It was supposed to have been easy. Just a few native savages camping out on a local farmer's land. He'd called the army, and a small detachment had been sent to deal with the situation.
They were to have been home by dinner, feasting in the mess hall, trading trinkets they'd taken from the savages as payment.
It didn't go the way it was supposed to.
He wasn't sure where or how things went wrong, but he was certain about the wounds he'd received, and the burning pain in his leg as he lay waiting for death.
After a time, the sound of a scream aroused him and he was surprised to realize it was not his own. 'Perhaps this is hell, and I'm only waiting for my punishment among the eternally damned,' he thought.
Then something white floated across his line of sight. A word floated itself through the haze of his mind and attached itself to the white thing
- 'Butterfly.' Once he recognized it, he reached for it, hoping that if he could touch it, it would bring him out of this hazy, painfilled trance he seemed to be in.
The butterfly seemed to tease him with the promise of reality - fluttering always just out of range. Something was happening, though. The pain of his injuries was once again making itself known.
Something was moving, behind butterfly. Something big - almost as big as he. If the butterfly wouldn't free him, perhaps this new thing would. Clinging to this desperate thought, he reached for the larger thing, hope in his eyes.
It rushed him, stabbing at him with a spear, and he realized in alarm it wasn't a thing at all, but a man! One of the savages had survived! And the man was trying to kill him! Realizing that death was inevitable, he collapsed, his arm falling to the ground as he whimpered in defeat. The man's spear tip edged closer, he could feel the movement of air against his skin as the man made stabbing motions at him, screaming.
His courage failing him, he closed his eyes, unable to meet death in the face. He heard the savage jabber something and guessed it must be a prayer of some kind, or perhaps just an exclamation of glee at killing an enemy.
The jabbering ceased, and there was a moment of quiet. Then he was struck by something, and kicked, a foot planted against his neck, forcing his head back. Forcing his eyes open, he could see the savage trying to stab him again, jabbering once more.
When the spear tip erupted into flames, both men seemed equally surprised. The spear tip was buried with a thrust, mere inches from his face. Daring to look once more, he could see the savage hefting a rock, planning to smash what he could not stab.
As if it were dust and ash, the rock disintegrated onto the savage's face, bringing forth more jabbering.
The pain once again overtook his mind, and he felt the world move slightly. Thinking it was death finally come to claim him, he relaxed into it, letting it take him, so long as the pain stayed behind.
Snapping awake, he realized once again that he was neither dead nor dying. Feeling strong arms around him, he didn't know where he was, nor did he care. Returning the embrace, he pulled soft lips to his, letting the touch push some of the pain away. The man, whoever he was, had a flavor he'd never tasted before. No matter, it wouldn't be the first stranger he'd had.
Suddenly the body was pulled from him, and he was painfully reminded of where he was. The savage spit at him, and he realized he was no longer on the ground, but in some kind of hut - one that had survived the burning of the savages camp. Part of his mind tried to figure how they'd missed the structure, but pain and fatigue once again overcame him and he became unaware.
For the first time something completely overcame the pain of his injuries - the cold that pierced his skin and bones more thoroughly than the spears of a hundred savages. The constant shivering produced little warmth, and eventually his muscles began to pain him. Unable to stop shivering, even if he had been coherent enough to try, he finally passed out from sheer exhaustion.
