Mortal Vision

by Jessica

 

The thick folds of soiled fabric felt heavy in the woman's hands, the dried bloodied stench of it being routine for a soldier's uniform. She had only a short time to repair the angry crimson tear in its left side. Her reddish blonde hair was tied tightly away from her round face, except for an occasional stray hair, which would taunt an azure eye. Her build was feminine and strong, with curves under her once eggshell dress and muscles taut beneath her skin. As she worked her thoughts drifted away from the present encampment, and to the hellish sights she had witnessed weeks ago.

The battle had been harsh. The British had a strong infantry, and an even stronger cavalry unit who horrifyingly finished off the surrendering troops. The screams and groans of the doomed men echoed endlessly into her mind until they caused her war-hardened jaw to tighten. She had come upon the scene by accident, only meaning to pass through on a morning walk.

Aware of the dangers she faced, Sibyl had tried to remain obstructed from view. However, her attempt had been made in vain. Several Royal soldiers had spotted her female form soon after the Continental soldiers had run screaming from the field. Thankfully, instead of the brutal fate she had expected, they only demanded she help with the aftermath's cleanup.

Sibyl had realized how temporary and fragile her pardon from a worse condition was. Before long she had been shuffled from place to place, at times the object of hideous torments. As a result her nerves were well frayed, preventing her usual strength of intuition from surfacing. Her hands shook ever so slightly as she softly prayed, and her fear was worsened as she remembered the jacket, which had accompanied the torn shirt, albeit in better condition. It belonged to a Green Dragoon.

###################

On the other side of the British encampment, Colonel Tavington stood listening to a lengthy report of their enemy's casualties. His large ebony boots were ground firmly into the dirt, as were the speckles of post-battle grunge, which saturated his normally impeccable uniform. As he tried to distract his mind from the pain radiating from his bullet wound, he caught sight of something that made his temperature rise.

"Did I not say to kill all locals?"

"Ye-"

"Well, then. What is your excuse for that?" The Colonel's blue eyes flashed in anger as he stared at a large brunette woman scrubbing blood from a Captain's uniform.

"We needed the assistance, Sir."

"His Majesty's soldiers do not need assistance from traitors. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Now get rid of her."

"But Sir, she's not a-"

"Must I tell you again?" Tavington's face tightened as he spoke, his tone a cooled snarl.

Within an instant the man gave a resolute "No, Sir."

"See to it that her body be searched for rebel correspondence."

Satisfied, Tavington swiftly left the tent. He loved having authority, and the only thing he loved more was having the power to make a man kill another. At times it amazed him-- how far they would go at the simple flick of his tongue. His pride was still weakened from an earlier loss of Dragoons, the result of a militia's ambush. However, he felt a hidden smile of confidence as the crackle of musket-fire set a heavy silence throughout the camp.

Tavington could not remember a time when the screams of anguished persons had disturbed him. Now, they only served to further excite his blood thirsty nature. Earlier that day he had looked into the face of a young blonde haired rebel and for an instant thought he felt something alien to him. Remorse. The feeling had passed before he took note of its inhabitance, and as he had plunged his saber through the boy's torso he thought of nothing but the overwhelming adrenaline in his veins.

They were the enemy. A step above the beggars and whores his father had associated with. Perhaps that was why he had experienced what he had; the boy had reminded him of himself at a younger age. The expression of the doomed soldier may have mirrored his own at a time when his father would come home late at night with the stench of liquor on his breathe, and sweet wafts of perfume on his belt. Tavington's skin prickled with hatred at remembrance of his father's last drunken words to him: "Stupid boy. You possess the savage ideals of a slain peasant. May God never have mercy on your ruthless soul." Tavington had no doubt in his mind of who proved to be the better man. As he caught sight of a woman sewing, he felt excitement at having yet another chance to prove it.

###################

Sibyl's hand was bleeding as a result of a missed stitch at the horrendous scream before the musket-fire. She prayed hard for the sickening smell of the smoke not to reach her. She had had enough of that thickness for a lifetime. Her eyes still burned from the dryness of the air, and from the quicksand-like desperation, which had assaulted her once tender emotions. That morning she had awoken with the peculiar feeling of needing to be somewhere, without knowing where or why. As she recognized the sight of her fingers painfully weaving thread through fabric, she realized she now knew the where of the sensation. However, the why was still a mystery.

