Hi all! This is my first fanfic., so I'm open to all kinds of reviews, compliments or constructive criticisms please. Thank you, and hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1: Natural Strength
Tiredness, and pain had been two problems, of which the Native child had become accustomed to in his short life so far. They were in no way benefits to himself, or his potential ability, and perhaps, they proved themselves as problems best, at this specific moment in time. But the boy knew he would have to force himself to overcome these two unhappy symptoms of being the son of a so-called 'traitor', if he would not, there would be horrible consequences to otherwise await him. He stumbled over the uneven landscape of the 'great plains', of which at this moment in time, were by no means 'great' from his own perspective. But he didn't care, he just ran bravely, almost like an injured warrior, hurt physically, but not mentally.
However, the boy knew his impressive struggle against pain, and tiredness, would not last for an extremely long duration of time, and it was his legs that gave way first, as he fell onto the tough terrain, clutching at his right foot. Blood still ebbed from it, the wound of the bullet, and the boy could only face it with a horrified expression, as his mental sanity began to also gradually disintegrate, from the sight his eyes brought to him.
'What did I do?' ,he thought to himself, 'What did I do to deserve this?'
The boy changed his attention from his bloody foot to his bruised hand. What had previously been his natural weapon, his natural helper, his natural friend, had now lost its ability to connect with the boy's nerves, as a result of the brutality of the punishments inflicted upon it. He would have preferred to use his hand to estimate the relative damage of which had been inflicted upon his countenance too, but that would now of course, not be possible. It would not have been necessary either, as he could already feel the luke-warm temperature of blood, trickle down his head, before continuing its journey down the boy's neck.
Despite how much the boy detested the idea, he knew that he would need to call for help, and it would most likely have to be from the white man, the enemy. The destroyer of his values, of his beliefs, of his land, and of his people. He would be betraying his own people if he were to call for these people, and would become a 'traitor', like his own father. It didn't matter though, not any more. This was no question of his commitment to his people, this was a question of life or death.
A stagecoach passed, full of the people he had been taught to not communicate with. English, language of the destroyer, was something of which the boy's other fellow natives had not even known existed, but he was different. His father had been a native of which often communicated with English, and had often believed in peaceful ways of dealing with 'outsiders', especially negotiation and communiation. 'Actions are more powerful than words, my son,' the boy remembered his father telling him when he was of a younger age, 'but words are less painful because of this.' The boy certainly needed less pain now, and sighed, before he managed to cup his hands around his mouth, and cry for help.
He felt as if he had felt the good side of luck for the first time in his life, when a stagecoach came to an abrupt stop in the road nearby, and one of the passengers, exited the coach, a shocked expression on his face.
'Sir, why have we stopped?' the stagecoach driver asked, the horse's hooves dragging themselves in a circular motion on the road below.
'Pickett, are you seeing what I'm seeing?' the passenger asked, as he pointed at the boy.
'A native boy...sir?'
'An injured native boy, Pickett.'
'Yes?'
'Yes...get him on this coach now.'
'Why sir?'
'WHY?', the passenger reiterated to the driver, 'Why? Because he is injured, Pickett, and he is just a boy. I don't care if he's a native, or even if he is some sort of a long-lost son of President Lincoln, GET HIM ON THIS COACH NOW!'
The driver tried to object, but the passenger managed to silence him, before he was able to do so. With reluctance, 'Pickett' walked over to the boy and carried him to the coach. The young native may have been confused, if perhaps he hadn't been injured so much, and so, there was at least, one positive effect that had come out of the horrible pain, of which he was suffering.
'What's your name, boy?' the passenger asked, as the coach began to move towards a town called 'Blackwater'.
'Abornazine', the boy murmured, 'son...of Nastas.' They were the last words the boys could muster, before his world went dark, and he came to realise that he may have chosen the wrong decision after all. He had called for help to survive, but he would face the grim reaper anyway. He had finished his life on a relatively unusual note. He had communicated with those, of which his people had been taught to avoid. Whether that decision was one, he would come to regret in the next life, or still in this life, only time could tell.
