The world was spinning and he was starting to see things. Because the wound was not healing.
A few days ago, after making certain he had no pursuers and was safely concealed among the dense bushes and smaller trees growing around the roots of a forest giant, Magua focused on effectively taking care of himself. Despite the blood loss induced dizziness, he carefully and methodically cleaned the entrance and exit wound, went through the plants of the undergrowth to find medically useful herbs and after a short rest, moved deeper into the forest to find a hidden place where he could heal in peace.
Once he had a hideout, he crushed and applied the herbs to the wound, chewed on the bark of an elm tree and took advantage of a few other tricks one can learn from the Huron's medicine man.
Under constant and persistent care, the wound got better. Then it got worse. Even though there was an entrance and an exit wound, Magua suspected a part of the bullet remained in his body. He tried to find it and take it out, but performing surgery on one self was something only the most skilled and steel-nerved doctors were known to pull off. Not to mention he lacked proper tools.
There was only so much he could do on his own. There was a chance he could extract the bullet fragment with the help of another pair of hands. But he was alone. He thought about his decision to not return to his village. He should have gone home, but decided he could not return a failure. Even if he turned back now, he doubted he could even make it halfway, as his condition was deteriorating quickly. The bloody hole blown in his torso was infected and he was developing a fever. Perhaps it was better this way.
Still, he put all his knowledge to use to slow down the infection. He was currently searching through the tree roots for a particular plant with such an effect. He didn't dare wander too far away from his hideout. His movements were sluggish and clumsy. The high fever was affecting his agility and state of mind. It also made him too weak to hunt for meat, so his only source of sustenance were the scattered nuts and berries he could find.
His usual healty self had no troubles avoiding the dark corners of his mind and the things hiding there. Years of practice enabled that. But in this state, he was left vulnerable to the demons of his past.
Finding what he was looking for, he started making his way back to the hideout, stumbling and having to lean heavily on tree trunks. Every time his eyes closed, flames danced in his vision, painting the world red. The delusion of the fever burnt behind his eyelids the regal silhouette of a man with a pompous hat, sitting on a horse among the flames of burning wigwams. Despite refusing to think about it, he knew who it was. The memory went back to a time when he was not Magua the Huron War Chief or Le Renard Subtil. To a time when he was just Magua.
It was when it all began. The man towering above him was the crown of the chaos and wreckage unleashed upon their peaceful world. Their homes were burning. Men and women and children were littered over the ground, laying all quiet in death. He was lying on the ground too. The pointy knees of the Mohawk kneeling on top of him were digging into his belly and his shoulder joints burned from his arms being tied so tightly behind his back. Only half conscious from inhaling so much smoke, his eyes looked at the figure towering over him. He couldn't see the colour of the uniform or the face hidden in the shadow of the hat, but the grey hair stood out from the red background.
It was the one detail that went with him into slavery. The Mohawks were cruel, but fair. In time he earned their trust and became their so called blood brother. But he missed his home and longed to see the remains of his family. One day he snuck away and traveled to his village.
Only to find his wife married to another man. She believed he was long dead. So many suns have set since he was taken away and it was rare for prisoners of the Mohawk to ever return. Her belief was understandable. It didn't hurt any less, though.
His Mohawk brothers never found out where he went. But wherever the Magua they knew had gone, a different man came back. Colder, more somber. They didn't dwell on it too long and used the occasion of their lost comrade's return to celebrate. There was plenty of fire water. Some drank to have fun, others for the heck of it and Magua drank to forget.
As the Mohawks were allies to the British, Magua once found himself among the few chosen scouts to receive orders directly from the commanding Brittish War Chief. When he set eyes on him, he immediately saw it. The grey hair. And he felt so…so confused.
The faceless man from the night his village was burnt to the ground loomed over the carnage like a creature feeding on doom, his imposing form radiating authority and making Magua numb with dread. Or maybe that was just because of the shock he was in when he first saw him. After all, he had just witnessed a massacre. Because there was no way that this small, wrinkled old man was that same person. Right now, he was looking at him and his fellow scouts with a reserved but approacful look, trusting them to carry out his every request, gracing them with a small smile here and there.
It made Magua want to kill him on the spot.
But all the tragedy he went through made him cunning and calculating. He would not simply kill Greyhair, he would make him suffer as well. He would wait and observe, until he knew of all his weaknesses and then he would strike.
The arrival of Greyhair's daughters was the perfect opportunity. The rest of the story played out as it did.
When he finally managed to break free from the vivid memories, he found himself slumped on the ground between the roots of a tree. He must have tripped. He leaned back against the trunk and let his head loll back. The tree tops were spinning wildly, the branches bending in unnatural ways. The fever has gotten bad enough to cause hallucinations. At least he hoped they were hallucinations.
He dared not to turn his head to the left, where his deluded mind perceived two forlorn, small shadowy beings lingering between the leaves. They followed him wherever he went, trailing behind him, trying to keep up. Never coming too close, just peeking at him from behind trees.
"Go back. I'm sorry." he heard himself rasp. Seeing him as he was now would make them dissapointed. He dared not to look in their direction, as seeing them would make him feel burning regret and shame. Regret for the way things came to be and shame at himself for not being able to do more for them.
Their presence, even if only a figment of his overheated mind, was making him distraught. That's why he had locked them in a remote part of his head and refused to think of them ever since the day they died.