Charles Smith x Reader

Forty-Five

Eyes turned to you. Despair was written on their faces. Whimpering raised your ears but you were too busy looking around.

Charles.

Where was Charles?

Gunshots shattered the silence of the forest. All at once the screaming and crying of the children stopped. All that remained were the sounds of death.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage, so hard that it felt like your ribs could shatter at any moment. Your fingers rest back on the grip of your revolver.

Suddenly a shot rang out, loud enough to make you flinch. It wasn't the sound of a small calibre. Only a shotgun could make such a noise.

Charles had joined the fight.

Your head snapped round to take a look at your group. Most of those present were women and only a few young and very old men.

If they had been just a little older they would have been killed. If they had been just a little younger, their mothers would have had to save them too.

Fear shone in their eyes and you could see the despair on their faces. But there was something else in them. Defiance. They didn't want to give up. Not if there was a chance.

Gunshots echoed in your ears. Goose bumps crawled up your spine. Your fingers closed around the grip of your revolver. Cold metal nestled in your palm.

It was now or never.

Most of the uniformed men were distracted and only a small squad had stayed behind to hold the prisoners in place. All that had to be done was to take them out and arm the freed ones.

The options were limited but not impossible. Again your gaze jumped out into the open. Your breath caught in your throat.

Charles fought to keep his opponents at bay. There was time. And time could make the difference between life and death.

Now. It had to be now.

All at once you pulled your revolver from its holster. No words were needed. As soon as your horse galloped out into the open, the little troop followed, weapons raised and blood-curdling screams vibrating in their throats.

The men in uniform were taken by surprise. All of a sudden they were swarming with strange faces and weapons that threatened their lives.

Raising your revolver, you fired the first shot as one of the men raised his weapon to defend himself against a boy who jumped at his throat.

Blood rang in your ears as you fired the shot. The bullet hit him in the forearm. Blood spurted. Screaming, he threw himself into the dirt and was overpowered by the boy. The point of a spear dug into his flesh.

Screams. Screams filled the forest everywhere. Everywhere there were people fighting with each other.

The smell of iron was in the air. It pinched your nose and made your stomach shudder. Your horse reared up in fear as a shot was fired right next to you.

The natives had taken advantage of the surprise and appropriated the settlers' weapons.

Revolver against revolver. Blood for blood. And bullets for everyone.

Your head snapped around. There, in the near distance, you caught sight of Charles' figure. He was on foot. Blood wetted his dark skin. The red stains shimmered in the sunlight as he drew his machete and drove it into a man's leg.

Flesh and bone tore apart. Blood was flowing.

Suddenly his head lifted. Your eyes met.

And your heart skipped a beat. Even though it didn't look like much, at least half a dozen had already died. Some of them your people. Others the settlers.

It didn't matter. Eventually, all their blood would seep into the earth and melt into one.

Iron and black powder. It smelled like war. And it felt like the end of the world.

Nausea constricted your throat as you took aim at a man again and shattered his ear. Red drenched his pale skin. His eyes narrowed and he fell, but quickly picked himself up again and tried to run away.

He barely made it three steps before the blade of a comrade stabbed him in the chest. Trembling, the boy pulled the weapon from his limp body.

Red rivulets dripped from his fingers. There was this hardness in his eyes. This fear. But not of death. It was fear of what he was now capable of. He could kill. Not only animals, but also people. A mind that was very similar to his own.

And for him that was a curse.

Your chest grew heavy but he didn't stay long enough to see you nod sympathetically at him. Instead, he decided to wallow in his newfound ferocity and went over to draw a blade across the neck of another man in uniform.

Blood. There was blood everywhere.

You didn't really think much of violence. And yet. This sight didn't even make you consider retreating. Instead, your eyes darted wildly through the crowd.

Chaos was raging.

And in the centre of the eye of the storm was him. This disgusting man, this monster that allowed flames to devour everything you held dear.

"Clark.", his name crossed your lips in a whisper.

Hatred distorted your heart. How ridiculously small he suddenly seemed. Like a joke. A bad, obnoxious joke.

He ducked under the flint like a little weasel, his weapon drawn. He trembled like a whimpering dog, gone was his biting aggression and the hatred he thought made him so much better than everyone else.

Now he was just a joke of a man hiding behind the body of a defenceless little girl. Tears wet her cheeks as he dragged her back into the shadows of the houses. His eyes darting through the crowd.

He was irritated. And he seemed to know that his chances of survival were not good. If anyone wasn't going to make it out of here alive, it would be him.

All at once, the world around you fell silent. Your eyes were on the sheriff, the man who had reduced your previous life to rubble. Noise fell silent. All you could hear was your own breathing echoing in your ears.

Your eyes met. He recognised you. And the hatred flared up again.