Chapter Text
I had always thought death would hurt more in the end. It had hurt plenty up until this point—every step of the way, every wound, every loss—but in these final moments, I felt only weakness. Weakness, a feeling I had come to loathe with every fiber of my being. The land, the endless battles, and the many struggles of my short life had taught me to despise it. I had believed that the journey—the months of hardship and survival—had beaten the weakness out of me. I thought it had shaped me into something unbreakable, something strong as stone. But now, in the face of my end, I realized how wrong I had been.
My father held me under the shade of the tree I had chosen to mark my final resting place. Its gnarled branches stretched high above us, reaching for the sky as if defying the very fate I was succumbing to. The Crow tribe—Spotted Eagle and his people—had fought for me and had done everything they knew to pull me back from the brink. But no matter how much they tried, their efforts had been in vain. They couldn't undo what had already been done. I felt the weight of my failure, and it weighed heavier on me than any injury ever could.
My heart ached—not for the life I was leaving behind, but for the home I had once known. I longed not for the land I was born to but for Comancheria, the vast, untamed plains where the earth stretched endlessly beneath a sky as wild and free as my spirit had once been. In Comancheria, in the heart of that boundless wilderness, I had been known not as Elsa but as ekakwitsʉbaitu ohap i tʉ paapi or Lightning with the Yellow Hair. It was there that I had been free, where I had ridden under the open sky, where I had felt alive. But that life, it seemed, was behind me now, and I was a stranger to it.
Now, in the final moments, I had a choice. I could remain here, surrender to the earth beneath me, and let my body become one with the roots of these ancient trees. The dirt and silt would claim me, and in time, my bones would nourish the land that would shelter future generations of my family. I could fade into the soil, and my name would be forgotten, but the trees would live on, their branches cradling the lives of those yet to come. Or I could wish for something else— another chance, another life, the possibility to make things right. Perhaps, like the crow that soared through the sky above me, I could fly anew, returning to the life I had lost. I could ride the wind, free and unchained once again.
My breaths came in shallow gasps, my vision flickering like a candle in the wind. The world around me blurred, the edges softened, and I felt myself slip. Every attempt to keep my eyes open felt like a battle I was losing. Each time my eyelids fluttered shut, it took more strength to force them open again. And then, just before the darkness claimed me, I saw it. A crow—its black wings cutting through the sky, its silhouette framed by the fading light of the dying day.
As the world melted away and the cold began to creep into my bones, I felt a soft, almost imperceptible brush against my skin—like the touch of a feather. It was the crow, its spirit passing by me, a final messenger carrying me to the choice I had already made.
I had made my choice. Now, all I could do was hope that the choice was right.