She stretched, tilting her head to view her surroundings. From her position on the cusp of the wooded grove could be seen the center of the camp, where a large man was walking briskly. The gold buckle on the front of his Royal uniform glistened as the sun fell upon it. He had a black furred hat in his grip, and his hair of the same color hung loosely to his shoulders. The bright whiteness of his ill fitting shirt collar was in stark contrast to the brilliant red and green of his Dragoon jacket even though it was faintly tarnished, with wear. As he drew closer she could see the slope of his nose, the scowl of his mouth, and the depth of blue in his eyes. She was transfixed by the sight in front of her-- it was unlike anything she had witnessed before. A Green Dragoon, in a state of after-battle dress, but not just any Dragoon. Colonel William Tavington.

"Lieutenant! Take care of this. Or are you not capable?"

The man's flustered stare from across the camp answered for him, and Tavington muttered in disgust.

Sibyl found herself paralyzed by his detection. The heavy rattle of spurs announced his now close proximity, and Sibyl felt her arms drench with anticipation as she heard bullets being loaded. She slowly raised her eyes to meet the glare of the fearless Colonel. He held in his grasp a pistol, and there was a murderous spark in his subtly twitching eye. She held his captivating gaze until Tavington broke it with a surprised smirk.

"You! Why I must say I never thought I'd have this opportunity." He lowered his pistol bearing hand slightly, delighting in the recognition.

"Colonel." She acknowledged him respectfully and ignored his sneer.

"Sibyl Barclay, is it not?" He rolled the second syllable of her surname, and she couldn't help thinking had it been a different situation she would have admired his sinuous tone.

"It has been some time now. You have grown--in intelligence as well as stature, I presume?" Her voice was calm and collected, but in her mouth laid the tangy taste of thick, ashamed terror. It was worsened by the fact that she still felt there was something exquisitely bewitching about the Dragoon before her.

He bent near, and she could faintly smell leather. Tavington stared unrelenting at her for a full moment, aiming to unnerve her.

"Perhaps I have presumed too much."

The pistol's hammer being cocked shattered the air.

"You forget yourself, Madame." His tone was deep with fury, and something she identified as hurt.

Sibyl's whole body spun in a bright flash of panic. She momentarily revisited their past together, hoping to glean on something, which would help her now.

"William, has it really come to this?"

Watching Tavington's face surge with emotion left her breathless. It did not last, and within a moment the Colonel was back. He frowned, most likely from noting the surprised expressions of nearby Dragoons. Flitting through Sibyl's mind was a sad understanding of the answer for her earlier question. There had been a time when she had thought she understood the man behind the Colonel, but as he calmly raised his pistol into the air she knew that time had passed.

###################

The muddled confusion in Tavington's body was slowly driving him out of it. This woman had said his name with a binding passion, which repulsed and intrigued him. He had lashed onto the smell of bloody revenge with a hurling impulse, but now regretted the situation he was in. In his struggle to remain efficient he had forgotten about her gift. The ways in which she could help him were endless. Her fate was now sealed. Tavington seized her wrist firmly, whispering fiercely for her to rise. He felt unruly and desperate, and he hated her for it. The shirt she had held in her hands, which he recognized as his, dropped between them as he roughly grasped her around the waist. Her scent was strong in his nostrils, a mixture of sweat and the something else he could not identify. Tavington felt her stride waver against him as he half-pulled her with him into the trees. He knew the other Dragoons would assume he was going to ravish her privately. He smiled at his cleverness, his pistol tight in his palm and taunting its captive.

His voice turned ragged, as he demanded she halt in a clearing. She had not spoken a word since he had taken her. He wondered if she were able to, with the way her breath was coming in labored pants. Looking at her now, he couldn't help feeling stirred at her appearance. Tavington quickly muffled the sensation, knowing a loss of control would not benefit him now.

The burning smell of campfires filled the air, alerting him to the limited time he had before being expected back. His hand brushed quickly across his scalp, sweeping the hair from his eyes. Tavington kept the pistol steady as he took several steps back. An intense look in her eye unsettled his depths, and in response he smoothly added a demonic curve to his lip.

"Have you no words to say? You who brags of such-- intelligence."

"I should demand an apology of you."

"An apology! I must say I am surprised. Such ungratefulness, especially of a woman who has had her life spared."

"If only to be made a prisoner."

Her scowl penetrated his exterior, gnawing far into him. He lowered the pistol, but kept the distance between them. Tavington eyed her coolly, noticing her dress was torn in some places. Her flesh was slightly dirtied at her collar bone, and his eyes traced down to where her dress began. Her remembered her as having a beauty mark above her left breast. It had always made her complexion seem, in some strange way, perfect.

