Virginia

4,140 years since initial death
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Peace was never an option.

Michael hoped that wouldn't be the case, but during times like these, it was bound to happen. A part of him accepted it, knowing that he'll most likely survive any conflict thanks to his experience in combat. But the other part of him was afraid.

He arrived in the New World to start over and escape the hardships of a warrior's life. Every whistle of an arrow sounded like the shrieking of a ghoul, and every war cry triggered his anxiety. It's why he never mentioned his past experiences. There once was a time when he counted the number of people he killed. But when that number surpassed five or six thousand, he stopped counting altogether.

To say he has PTSD wouldn't even come close to describing his condition. Ever since his final duel with Cesare, he had hoped it would mark the end of his bloodlust; that Cesare would be the last man he would ever kill. Now he fears he'll be forced to kill again, and there will be nothing he can do to stop it from happening.

These thoughts plagued his mind as he attempted to chop down a tree. He couldn't help but feel like he was being watched. It could just be the natives, but he didn't expect them to do anything. Tilting his head to his side, he looked behind him but didn't find anyone. He was alone in the forest, but things still felt wrong. Perhaps he was overthinking the situation to the point of scaring himself.

But his instincts were right. It happened. A tomahawk could be heard soaring through the wind right behind him. His immediate reaction was to dart to the side, and it saved his life. The tomahawk struck the tree Michael was standing by, just a few inches away from his head. It caught him by surprise, and he turned around to spot a few Powhatan Indians hiding within the woods.

He didn't want to fight them, considering he was on good terms with the tribe. But they were trying to kill him, he had to do something. When one of them charged towards him, all he could do was defend himself.

That was when Michael realized he was ready to swing his axe in full force. If he does it, he'll kill the Indian approaching him. It would go against everything he's done for the past century. This caused him to hesitate, and it gave the Indian the perfect opportunity to lunge at him and pin him to the ground.

Another native came with a wooden spear, attempting to stab Michael while he was pinned. He struck the Indian over him with his knee, giving him enough space to roll out of the way before getting speared. He was entirely unarmed now, but not for long. He was surrounded by nature, and there were plenty of long and sturdy sticks beneath him. They were just sticks, but they could be effective if used correctly.

As another native charged him, he grabbed the stick and dodged to the side. Behind the Indian, he jabbed the stick into his back with all of his strength. It was enough to penetrate the skin, but Michael's instincts forced him to jab it deeper into the native's spine. With a sweep of his foot, he toppled him over to the ground and focused on the rest.

The remaining Indians stood still, watching carefully. Michael did the same. However, he noticed the tomahawk from before was gone. Instead one of the natives held on to it before charging him. Michael had nowhere to dodge. Rather, he was forced to put his hands up to catch the blade. It hurt like hell, and he couldn't help but let out a painful scream. The Indian removed the tomahawk from his hands and tried to go for the kill once more, but the booming sound of a musket stopped them in their tracks.

One of the settlers heard the commotion nearby and was lucky to have a musket on him. With a well placed shot, he fired at the native, immediately sending him falling to the grass below. The last Indian that witnessed everything ran away, most likely to tell the tribe about the fight.

The one native that was shot appeared to still be alive. He had a unique mark on his face, giving off the impression that he was someone important to the tribe. Sure enough, he was Nemattanew, the war-chief and adviser to the new Powhatan Chief. He was accused of murdering another settler previously, something he never denied. Instead of admitting it, he had run away.

"That was for Morgan, scum." The settler spat on the ground next to the Indian. Morgan was the name of the settler Nemattanew had allegedly murdered.

Michael rushed to his side, but it was no use. His life was coming to an end. Suddenly, the native spoke. "One wish is all I ask."

The settler was still in the process of reloading his musket just in case. But even he wanted to know what the injured Indian would ask for.

"Bury me behind your lines." Nemattanew begged. "To have fallen to English fire, spare my people the truth of my death."

With his dying words said, Nemattanew passed away. Michael placed a hand over his eyes, closing them. All he could think of was the response to this incident. A Powhatan war-chief shot and killed by an English settler, the news could spark the continuation of the war. However, now was not the time to fear what may come ahead.

