To be honest, I've no idea why I even wrote this fic; all I know is I've been on a HUGE Disney kick lately (rewatching my old VHS tapes, downloading soundtracks, fanart, the works). I noticed there's a lot of Rolfe-hate going around, and since he's canon both fictionally and historically, I figured he needed a fic that showed him in a good light.

Warning; this is Pocahontas/Rolfe- don't like, don't read.

Like always, I own nothing!

"With the promise of forever, we will take the past and learn how to begin; and we'll build a bridge of love between two worlds."

OOO

In his small cabin below deck, Thomas Rolfe stared gloomily at the clothes laid out before him. There were several layers, and not a single one looked comfortable. He cared little for the aesthetics of clothing, more interested in whether he could run or jump or hunt in them. Which, the eight-year-old remarked silently to himself, if he wore these, he most certainly could not. Thomas fingered the fringe on his buckskin tunic absentmindedly. It was perfect for all tests a little boy could think of to put it through; his mother had planned it as such when she made it-

His mother.

The thought was a dagger to the heart, and he struggled to force all images of her from his mind. Memories of her beautiful face, smiling at him so lovingly, served only as a painful reminder of what he had lost.

Five moons ago, Pocahontas, princess of the Powhatan tribe, been stricken down by illness. The tribe's healers were baffled by it, but the settlers over at Jamestown called it 'pneumonia'. She'd been isolated, kept away from the rest of the Powhatans for fear of spreading it, including her only child. Thomas had barely understood what was going on, knowing only that "Mother is sick", and now, "Mother is dead". For a child so young, it was hard to make sense of such a concept.

Now they were off to the strange land across the sea, just Thomas and his father. After Pocahontas' death, it became apparent that several of the Powhatans had only tolerated John Rolfe, a white outsider, because his wife was their princess. In truth, it was only a handful of people who had an issue with him, but he decided it would be best to leave and avoid upsetting the fragile bonds formed between the Indians and the settlers. Elderly chief Powhatan gave them both his blessing, and then they were on their way. The last sight Thomas had had of his home was Jamestown's fort and the retreating shoreline. Now, fighting to keep his emotions in check, he sat down on the bunk, head in his hands.

The young boy was filled with grief, loneliness, and anger for being taken away so suddenly from all he had ever known, causing a rift between him and his father. Thomas had spent most of the four-month journey avoiding John and brooding as much as an eight-year-old was capable of. Now, though, the ship had run out of water to cross and was to be docking in mere hours. Thomas had been given clothes- English clothes- to change into before they reached shore. Despite growing up so close to Jamestown, he'd never given much thought about the differences between his mother and father's heritages. Since peace had been made between the settlers and the natives, Jamestown had become more accustomed to visits from the Powhatans. Everyone there knew him as the son of the great Indian princess, grandson of Chief Powhatan. He'd had friends both in Jamestown and in the tribe, and now he was leaving them all.

The English sailors aboard the ship were different than the ones he knew. The settlers were used to encounters with the Indians, both through friendships and trade. There, he was both welcomed and respected as a princeling, no less important than his royal mother or diplomat father. Here, on the ship, the sailors looked down their noses at him, seeing him as a nuisance, and nothing their captain said could make them change their minds.

The other passengers were even worse; they pointed at him and John behind their backs and called them "savage", a word Thomas hadn't understood at first, but learned very quickly wasn't good. John told him not to listen to them, but his son was still giving him the silent treatment, something which he had never quite learned how to deal with. Usually it had been Pocahontas who was best at solving those issues, always getting to the heart of the matter and fixing the problem at it's source. And now that she was gone (really gone, as in forever, and how alien that thought was for him to think, yet so undeniably true...) the rift just got wider and wider, as they sailed farther and farther from the one home Thomas ever had. He ran a thumb over the tattoo band on his right arm, thinking about when he'd first gotten it after he turned five summers old. It marked him as a Powhatan; but now that he was leaving the tribe, he wasn't sure what he was. Who'd ever heard of an Indian in London?

Lost in his thoughts, Thomas didn't hear the creaking of footfalls on the ship's wooden floor until the door to his quarters opened, revealing his father's tall form. For a moment, Thomas ached to talk to him again, really talk, and be as close as they were before his mother died; but all that bitterness and sorrow rose up again, and Thomas refused to look at him.

