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wellownedbkupTitle: The Road, Paved with Good Intentions
Prompt: mini-nano, "If you're going through hell, keep going." ~Winston Churchill
Verse: This Mortal Coil (Nano 09) Apocrypha
He stops seeing civilization somewhere after he crossed out of the Nebraska territory and the land grows sparse and desolate. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, but this time he knows that he's not turning back. On his way south to Texas, to the promise of a change of scenery somewhere in that reclaimed Texan country, all he can think is that he hasn't the time to stop. If he stops, he'll implode.
He's never really hated a man in his life, but he's dead set on hating this one. Pinkertons, getting paid a sum of money every day that would have served his whole family well in a week. All they were was mercenaries, out for themselves and no one else. He couldn't see anything else in those cold hearted bastards who'd taken his Annie from him.
Annie.
He spits and spurs his horse on all the more, paying no heed to the woods disappearing behind him and the endless rocky outcrops appearing in his view. If he doesn't think of her, he's sure that he may be able to survive, but every time he thinks of the way she'd smiled at him when he'd finally asked her to marry him, as if her answer had never been in any doubt. Every time he thinks of how he'd returned to her father's home to see her body broken and those grey uniformed so-called peacekeepers... His hands twist tight in the reins and his horse whinnies in distress.
He slows, finally, when all he tastes is the dust in his throat and not his own bitter tears. He slows when his horse is foaming with sweat and he can't seem to get him to run any further. It's then that he begins to take notice of his surroundings. There's nothing around for miles, only scrub brush and the sound of a rattler nearby. The sun shines bright in his eyes, and he squints beneath the shade of the brim of his hat when he tries to make sense of his location. Has he been travelling south as planned? Has he passed the camp where he knew the Pinkertons were resting up for the long trek back to Texas? He's getting more and more disoriented, and he curses the lack of water around.
This must be hell, he thinks, eyes shuttered against the blaze of yellow sun and the heat baking off the rocks encircling him. He's sure that somewhere ahead there's a well, an oasis of some kind for the weary traveler who was too stupid to come prepared. Too spurred on by hatred and blind vengeance to take the proper precautions. He can't die out here without first avenging his one true love's death.
He keeps going, though the sun bears down on him until it's all he can do to stay upright in the saddle. He prays for even the sounds of the thundering hooves of the Riders, the Devil’s own cowboys riding across the sky, praying that they would take him from this misery. At least then he'll know his fate and have a purpose in his life that is not to forever mourn the loss of the only woman who had ever loved him outside of his own mother.
Prompt: mini-nano, "If you're going through hell, keep going." ~Winston Churchill
Verse: This Mortal Coil (Nano 09) Apocrypha
He stops seeing civilization somewhere after he crossed out of the Nebraska territory and the land grows sparse and desolate. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, but this time he knows that he's not turning back. On his way south to Texas, to the promise of a change of scenery somewhere in that reclaimed Texan country, all he can think is that he hasn't the time to stop. If he stops, he'll implode.
He's never really hated a man in his life, but he's dead set on hating this one. Pinkertons, getting paid a sum of money every day that would have served his whole family well in a week. All they were was mercenaries, out for themselves and no one else. He couldn't see anything else in those cold hearted bastards who'd taken his Annie from him.
Annie.
He spits and spurs his horse on all the more, paying no heed to the woods disappearing behind him and the endless rocky outcrops appearing in his view. If he doesn't think of her, he's sure that he may be able to survive, but every time he thinks of the way she'd smiled at him when he'd finally asked her to marry him, as if her answer had never been in any doubt. Every time he thinks of how he'd returned to her father's home to see her body broken and those grey uniformed so-called peacekeepers... His hands twist tight in the reins and his horse whinnies in distress.
He slows, finally, when all he tastes is the dust in his throat and not his own bitter tears. He slows when his horse is foaming with sweat and he can't seem to get him to run any further. It's then that he begins to take notice of his surroundings. There's nothing around for miles, only scrub brush and the sound of a rattler nearby. The sun shines bright in his eyes, and he squints beneath the shade of the brim of his hat when he tries to make sense of his location. Has he been travelling south as planned? Has he passed the camp where he knew the Pinkertons were resting up for the long trek back to Texas? He's getting more and more disoriented, and he curses the lack of water around.
This must be hell, he thinks, eyes shuttered against the blaze of yellow sun and the heat baking off the rocks encircling him. He's sure that somewhere ahead there's a well, an oasis of some kind for the weary traveler who was too stupid to come prepared. Too spurred on by hatred and blind vengeance to take the proper precautions. He can't die out here without first avenging his one true love's death.
He keeps going, though the sun bears down on him until it's all he can do to stay upright in the saddle. He prays for even the sounds of the thundering hooves of the Riders, the Devil’s own cowboys riding across the sky, praying that they would take him from this misery. At least then he'll know his fate and have a purpose in his life that is not to forever mourn the loss of the only woman who had ever loved him outside of his own mother.
