Disclaimer: The fanfiction was written for entrainment purposes only; I do not own or profit from this fic, so to please not sue. This fic features adult situations toward the end, so please be mindful of its rating and double-click the back button now if you do not meet the rating requirements. Also, if you hate descriptions of love making, this fic is also not for you, please double-click the back button now.

Ok folks, now that that's out of the way, I have had a really bad few months and when I first heard the song "No Light, No Light" I was inspired (just blame Florence + The Machine). I am a little rusty so forgive me if this sucks. I have been working on this for awhile and I know the cottage scene has been done a million times, but I couldn't get this out of my head as an alternative to P2: JTNW (piece of crap that was, that movie murdered my childhood). I love reviews and will fully take constructive flames, but please note that I am an Early American Historian- B.A, M.A. and PHD- with particular focus in Euro-Native relations. So trust me, I know the history very well, I just like writing fiction.

Of Storms and Shadows

By

Babyb26

London- Early 1612

The glow of lightning filtered across the darkened room. The light reflected in white prisms across the room's interior. Rain beat a harsh rhythm against the cottage's hand-blown glass panes. A hand moved slowly across the smooth planes of a muscled chest. Effortlessly, the hand caressed downward as it trailed across heated flesh. The arm of the sleeping man unknowingly rose in welcome as it touched supple skin. Feather light fingers moved in deliberate circles as they moved up and down a muscled thigh. Lush full lips made contact with a pair of cupid's bow and that's when cerulean eyes opened to the realization of a dream.

The night had not started as thus, in fact he had argued with her not more than a few hours ago. How had it all come to this?

The horses slowed to a slow trot as John Rolfe, Pocahontas, Uttamatomakkin, and John Smith neared the cottage. The rain had started shortly after their escape and by the bright flashes in sky, Smith knew that a storm was brewing. The cottage had been long abandoned when he first sought refuge here nearly five years ago. Although weathered by years of neglect, the place was his home, at least until he made it back to the New World. John Smith maneuvered his horse toward the small barn at the back of the cottage, prolonging the sensation of his arms remaining wrapped about her waist. Rolfe, as expected, reluctantly followed his lead. Smith dismounted from the gray mare first, leaving Pocahontas free to search his face. Her eyes narrowed.

Half afraid, he faced her brown eyes and raised his arms to help her from the horse. Moments passed before she grudgingly accepted that she would have to move into his waiting arms. The rain, which made every surface slippery, made the layers of her heavy brocaded gown sodden and made her clumsy as she awkwardly fell into his embrace. Unable to stay upright without his help, she held him tighter and let him lead her toward the cottage. Their eyes met again and this time some of the steel that had reflected in her eyes had softened.

Inside the cottage Uttamatomakkin leaned against the fireplace frame, his ever watchful eyes landed on the man bringing his charge into the English cottage. Uttamatomakkin could sense that Smith was still very much in love with the woman he held in his arms, yet Uttamatomakkin could not say the same of Pocahontas. Although willing to be held, Uttamatomakkin could tell by her closed features that she was fighting to keep her emotions from breaking to the surface. For five years she had thought John Smith dead. "How?" Uttamatomakkin wondered, "would they make it through this storm?

Rolfe hovered over her as soon as she entered. He gathered her into his arms and pulled her toward the fire that Uttamatomakkin had lit. Smith halfheartedly let her go as the tension in the room spiked. Rolfe demanded that she rest. Being wet and disheveled she did not argue. Smith exited the room and went further into the dark cottage. Awkwardly, but mostly in an act of comfort, Rolfe paced in front of her and tallied their chances against Ratcliffe and the King's army. She still did not know how she completely felt about Rolfe, but in the few moments after he opened her cell door, she thought she could love him. Now, she was torn. Both men risked much for her people, but how could she still love a man that she thought was dead, and how could she deny love to a man who risked much to help her? She did not think that she could face the answers to her questions at this moment, nor was she ready to face her past.