Had an old friend or even Mrs Hudson, God rest her soul, seen John Rolfe after so long, they would scarcely have recognized him. The once-pale skin of his face was now darker with a combination of tan and freckles, the corners of his mouth and eyes decorated with laugh-lines, many more than he would've had reason for before his life with the chief's daughter. His hair, only a few strands of gray mixing with it's ginger color, was no longer tied in a horsetail; instead, it hung loosely around his shoulders, held back by a leather band, in a way most decidedly New World. A dark tattoo encircled his right bicep, the symbol of his marriage to Pocahontas and acceptance into the tribe. Combined with his simple outfit of buckskin pants and a vest, John Rolfe was a veritable stranger to his countryman, showing almost no sign of his strong English upbringing, save for his slightly different mannerisms. For Thomas, this was the father he knew, as much a gentleman in his eyes as he was a savage in others. It was the sad, broken look in his hazel eyes (so different compared to the black of his wife and child), that was new to Thomas. Though, five months time couldn't really be counted as "new".

Draped over his arm were clothes as garishly bright as the ones laid out on the bunk; but Thomas refused to comment, staring at a patch of the wood floor directly next to his left foot. Making no comment about his son's behavior, despite it being considered disrespectful and unacceptable by both English and Powhatan, John crossed over to the bunk and sat down next to him.

"I see you've yet to change into the clothes so thoughtfully provided by the captain," he commented, breaking through the tense air around them. His tone was neutral, but Thomas almost swore he detected some of his father's characteristic sarcasm. He gestured towards the clothes on his arm. "Honestly, I don't blame you; I've found myself most reluctant to put on my own set. I'd almost forgotten how ridiculous English outfits were. Clearly, they haven't gotten much better since the last time I wore one." Thomas would've found that funny, but, as stubborn as his free-spirited mother, he refused to break from his quiet.

John sighed heavily, letting the outfit fall to the floor in an undignified heap.

"Son, I know this is about more than clothing preferences. We've hardly spoken this whole trip; tell me what's on your mind, Bridge-Over-Great-Water." Thomas stiffened; not at the acknowledgment that the issue ran deeper, but the use of his Powhatan name. Few people called him such, even among the tribe. The name brought back memories of his mother, of home, and served as a reminder that he had two identities, neither of them fully English or fully Indian.

"Why? We talked when you told me we were leaving, and you didn't listen when I said I wanted to stay! We talked, but you didn't Listen!" the young boy yelled, switching from English to Powhatan. Having grown up learning both, the two very different languages came easy to him; but Powhatan had been difficult for a native English-speaker like his father to learn. Even after so long, he spoke the language slower and the inflection of some words still came out wrong sometimes. The sudden change in language had been more than just to spite his father (though, he couldn't deny that hadn't been a part of it).

No, the shift had been because "listen" and "Listen" were almost two different things entirely. Englishmen listened with their ears; Powhatans listened with their hearts. And for Thomas, his pleas that they remain in Virginia had fallen on both deaf ears and a deaf heart. Despite being said in not as many words, John understood what his son meant.

"I wish I could make you know why we're leaving, but I do not know how," John replied, changing languages to match his son. "I would have stayed with our tribe if we could; that is not where our paths are heading, though." Thomas frowned; this was the first he had heard of destiny entering into their leaving. Finally, he looked at John, forcing back his hurt feelings.

"You talk as Grandmother Willow does," he said quietly.

"Because I spoke with her before we left. I told her what I wished to do, and she agreed. She said-" John paused, searching for adequate explanation. "She said our paths had changed; they now lie across the sea, in England. It took me long to know what she meant, but I Listened, and I understood. Will you do the same, son?" The sincerity in his voice was evident in both languages, and broke through Thomas' walls of resistance.

"Of course, Father." he replied. "I'm ready to Listen." A weak smile spread across John's features, before he turned back to the matter at hand.

