Ok, so this is chapter two of my first fanfic. I don't know why, but it seems easier (in my opinion anyway), writing the start of the story when compare to continuing it, because the first chapter is usually the chapter, that informs the reader what standards to expect from the author. Once again I am welcome to any kind of reviews, whether they be constructive criticisms, or compliments. Thank you!

Chapter 2: Blackwater greetings

Abornazine awoke in a rather unfamiliar place, to the uttermost surprise of both himself and those who surrounded him. The sight of 'outsiders' staring at him with troubled expressions, was not one of which the native boy could remember having experienced before. It took perhaps a few brief moments before the boy came to realise, that the darkness, and evil of the grim reaper had judged him well enough, to not find it a necessity to pay a visit. Perhaps this was great and he had been spared by a more powerful being than those of which had caused his injuries, or perhaps this was just a method of delaying his life to make it forever more painful, Abornazine was undecided in relation to the reason for which he could still enact the process of breathing, but those who watched him curiously, acted as if they knew exactly why he was awake, and alive.

"It's a miracle," one cried out, his expression changing from that of a shocked grizzly, to that of a positively surprised hunter.

"He's resurrected from the dead, he must be a new Jesus Christ," another shouted. Soon, there were reasons, and suggestions being exclaimed from the corners to the centre of the large room of which Abornazine was (or at least was supposed to be) resting in.

The loud excitement, and curiosity that had consumed everyone within the room, was reduced to a quiet whisper following the entry of a certain rich upper-class gentleman through the doorway. His heavy shoes created a memorable clashing sound with the weak wooden floor, of which was impossible for nobody in the room to not take notice of. He wore a pocket watch, of which established a firm connection between his rather Georgian jacket and the striped buttoned shirt of which he wore beneath his jacket. A badge representing his occupation in the local law enforcement, was also attached proudly to his jacket, in order to make all aware of it's presence. The pistol in the right inner pocket of the man's jacket, was perhaps a better way to make everyone he despised, or knew aware of himself. He leaned against the door frame, with his arms crossed, and sighed.

"Does this look like a mass, people?" the man rhetorically asked with a frown. "Get going! The boy looks like he's endured enough without all of you being a pain in the ass."

They all turned back to face Abornazine, reluctant to leave his side, but the authoritative voice of the lawman that had entered the room, provided a good enough reason to exit the room.

"Good riddance", the lawman chuckled, as he shut the door behind him, and stared at Abornazine as he continued to rest his head in the pillows, confused in regards to what had just occurred, but still sane. Still sane, still alive. He paused, before he could begin his greetings. "Good morning, Mr Abo-equin?"

The boy smiled at the man's incorrect pronunciation of his birth name, before he replied, "Hello to you too, Mister...?"

"Mister Ross, Edgar Ross, or you can just call me Edgar if you prefer."

"Oh, ok."

The awkward silence that followed, enabled the boy to adjust to his surroundings. The room in which he was resting in, was spacious, and of a fine design to say the least. A glass container full to it's maximum capacity of a type of alcohol (most likely to be whiskey), stood upon a table to the side of his bed. Although it was a temptation of which others found hard to resist, it had quite the opposite effect on Abornazine. His years of learning from his native chiefs, and role models, had been successful in persuading him to not inflict harm upon himself, in whatever way that may be. The internal organs of the young, but still strong boy were grateful as a result. Sixteen was a significant age in his life, and he certainly didn't want to ruin it, not right now, and hopefully not ever. Mister 'Ross' broke the silence, by reminding him of why he was in this position in the first place.

"I-I really don't know how you're still alive, son," he said in a slightly surprised tone, "I knew a guy once who worked at my station just a couple of blocks away from here, and me and him, we, we were good friends, and he got shot in the foot like you did. He bled to death, the poor guy."

The native boy, slightly irritated by the man's anecdote, tilted his head in the direction of the window. Through it, he could make out the letters on a sign, "B-L-A-C-K-W-A-T-E-R". 'The nearby town for the drunks, delinquents and careless for society', he had once been told by his father, who had ironically been here on more than once an occasion.

