demise that I discovered a rather unusual rash covering my extremities.  I reported it to the surgeon, and he referred me to a physician in Madrid.  Of course, I went to see the doctor to which I had been referred, and it was his diagnosis that destroyed my life as I knew it.  I had considered quite a number of possible explanations for that rash, but found myself completely unprepared for the truth, which was that I had somehow been infected with syphilis.  I told the doctor about Isabella, and he wasn't surprised in the least.  Apparently, I was merely the last in a long line of men that she had passed the disease on to.  As I said, love is the cruelest joke of them all.

The doctor, unfortunately, didn't have anything useful to say after pronouncing me a syphilitic.  He expressed his sympathy for my plight, gave me some mercury to treat my symptoms, and sent me on my way.  I did everything in my power to hide my shame from my men and my superiors.  Kept to myself as much as possible, took the mercury as per my doctor's instructions, swore myself to celibacy--which, by the way, is not going to change....The routine lasted a mere month before the truth came out, courtesy of my older brother.  We served in the same regiment, and he was quite resentful that I had surpassed him in the ranks so easily.  So, when he stumbled across the evidence of my illness, he immediately wrote home to Mother to inform her of my shame.  Of course, mother disowned me and cut off all family support.  She then passed the information on to my superiors, who swiftly recalled me from the front and stuck me behind a desk until they could figure out how to properly deal with me and save face in front of our allies.

Finally, it was decided that I would be promoted to colonel and sent to one of our colonies in the new world--a place called Santa Elena.  They tried to make it sound as if it was a good thing, but I could see it for what it really was:  exile.  I had screwed up royally, and now I was being banished to some backwater hamlet in California.  Which brings us once more to the present.  As ordered, I am to leave tomorrow morning on the San Martín.  But not to worry, all is not lost for me just yet.  The bureaucrats who run this army believe that they are punishing me for my transgressions, but, in fact, they have given me the greatest opportunity any man could hope for.  See, the colonies are not about freedom, as all of those unenlightened peasants are made to believe.  No, the colonies are about opportunity for men of vision like myself.  This disease may have limited my remaining time on this earth to mere years--perhaps even a decade, if I'm lucky--but I will not fade away into obscurity.  I will go to this "Santa Elena," locate a doctor who can treat my illness without the damned mercury, and begin the process of securing my own immortality.  How, you ask me?  Well, it's quite simple really.  I plan to succeed where Napoleon will undoubtedly fail, seeing as he is relying far too much on the use of force.  I'll take the untapped potential of these primitive outposts and, from it, turn the New  World into the greatest empire mankind has ever known.  First, I'll secure Santa Elena as my capital, then spread my influence into the other colonies--by force if necessary, but primarily through the use of gold and diplomacy.  After all, it's far easier to maintain control when one has the support of like-minded individuals also in positions of power.  Once I have California in my grasp, I'll expand southward into Mexico, northward into Canada, and then westward into the territories controlled by the so-called United   States of America.  Then, of course, I'll wrest control of Los Estados Unidos from their pathetic president, giving me rule over the whole of North America.  And, if I don't live to see that day, my hand-picked successor will continue my work, eventually expanding into South America, turning the entire western hemisphere into one unified empire.  One that will, of course, bear my name, even if I'm gone before it comes into fruition.  Mark my words, padre.  Centuries from now, people will still speak my name with as much fear and reverence as they do Napoleon and Caesar.  Luis Ramirez Montoya will not fade quietly into obscurity, but, when my time does come, will go out in a blaze of glory, leaving behind a legacy that will continue far beyond any mortal lifetime.

You know, my associate was right.  I do feel much better now that I've said it.  Thank you, padre.  You've been most helpful.  There might just be a place for a man like you in my empire after all.

Adios, padre.  And remember, this is our little secret.

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