Title: Paradox (Love and Pain)

Author: Rissa85-Stargazing85

E-mail: rissa85@collegeclub.com

Rating: PG-13 to R

Disney Movie: Pocahontas

Part: One

Disclaimer: I don't own any Disney characters or movies. This is done all outta fun. And boredom. Maybe boredom more than…never mind.

Author's Note: Hopefully, anyone who reads this will have seen Pocahontas. Even better if you've seen Pocahontas 2 (Journey to a New World). There's just a myriad of genres here: Romance (as usual with my 'fics), Drama (always!), and Angst. Perhaps the smallest twinge of humor. The setting takes place in London; right before Pocahontas sets sail back to her home, back to her people. But this is where my fanfiction enters the scene. Enjoy.

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She remembered that day quite vividly.

The day that she had felt she had triumphed over the world. Her people where protected from the precarious English armada fleet, sitting idyll on top of the waters like erratically shaped lily pads. All thanks to the Native spirits she had prayed to, and John Rolfe-with the mysterious light-hued eyes. Why had he chose to aid her? She had always speculated, and never inquired. She was only a Native woman, and he-he was one of the elite of English society. And he wanted her. It had flattered her.

But, she had remembered the day, with ethereal clarity.

She had been standing on the balcony of one of the many that the English King James the 1st had in his illustrious and slightly intimidating palace, made of stone and with hundreds of candles that burned on different sizes torches during the night. Relieved, she had been, to be by herself and to reflect. The pillar of her people's strength-the daughter of the Powhatan chief. All of England had thought her nothing but a savage, a savage woman at that. She had proved them wrong.

The wind had torn through her dark hair, caressing her face. She had heard John Smith's voice, determined and so full of the confidence that had made her first notice him, on the midst by the river. The gushing waterfall having been the backdrop. She had heard his voice clear and slightly cocky. Above all the pale-faced ladies in, what she considered, gaudy and restrictive clothing that she had hated to wear and barely permitted her to breath. The English had so many strange customs. All the heavy clothing that was meant to conceal everything save for face and hands. Perhaps little less when a ball permitted it.

The ladies had swarmed about John. He liked it. She heard it clear from the tone of his voice-the tone she had become familiar with. The voice that she would've blasphemed the Native spirits, and jumped from the high cliff to the large blue sea frozen in winter time, to hear at one time. He, somehow, had managed to detangle himself from the over exuberant ladies which swarmed about him like lustful-for-nectar bees. He was quiet at first, for just a fraction of a moment.

It was that fraction of a moment that she wished she could have erased all the moments she was sure he was killed. All the moments she had talked to her closest friend, Nakoma, and wondered why he had been taken from her. Even though she had not heard from him in months, years even. Nearly two years from being told he was deceased and wanting so much to tell him, to being with him on the balcony and saying nothing. Perhaps it did not matter.

He had been appointed something important. The Royal advisor to the king. His new clothes shined brilliantly in the sun, the metal near blinding her and making him appear god-like. His blond hair being caressed by the wind. He was relaxed as always, leaning ever so slightly over the balcony ledge, his hands folded in front of him, resting. It was part of his grace, she had never seen him any more than relaxed-he had told her once, during their quiet times together-Tenseness led to the irrational.

His plans had been one that she could've predicted herself, had he not spoken them first. He wanted to set sail, to explore the world, to meet new cultures and see new faces. To sail the open sea, find more land, 'mercantilism' he had said, she still did not comprehend the meaning of it fully. But alas, he wanted her with him, wanted her at his side, to explore the world with him. She could not see herself.

It labored her to say the words which came to her mind, his curious blue eyes wondering why she didn't agree with him-follow him on his aspirations that seemed like a mountain but which he always accomplished and made them simple as traveling over a hill. Her mouth was mechanical-saying words which sounded strange to her even now. She had told him that once their paths had crossed, but now-she had a different path to follow. His gaze was one struck with pain, perhaps heartbreak.

He had muttered the name, John Rolfe. She had loved him so much then-John Rolfe and John Smith both at the same time. She had loved John Rolfe more. She had foolishly loved him, also. She only merely nodded her head, what words else could she say? His voice seemed as mechanical as hers, he was always a master of emotions. She was struggling as much as he. Perhaps he more than her.

