The ancient hero stared down at his old friend for a moment, with a scowl upon his face.
"You were a miserable son of a bitch, sir, and you chose a miserable day to die."
The frozen rain begged for mercy upon the windows of the rotund as he stepped away and sat back at his pew in the front row. From beneath an unkempt mop of hair gone white with rage, his cold, steel eyes stared at the well-to-do, paying their respects.
Respects of 'what', he wondered. The dead man had once been his friend, this was true, but in the end, he was a traitor. In the end, they all were.
Betrayed by his family, his friends, his men, his peers, the very ones who were here today because he had BROUGHT them here...in the past ten years, he had lost more friends than most people would make in a lifetime.
A lifetime...that was the one thing he still had. He had outlived this traitor, just as he had outlived the ones who came before him, and just as he would outlive the ones to come. His face, like his hands, bore scars from a british sword. There was a bullet so close to his heart that it could not safely be removed, and the rest of his chest housed so many bullet fragments from battles gone by that, when he walked, he sometimes rattled like a bag full of marbles.
And yet, he lived.
But while this was his trademark...he had built quite a career based entirely on his own ability to live while others died...it would also, forever, be his curse.
He had outlived the only person who had never betrayed him, and he knew in his heart that she never would have. But she had been taken from him...by natural causes, yes, but also in the cold blood of the very sort of traitor who now lay dead before him.
These were the thoughts that haunted the ancient hero, as he was escorted back to the office by those who had not yet betrayed him (though it would be but a matter of time.) Slowly, he moved along the portico, leaning on his cane.
Twas the curse of the ancient hero...this one in particular, he thought, but applicable still to those who had come before...to live longer than anyone had desired of him. To have died in battle would have allowed him to be remembered for eternity...to have died in a duel, even, would have been respectable...but to die, as he was bound to do, in a bed one day? There was no honor in that. There was no heroism on that path, and yet...it was the only path that remained.
Yet he had fights left before him. Fights not with swords or pistols, no, but mighty battles left to wage still. Powerful tyrants remained, and with no one left to love or care for, defeating them was all he could do to pass his final, twilight years.
This thought rebounded him, somehow, and he suddenly felt that familiar pep in his step once more. With a slight smile across his scarred face, he looked up from the marble floor...
...just in time to see the man step out from behind a column, with a pistol in his hand.
The hero shoved his two companions and charged as the man fired...or, rather, 'tried' to fire. The gun jammed somehow, but the man calmly dropped it to the ground and pulled a second firearm from his jacket. By the time that this gun misfired too, the hero was already upon his would-be-killer. He swung his cane first at the man's torso, then at his face, and attacked again and again until he was finally pulled off of the poor lad's beaten body.
As police arrested the unlucky assassin, a young navy lieutenant by the name of Gedney picked up one of the dropped pistols, and examined it. "Can you believe it?" he asked, his voice shaking just as hard as his hands. "What are the odds that TWO guns would..."
The hero stepped forward, trying to stop the obvious, but it was too late. The lieutenant accidently fired the pistol, and the shot knocked the hero to the marbled ground.
The rainwater washed the hero's blood away from his corpse.
President Andrew Jackson had been a miserable son of a bitch, sir, and he had chosen a miserable day to die.
"You were a miserable son of a bitch, sir, and you chose a miserable day to die."
The frozen rain begged for mercy upon the windows of the rotund as he stepped away and sat back at his pew in the front row. From beneath an unkempt mop of hair gone white with rage, his cold, steel eyes stared at the well-to-do, paying their respects.
Respects of 'what', he wondered. The dead man had once been his friend, this was true, but in the end, he was a traitor. In the end, they all were.
Betrayed by his family, his friends, his men, his peers, the very ones who were here today because he had BROUGHT them here...in the past ten years, he had lost more friends than most people would make in a lifetime.
A lifetime...that was the one thing he still had. He had outlived this traitor, just as he had outlived the ones who came before him, and just as he would outlive the ones to come. His face, like his hands, bore scars from a british sword. There was a bullet so close to his heart that it could not safely be removed, and the rest of his chest housed so many bullet fragments from battles gone by that, when he walked, he sometimes rattled like a bag full of marbles.
And yet, he lived.
But while this was his trademark...he had built quite a career based entirely on his own ability to live while others died...it would also, forever, be his curse.
He had outlived the only person who had never betrayed him, and he knew in his heart that she never would have. But she had been taken from him...by natural causes, yes, but also in the cold blood of the very sort of traitor who now lay dead before him.
These were the thoughts that haunted the ancient hero, as he was escorted back to the office by those who had not yet betrayed him (though it would be but a matter of time.) Slowly, he moved along the portico, leaning on his cane.
Twas the curse of the ancient hero...this one in particular, he thought, but applicable still to those who had come before...to live longer than anyone had desired of him. To have died in battle would have allowed him to be remembered for eternity...to have died in a duel, even, would have been respectable...but to die, as he was bound to do, in a bed one day? There was no honor in that. There was no heroism on that path, and yet...it was the only path that remained.
Yet he had fights left before him. Fights not with swords or pistols, no, but mighty battles left to wage still. Powerful tyrants remained, and with no one left to love or care for, defeating them was all he could do to pass his final, twilight years.
This thought rebounded him, somehow, and he suddenly felt that familiar pep in his step once more. With a slight smile across his scarred face, he looked up from the marble floor...
...just in time to see the man step out from behind a column, with a pistol in his hand.
The hero shoved his two companions and charged as the man fired...or, rather, 'tried' to fire. The gun jammed somehow, but the man calmly dropped it to the ground and pulled a second firearm from his jacket. By the time that this gun misfired too, the hero was already upon his would-be-killer. He swung his cane first at the man's torso, then at his face, and attacked again and again until he was finally pulled off of the poor lad's beaten body.
As police arrested the unlucky assassin, a young navy lieutenant by the name of Gedney picked up one of the dropped pistols, and examined it. "Can you believe it?" he asked, his voice shaking just as hard as his hands. "What are the odds that TWO guns would..."
The hero stepped forward, trying to stop the obvious, but it was too late. The lieutenant accidently fired the pistol, and the shot knocked the hero to the marbled ground.
The rainwater washed the hero's blood away from his corpse.
President Andrew Jackson had been a miserable son of a bitch, sir, and he had chosen a miserable day to die.
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