A/N A continuation from the first chapter (Two chapters...in ONE day? Fuckin' rage!)
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers or OC!Minnesota.
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Prompt 2: "Discovery"
Minnesota remembered being swept off the ground and into the arms of an effeminate man, who smiled and claimed him in the name of France—whatever that meant.
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Very carefully, Minnesota ran his smooth hands through his thick, black hair, brushing out the knots and curls as best as he could. He stared at his reflection in the cerulean river. A smile danced on his lips; he was captivated by the length of his unruly hair.
A few days had passed since he'd fled the white men. His feet were still sore from the incredible length he endured when he ran from the group. "But I still made it out alive," he murmured triumphantly to no one in particular. His face fell slightly, however, as he remembered how he marched into his home, his tribe. The warriors looked on to see him stagger on with pride in his auburn eyes. Sakima was tending to the fire; his back turned to the boy.
Minnesota had tip-toed towards the older man, his moccasins making a barely audible sound as he moved closer. He twisted his face into something that resembled a monster before he jumped next to Sakima, hoping to cause the man to flinch in fright. Instead, Sakima continued on with staring into the bright flames, showing no signs of acknowledging Minnesota. "And where have you been for the past night, niijii(1)?" the aged man said sternly, breaking the ice.
The brunette smirked as he told his tale about how he barely escaped from the imprisonment that the white men had promised since their arrival. He told of how he had to fend for himself in order to flee from the iron grip that the men had on him – a bit of an exaggeration, but the elder understood what Minnesota sputtered out rapidly.
The youth hadn't expected the next action, for his mind wandered into a place where he'd become the toughest warrior of the Anishinaabe people. He didn't notice the fury that twisted about on Sakima's scarred face. Without skipping a beat, a rough hand tightly clenched on the end of Minnesota's long braid and tugged with no warning. The boy was ripped from his idealistic world and let out a painful and startled yelp.
Suddenly, he was lifted into the air and was eye-to-eye with the swarthy-skinned old man. On any other occasion, Minnesota would've kicked and yelled until he got his way, but that look of pure rage in Sakima's beady eyes frightened Minnesota silent. He just grit his teeth and let his short legs dangle freely. "Minnesota, what the hell have you done?" Sakima's voice was indecipherable, though his face really said it all. He shook Minnesota firmly; the boy bit down hard on his lower lip to keep from screeching.
"W-what?" Minnesota choked out. He didn't understand—did he forget to do something that Sakima wanted done right away? "What did I d-do?" Sakima brought the little boy closer to his scarred face. Minnesota winced as he felt more hairs being pulled out from his scalp, but he hitched his breath when he felt Sakima's hot breath brush onto his cheeks. The others of the tribe watched silently from afar, acting like they were working. Minnesota shut his eyes tightly when he felt the elder's free hand grasp onto his limp wrist. Terrible thoughts ran through the binoojiing's(2) mind; what was his punishment going to be? Was he going to get whipped? But why, what did he do?
Then, as though he'd gotten a change of heart, Sakima's grip on Minnesota's wrist loosened a bit as he brought the small hand towards his cheek. Minnesota could feel the freshly healed scars underneath his fingertips – he shuddered while the elder continued running the fingers against his face. The feeling that was forming in his body made him feel dreadful.
"Do you feel the scars?" Sakima grunted. Minnesota nodded—he wished he hadn't felt them. "You feel the rugged texture, and you feel the way your heart clenched at the touch of it." Again, the boy nodded, even though what Sakima said was more of a statement than an inquiry. "The blood shed during battle was not for my sake, but for my people's sake. I don't fight for just myself; I fight for the Anishinaabe people, and for our land." Not knowing how to respond, the boy stayed quiet, frustrating the chief even more so. Swallowing a growl, Sakima continued, "The white men—they're the ones that started this battle, this ongoing hatred between us and them. I lost half of my face in their hands—" Sakima shook his head.
"You have no idea what you've done, Minnesota. You may have escaped, negoosis, but the consequences are far more greater than you'll ever imagine." Sakima dropped the boy onto the cold earth then. He turned his old body around, letting his back face the territory once more. Minnesota sat on the ground, trembling slightly as the words hit him like rocks. "If you want to help out one of your many tribes, then you go out and find the white men that you have so easily fled," the elder took a deep breath and nonchalantly added, "and you kill them by yourself."
It was going to be a hard task to do, Minnesota decided as he stared longingly into the watery reflection, but if he had to show that he could help and become a warrior to his chief by committing such a heinous act, then so be it. 'Besides,' he remembered, 'Sakima's always right. They were the ones that started this fight, and we're gonna have to be the ones to end it.' He pulled away his hand, which had gracefully braided his hip-length hair during his pondering. With a satisfied smirk, Minnesota stood up and stretched out the stiff joints in his legs.
He didn't notice the quiet shuffling of feet in the brush behind him, for his thoughts distracted him all too easily. He stiffened when his ears picked up the sound of a stick snapping in half. Whipping around, Minnesota picked up the nearest weapon – a sharp rock – and stabbed the air in choppy movements. "W-who's there?" he demanded angrily. Fear bubbled icily in his veins, but he ignored it. "Hey, I asked you somethin'! Whoever's out there, answer me or-or I'll stab ya!"
What happened next completely caught him off-guard.
The blond man that had spotted him those fateful few days ago jumped out of the bushes. His hair was no longer elegant—clumps of dirt and grass stained the golden locks. However, it wasn't just the sight of the white man that surprised Minnesota; the man's reaction was unbelievable. "Mignon~(3) I want you so much!" the man squealed in a thick, foreign accent. Minnesota stood still as the rock slipped out of his hand. Overwhelmed, the boy took a step back towards the river as the sweaty male before him grew closer.
In a swift movement, the man's muscularly thin arms wrapped around Minnesota's waist and hoisted him up into the air with care. "T'es tellement mignon~(4) You're mine!" Minnesota could feel his head get lighter as the man squeezed the life out of him. He was being tossed around like a rag, though something in the little boy's head told him that the white man didn't want to hurt the boy. He kept silent as the man set him down on the ground.
"Je suis Francis Bonnefoy ou République française(5)," the man said in a warm voice. Minnesota tilted his head slightly. Amused by his little knowledge of French, France knelt down on one knee. He urged the boy to come closer—although he wasn't sure why, Minnesota obliged and was standing directly in front of France. He stared hard into the Frenchman's cerulean eyes, hoping to see the man flinch in response. Instead, France pulled the boy forward into a tight hug (no one ever did this to Minnesota, so he basked in the odd warmth the man's body gave off) and declared in a whisper;
"Mon amour, mon fils(6), I claim you in the name of France."
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1 - Ojibwe for "my brother/friend"
2 - Ojibwe for "boy"
3 - French for "cute"
4 - French for "You're so cute!"
5 - French for "I am Francis Bonnefoy, or The French Republic."
6 - French for "My love, my son"
If I'm wrong on any of these translations, do tell me! I'd hate for France to tell Minnesota, "My love, my butt..." or something weird like that o-o