The Fear.
Chapter II. Post
AN: I am so surprised that I actually got reviews! Thank you. So, here's the next chapter. Still editing the third but should have it up shortly. Thank you so much.
(I.)
"They're like little houses…" Alice breathed. Uncas steadied her as they stood on a rock outcropping overlooking the Delaware village.
She was amazed by everything she saw, even after seeing so much. It was that wonder in her that held his attention, even now. Uncas laughed at her and held her tighter.
"You're making fun of me again." Alice smiled, but in her smile there was a sadness. She thought of home, of England, the place she couldn't return to. Was it a sin to love this man? She knew that many would say so, that she had been bewitched, deceived in him. She pressed her face against his dark shirt, and lost herself in the smell of gunpowder, leather and earth.
(II.)
The winter had been mild, that year, but it had been difficult for Alice.
The Delaware spoke a language she did not understand, but most of them knew some English. Alice did all she could to pull her weight, but she tired easily, and even her sister did not know why. Sometimes, when she was not so very tired, she would sit with Uncas, and he would show her the stars, and tell her the stories he knew. Sometimes, she told him hers, Greek fictions she had read a very long time ago.
He loved her at night, when they were alone in one of those little houses, but there was no more pain, only familiarity in his touch.
The light had begun to draw across the skies, when Uncas stirred beside her.
"Stay." Alice murmured, her head resting against his neck. "It's too early."
"You always say that it's too early." He chuckled, but held her a moment longer anyway, forcing himself to be still, before he stirred again.
Uncas looked back at her sleeping form, waiting for another protest. When it came, he merely smiled, leaned over and kissed her forehead, before standing to get dressed.
The days wore on, under the heavy clothes she wore in winter she felt her stomach tighten and swell. Alice felt sick more days than not, unable to eat, and sleep constantly eluding her.
Uncas held her at night, unable to do anything else to comfort her.
The child was born before spring came, a boy that Uncas chose to name James.
Alice stared at her son in amazement, marveling at his tiny features, his dark skin, and long grasping fingers.
A sound, a cry, escaped from his mouth, and, unable to help it, tears formed in her eyes with a smile.
Nathaniel clapped his brother on the back, saying something congratulatory, but Alice didn't hear them, she was watching her son's every movement with fascination. Cora was there, too. She wanted to hold the baby, but Alice didn't want to give him up just then.
"You should rest," Uncas insisted later, worry etched in his face as Alice flittered nervously around the small thing that belonged to both of them. But she didn't want to rest, as exhausted as she was.
"I'm alright." She looked up at him.
"You're going to wear yourself out."
When Alice finally did sleep, she curled up and gazed across the room where Uncas held her son, their son, carefully and gently as if he were some great treasure, a smile on his lips, and Alice was happy.
(III.)
The snow had begun to melt, and Chingachgook spoke of leaving for Can-tuck-ee.
Uncas and Nathaniel had gone to gather supplies from one of the neighboring forts for the long journey ahead of them, farther away from England than she had ever been before.
"It's too early." She protested when he got up to leave. Uncas didn't linger, like he usually did, there was far too much to do.
It was that day that the Huron that came, bearing knives and gleaming blades.
The one that stormed in had a painted face, she did not recognize him at first.
Alice ran to her son, not knowing what to do, but knowing she needed to do something. He shoved her aside, as if she were made of nothing heavier than paper.
She threw herself at him, clawing, scratching, kicking, like a wild animal, like all the wild animals, insane with the fear of losing a child.
He turned on her again, driving his knife into her, deliberately missing her heart and instead cutting deep into her shoulder, as to why she could only guess- he meant to take her alive as his captive. Alice recognized him then. Magua. The man that had killed her father, cut his heart from him and ate it.
She grasped at the hilt of the knife as her legs gave out beneath her, and she sunk to the ground, unable to do anything as her child's life was taken away.
He let out a cry, and Alice was overcome by a feeling of helplessness, guilt, anger.
She heard her heart pounding in her ears as red flooded her vision. Alice looked up at the man who had killed her father, her son, only seeing red.
She pulled the knife from where it had been buried in her shoulder, and drove it into his chest with all the force she could muster.
She drew it back, and stabbed him again, and again, her hands red with blood, most of it his, some hers, and some belonged to what had once been her child.
Magua fell to the ground, gasping as his life was leaving him, but Alice could not feel pity now.
Shaking with a curious rage she cut him open, exposing his heart, and sliced it away.
Only then the red began to fade, and she dropped the knife, the unloving heart, now marveling at what she had done, at the son that was taken away.
When Uncas returned, he ran to find her, as Nathaniel searched for his own woman in desperation, among all the others in search of what was left of their families.
Alice sat as far away from the man she had killed as possible, hugging her knees to her chest, covered in blood, unable to cry but instead staring out into nothing, her eyes and face blank.
"He's gone." She murmured, when he crouched down next to her. "James is gone."
"They took him?" Uncas gritted his teeth.
"No, he killed James." She couldn't look at Uncas, not yet. "Then I killed him."
And then he understood, looking away, his eyes became glazed and distant. He drew Alice close to him, but she pushed away. Uncas reached for her again, and she did not protest, gathering her in his arms, a hand beneath her knees another at her back, carrying her away from the blood, the death, but it would not leave her hands, her mind.
"I am sorry." Cora tried to sound comforting as she stitched closed the wound at Alice's shoulder. "There will be other children." She did not become angry, but instead said nothing. Cora wouldn't have understood – she had never been a mother, for all her wisdom and guidance, she could not help her now.
Alice slept, with her sister watching over her, awakening once the sun had gone and the air was cold and dark and silent.
She rose from the bed Cora had made for her and found Uncas, lying awake, unable to rest. She lie down next to him and cried, softly, quietly, until there were no more tears.
When the snow had gone, they left for Can-tuck-ee, and Alice was glad to leave the place that had taken so much away from her.
(IV.)
When they reached the new frontier, the air was hot and warm.
They built their houses close together, sturdy things made out of thick wood planks and paper covering the windows.
They traded as trappers, hunters, even exchanged horses with other settlers, sometimes for money, sometimes cloth and other things.
Alice was no good at cooking, they laughingly discovered, though she later did learn, but she mended and crafted clothing with perfect, even, careful stitches.
There were thunderstorms, that summer, and even though she was afraid she couldn't help but watch the light streak across the dark skies while Uncas slept.
Cora had a daughter in the autumn.
"What are you going to call her?" Alice smiled at her sister's child, sleeping in her arms, while images of her own lost child stirred in her mind.
"Ada." Cora gave a tired smile, the men's voices could be heard from just beyond the door.
"She's beautiful." Alice said, sounding a little sad.
"Oh, don't cry, don't cry." Cora leaned over, smoothing the hair on her sister's forehead and kissing it.
"I'm fine." She placed the infant back in her mother's arms.
It made her wonder, become lost in thought again. Children, surely there would be more children, but the memory of the one she had seen die lingered, and she knew it would never go away.