"I hope that you find happiness with him, Pocahontas." He opened his mouth to say more, but his mind perhaps did not allow him to follow on his speech. And with the swiftness he had come into her life, he had left. John Rolfe was awaiting through the sheer magenta hued drapes.

She was so surprised to see John Rolfe on the ship that would lead her to return home. The romance started, not too brazenly or swiftly and not so very slowly or modestly. It was natural, somewhat. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered, when she was talking to John Rolfe, looking at him, being caressed by him-perhaps where would she be if she had followed the path of John Smith, along with him. But John Rolfe would sense her silence, and make a remark that would evoke at the very least a winning smile which would distract her from her thoughts.

John Smith had bothered to only write her once. Perhaps it was a symbol. The first time she had came into the wooden structure which served as their home. Their courtship had been surprisingly short, and her father, bewildered, had wished her happiness and said nothing more. How she longed to go back to the days when she had not known John Rolfe, when their courtship was knew and provided her with that inexplicable rush of euphoria.

How had she known that John was going to become a drunkard?

***

How odd that he should think of her now? It had been months since he had thought of her, had not worried and persecuted himself by thinking about her. Their last contact, over a year and a half ago, made him feel like he never had. A lost he had never felt, it was strange, the thought panged him the same way it had a year and a half before. He wanted to pull her back, when she said the words that had hurt him so very much.

Their paths had crossed once, but now…she wanted John Rolfe. John Smith knew that John Rolfe was no good for Pocahontas, perhaps no good for anyone so worthy as she. He had gritted his teeth when he heard the news that John Rolfe had climbed aboard the ship Pocahontas sailed back to America in. And perhaps he lingered for a moment, a small hope that he had that she would see her error in being with Rolfe and join him, again. Not even in England, if she wished, he would've gladly sailed the world hundreds of times over, if only to be near her.

But sadly, this was not to be. And embarrassedly, in a drunken state, in an attempt to clear his mind of her, he had been told he had written a near illegible and lengthy letter that he would not let anyone read except her. And his friend, the old chap, Thomas, kept telling him that he kept muttering Pocahontas until he fell asleep in the light of dawn.

He wondered about the letter and what it may have contained, he remembered nothing of that night. Except sitting down and writing. Embarrassed, he, too, wondered what sort of passion he put into that letter which he never meant to write or for her to see.

It pained him to think of her. He imagined them, married, alone together and growing old. But Rolfe had beat him, and he had lost. The taste of defeat had been foreign. And indulging himself carelessly, through the local tavern and houses of prostitution, he solicited his feelings for a moment of ecstasy, be it in the bed, the bottle, or both.

But now, he felt again the sting of defeat as he had opened one envelope signed in gold script from the King James, his highness. He was to ferret the New World for John Rolfe and bring him back for inquiry. To what inquiry he had no idea, but strangely enough the annoying emotion of hope for his reconciliation with Pocahontas stirred in his bosom.

***

With straight, long and black hair tied in a braid over her left shoulder, Pocahontas untied her hair, which was usual as she did so every morning before fashioning it to the top of her head in a small bun, which the pale-faced ladies were customed to doing within the settlement.

There were but two ladies, and being excluded from society had begged their husbands back to London, where hastily the settlers had conceded to. After all, the wilderness was no place for women of society and civilization, of course the Natives did not account.

"That bastard Smith is visiting the New World again." Rolfe spoke irritably, as he took the brush she had laid down, and picked it up, brushing her hair in smooth and gentle strokes. His unusual gentleness provoked her into rigidity and silence, and she remained reticent as he continued.

"I wonder what in the Virgin's name has he to do here? I've thought since he's finished exploring here, he'd make it priority to sail South to trade route with India, or perhaps at least China. That bloody Smith! He was always boistering about like an irresponsible, domesticated animal! Some recent settlers have informed me of his regular attendance in the brothels, the taverns and he has allegedly come quite the acquaintance with spirits, of course, not expecting much from one like him. A commoner…I also hear that he speaks of you occasionally. We must inform him that you are mine." He finished, putting the brush down and gently kissing her on her cheek before leaving, leaving a masculine scent.

Pocahontas remained very still, and an uncomfortable feeling of trepidation swelled in her torso. An almost wave of nausea swept over her and she stared at her reflection into the mirror. Settlers, having nothing more to do, than to sit and gossip about those not present. John, here in the New World…he must know of Rolfe's erratic behavior.