Michael turned to face the other Englishman behind him. "You heard his wish. Carry him back to the fort. You were the one who killed him after all."

"You killed one yourself too, don't place the blame all on me." The settler's response caused Michael to raise an eyebrow. Before he could say anything, the settler already pointed towards another native lying motionless on the ground with a bloodied stick protruding from his back.

Michael stared back in shock, immediately feeling a sense of dread. "No, no, no, no, no." He was in complete disbelief as he rushed to the native's side. Fortunately, he could sense the native was still breathing, albeit very heavily.

"Listen to me, you need to get up." He tried to speak to the Indian very gently in an attempt to calm him down. "If you can't, I can carry you. Just say or do something, please."

There was no way to tell if the native could even understand what he was saying. Michael never found the time to learn the Powhatan language apart from a few words; none of which would be useful to use for this predicament. Meanwhile, the other settler looked back before sighing to himself. He picked up the corpse of Nemattanew and dragged him away.

The injured Powhatan wasn't responding, and his breathing continued heavily. Michael bent down beside him and gently lifted the fallen native's chin up. "Don't die on me, do you hear me? It's just a puncture in the spine, you can live through this."

However, his idea of only the spine being struck was quickly proven wrong. The stick was jabbed into his back from an angle, and blood had already come out of his mouth. There was serious internal damage in play here. By the looks of it, the stick might have reached one of his lungs.

It explained the difficulty in breathing and the blood leaking from his mouth. Michael already knew how to treat a punctured lung, but he had nothing to use. Worse, the native was close to death. There was no time to carry him back to Jamestown or seek nearby help. Something had to be done now.

The air inside the punctured lung needs to escape. Currently, only the stick was in the way. If Michael removes it, it'll make breathing slightly easier. But at the same time, it'll cause him to bleed out if pressure isn't applied.

He snapped his fingers to catch the native's attention. "I'm sorry, this is going to hurt. Just hang in there, ok? Keep your eyes on me, don't you dare fall asleep."

Just as he said it, he grasped the stick and forcefully pulled it out. This caused the native to massively groan in pain, too weak to scream instead. Michael on the other hand let out a yell of his own. His hands were still severely injured from his previous fight. The pain was throbbing and his hands were still bleeding.

But through the pain, he had to keep going. He already took off his vest, leaving just his shirt on. Using the vest, he placed it over the native's wound and slightly pressed on it. When the Indian cried out again, he removed the vest to allow the air to leak from his back.

"Come on!" Michael was becoming visibly frustrated, trying everything in his power to keep him alive. "You're stronger than this, just keep breathing!"

Repeating the process of applying pressure with the vest, he was hoping the native's health would improve. However, that wasn't the case at all. When his breathing worsened again, it took a drastic turn for the worst. His lips were quivering and his eyes were wide open.

He had gone into cardiac arrest. Within moments, his breathing came to a complete stop. His eyes were still opened, but they never blinked. Almost immediately, his heart stopped beating.

"Don't do this. Please, I'm begging you." Michael rolled him over his back, keeping the native's chest facing towards the sky. "You need to wake up. Just open your eyes and live, that's all I ask of you! Wake up and live!"

When there still wasn't a response, his anger worsened. "Wake up damn you! I swore not to kill again, don't let this happen now! Wake the fuck up and live!"

In his raged state, he formed two fists with his injured hands and beat the ground. Tears were already flowing as his mind only repeated one word that haunted him.

Failure.

No amount of screaming ever helped revive the Powhatan. Nothing could be done to reverse this. The Indian was dead, and his murderer was Michael Smith.

He felt completely miserable. Leaving the native's corpse in the woods, he had to return to the fort. His injuries were tended to as his hands were treated and bandaged. Nemattanew was buried in Jamestown as his death was spread amongst the community. Reports of the incident were spoken to the other members of the Powhatan tribe.

The one thing Michael feared the most was the aftermath of this conflict. It kept him awake every night in absolute fear. Just the idea of the Indians retaliating and starting a war had him on edge. He doesn't want to fight anyone anymore. He just wants to rest without fear; without torment.