From the corner of her brown eyes she saw John Smith re-enter the room carrying something gently in his calloused hands. As he approached and crouched in front of her, her breath stilled. She still could not fathom his being alive. How had she begged and pleaded to the Great Spirits to return him to her, but they remained silent and she continued to mourn. But here, now, was the man she had forsaken so much for. Anger spiked in her eyes. John Smith did not shy away this time, he would bear her hard looks, knew he deserved them. When they could find time to be alone, he would tell her why he could not come to her. For now, he would have to face his own faults and make amends where he could.

Reaching out, he grasped and squeezed her shivering hand as he handed her one of his shirts. On her it would be a night gown. Rolfe realizing the object Smith give her, crossed the small room.

"It would be improper for a proper lady to wear such in front of a gentleman," Rolfe spoke out in aggravation.

"Haven't she and her people been immodest enough…The heavens, Smith it causes their promiscuity!" Rolfe continued as his face closed in distain.

Pocahontas shook her head in disbelief at his words, Rolfe still did not completely understand her or her people.

"And what would you have her wear Rolfe? She's probably caught God knows what illness from her wet clothes and time spent in that crowded, and musty jail!" John Smith retorted as he turned to face Rolfe.

Rolfe countered, "She has been in my care and I will not…"

"Will not what!" Rolfe was cut off as Smith rose to his full height and the blue pools of his eyes froze over.

Sensing the tension between the two men, Uttamatomakkin moved to place himself between both them.

Rolfe seeking to cut Smith at his deepest barked, "Where were you when she was in need Smith? What have you done?"

Clenching his fist, John Smith's jaw tightened and then relaxed. Rolfe had been right. Where had he been when she needed him, what had he done for her? Detecting his advantage over the muscular blond, Rolfe continued.

"You helped me tonight, but what can you do to help her people Smith? What can a "dead" man do!" Rolfe grinned at John Smith's predicament.

In anger Smith, in a lighting quick movement, reached out for Rolfe but Uttamatomakkin's quicker reflexes blocked his hold. What could he say in his defense to Rolfe? Did Pocahontas know that he nearly died fighting the infection from his wound? Did she know he wrote her letters, but did not send them out of fear for his and her life? Did she know that Rolfe would have left her in the Tower and open to Ratcliffe's attack had he not intervened? Did she know how he watched over her from afar in London, praying that she had not fallen in love with Rolfe? No, she did not know of these things and yet he could not voice them in that moment. Rolfe was right, he had abandoned her.

"Stop! Both of you stop!" Pocahontas' voice rang out. Both men startled at her proclamation and instantly held still.

"I am tired of you all! Everyone wants to control me! Years ago it was father and Kocoum, now it is the both of you. Can you not just leave me be?" Pocahontas yelled as she threw the shirt to the ground to punctuate her point.

Turing swiftly she gathered her soaked skirts and ran out the cottage's door. Both Smith and Rolfe followed her outside in pursuit, only to be stopped by the older native. Hearing the older man's words Smith realized that he would have to give her time, time to adjust to his living and the renewed claims he held to her heart. Not as wise as his native companion nor his adversary, Rolfe rebuffed the old man's warning and turned to follow Pocahontas. Only Smith's words stilled him,

"You care for her, don't you?"

Rolfe wouldn't give Smith the satisfaction of an answer.

Toward midnight, as the night's downpour quickened to stinging pellets, she drifted back toward the humble cottage, tripping over her skirts, which held a great quantity of dirt, and her mud-encrusted heeled shoes. Soaked through and through, once inside with the door latched behind her she drew herself toward the orange flamed fire, which glowed low in the fireplace. The room stood empty, except for the lone straight backed chair that someone had placed near the fire and the white shirt upon it. In the silence she grabbed the shirt, it was warm in her hands, and allowed herself to explore the sparse cottage.

Walking down a small hallway to her left and up a flight of stairs, she made her way toward an unoccupied room at the end of the hall. With light fingers she pushed on the oaken door and it easily gave way. The room that she thought was unoccupied clearly held some life. In the darkness, she could make out elaborately dressed figures-paintings- that hung in gilt framesfrom the bedroom's walls. Drawn in by this unexpected spark of presence, she entered the room. Her eyes were drawn to the portrait of a family.

