the decayed

Love and War

Dear Diary,

I am about to see blood. 

And unlike my past words, I wish to see it. Indeed, I do. I once used to fear death, now I crave of those of another new enemy. The Black Robes. The French are agreeable enough, they bring us trinkets and we give furs, this trade surely will not bring nothing but wealth and usefulness? But, the Black Robes and them share uncanny resemblance in belief and perhaps soul. I am a Huron woman but I am strong and need be for those I love and those who love me, I shall fight. 

I shall love death, not of everyone, no but those who require it.

Those who need regret. Those who need repent. Those who need death. 

What have they done? You dare ask me? You dare ask me! Well, they came at noon one day. They bought speech of someone other than the Great One, they bought speech of someone, God. They called Him God and dare they believe that we should believe in this God. 

The shaman's prophecy rests in my mind, a gun in my head that when it comes true, when it goes off, I'll either be dead in body or worse, spirit. They knocked on our doors, their breath floated in the cold, were they pieces of their soul drifting away? They seemed to have no soul after all. Maybe I am as bad as them, I claimed that our people knew not of greed, knew not of sadistic wants but a growl and a smile are on my face as I wait. To see it. Blood. 

I owe deep apology to the Great One as I do not heed your warning and I care not of its consequences, what is this? What am I? A soon to be murderess? Or one to serve out justice? Plead I to you that it be the latter but I will charge on with my plan. 

As the Black Robes smile and express they want to help, they're the ones who leave us with the worst. Home after home, they bring crosses and talk of their God, and without consent or with it, they push us into the water. We are forced to kick and flail, trying to breathe so desperately, in name of a God we do not believe in, in name of the seemingly well intentioned devils. 

Only the homes they visited, only those were left with the worst. Mortality, disease and death. My husband is ill, every so often, I plunge a cloth into iciest water and press it on his forehead. He quakes and quakes, scars and bumps disfigure him. With every new one, he cries out again. He fought in countless wars, prevailed against diseases and he has kept silent. This pain, this sickness is something that I may not be able t-t-to stop but I can do something. 

I will stop them from baptizing my husband.

If war I must charge to, for my anchor, for my loved ones, then let the war be started by yours truly.

I am frightened but more so, I am angered.

They attempt to change us to their idea of perfection and idealization, they will be met with failure and rebellion. 

A glorious rebellion.

I will see blood at noon, today. Great One, I ask forgiveness and if not, understanding of my future actions, it is for what I hope is best. 

Dear Diary, do you not agree? All is fair in love and war.

~