Disclaimer: I do not own Mai-HiME or Mai-Otome and their characters, events or places.
A/N: Inspired by listening to music during my history class. There has been no bloodier war fought on American soil than the Civil War. It was a tumultuous, violent time when families were torn apart by their beliefs. So please, with respect to the lives lost during that long ago war and the time taken to write this, don't flame me. THIS IS NOT COMPLETELYACCURATE, HISTORICALLY.
One final warning: This is NOT a genderbending story! You'll see what I mean but all the characters ARE their ORIGINAL GENDERS.
[X]
"Ya sure ya wanna do this, son? Ya look awful young t'be here," murmured the old man behind the desk. His dark brown eyes examined the boy standing across from him; there didn't appear to be any physical problems, despite being a bit slender. The man noted that the boy was actually quite feminine, as far as features went. When the ebony-haired boy nodded with a sullen pout on his smooth face, the older man smiled softly. He quietly ordered, "Name and age, son."
"Nat Kruger. Eighteen years of age, sir," the boy grunted. He reached up, nervously pushing the blue-black strands out of his right eye with a flick of his wrist.
"Any limps, infections, seein' problems?" drawled the examiner. He nodded as Nat moved each arm, splayed his fingers and raised each leg independently. "Good. Y'oughta be clear t'join." The man turned in his chair and grabbed the crutches nearby. As he pulled imself up, the boy nearly gasped. Out of the corner of his eye, the recruiter noted the almost woman-like look of horror on the lad's face. "Ah! I see you noticed my newest wound! I'm pretty lucky, son. Damn thing coulda gotten infected and so far, I ain't had any problems with it. Hurts like hell sometimes but that's what the whiskey is for!" chirped the man. He bent overm waving a hand through the space where the lower half of his right leg should have been.
Nat swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and tried to regain his manly composure. "Sir, does that happen often?"
"Amputations?" Soft brown bangs shifted slightly as the examiner looked over his shoulder. "Well, they happen often enough. Most fellers die from the infection after an amputation." He turned back to his task and gathered a cadet grey frockcoat, forage hat and a rifle. "Like I said, I was lucky, son."
"Fayetteville rifle," Nat cut in, ignoring the last comment, recognizing the weapon, "Forty-nine point five inches, fifty-eight caliber. Muzzle-loaded, yeah?" His emerald green eyes sparkled intensely, excited by the sight of the gun.
The examiner grinned and replied, "Hell yeah, son. Sure know yer guns, don't ya?" At the nod of agreement, the brunette smiled. The old man began to hand the pile of supplies over to Nat but halted and withdrew slightly. He muttered, brown eyes narrowing, "Yer not supersticious, are ya?"
Emerald eyes widened; Nat shook his head, stammering, "N-no. Of course not." He reached out, touching the rough wool of the frockcoat and the cold metal of the rifle.
"Good. The last boy who wore this uniform died of an infection. He wasn't wearing the coat at the time but the matter still stands. Here ya are, son," the examiner stated.
'I'll keep our home safe, momma. I promise. I'm gonna fight to keep the war from destroyin' our home,' Nat inwardly swore; the midnight-haired soldier exited the building quickly, pulling on the frockcoat and letting it flutter open around him. He secured a thin rope to the weapon, creating a sling, and slung it cross-body, muzzle down. Nat was not unfamiliar with weapons. He was well-versed with them, seeing as he had no older brothers. The young man brushed his right hand through his hair again. It was longer than most men's hair; it easily could be pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. But he maintained his ways. 'I have my promise to keep.'
