Wanahton awoke to the familiar feeling of pebbles and pine needles against his back. The morning sun filtered through the trees, and it might have been pretty if he was able to think like that. Wah laid a white-painted forearm over his eyes and sighed. He'd been dreaming of soft bronzed skin against him, of long black hair hanging down to caress his cheeks as lips touched his own, of warm slick flesh squeezing pleasure out of him... No.
Today, he would hunt whitemen. As he did yesterday, and the day before, and as he would do tomorrow. There was no joy in this thought. It was just as he was to do. Words like 'joy' and 'happiness' were words that his pack of warriors knew but never used. There was never a reason to. He occasionally wondered why they knew these words, but he quickly pushed the thought out of his mind. Trying to find a memory to associate with any of these words caused an existential chill in the bleak wasteland of his mind.
Wanahton's rumbling stomach eventually drove him to sit up. Flakes of dried white paint fluttered into his lap and onto the ground. He'd have to repaint himself, though, he didn't know why he bothered. Any whitemen who saw him would die, and it made his own people hate him more.
Wah stood and rummaged through packs until he found the group only had a few pieces of dried meat left. He roughly tore off a bite and glanced around at his companions all preparing for the day as if it were drudgery. If anyone else was plagued by unrealistic dreams, they never spoke of it. They never spoke of much of anything. Achetah always seemed to know where there were whitemen to kill or a homestead to burn and said when they needed to find a village for more supplies. Beyond that, Wanahton couldn't think of an actual conversation he'd had. He must have, but it had just faded from memory during the routine of their long war against the invaders.
Wah knew that their war would never end. It was something that he felt so deeply that it drowned any thoughts of any other kind of life. It was hard to remember life before their war. He'd had parents, he was sure of it. But he'd forgotten their faces. He had vague memories of being smaller and weaker, but he couldn't remember any details like friends or if they'd played games, or of his father teaching him anything. He didn't even remember the day he left the village to follow Achetah. This was just his life, and beyond an occasional confusion because of his poor memory, he didn't question it.
Wah finished his meager breakfast of dried meat and began the passionless ritual of painting himself. The front of his body and pants were flecked with dried blood from yesterday's kills. It was the only indication that he had a past at all. The families in the wagon train didn't have faces. Just blurs of motion and screams when he thought back. Sometimes he'd think that he should feel bad about killing children, but white children grow up to be whitemen. It had to be done.
Wanahton's train of thought was broken as he smeared white paint across one pectoral. His mind flashed back to his dream last night, of another hand stroking his chest. He pushed whisper of a memory quickly off to the side. He would have plenty of blood later to repaint the red handprints.
Achetah hadn't given any instructions, yet. He was staring off at something in the distance none of the rest of them could see. As he often did. Wah decided to go hunting, or at least foraging, for more to eat. He slung his bow over his shoulder and started off deeper into the woods. He could still put an arrow into an animal, even if they were almost exclusively reserved for other humans for as long as he could remember.
Wah didn't allow his mind to wander as he stalked, focusing only on the sounds and smells around him as he searched for spoor. There was little other than the smaller forest animals. Hardly worth pursuing. Birds called out to each other around him, but he took no pleasure in their songs.
Finally he spotted the signs of a rabbit, something worth eating. Wanahton followed the trail as it approached the likely destination of a natural pool known by his people and frequented by the local animals. With luck, there'd be a deer, or at least a fox there.
At the sounds of babbling water, Wah slowed his pace, approaching silently. As he peered between some larger trees, hoping to see any variety of animals, he saw something he was wholy surprised to see. It was a person. A naked person. A naked boy. No, a man. But barely. He had the musculature of a young active man. Not bulky like a warrior, but like a runner.
Wah was struck immobile by the beauty of the youth. He was waist deep in the water, and the sunlight glittering down through the trees highlighted his muscles under the wet skin of his back. His long black hair was slick against his neck and created a trickle of water down his spine and into the cleft of his ass, showing just above the water. Wanahton's eyes were drawn to that beautiful sight, the tops of two firm golden curves of flesh bobbing in the water with each of the boy's movements. A passion started to stir inside Wah, a passion fueled by vague dreams and feelings he usually dared not let himself linger on.
The boy turned, as if intentionally revealing his glistening torso to an observer. His chest and arms weren't large, but toned and flexed nicely as he rubbed himself down with spring water. Wah's eyes lingered on two dark nipples, hardened by the cool water, before traveling down the lines of defined abs that stretched and twisted with every movement before disappearing into the water.
The passion stirring inside Wah twisted and burned him, growing into a need. Then the nude bather drew his wet bangs back over his ears, revealing his face, and that face was burned onto the sensual figure in Wah's dreams like a red hot brand.
