Ratonhnhaké:ton/Connor Kenway (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lifethatisscratched) wrote2014-11-04 12:17 am
lifethatisscratched) wrote2014-11-04 12:17 am
The Burning
When he comes to, it is dark, and a haze has taken over the forest, thick and gray. The world is still a blur, and he holds his forehead as he gets to his feet – blood trickles down from a gash, and he wipes it off onto his arm. A deer bounds past him as he stumbles down the hill, and the haze suddenly takes on a stench, acrid and ashy.
Smoke – from down the valley.
He straightens and runs, unable to stop the stumbles that come from his concussion and not caring that he can’t – he has to get down there, has to check on Mother.
A part of him grows louder with each step, a part that says it’s already too late.
Everything is alight.
Flames lick at the palisades, longhouses crack and collapse in the heat, and smoke blackens the air.
The stars are nowhere to be seen.
His legs are pumping of their own accord, racing from longhouse to longhouse, dashing past those who are racing for the safety of the forest.
“Mother!”
The smoke fills his throat and waters his eyes, and he coughs, holding his arm over his mouth, but he does not slacken. He grabs at the leggings of someone passing by.
“Have you seen my mother?”
They shout something in reply and grab his shoulder, but he bats their hand away and races deeper into the inferno. With each step, the flames are hotter, the smoke more dense, and still he presses on.
He finds her in a longhouse near the center of the village, trapped under debris. She urges him to leave her, to escape while he still can, but he refuses, trying to heave the logs off her to no avail. The flames creep closer, the wood crackling and breaking under them, and the smoke grows denser, turning his breaths into hacking coughs.
It is too late.
She takes off her necklace, reaching through the debris to press it into his hands as she looks into his eyes.
“[You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton,]” she rasps. “[You must be brave.]”
(“[Stop it, stop it!]” he yells, face scrunching up even as his hands encase the piece in a death grip.)
“[You will think yourself alone,]” she says. “[But know that I will be at your side.]”
Her eyes tilt upward to look at the timber stored in the rafters above her – flames are licking at the supports, and soon it will collapse.
“[Always and forever.]”
His tears blur his vision, and time slows as her face is seared into his memory.
Bloodied forehead.
Ashen cheeks.
Eyes trying not to show her fear.
And then he is grabbed around his waist, sweeping him off his feet as he is taken away, his limbs flailing as he screams in protest.
(“No, stop!”)
He can do it, he can get her out, he can-
(“Let me go!”)
She becomes smaller and smaller, the longhouse becoming further and further away as he continues to flail in his rescuer’s grip, using every ounce of breath he can.
(“LET ME SAVE HER!”)
One final plea.
The longhouse collapses, and there is only flame and timber.
The burning of Kanatahséton would be told of for generations to come. The Kanien'kehá:ka would remember how their crops perished, how their longhouses charred and crumpled under the vicious flames, how the smoke choked those who could not escape in time. Some things were lost and gained with each retelling, but what was never omitted was how little Ratonhnhaké:ton called for Kaniehtí:io long into the night, shouting himself hoarse as he tried to fight off those who would keep him from running back into the flames.
The stories would never again mention little Ratonhnhaké:ton.
Perhaps it was for the best.
Smoke – from down the valley.
He straightens and runs, unable to stop the stumbles that come from his concussion and not caring that he can’t – he has to get down there, has to check on Mother.
A part of him grows louder with each step, a part that says it’s already too late.
Everything is alight.
Flames lick at the palisades, longhouses crack and collapse in the heat, and smoke blackens the air.
The stars are nowhere to be seen.
His legs are pumping of their own accord, racing from longhouse to longhouse, dashing past those who are racing for the safety of the forest.
“Mother!”
The smoke fills his throat and waters his eyes, and he coughs, holding his arm over his mouth, but he does not slacken. He grabs at the leggings of someone passing by.
“Have you seen my mother?”
They shout something in reply and grab his shoulder, but he bats their hand away and races deeper into the inferno. With each step, the flames are hotter, the smoke more dense, and still he presses on.
He finds her in a longhouse near the center of the village, trapped under debris. She urges him to leave her, to escape while he still can, but he refuses, trying to heave the logs off her to no avail. The flames creep closer, the wood crackling and breaking under them, and the smoke grows denser, turning his breaths into hacking coughs.
It is too late.
She takes off her necklace, reaching through the debris to press it into his hands as she looks into his eyes.
“[You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton,]” she rasps. “[You must be brave.]”
(“[Stop it, stop it!]” he yells, face scrunching up even as his hands encase the piece in a death grip.)
“[You will think yourself alone,]” she says. “[But know that I will be at your side.]”
Her eyes tilt upward to look at the timber stored in the rafters above her – flames are licking at the supports, and soon it will collapse.
“[Always and forever.]”
His tears blur his vision, and time slows as her face is seared into his memory.
Bloodied forehead.
Ashen cheeks.
Eyes trying not to show her fear.
And then he is grabbed around his waist, sweeping him off his feet as he is taken away, his limbs flailing as he screams in protest.
(“No, stop!”)
He can do it, he can get her out, he can-
(“Let me go!”)
She becomes smaller and smaller, the longhouse becoming further and further away as he continues to flail in his rescuer’s grip, using every ounce of breath he can.
(“LET ME SAVE HER!”)
One final plea.
The longhouse collapses, and there is only flame and timber.
The burning of Kanatahséton would be told of for generations to come. The Kanien'kehá:ka would remember how their crops perished, how their longhouses charred and crumpled under the vicious flames, how the smoke choked those who could not escape in time. Some things were lost and gained with each retelling, but what was never omitted was how little Ratonhnhaké:ton called for Kaniehtí:io long into the night, shouting himself hoarse as he tried to fight off those who would keep him from running back into the flames.
The stories would never again mention little Ratonhnhaké:ton.
Perhaps it was for the best.