 Surely, she mused,  it couldn't have gotten as far as London. Could it have?

***

"Smith? Perhaps you may be glad to know the talk of Powhatan's daughter!" a man missing two front teeth accompanied by a chaotic gray beard gave Smith a rough shove. Smith looked over to the man, while he sloshed a bucket of semi-clean water over the deck, littered with dirt and a recent bout of nausea from a crew member.

"Honestly," he muttered halfheartedly, ignoring the man deliberately. "Those with seasickness have no reason to sail…"

"Smith!" the man barked boisterously, laughing roughly.

"What is it?" his voice was tinged with annoyance, as he gazed into the blue green waters of the endless Atlantic.

"Powhatan's daughter! Do you not know of it? Her?"

Feigning disinterest but his mind entreating to know of the inquiry, he muttered under his breath, perhaps an oath or two escaped. The grubby man suspiciously glanced at Smith, who pretended to have no qualms of conscience from ignoring him.

"From what I hear, she's but…"

He swallowed the lump of anxiety in his heart, and interrupted. "I must retreat to my bunker, you must forgive my abruptness." And with a slight bow which advertised mockery of propriety, he left with swiftness.

***

"The new boat had arrived last evening." Rolfe spoke blandly, as Pocahontas watched as he buttoned his ivory silk vest. As the example of native and English relations, Pocahontas and Rolfe were to greet the settlers, as was customary. Though she was fond of greeting those and acquainting them with her people, she loathed to parade the new settlers with English assimilation in short of Native pride in her culture.

However, this greeting with the new settlers seemed to capture a different sense of emotion. Rolfe would never admit, but a mix of jealousy and arrogance was accompanying him. She had been indiscreetly reminded that as his wife, he would stay close to him and say not a word. It was not a woman's place to greet the settlers, only to be hostess. Her objection had resulted in the twist of her arm behind her back, and a harsh command of obedience.

Her face, powdered and dabbed with the slick red rouge given to her in a pot and imported by England, was plastered with a smile. But to always her stubbornness, belonged the tiredness displayed in its slightly cold expression. The bodice, as always, was constricting, and a pale gold. But grateful that her shoes would not show, she had worn her moccasins, given to her as a wedding present by Nakoma, but blasphemed by Rolfe as the creation of savageness.

"Shall we?" Rolfe waited as she adjusted his ruffles, his intense gaze made her weary of her servitude and she near writhed at it.

***

Those aboard had descended to the settlements on land, where makeshift huts had been prepared. As usual, some aboard where with illness and taken to the English infirmary. But the settlers had gazed, as Pocahontas and Rolfe, all decked in English finery, descended from the wooden carriage made especially for them. The stares were uncomfortable, but not as comfortable as the fervent whispers, which she could make out Rolfe's name and hers.

Rolfe had left, her and ascended a platform to speak with the visitors. In a moment, nearly all of the pale-faced English ladies had surrounded her, and in seeing her beauty commented fervently to themselves, but alas they began to speak with her. But the conversation was odd, they remarked on how savage her people could be subdued to English customs, and how the marriage of her to Rolfe had seemed a grave success, a deliverance of savageness to civilization. Nearly a revelation, and they had whispered something of Catholicism-strangely, Pocahontas had married in that religion so peculiar to her husband.

"Pocahontas." The word was so subtle, so quiet that she had not seem to hear it, and for a brief moment she had conjectured that she must've imagined it. But, she turned and in the rough shirt and breeches of a sailor stood Smith, the sun had slightly bronzed his skin and brought out the blue of his eyes. Presently, she became aware of her intense hawk-like gaze and turned swiftly. Her amazement and fright at Rolfe's suspicious and erratic stare on the platform had overrode any sense of propriety.

"Pocahontas…?" The name was now a little hesitant, and she half-turned, her dress being so constrictive and uncomfortable, how she longed for Native dress. She kept her stance half-turned and whispered anxiously. "John!"

