It's been a while since I've considered writing about Native America again. Hm.
This piece should be obvious from the title. It centers around my take on a Hetalia version of the Wounded Knee Massacre and I'm basing this recount on the documentary that recently aired on HBO. For those that don't know, Wiki it or something and find out about some more history. Hetalia does that to people, doesn't it? Beware of poetic prose!
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Hetalia. I wish I did though. ;o; This (male) interpretation of Native America is mine, as is the cynicism!
He remembers fighting that day. He remembers the cries of horror and pain that fueled the desire to see blood spilled. He remembers feeling so much agony in such a short time.
He remembers cold blue eyes on the morning of a cold day.
The plains were sprawled before him, enticing him to ride bareback along her grasses and in the arms of his elemental brother. He watches the sun as he rises and spreads his warmth for all to use, the glow on the horizon expanding over the smooth hills and the far mountains. And he really wishes he could ride or even run, but he has to stay and be strong for his people. They need strength and hope and the white man is stealing every last drop of it.
The white man is growing even more in power and is ever more greedy.
As the sun continues to rise, a young woman arrives on a spotted horse, expression sorrowful and panicked and fierce. "You have to come!" she gasps and it sounds as if she had done the running, and not her heaving horse. "They've- they've..!" Tears prick her dark eyes and he can see the trembling of her mouth behind the thick wool around her neck.
And it's then that he sees the dark splotches upon her clothes. In the early winter morning, her monotonous clothes are darker than they should be and the blood upon it is hard to see. In a matter of seconds, he is up and running to his black horse, grabbing the thick sinew that serves as the reins and upon her back. And then he's racing after the woman as she leads him to where he needs to be.
There's a confrontation already. He can see the soldiers questioning the villagers, gesturing wildly and yet calmly, as if controlling their anger by the thinnest string. As they ride into the village and toward the crowd, a shot fires out and then another. Bullets fly in the air and then his vision becomes red, red with blood and red with anger and pain. The horse in front of his path stumbles and falls, flecks of red spattering the ground and the woman has been hit, too. He turns and yells, pain lancing in his heart as he watches this fearless woman crumple in death. That's it. There's no hope for her, for her mouth is frozen in a grimace of pain but her hand is still tightly clenched in the mane of her own steed.
He turns, glares and jumps from his horse, grabbing his rifle and the bag tied to the makeshift saddle. Ammunition set, he rushes into the fray and fires at the soldiers in their bland colors. They're more bland than even the gray coats and black hats his people have taken to these days.
They fire back, grazing his shoulders and ripping holes in his hat's brim. He takes one down, another, and this reminds him of fighting with the old confederacy against the soldiers in red. That time, however, he had been switching sides and had almost been torn with the conflict. Here, he was fighting for the cause that every one of his children felt; justice.
He fires and fends off closer targets with a newly sharpened cutting knife, its metal being stained with crimson and he finds it fitting.
Another bullet buries itself in a soldier's breast and as that one white man falls, a disgusting image rises into the air behind him. A dark brown military horse rears, forelegs kicking in the air, and the golden haired leader on its back raises his rifle in the air and mocks his people's war cry.
It's him.
That boy has already turned his back on his own father and now he questions why this new nation has returned.
He snarls, dark eyes flaming with hatred from deep in his heart. His gun is already loaded and he fires at the enslaved horse, satisfaction ringing in his brain while remorse clogs his heart. Such a beautiful creation had to be felled before he could save his people from further pain.
The boy jumps from the horse before it can crush his bones against the cold ground and as he rolls, kneels and looks onto the battlefield, sky blue meets dark earth. Shock and cruel amusement dance in one pair of eyes while pain and fury clash in the other. The younger of the two smirks. He stands.
"Hey there, Aquila! Long time no see!" And the boy has the audacity to laugh in the midst of bloodshed.