This was the figure from his dream. The young man strode out of the water, rivulets glistening water highlighting all the firm smooth flesh as it was revealed. This was the figure pulling pleasure out from the core of his being. Wahonaton had to have him.
Out from behind a large tree stepped the predator. His skin skin was ghostly white, obscuring his features, though the muscles of his chest and arms defined harshly by shadows. The boy spotted the movement and sucked in his breath as the powerful form strode confidently towards him. He stepped back, eyes going wide in panic as he glanced around for anything to use as a weapon.
Upon being spotted, Wanahton broke into a run, quickly putting himself between the youth and his belongings. Etu reluctantly backed into the pond, knowing he couldn't outrun his attacker barefoot. His hands hurriedly searched under the water for a rock large enough to use as a weapon, but the ghostly figure pounced on him with a violent splash.
Wah's strong hands grabbed the boy by his arms, but he struggled and their wet skin allowed him to twist away. Wah grunted and managed to get his arms around the flailing youth, crushing his back to Wah's chest. There was a certain shameful tittilation to having such a beautiful, naked wet body undulating against his. The boy didn't cry out, or speak at all, but his frustrated struggling noises were made borderline sexual by the firm globes of his ass rubbing up against Wah's pelvis. The momentary distraction was enough for his prisoner to slip out of his grasp, dropping to his knees and splashing wildly back towards dry land. With a powerful leap, Wanahton launched himself and tackled the boy, and they both crashed into the shallow water.
Wah hadn't been sure of exactly what he should do once he caught the boy, but it wouldn't have been this. The alluring figure from his dreams was trapped under him, grunting as he struggled, his eyes flashing with fear, hatred, and violence. The stark contrast with the face he could now see in his dreams made a pang of nausea stab through his stomach. Wah eased the pressure with which he held the boy down. His captive noticed immediately and paused in his struggle. Wah's white war paint was dripping down onto the youth's defined chest and abs, which were working rapidly with his heavy breathing. There was a long moment where they just stared into each other's eyes with equal amounts of fear and confusion.
Wanahton stood up quickly, still gazing down at the boy. Everything about this was wrong. Everything was wrong. He took off, sprinting back towards Ghost Nation's camp. Anger, confusion, and shame made him dizzy as he ran like a madman through the trees. He needed to escape that face, those eyes, staring at him with the opposite of what he'd dreamed of. Aketcheta would give him something to do to forget those dreams and that boy. He'd drown these memories in blood.
Etu scurried to his clothes with a look of bewilderment. He pointlessly covered himself and yelled "SICK DOG!" into the forest. Being high on adrenaline made him feel momentarily brave enough to antagonize the murderous warrior if he was still in earshot. His voice hadn't even stopped ringing in his ears when another wave of panic bubbled up in him. His village had to be warned. He turned to run, then realized that he was covered in rivulets of white paint. While keeping an eye on the direction his attacker ran, he stooped down and quickly rinsed the white evidence of his contact with the man off himself before returning home. Etu felt a little silly, but had no desire to explain the details of the attack. He dressed quickly and started jogging back to his village, haunted by the feeling of deja vu. Something familiar pricked at the back of his mind, but a dark shadow made the sensation something wholly awful.
The bearded trapper shuddered one last time, and Wahonaton jerked his tomahawk out of the dying body as it fell to the dust. There was a glimmer of a sense of satisfaction in besting his enemy, but there were more to focus on. He snapped his head around at the sound of gunfire close by. Two whitemen seemed to be enjoying themselves while one unloaded his gun into another member of Ghost Nation laying on the ground before them. A woman sat in the back of their wagon, canteen in hand, seemingly not bothered by the slaughter going on around her.
Wah charged while they were focused on his fallen companion. The woman saw him first and raised her hand, "Guys." Her tone was alert, not alarmed. For some meaningless reason, Wah found this particularly enraging, though, his footsteps slowed.
"Whoa, shit!" the man who just killed his tribesmate exclaimed. "I'm out. Get him!" Wah came to a stop, just watching them. For no reason he could think of, his motivation to kill these three had vanished. He knew he would likely die if he turned away, but he was ambivalent to the possibility.
The other man sputters, fumbling with his gun. "Damnit. I'm out. Why can't these insta-reload?"
"Because it wouldn't be authentic," the woman lays down her canteen casually and hops out of the wagon. "You don't really get what this is, do you?" She unholsters her own gun and takes her time, leveling it at Wah's face, who watches her numbly. "Can we go to the hot springs, now?" She pulled the trigger.
Wah awoke to the familiar feeling of pebbles and pine needles against his back. The morning sun filtered through the trees, and it might have been pretty if he was able to think like that. Wah laid a white-painted forearm over his eyes and sighed. He'd been dreaming of soft bronzed skin against him, of long black hair hanging down to caress his cheeks...