He wasn't the only one who was afraid of the near future. All of Jamestown was on high alert following the death of Nemattanew, waiting for the first sign of trouble. Knowing the Powhatan tribe, they will unleash their fury and leave no one alive. After everything that has happened throughout the past two decades, they were willing to end it all with complete and utter annihilation.

But to everyone's surprise, the Powhatans understood the death of Nemattanew was an accident. In the most surprising turn of events, the Indians weren't launching an attack. On the one day Michael feared the most, he was met with signs of peace and friendship.

A few days after incident, hundreds of Powhatans arrived in Jamestown bearing gifts and food. They were unarmed, and only wanted to offer their support. Some came to mourn the passing of Nemattanew while making amends with the settlers.

It was at the crack of dawn. Michael stood by the entrance to Jamestown as he watched countless Indians march through the settlement peacefully. Some of the colonists were cautious and kept their weapons close. But no bloodshed was necessary. On this day, there would be no more violence.

Soon, any doubts and skepticism the settlers had disappeared. For once, both sides could interact with one another without resulting in someone's death. Food was passed around amongst the colonists. Any fear of poison was disregarded as the meats and fruits provided were fresh and entirely safe to consume.

Even some of the Indian women and children made peace with the settlers. Kids enjoyed running around the streets of Jamestown as others socialized and enjoyed their time. Michael shared a drink with one Powhatan, finding the opportunity to laugh along and forget all about his troubles. It helped him feel easy and stable again, to temporarily drive away his stress and anxiety.

This commenced for hours. It was safe to say this could be one of the brightest days in Jamestown's history. Michael had his fill of food and drink, choosing to step outside for some air. The sun was directly above him, bathing the entire land with light. Then, a gust of wind rushed past him.

He could smell the air, and it felt soothing. The distant chatter of people and giggling of children echoed in his ears.

But as he turned his head towards the entrance to the settlement, he spotted a figure in the distance. Someone was running towards the village. It seemed as if the figure was in a full state of panic. Then, he could hear the faint sound of a male shouting come from the figure. The man appeared to be Richard Pace, a colonist that lived outside the walls of Jamestown. His shouting soon became clear.

"Don't trust them!" Michael heard him, and he became confused as he also felt a slight burst of anxiety rise within him. Richard continued his screaming. "It's a trap! They have come to murder us all!"

Just as he said it, Michael turned his head towards the closest Indian beside him. The Powhatan's expressions seemed to change instantly. His slight smile turned into a frown. Something was terribly wrong.

That was when he heard a commotion come from the closest tavern. Michael suddenly felt his hands begin to shake. This couldn't be happening.

How could they have been so foolish?

The screams of nearby women reminded him of the true horror he was about to face. The nearest door was smashed apart with the bloodied corpse of an Englishman. A tomahawk was stuck in his chest. Suddenly, a few Indians emerged from behind the door.

They were supposed to be unarmed. That's how they entered. But what stood before Michael were fully armed Indians holding a wide assortment of weapons, including muskets.

In a moment's notice, they had all grabbed the nearest weapon they could find. Many of the colonists were left defenseless as their weapons were stolen and used against them without hesitation.

Michael watched as each musket was aimed towards him, forcing him to freeze in place.

He was left speechless at the moment.

Triggers were pulled, and shots were fired.

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Historical Notes:

A majority of the colonials who died from disease and starvation were buried in secrecy behind the fort. This was to prevent the natives from suspecting Jamestown was vulnerable to attacks. During the settlement's worst years, multiple men would be thrown in the same shaft and buried, as there wasn't enough room to evenly spread them out.

The first recorded strike in Colonial America occurred on June 30th, 1619. Only men of English origins could vote, thus leading to a group of Polish artisans going on strike and refuse to work. Shortly afterwards, they were granted the right to vote and their strike came to an end.

Richard Pace was forewarned of the Jamestown massacre by a young Powhatan boy. The boy's name in legend is Chanco, but his real name could have been Chauco instead.

Jamestown by the year 1622

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