"And what have you made of yourself?" His tone was deeper, raspier.

"Not as much as you have, I am sure. Your reputation now precedes you, William. Or should I say 'Butcher?'"

"I hardly think a battle worn Colonel deserves a name such as that. Would you not agree?" His voice was smug, and his pleasure at the name was obvious.

"Of course not. You do know I cannot help you unless you promise to cease these horrendous murders."

"Murders! You do not know the lies you speak, Madame." The indignant words were tinged with venom at her sharp disapproval.

"You and I both know the exact truths I speak. I refuse to believe otherwise."

"Very well, then. I do not need your-- help." He glowered at her, and had a hidden flush of embarrassment at saying his last word. Colonel Tavington knew he was a man who did not need assistance, least of all from a woman. He considered finishing her right then and there, but knew it would have allowed her to see the raw hole she had left inside him. Tavington was very careful to conceal the power she held over him. It was vital she not know of it. For reasons he could not explain this woman did not have a normal effect on him. Although, his deep fear was he might have proven one thing to her without being aware-- William Tavington did need her help.

###################

Sibyl had never seen his hair this long before. It swayed with each movement of his head, the sleekness of it inviting attention away from the rest of his face. She wondered why he did not inquire as to her whereabouts. In the back of her mind she had a wish to be in her real home once more, instead of being forced into this new beginning. There were always new beginnings. The choice of arriving in this colony had seemed a good choice for her and her brother Joseph, after having their name torn long ago by their mother's lechery.

Taking in Tavington's perilous stance and narrowed eyes she thought carefully, fighting to distance herself from him. She knew he was thrusting himself deeper into a dangerous and desperate situation, which most likely paralleled into all corners of his life. For reasons she could not understand she longed to release him, even at risk of her own life. Quieting her mind for a moment she then grimaced at an ironic truth. Perhaps he was still the sheep in lion's clothing she had once known, desperate to sheer the filth of his father's reputation from his skin.

"You are no longer the better man, William."

Tavington's glance had been bemused before she spoke, with the look of a cat beginning to play with its prey. Now his face held an expression of extreme anger.

"Enough of your games!" He held the pistol in a painful grip, his teeth clenched in a bitter fury.

She straightened her back, feeling the uncertain fear that came with her bold words to him.

"I play no games. Perhaps you misinterpreted my words?"

His eyes sparked with indignant rage and Tavington's tongue shot out to wipe across his snarling lips.

"Do you not see what I hold in my hand?"

"Death does not fear me, William. If your memory was as sharp as your words you would know that." Sibyl felt a twinge of panic at his seeing beneath her lie, but her uneasiness was put to rest as Tavington took a step closer, his jaw tight.

"I would think quite the opposite. You, being of a family of such-- impropriety." He spoke low, his voice threatening.

Sibyl bristled at his attack of her mother's gruesome fate. "Impropriety! Is that how you label families who do not associate with whores and gamblers?"

Tavington lurched upright at the insult and began stalking toward her. He did not stop until he hovered inches from her face, with Sibyl able to feel his breath against her cheek. He was even close enough for her to see the small mark beneath his right eye, and with a flash she remembered gazing at it as a young woman.

She had always wondered what was to become of him. Her hidden talent, which she had divulged to him, had always amazed him. It started as a young girl; she had dreams, which later proved to be true. It had soon spread to other areas, with her senses re-affirming their accuracy again and again.

The taste of salty tears filled her throat as she remembered her last day with him. Their childhood had been long spent, and Tavington was to be on a boat to America in a matter of days. She had coaxed him into her darkly lit room, and made an attempt to seduce him. The moment between them had been filled with longing and restraint. Finally, she heard him whisper two words which had crushed her: "I cannot."

Sibyl's mind had formulated the reason immediately. Her name was a tarnished one in England, and as a result he could never become publicly associated with her. In light of her embarrassment, she had felt a snide joy in seeing his eyes blaze with hurt at her own rejection of his explanation. No one had the effect on her that Tavington did. Now, as she stared into his fervid eyes, she only wished she held the same power over him.

###################

Tavington had the smell of vanilla in his nostrils. He had not noticed it among her scents earlier, but now it was joining the conflicting emotions inside, throttling him to the point of an explosion. As a result he held himself rigid, and his eye fought to keep from twitching as he searched her face.