Although clearly not of the nobility, as their practical dress attested, the young couple pictured within held a nobleness that she had yet to see in her time in King James's place. As her eyes drifted lower, she clearly made out the image of a young boy clutching tightly to the paint leg of what she could only deem his father. She steeped closer to the image making out the celestial blue of the boys eyes. As she did so, a halo of warm light sparked behind her casting her shadow against the wall. Startled, she quickly turned toward the door way and saw the vestige of the man she had sought to run away from. Aware that he had frightened her, John Smith remained at the doorway. Turning from her gaze, he faced the painting that had so captured her attention and rendered her unaware of his entrance into the bedroom.

"I was ten years old when my father gathered my mother and I for this," Smith's rich baritone spoke. "It was done six years before he and my mother died."

Shock showed upon her face as she realized that she had wondered into the bedroom and unknown life of her former lover. Recognizing that he had revealed the answer to a long ago question, which she had once asked, he continued on with his tale.

"When I was sixteen they both were struck with the wasting sickness and within six moons they both died. First my father and then my mother. All that was left was this land. I've lost so much…" His voice trailed off.

She did not know how to respond to him, although she shared his grief of losing a parent. She had been fourteen winters when her mother breathed her last. Pocahontas said the only thing she could.

In a whisper, "I understand."

Perhaps he felt her willingness to build a bridge over their shared past or perhaps he just needed her within his arms again, John Smith approached her. Pocahontas's small brown hands pressing against his chest prevented him from enclosing his arms around her.

"Pocahontas I'm so sorry."

"Why did you not write to me or at least send word that you were still alive!" she heatedly asked. He truly had no answer for her second question.

Maneuvering a hand to her cheek, "Pocahontas, do you think that if I could've managed to send word to you without endangering both of our lives, that I wouldn't have? I couldn't let Ratcliffeharm you."

"Harm me... Don't you think knowledge of your death harmed me!" she retorted and knocked his hand from her cheek. "My spirit broke waiting for you, just a word that you were alive …. no, not even a word from you!"

Turning with the momentum of her dress, she stalked toward the door. He grasped what he could. He held her wrist and prevented her escape. He was not angry with her, he understood her anger, it was the same anger he held for having been separated from her in the first place.

"Pocahontas I started a thousand letters…but everyone that could have helped me get them to you, were also under the threat of Ratcliffe. I couldn't risk your life or theirs; I love you too much to have willingly risked your life"

John Smith cupped her cheek, "I would gladly die for you, but your death because of me, I could not survive that."

She was rendered speechless; she has not factored in his pain and loneliness, only her loss. He did not know and she could not tell him. Tears of anger, fear, worry, frustration, and loss began drifting down her beautiful face. Lost in her grief and despair for herself and her people, she fell into his embrace. The warmth of his body soaked through the dampness of her dress. It had been years since she had allowed herself to feel this safe and complete. His lips caressed her forehead as her head rested against his chest. The moment was shattered when she realized that her heart was still divided and that John's Smith love had come with a heavy price. As she raised her head from his chest she knew she needed to leave, her people were slated to be hunted and her heart still longed for a man who had been her's since his arrival to her land.

"How could I risk loving him completely again?" She wondered. She could not bear losing John Smith again, at least she thought her heart could someday completely love Rolfe; they had no past.

"I am no longer that woman John Smith."

Confusion marred his face at her confession.

"I…I… no longer…" She could not bring herself to tell him. Instead she swiftly detangled herself from his arms and fled back into the shadows of the cottage.

When John Smith reached his cottage's parlor, he found her leaning against the fireplace's mantle, warming herself, as silent sobs wrenched through her body. Not knowing what else he could do to stop her tears, he cupped her cheek in his hand and turned her head just enough to brush his lips over her forehead. Tired of fighting herself and his love, she leaned into his chest. With his eyes closed, he placed another kiss to her hairline.

"John..." she called in a strangled voice-staring into his blue eyes.

