My Dear Laurens (Lams)

Reem

"Fuckin' 'ell!"

Adding to the large enough number of bullets lodged inside Reem, another pierced his hand forcing him to drop his gun to the ground. As if the shooter wasn't satisfied, which Reem guessed they must not be, a second bullet shot through his other hand with his secondary gun. Reem grunted in pain, but he worried less over his wounds and more over the sheer British force before him. There was no way he could make it out alive.

"Hold your fire!" A voice yelled, carrying over the small expanse from the edge of the forest to the cliff. A single redcoat stepped forward; gun rested at his side, clearly aware of the lack of threat in front of him. Reem was a little insulted by this. But, then again, it was better than being shot at again.

"Reem, is it?" The man said, erasing the distance between them.

Reem glanced up from his lovely seating on the ground and with a cat-like smile on his face, he replied, "Yes, sir. At your service."

The man smiled back. "Seems you find no issue with betraying the crown."

Reem dug his elbow into the ground to move to a sitting position. He had to feel like there was still some power left in him, however little. "I have no issue with betraying an unjust cause. I fought for what I believed in and now, I'm paying the price. You know what they say, nothing worthwhile is ever easy."

Putting his hands on his hips, the soldier frowned and said, "I respect fighting for what you believe in, but today, as they say, you have pulled the short end of the stick. I will help you pay for your crimes."

"Ah, really?" Reem kept a smile on his face despite the undeniable pain attempting to override every one of his senses. Instead of screaming for help and praying to God, he said, "So, when one of ya boys comes after me with a knife feeling all sorts of "justice-is-theirs-to-uphold", you'll take the stick for me?"

The soldier smirked. "No, but I'll stop them. After all, I'm, what you call, justice around here. You'll get what you deserve. Nothing less, nothing more." He gestured to a soldier at his left. "Get him medical attention. Can't have him dying when we might still need his help."

The soldier ordered to help Reem walked over and lifted Reem to his feet. Before he was carried off any further, Reem waved the orders-giving soldier over. "Oi, you know my name, but I don't know yours. Ya gonna tell me or will I have to guess?"

The soldier didn't move from his place. He only twisted his head to glance at Reem behind him. "Lieutenant Colonel Turner." And with a flick of his hand, he said, "Move along."

"Turner," Reem whispered to himself as he was hauled off to whatever healing they had in store for him.

. . .

Turns out, their "healing" meant bandaging a guy up, making him real comfortable, then undoing all their hard work to get a little information out.

"Tell us where your traitor friends are, traitor."

A slap stung Reem's cheek. The soldier who hit him held a folded brown belt in his hand. Perfect for leaving red marks on the skin – and a little blood if you're lucky. The soldier raised his power-of-God-wielding hand and rocketed the belt across Reem's other cheek.

"Tell me, "The soldier growled, gripping Reem's face with his free hand.

Reem aligned with the soldier's stare. He saw a lot of anger in those eyes. Anger and the color brown. Not brown, really. Hazel or... nutmeg? Reem wasn't sure. He was never good with colors more in-depth than their ancestor's name. 

White. Red. Blue. Ah, the colonies and their freedom. So close, yet so far.

"Answer me!" The yell disrupted Reem's thoughts, pulling him as close to reality as he could ever reach.