"Come away with me," she says. He does not move because he no longer knows how. The men back at the fort would die. She comes to warn him. She hopes that he will come away with her, and leave the men behind, but she does not expect it. She yet understands his loyalties. He blinks his bright, dark eyes in the night against the glaring flames flickering behind her lithe figure. Turmoil rages inside of him. He cannot move. He is conflicted.
"Nantaquoud, leave. They will come in the morning and you will be here yet. You must come," Her eyes plead with him, and make his heart sore. He has a duty to the settlers. His honor will not let him leave. Yet he has nothing here that is worth all that she is worth. Hearing his Algonquin name clouds his head with the memories of her. The memories of their time together in the woods, so alone and yet so alive and unified with all the world that exists to him. London is a mere memory. Life before her was a dream. The name he once had was false. Wrong. Nantaquoud. That is his name.
Her. That is his heart.
"Come, hurry. We must go away, or they will come and you will be here yet," She is hushed but urgent. He blinks once more as his thoughts congeal in his head, too tight and close and thick to understand what he wants. Each time she speaks of it he thinks of the settlers. She has come to warn him, knowing very well that he might not come. Knowing that her own people might die because she warned him, and he did not leave with her.
She says nothing. The want and plead is in her eyes. Dark and glassy, like mirrors to his very soul. He cannot help but gravitate towards her as she fidgets, wary like the deer, ready to sprint away in a flash. That would end the illusion. He must run after her, if she runs away.
He takes one step forward. Her face betrays fear, as all her movement halts. Her dark eyes pierce him. Her jaw clenched tight in anticipation. She risks her own life. He cannot risk her life. He takes another step, and one more. They come faster, lighter, quicker as if he walks on air. This is the feeling of the Summer and the Autumn. This is the feeling that had felt ages away two steps ago.
Nantaquoud wonders how he left her before. They are inches apart, but he must look far down to see the girl. Their hands inch slowly into each other's grasp, as is their natural custom. The habit acquired what seems to him to have been forever and ago. He holds tight, and she begins to step gracefully backwards, still facing him, pulling him by the hand away from the false life he willingly led for a people that had no care for any but themselves.
Tomorrow the settlers will die.
He does not blink. He only walks with her, following her cautious steps. They reach the middle of the field. She walks with a quicker step, still backwards, never turning, her eyes constant in his, calling into their oceans. Come back and come home, home to my heart. He cannot do anything but comply. She rules his mind, and his heart rules his mind. She is his heart.
Tomorrow the settlers will die. Tonight and forever Nantaquoud will live. Powhatan Nation will live. They reach the forest's edge.
She looks at him hard. He tightens his grip on her hand. The night flies past them and into day. The sun's rays glimpse over the edge of the world. What a wide and eternal world. Never ending wilderness that is only forever. They are at Werowocomoco. They have come home. She brings him through the silent village to her father's lodge.
Nantaquoud is exhausted. It has taken all his strength to come here. To not turn back. He falls on his knees. The Mamanatowick looks down upon him. Nantaquoud breaths deeply and closes his eyes in anticipation. He waits, breath stilled in fear. The corner of his mouth twitches. He listens.
She has fallen prostrate on the ground between him and her father. The words tumble from her mouth as she begs him to be merciful. His teeth clench. Merciful on them both. She loves him, she cries out. She laments before anything has been decided. Voices begin to sound around them. Nantaquoud still does not open his eyes. He is living in the dream; it clouds his senses. He waits, smelling and hearing all that is exotic and familiar all at once.
It seems a long time but he knows it is not. He still cannot feel the sun's rays upon his back. His breath is hitched. His jaw remains clenched. He listens as the Mamanatowick orders the warriors to continue on their mission. They move away and he speaks to her, still on the ground before him, sobs wracking her body, sun-kissed and bronzed.
They will look for him, the Mamanatowick says. Nantaquoud knew this, and now only breaths fear. There is silence. Even her sobs have been quelled in expectation of the next words. They will not find him the Mamanatowick assures her. Nantaquoud is only here. There is no other. There is no man from the sky, or from east across the sea.
Nantaquoud's eyes open with breathy release. She has crawled to her father's feet, and is kneeling now, her arms gently wrapping around his legs in thankfulness. He tells her to leave, and she lets him go, standing with her infinite grace.
Nantaquoud's eyes are open and he breathes but still he cannot move. He is as stone. The moments are unreal. He wonders if they ever will be real. Never. This, he knows. Assimilate, his heart and mind chant with every pounding beat of blood in his body. She places her hands on his shoulders and leans her cheek to the top of his head. They do not move. They are as of stone together.
This Nantaquoud knows. Together. That will not change.
They sway now. They are no longer stone. Now they are wood. Stone does not grow. Wood changes and grows and moves. Just as does love. His heart remembers that he has left many to die. He does not weep for them, but his heart mourns. They will not be missed by him, even still. Perhaps it is for the best. The settlers, they are nothing. The people here. They are everything. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists to him. Moments are eons. Change is relative to the slightest movements. All is fluid and earthy and real.
He stands with her in his arms. Runs his coarse hands over her unblemished shoulders. He lets his chin rest in her silky hair, and feels her smooth check press against his chest, her arms encircling his waist, holding gently, seeking comfort in his embrace.
The night has been a long one. The morning light sparkles on the dew in the leaves. The world around them glitters, in its own ethereal. Shadow and light dance as the morning hums to life around them. Not far away, off the mouth of the Chickahominy river, the settlers fall to the ground, heads bashed in with the clubs of the people. Back in the glade of Werowocomoco, John Smith has died too.
With the light of the new late spring morn, the English settlers have left the New World behind. Born from the sun's everlasting rays, Nantaquoud finally lives, breathing his first breaths of life. Life that has meaning. Life that is real. Life that lives. And with Nantaquoud, the people live around him. With him, she lives. Matoaka. His Pocahontas.
And the earth breathes as all nature is in harmony. New seeds are sown on the field of the dead settlers. The Chickahominy carries them away. Memories that fade as the world glistens in new light, and life goes on.
Fan Fiction for The New World: An Alternate course of action from the very moment he lays eyes on her at the bonfire. Nantaquoud was the Algonquin name given to Smith after his honorary acceptance into the tribe. That is a historical fact. All native names are historical fact. Spelling is the anglicised official. This means no Algonquin accent marks. Reviews for this would be wonderful I tried to capture the exact mood of the whole first half of the film in this, and I really hope I did it justice!