She did not know what to do. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her eyes were rimmed with tears. They stood rooted to the floor until he leaned down and his soft lips brushed over her own. She could bear it no longer; the urge to tell him that she still loved him was too great. Sucking in a labored breath, she broke John Smith's kiss. "I missed you so much. I…," she said in a voice thick with tears.

"Pocahontas!" Her name suddenly called from the door way startled them both. The rest of her words died on her lips. Rolfe and Uttamatomakkin entered the parlor, only Uttamatomakkin noticed the closeness of the other John and his charge.

"Pocahontas we found a proper room for you. We must retire for the evening, tomorrow we fight for our lives," Rolfe insisted as he walked toward her.

Consenting to Rolfe's urges she followed him toward room that he and Uttamatomakkin had chosen for her. Before exiting the room, she turned to take another glance at John Smith. She hoped her dark eyes spoke for her, his golden head nodded in understanding. Smith returned to his room. Although, things were still unfinished between them, he now knew that at she still loved him. He laid across his bed and readied himself for what the morning would bring.

When Pocahontas reached her darkened room, she stripped off the heavy gown that encased her body, snapping intricate buttons in frustration as her cold-wet fingers could not undo them. Willingly, she dressed herself in the shirt John Smith had given her. As she lay under the warm covers in his home, she was reminded of his embrace and an intense longing that she had once fulfilled, crept back into her heart. She would not remain long in this bed.

John Smith lay drowsy, yet was roused from his sleep when her dark ebony eyes gazed down at his alabaster body. Her hand languidly caressed his wounded side, memorizing the moment he proved he'd die for her and the people she loved most. Questions still filled her heart, but she knew she wanted to share her love and body with the man she loved once more.

Waking fully to his surroundings he saw the bare woman above him, his shirt that she had worn had been discarded to the floor. A sigh escaped his lips when her soft brown hands found him and his eyes closed at her touch. John Smith fought another wave of pleasure as her hands worked in rhythm to bring him to the edge of his desire. One of her fingers pressed lightly to his lips, willing him into silence as she pleasured him. He had forgotten that they weren't alone in his isolated home. Her guard and his rival lay only a corridor away. The thought of his rival pulled him from his pleasure and he opened his eyes for the second time that night.

"How would they not know of their lovemaking?" Smith thought, and then he could not think anymore.

Looking upon her, John Smith saw her parted lips and the shimmer of desire shining through her dark eyes a sight that he had not seen in five years. Attuned to her equal craving, he pulled her to him and his warm callused hands settled over her round hips.

He bit into the mound of her breast, which brought about a moan of her own. He wanted to mark her, if not bodily then by memory. If he lost the battle for her heart, he wanted her to remember this night; to treasure it, to long for another, and most of all, he wanted his face to be recalled time and time again when she looked into the hazel-green eyes of the other. It was simple really, John Smith wanted to haunt her thoughts, if he could not win her heart wholly.

His fingers traced the outline of her jaw as he kissed her reddened lips. Breathless, Smith placed wet kisses down her body, stopping only when he reached the apex of her center. Again, strong hands gripped her hips and he leveled them on his broad shoulders, gladly bearing the burden of her pleasure. Parting her thighs and bringing her hips closer to him, he lowered himself to her.

Slow strokes drew sharp moans from her lips. He silently prayed that Rolfe did hear and would venture to discover the sounds' source. Over and over he pull sharp moans from her as her hips danced against him. Pocahontas' hands gripped the threadbare sheets as his quick flicks nudged her closer and closer toward oblivion. Finally, when the growing heat between her legs was unbearable, his work-roughened hands brought her trembling and screaming into his mouth. Her muffled screams fed his desire.

John Smith observed her slack limbs and closed eyes as he moved over her. Although she could not see him, Pocahontas sighed in respite when in one sure motion entered her. They were simply one union, one passion, one heart. Ever so slowly he pushed, moving closer and closer to her center; when he could go no further, he knew he had found his home. It wasn't until he stilled that she was able to open her eyes and when she did, the sight took her breath away. Love and longing radiated from those blue depths. In a moment of clarity she questioned,

"How did I had ever doubted he lived, that he loved me?