He stepped toward her, but she shook her head silently. "You must not stand so closely to me." She gazed at the platform, seeing Rolfe surrounded by newly come settlers and obscured from her view. Smith, all the while observant, followed her gaze to the platform and in a moment was gently ad swiftly leading her from the platform to the behind the wooden houses close in proximity. She was grateful of the large crowd, subtracting from their slightly indecent behavior, for the pale ladies would not tolerate a married woman to be alone with an unmarried bachelor without her husband's prior knowledge. In fact, a decent man would not consent, should the unmarried man be so ill-bred as to ask for the wife's company.

All these thoughts and more jumbled around in her bronze head, her black hair piled to the top of her head in a mess of uncomfortable ornaments made from bone. Smith finally drew to a gradual halt in front of a plain wooden settlement, he fumbled with a metal key and stepped in. Frozen, she stood outside.

"Well…?" he gestured her to the inside.

Hesitantly, she shook her head. "I…" she wanted to say, she should have told him of her situation, but she continued. "I can only stay for a short while…"

***

He drew her to a table, and noticed had noticed her hesitant attitude, perhaps she was…he could not fathom the very idea. Perhaps he needed to expect the inevitable, but he would always see her as his. He had seen it, the apprehensive and fleeting looks cast on him by her. Her restlessness when she let herself by led by him. And now the rhythmic patting of her shoe on the earth.

He drew a chair close to her and smiled subtly, wanting nothing more than to gaze at her as he did presently. "You must tell me about your life, what I've missed so far, Pocahontas."

She swallowed the lump in her heart, attempting to steady her heart beat. Her clasped hands fumbled over each other until Smith reached for her smooth hands and held them. "Are you troubled?" his brows furrowed together with concern. She tore her eyes from his and looked about him, and whispered softly to him.

It was so soft he did not hear. So she repeated herself, "Is the door locked?"

"Well," he curiously peered into her eyes after drawing her face back to his, "I keep it locked during the evenings and when I leave, but generally it is unlocked. Why? Would it make you more comfortable if we were sealed?" his slight joke caused her to supply him with a cautious smile.

He returned to his seat, reaching again for her hands and entwining them. Something was missing from her, something was amiss in her personality, in her posture. He had remembered her, her with so much vibrancy and…confidence. Confidence. She was no longer confident.

"You must tell me of you." His voice was saturated with his concern and gentleness.

"Will you ever marry?" her comment was spontaneous and with a slightly entreating tone conveying a hidden emotion that he would have never associated with her-fright.

"Perhaps when I've grown more, seen the world over and when I find someone who behaves like I, who loves to sail and the sea…"

Her voice and command was tinged with bitterness. "Don't marry, please. Stay as you are. Marriage…changes the personality. From a dove to a snake." She repeated the last sentence again, only softer.

"From a dove to a snake…? To what do I owe these words?"

"Rolfe." The word was spoken with fright and underlying bitterness.

The atmosphere was silent, but for a moment until Smith found his voice, albeit it was as bitter and stoic. "You've married him, have you? He makes a wonderful husband, does he not?" and with swiftness, he dropped her hands, where they collapsed into her lap.

"I wanted to warn you. I could not write you without a trace of bitterness in my writing. I knew of his character, I was certain you would not listen to me. My jealousy might be the cause of the destruction of your relationship. Better to have you see the error of your ways than to lose you because I attempted to show you the errors to be made!" he stopped unexpectedly, when he saw her form shudder.

"I've become accustomed to him." Her voice was small and choked, and settling next to her, Smith laid his chin thoughtfully on his fist, his emotion having been displayed. He began again, "Tell me, why have you changed your attire from Native to English? You always were proud of your wear."

She reached to her hair, and unfastened a large clip, her hair falling to its length behind her back, and with her knuckles taut, she gripped the ornament with force. "He…makes me."

Curiously, he lifted his chin. His eyes intense. "Makes you?"

"I…I must leave John. My husband will be expecting me any moment. I'm sorry, it was wrong of me to come here, it was…disgraceful. I've troubled you and please, you won't tell Rolfe?" her black and shining eyes brought him to weakness and if she wished he would've gladly killed Rolfe, for that was whom he had to thank for her modification of personality.

"I won't. You have my word." And with that, he unlocked the door, and she turned, but before she could walk a few steps, she turned and embraced him, awkwardly John Smith stood stoically, still bitten by the fact that she was no longer, in actuality, his.

After she left, he finally became conscious of the wetness on his shirt bosom. Tears.

***