"Thank you for telling me that, Mister Ross. A reminder of my pain was all I needed," Abornazine said without a smile, but still knowing he was using sarcasm.

Mr Ross frowned to show his disapproval of the native boy's response, "Very funny, very funny, young man."

"With all due respect, sir, I wasn't being funny, I was just proving my wit."

"Wit, eh? Do you know they say that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, boy?"

"Did you also know that I don't really give a shit, Mister Ross?"

"Very funny again, son," said Mr Ross, his face becoming as red as a ripe tomato, due to his struggle to keep his temper stable, which it was, for now, "that wasn't a characteristic of your father, Nastas, when we knew him."

Intrigued by the lawman's statement, Abornazine tilted his head back towards Ross, and tried to use his body to sit up straight in a rather uncomfortable resting place. But when his body began aching again as a result of his injuries, as his cuts attempted to close, and his body attempted to reduce the dark visibility of his bruises, the native boy had no choice, but to return to his original position. Mister Ross noticed this, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder, advising him to stay in his position. He then stood up, and stared at the boy as if he had experienced a revelation.

"Your brave attempts to return to physical normality remind me that you require more rest, boy. I hope to see you again, son. The doctor will keep me updated with improvements in your health, but until then, I bid you farewell," the lawman said before he wheeled around to face the doorway, and began to walk in that direction. He was stopped halfway on his exit, when Abornazine reiterated his thought in speech.

"Wait, sir, how do you know my father?"

The lawman paused, but refused to rotate again to face the native boy. It took a few moments before he could conjure up a reply, but he still managed to.

"That's for me to know son," he said, "and you to decide".

Another man entered the room that day, looking through the various drawers that lined the edges of the room. Less stylish in his choice of clothing than the lawman Ross, with more of the appearance of a traditional 'outsider'. An outlaw, maybe?, Aborazine thought as he was awoken by the sound of footsteps across the floor.

"Now, where's my pictures, where's my pictures?" the man thought aloud, a worried expression controlling his countenance. With a satchel attached to his body from shoulder to hips, and a bandolier, Abornazine doubted the strange man, as someone who forgets any objects of significance often.

"Excuse me, sir, are these yours?" Aborazine politely asked as he held out photos, of which he had found earlier in the day in the drawer beside his bed.

The cowboy turned around, to find the source of the mysterious voice, to be from an injured boy. Perhaps, he had felt a little horror at the extent of the injuries, but it was clear that at this moment in time, he had priorities right now.

"Yes, why thank you, son," he took the pictures, and began looking through them, switching them, they seemed to be memories of which the man was very fond of.

"Sorry to intrude, sir, but may I see them?"

The man looked away from his photos, and at Abornazine instead. His raised eyebrow, and hairy face, made it clear he was in deep consideration as to how to respond. The marks on the boy's face, however, took to his curiosity, before he could respond.

"Where did you get those scars?" he asked, feeling the side of his face. Abornazine noticed two deep scars on the man's right cheek, before Abornazine himself used his right hand to check where the man was pointing on the native boy's face. As Abornazine softly touched the side of his cheek, he felt, a cut that was spread in almost the same direction as the cowboy. His inner self panicked, but the situation at hand was managed to keep cool, somehow. Hesitation was still helpful before he replied,

"Just a fight, that's all, sir."

The strong native looked away embarrassed by his lie. Lying to anyone, including one's self was seen as a consequence of being a disobedient, and unreliable brother, to others within his own origins.

"We both know that's not true, Abornazine," the man sighed.

"How do you know that, sir? And how the hell do you even know my name?" Abornazine asked, in a mixture of a frightened, and worried attitude.

"Let's just say...I'm a family friend. My sympathy towards your injuries, son, but I have suffered something similar before," the traditionalist looked up at a clock that lay hanging in the room before he continued, "besides, I have something more important to do."

"Wait sir, at least tell me your name, goddamnit."

"Marston. John Marston."