But she had doubted each of those things. Her body remembered his and her hips rose in welcome, as he started their ancient dance. In a deep rolling rhythm he moved, each movement building the desire in the other. In her own desire she moved her hands to his shoulders, clutching them as she road the waves pleasure given to her from his body. Recognizing that the edge was near, John Smith shifted her hips to a higher angle, giving his body the momentum to thrust harder at the end of each stroke. At the change in pace, her arms wove themselves tighter around him and her own rhythm shifted to match his.

Smith fought his body as it resisted in keeping the beat of his primitive cadence. As her spine began to bow, he ground himself ever harder into her body. Unable to fight the heat and the brilliant colors that shown brightly behind her eyes, Pocahontas fell into blissful oblivion- her nails marking his back in red filled crescents. With arms braced and his forehead pressed to her's, John Smith joined her as she tightened around him. With one last thrust, a shudder ran throughout his body and he spilled in a rush of heat into her velvet warmth. Their cries were drown out by the night's thunder. With eyes closed in pleasure, and body still clutched hers, he prayed that life would take root.

They lay together, intertwined, until close to the sunrise; she memorizing the beat of his heart and the way his rough hand caressed her shoulder and he, the feel of her body intertwined with his. In silence, they waited for the morning. At dawn Pocahontas slipped from his bed and placed her soft doeskin dress, which she had found and brought with her, on. Wearing her doeskin dress, would be a small tool to leverage against the king's insistence that an armada be raised to attack her people. As she moved toward the door way, John Smith broke his silence. "I love you." She no longer doubted his words, they were his assurance of love. Pocahontas nodded her head in understanding, yet averted her gaze from his. She loved him still, but questioned her own heart.

"Can I stop loving Rolfe?" Pocahontas brood over this question as she walked from the room, as silently as she had entered it.

Werowocomoco Village - 1613

Like any good guard Uttamatomakkin knew where his charge was supposed to be. On the Night of the Weeping Sky, as he called that night, he remembered that "should be" and "knowing" were of no consequence. Now, a year later, Uttamatomakkin still remembered that the sound of the rain that night reminded him of lover's cries. Later as he watched Pocahontas and John Rolfe rigidly interact as they prepared to find a ship that would carry them back home, he knew that it was not them that had awoken him during the night. He had also seen the look of despair that had crossed John Smith's face when his charge told him of her choice. Although he could tell Pocahontas still loved Smith, the woman was afraid of her love for him.

To her, Uttamatomakkin thought, Rolfe was a "safe choice, a steady path." Yet he knew then what his charge did not, that when one continued to hold on to the love from a past, one could never give all of themselves to another, even if she thought she could. Therefore, it was no surprise to Uttamatomakkin when his charge, in the fourth month after stopping the English armada and as they prepared to make their long journey back home, again wondered from her room and out into the London night.

London- Late 1612

Uttamatomakkin, like a good guard, followed his charge on Rolfe's second stolen horse. Pocahontas knew he would follow. He did not know how she managed to remember her way through the city, but he was not surprised when stopped and tied her mare to the post of a now familiar English cottage, he then knew then that she had discovered the truth about love. Uttamatomakkin turned his horse and headed back to John Rolfe's estate, knowing she would be safe in John Smith's embrace.

Things were unfinished between them and four months had given Pocahontas time, time to assess her life, her mind and her heart. After their love making and four months of mourning his loss- this time to her own pride-she could bear their separation no longer. As she knocked on his door this night, she prayed he would forgive her and reopen his heart to her. John Smith was not expecting any visitor's when the knock rapped at his door, he had however, been planning his next voyage to the Spice Islands. Taken aback, he slowly detangled himself from his maps and notes, and wondered toward his door. When he opened the door, he doubted his sanity for a moment.

He had dreamed that she would come to him again, but months had passed and he began to face the fact that she would never be his again. He had come to terms with the fact that as much as he might have owned her heart, he did not possess all of it. So, it was to his surprise when he opened the door and saw her vestige. He thought to himself, "I now live in walking dreams?"