"Your mother was a brave, proud, and incredibly kind woman. She could see good in others, even when they themselves couldn't. For her, the differences between her people and mine were small and petty; and she was right. We are all people, and have so much more in common than we choose to admit. She showed many how wrong they were to think otherwise. Including me," John smiled, sadly and fondly, looking both at Thomas and beyond him. "The wounds she healed between two stubborn cultures won't stay that way forever. And it is now our duty to not let her work become undone by those who are greedy and ignorant."

"Like Radcliffe," Thomas chimed in solemnly, thinking back to stories he had heard of the cruel man. John nodded.

"Yes, like Radcliffe. There is more than that, though. Do you remember what you were told of the day you were born?"

"I came into the world early. I was meant to be a winter-child, but I was born late autumn." he answered automatically, having heard it many times from the tribal elders. "The elders say it was only through the Great Spirit's power that I survived."

"They're right; you were very small, and frail. I never felt such fear before in my life as when I saw how still and quiet you were. Though, you're quite the opposite now!" Thomas laughed a little at that; he was known for being the most adventurous of the children, much like Pocahontas at his age.

"I also never saw two groups of people come together in such a way before, either. Both the tribe and the settlers prayed for your health through those first few days, each in their own different ways. The people of Jamestown offered to help in any way possible, sharing knowledge and remedies with the healers. And that's when I finally understood." John smiled fondly at him, running his fingers through his son's shaggy black hair.

"What did you understand, Father?" Thomas asked impatiently, listening to the story as if he'd never heard it before, Listening like a true Powhatan.

"You're the bridge between the English and the Powhatan, between two worlds. You can breach the gap that separated our cultures. It's even in your very name: the water isn't only the Atlantic- it's rivalries and racism and miscommunication. You'll be the one who teaches others to rise above those things, and see the world with open eyes. Do you understand what I'm saying?" he asked. Thomas didn't answer at first, thinking over what his father had told him. He thought of his mother, of his friends and his home. All he'd ever known existed because Pocahontas dared to challenge the walls between two people; and now he could do the same. His two names, Thomas Rolfe and Bridge-Over-Great-Water, weren't a symbol of his divided heritage at all; they were just him.

"Yes, Father; I understand. It's what Mother would want; I'll do it for us, and for our people." Thomas smiled, and then realized that John's hazel eyes swam with tears.

"That she would, son. That she would," he whispered as he pulled Thomas into a hug. They stayed that way for a few moments, letting the chasm between them heal, before letting go. Remembering the clothes on the floor, John picking them up and studied them.

"I've been doing some thinking myself, and I realized just how silly it would be for either of us to wear these. I'm sorry I said you should ever wear them in the first place. It was well-meaning of the captain of lend them, but these just aren't for us." he commented, dusting them off with his hand. Thomas shook his head.

"No. This is us," he agreed, with all the hidden wisdom of an eight-year-old, as he reached out and placed a hand on his father's tattoo, putting his other hand over his own mark.

"This is us," John repeated, ruffling Thomas' hair again. "Come now, the ship will be docking soon. Just wait 'till you see London; you won't believe your eyes..." Together, father and son stood and made their way up to the deck.

They had much work to do.

OOO

John Rolfe remained in London, educating his countrymen on the ways of the people in the New World and his experiences with them, up until he died in 1622. Thomas Rolfe, however, made several trips between England and the Americas, teaching the people of both cultures to look past their differences and see the good in each other. His efforts ensured peace between the English and Powhatans for several more decades. He truly was his mother's son.

Now, to be honest, most of this was made up, save for John Rolfe's death year. Rolfe and Pocahontas lived in England for much of their married life, and she died on their trip back to the New World. However, they really did have a son named Thomas Rolfe, though I don't know whether he had a Powhatan name or not. I tried searching for translaters via Google, but I got nada. I can only hope what I came up with doesn't sound too terrible in Powhatan!

In all seriousness, though; Disney's great for a happy ending, but it's no substitute for the originals. I challenge all who read this to look up the history of the real Pocahontas/Rebecca Rolfe, along with any other Disney-fied stories you enjoy. I love both the original Greek myths and their child-friendly versions, and I found Edgar Rice Burrows' Tarzan a great read (but The Hunchback of Notre-Dame made me cry!)

And, please, no flames; like all the writers here, I put alot of time and effort into this, and having people blast mindless critisism just because they dislike the pairing is really unfair. =(