He scowls and fixes his bullet-hole hat. There is only coldness in his eyes as he stares the leader of this military group down. "That is not my name, Alfred," he grumbles, but there is a threat hidden in the subtle growl. "Just because you've given my people Christian names doesn't mean you can give me one." His voice booms across the small distance between he and Alfred.
Alfred. America. The representation of the white man, not his people.
America will never take his people alive or dead.
Alfred grins and to anybody else it could be a carefree one, sunshine radiating from his perfect white teeth. But the day is cloudy and he can feel the chill in his bones. He knows these plains. How dare this child demand these lands as if he were older than his own father.
"But how else will you fit into society? I'm only trying to help you and your people, you know that." Alfred sweeps his arms (and his gun) in a wide gesture to accompany his next words. "Many of your people have embraced Christianity and have prospered! They're respectable lawyers and doctors and the women have made excellent housewives." He starts walking toward his darker counterpart slowly. "They are respected in society now."
"Are you saying that my people were nothing before you came along? Are you implying that my culture has no worth against the cold hands of your white-skinned god?" He glares at his 'son' as brown military boots halt before beaten farm shoes. Both rifles click against each other, the sound a sign of the tension between the two men.
The battle around them has been silenced to their ears. They glare at each other, cold and calculating.
Suddenly there's a bullet shot and the ripping of cloth. Alfred gasps and wheezes. The older nation shows no sign of pain but for a slight grimace.
"You still know so little of pain," he says as he yanks the knife from Alfred's side. The boy laughs, light and winded, before he removes the barrel of his rifle from the man's left breast.
He eyes the darkening splotch and the rate at which he's bleeding seems to echo the quickening pace of his many people falling around them. They're dropping, bloody and crying and cradling those who are innocent.
As Alfred steps back, he looks around and his face falls as he watches his beloved children being reduced to nothing by bullets. His face falls from the determined, sorrowful expression he wore seconds before. He has seen epidemics, wars and natural disasters, but this is outright slaughter. He never imagined that this could happen.
And very suddenly, he remembers the dances. Yes. They gave his people hope and not only the ones born upon the plains, but those born in the deserts, along the oceans and among the woods.
He whips his knife through the air, catching Alfred off guard as he slices his cheek, and kicks the boy down onto the frozen ground. The dark hat falls from golden hair and he pins one arm down with a firm boot. They're back to glaring at each other again.
"You'll never kill us off." Alfred hisses as he pushes his boot closer to the ground, pushing against flesh and bone. "My children were born here and they belong here. No government of yours will own these lands that were given to them and I'll see to that." The knife is on the ground, as is his rifle, and he possesses no other weapon than his teeth, hands and feet.
The other rifle is still in military hands. The body beneath his foot raises the gun effortlessly with one hand and presses the barrel to his sternum. He breathes, face relaxing, but his words are still heavy with a threat and sorrow.
"Shoot. You'll never be rid of me."
Alfred grins. "Just watch me."
Bang.
He prides himself on sleeping with his children in the snow.
Notes: I chose to refer to Native America as "he" in the entirety of this fic. My reasoning? He shouldn't have a 'white' name. He'd have many names from each tribe or nation and since I don't even know my own language, I thought I'd leave his name a mystery.
History in the North American continent began long before 1492 or the vikings, which is something that people tend to forget. I can imagine Native America as having experienced much more than America, given that he's as old as the continent itself, and as a result knows so much more pain.
I'm going by the internet on this, but "Aquila" is a Christian name that means "eagle". The eagle is considered a sacred totem by many tribes and is, generally, a symbol of power, spirituality and guardianship. It's also the national bird of the United States and that's really suspicious, if you ask me. Pffft.
I tried for a different style of writing. Of course, I'm a novice and I have no idea what the terms are aside from first/second/third-person. Fail, much? Anyways, it'd be awesome if you reviewed and commented on my interpretation of Native America. I'm starting to take a liking to him. :D
- Zilver