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Location: Colchester Garrison in Colchester (Essex county), England
March 19, 1823
A strangled cry left Fyror’s lips as he woke with a start. Panic constricted his chest, making his breaths come out in short quick breaths, as his eyes darted around frantically. His surroundings were enveloped in darkness, and for a painstaking moment he believed that those images and sounds that had overtaken his mind weren’t simply dreams but memories. He found some relief when his good right eye slowly adjusted to the darkness. He was soon able to make out the shapes of the furniture in his room and could see a sliver of light peeking through his closed curtains. He pushed the tangled mess of sheets off of himself and basically stumbled out of bed. A draft of cool air bit at his sweaty chest as he crossed the room, his eye never leaving that sliver of light. They say when you die you see a light at the end of a dark tunnel. Well, that’s what it felt like to him. That light was either his hope or his demise.
Fyror reached out to draw back the rough material of the curtains. He felt the air whoosh out of him in relief when he could see clearly from his one good eye. It was still early in the morning, as the sun was working its way up into the sky and the garrison was just beginning to stir with life. He rested his head against the cool window pane as his mind drifted back to what he now knew was a nightmare. He had been fully blinded and accidentally killed his dear sister Genevieve. He looked down at his hands, an image of them drenched in her blood flashing through his head. A shiver went down his spine, and it wasn’t at all from the cold.
He pulled himself away from the window and tried to push the torturous images and sounds from his head. He began to get ready for the day, first fixing his bed then washing from the basin. He changed into his infantry uniform: red coat with gold details, white trousers, boots, and hat. He grabbed his belt, which already had his sheathed katana, single shot pistol, and canteen attached to it, off of his bedside table. He pocketed his wallet and pocket watch before exiting his quarters.
The smell of food being cooked wafted from the mess room, and Fyror could hear the stirring of people. There were a few officers already congregating outside the mess room and in the anteroom. “Mornin’ gentlemen,” he greeted them each in turn.
Fyror found a seat by the window where he could drink in the warm sunlight and contemplate what the weekend would bring. He admittedly wasn’t looking forward to the few days it would take to travel down to London to spend time at Almacks. He felt that he had the respect of his fellow soldiers, but the other peers and gentry were much more judgmental. He stood out like a sore thumb thanks to his mangled face. However, despite how he felt, he would go for the sake of his mother and sister and to maintain a positive image of his regiment. Ultimately, he was determined to make this a good day.