Pocahontas felt they stared at each other for an eternity, he doubting his sanity and she removing the shroud that had so blinded her to their love. Sucking in a labored breath, she moved to him and enclosed his warm body in her arms. Stoically John Smith stood, momentarily refusing to let his mind and heart believe that she could be his again. It wasn't until her lips touched his and her tears ran between their kisses that he let himself believe. Her voice was thick with tears, but he heard her, three small words that would always live in his heart,

"I love you."

Confusion marred his face, he had no words. Things had been so cut and dry between them on that palace balcony; she was also in love with Rolfe and she was afraid to love him more at the time, she claimed that their paths were no longer congruent-what could he possibly say? Then his words came faster than his mind could fully process.

"Don't play with my heart, Pocahontas." His voice edged in darkness.

He had sacrificed his happiness for what he thought would be her hers.

"Didn't Rolfe make her happy, hadn't he been the better choice?" John Smith thought.

At his cold words Pocahontas raised her eyes to him, the look in his blue eyes held so much pain. She had made so many mistakes in her life; her largest had been to let him walk out of her life a second time. Now she fully understood mistakes, her coldness, her pride, and the harm that she had willingly caused him. Still held in his arm, she understood the distant edge of his voice, he was trying to protect his heart. Slowly shaking her head she lamented at the pain she had caused. She said the only thing she could, what was in her heart.

"I fought to remove myself from your love John Smith… to let the love we shared die… to remove myself from my past and be with Rolfe…" her words hung on a sob that escaped.

Softening at her words, Smith pulled her closer. Grabbing his fore arms for strength she continued on,

"But I could no longer live, I could no longer breathe, knowing that you were still in his world and I would be incomplete without your love. I was not supposed to feel this way when I was with Rolfe, but I can no longer deny that I am still completely in love with you!" John Smith's hand raised her soft chin higher so he could fully look into her eyes.

"I would remain incomplete, if I continued my life with John Rolfe, because I had known your love again, forgive me please."

He saw the truthfulness of her words in her tear filled eyes. She lowered her head to his chest. After several heart beats, he again raised her face to his. John Smith bent slightly and placed a soft kiss to her brow, her hand clutched his as it lay on her cheek. With eyes locked together, chestnut meeting cerulean, he nodded. They had both made mistakes. He met her lips and together they entered his cottage. Much later in the darkness of the cottage, white prisms again reflected across the surface of its whitewashed walls and shadows, locked in a storm of passion, also appeared.

Werowocomoco Village 1613

Uttamatomakkin stood with the rest of Werowocomoco's villagers, as they waited patiently for the longhouses' curtain to be pulled back. When his charge arrived back to Rolfe's later that morning, he was happy to find that Pocahontas and John Smith had discovered that like most storms in life, love, could be weathered when if both parties were willing to love completely. While John Rolfe had obviously contested the arrangement, he was quickly put into his place with one stern look from the older native.

Upon their journey home he discovered that his charge had fallen ill and its source was of grave concern to the older man. Although no healer, Uttamatomakkin knew the signs of quickening when he saw it. The moment of that discovery had culminated with him here, waiting since day break, with his fellow villagers.

The sharp cries had startled the war hardened warrior during the night, but it wasn't every day that he was named the protector of a Powhatan child. In a sharp pull, the hide flap drew back and his Chief emerged from the darkened longhouse with his daughter's husband. Turning toward his people Powhatan raised his arms skyward and presented his daughter's child to his village. Walking forward he placed the small bundle into Uttamatomakkin arms and spoke the sacred words that would bind him to his next charge.

As the child moved in his arms, Uttamatomakkin took note of the boy's bright blue eyes, as they looked upon this new world awaiting his discovery. Yes, the child would be as daring as his parents, yet he vowed to call little Thomas Smith by his native name, given by his parents as a reminder of his conception, Nebi Nechaun- Water Child. As Uttamatomakkin gave the child back to his father, he nodded to John Smith, it was a fitting name.