She was simply stunning. Tavington would not allow himself to admire the curves of her upper half, or the sweep of her hip. Instead his eyes seared into hers, at times dangerously close to the point of no return. The compassion found within at once infuriated and aroused him. An almost painful ache in his groin stirred him to reach out and grasp her neck. He then instinctively flung his mouth upon hers, devouring what he found. He was surprised when she responded passionately, forcefully pushing herself into him as he moved to nip and pull at the flesh along her neck.

Tavington's hair slipped before his eyes, and he jerked his head away from her in an effort to sweep it back. A few inches from her face he caught her glazed stare and held it, transfixed. He now encircled her back with one hand, still clutching the pistol in his other. Tavington's breath was coming in heavy gasps, and as he attempted to still himself he remembered her torturous refusal of his words so many years ago. It had destroyed him. From the pit of his very being he had been desperate to take her, but could not resign her from the respectful position of his confident, to being in the role of just another whore.

"You are a better man, William. You only must face it." Sibyl spoke the words softly, pulling Tavington from his reverie.

He looked at her vehemently, but unconsciously drank from her wisdom and strength. Her cheeks were still flushed from his affections, and her eyes glistened with empathy. He noticed her dress was pulled down on one side, exposing the beauty mark above her breast.

Tavington felt an intense burning inside, and could think of only one thing. He hurriedly cemented his lips to hers, as his body tightened and then relaxed in surrender to her exploring touch. His thoughts were clouded as if in a haze, but unexpectedly something felt very wrong. Vaguely he heard a pistol fire. Sibyl shrieked into his mouth, sliding down his body in pain, and with confusion he saw blood spilling from her side. Tavington's left hand was numb, and as he glanced down he saw it contained a now smoking pistol.

Then with a besieging terror, he remembered cocking the hammer on the pistol earlier. Guilt speared him, as he realized his hand's lust induced fumbling had triggered the murderous bullet's release straight into her body. Tavington sprang into reckless action, clasping her tightly to his chest and brushing the fallen strands of hair from her watery eyes. His knees bent as he gently lowered himself to support her body in his lap. Her head lay in his crooked arm, her eyes now glazed not from passion, but from intense discomfort.

"Sibyl-- Sibyl--" His voice was low and frantic, his tone searching.

"How?" She whispered the word between slightly gritted teeth, sucking in air with a sharp gasp.

"The pistol, I inadvertently triggered its release. I must go and get help."

"No." Her chest heaved with difficultly, blood continuing to spill from her wound.

"I must, you are going to be fine. Sibyl, do you hear me?" He bent close to her ear, his hair drifting protectively across her face.

"Sibyl? Sibyl!" Tavington's voice was heavy with urgency, and rose in pitch when he took note of her paling skin. Her breathing, her skin tone-- in his heart he knew she was dying. He had seen it so many times before. Now he was experiencing it himself through her, and it was excruciating.

Tavington swallowed harshly, and noticed his cheeks were becoming slick with tears. "Stay with me, Sibyl. Please-- I love you."

He saw her eyes flutter and expand in width. Tears formed at their corners, and her mouth opened, but was not able function amongst the emotion.

Tavington dipped his head to rain kisses on her face. His mouth tasted blood, which had been smeared onto her from his hands. Sibyl's gaze changed somehow, becoming more distant as if she were viewing something. Startled, Tavington lifted his eyes to watch hers change from fearful to serene. In an instant memory came flooding back to him, and he recognized the expressions on her face from ones he had seen long ago.

Sibyl's peaceful eyes soon lost their glimmer-- they were losing the essence of her. The labored pants of her breathing continued as his hands stroked her hair, her face, and her shoulders.

"You cannot leave me, Sybil. You cannot. We must be together--"

She looked at him, her blue eyes chalky, and parted her lips weakly in an attempt to speak. Tavington caressed her jaw and leaned closer as she whispered into his ear.

"Soon."

And then she was gone. Within the time of a candle's flicker, Sibyl's life was extinguished. Tavington's lips, still sore from her mouth's kisses, burned with the madness her courage and vision had produced. Colonel Tavington fought to control his body, and cursed softly at the bloodstains he would have to explain. All the while William Tavington was left alone and weeping, haunted, yet oddly comforted by an emotion he so despised--fear.

end

Send feedback to the author.


Return to the Main Page Last updated by the Webmaster on Aug 6, 2001