A/N: And here is the second chapter, there's a lot more to come, I'm still writing.
A long way from America there was England. The people were impressed by new trade ways and England's ships sailed long ways. There had been several expeditions to far away continents not yet explored, to search for specimens, goods and most of all, gold. There had been many stories, some good and some bad, telling the travels of many adventurous men. Everyone knew the names of great sailors. And that's how Captain John Smith had become famous. He had sailed to the far end of America to search for gold, but had returned with nothing more than a healing shot wound and some gifts from a strange foreign people that the Europeans had not heard much of before. There was a lot of interest in the men that returned from their journey, and you could say that John and his fellow sailors enjoyed the attention. The crew loved being the centre of it all. They gave interviews about the wild Indians, selling their stories to newspapers and ads. But when interviewers came to question John Smith, he would remain painfully quiet and they did not dare to ask him further. The interviewers asked the rest of the crew what was wrong with their Captain for he had not spoken since they had arrived, but John's companions couldn't answer. It was too painful and too personal. They had a great amount of respect for John and they wouldn't do anything to displease him, and that meant that there was certainly no talking about him in the open and behind his back. One of the men that was interviewed once said: "If he wants to tell his story, he will do so," and that was that. But John Smith didn't have ears to what the newspapers had to tell. He bought a small house somewhere in the country and pulled himself out of publicity as much as he could. Naturally, the papers kept writing speculations about him and his journey for at least six months after their return. The wildest things were written: he had gone mad during the sail, he had been hit by an arrow filled with poison and it had made him crazy or ill, he had been devastated when they didn't discover any gold and all sorts of little schemes were written. John read a few of them and always threw away the paper with laughter or disgust. Just once, only once had he read a local newspaper. A friend had advised him to read it and thus he did. He was shocked by the story spread about him. It was very true, the closest any newspaper had been to the truth up until that day. It told the story of the brave Captain Smith. Smith, who had gone to America to find fortune, but instead found love. It featured some sort of an outline of a love story that could have happened. Of course they did not get the story right, but John was amazed by the grain of truth. No one had gotten that far. He hoped that the people wouldn't believe the story and that there would be no further speculations about the matter, and luckily for him the story wasn't believed and there was being paid little attention to it. What the public did not know, however, was that the man about whom the story was written, kept a copy of the newspaper in his bedside table. He read it every night as it reminded him of a life he left behind that day, when he and his ship departed from the coast of America. Away from the wilderness, away from Pocahontas.
In the years to come, John Smith lived a silent life. He had backed away from sailing, no matter how much someone would push him to go on a trip, he never took the offer. He had become more silent after leaving America and only his close friends and family noticed this. They knew the cause and never spoke about it. John took a job in the nearby village and made his daily routine. Sometimes at night, he would go outside to look at the stars, knowing that somewhere she was seeing the same stars. Then he would have a cup of tea and then he became quiet and listened to the wind, like she had taught him to.
One day he went to the bar and became rather drunk. An attractive young woman gave him some attention and soon he fell for her tricks and seducing ways. He was barely really paying attention to what happened though, as he had drunken way too much to be good for him. She played him just where she wanted to have him and they ended up going to his home, where they shared the bed. The following morning he woke up next to her and he almost pulled out his hair in disgust and sorrow. He went outside in a trousers only, bare chest. He sat down on the veranda to think. He decided that he did not love this woman that he had spent the night with as he could only think about Pocahontas. He decided that this had meant nothing for he had been drunk and it had not been sex because of love. It had been mere sex, not making love. Therefore he felt only limited guilty. The woman awoke soon and he sent her away.
He started writing letters to Pocahontas, although his letters could and would never reach her. He just felt that he needed a way to express his feelings, his feelings for her. He found letters a better option than a journal or diary, because he felt like writing to her. There were often times in which he threw his pencil on his desk in frustration, knowing that he could never say the words he wanted to say, knowing that she would never know them, and knowing that all his writing was in vain. Yet, he kept hoping. Hope was the answer. Somehow, he hoped that his words that were written in his heart, would reach hers.
Time went by and there were more females, but none of them had the same 'thing' as his lost love. He missed her and he wept at night, yet still he managed to keep his spirits up and to live life the best he could. With every morning came a new chance, with every day a new opportunity and with every night came new hope. In his dreams he was at her side, holding her, caressing her. His dreams gave him hope. It was the key. Perhaps that some day she would be standing there, right next to his bed, stroking his hair and pressing her lips against his. The mere thought brought a smile to his face.
Years went by but John Smith could not forget the Indian woman to whom he had fallen in love with. It had been his first real love, and a first love will forever be remembered. He opened the box in which he had kept his letters and he took the last one he had written, it was dated last week. He took a new piece of paper and some ink and he started to write.
My love.
It has been almost four years now since you left my life. How terrible the choice you had to make. I wish it had been a different fate. On the other hand I should not be complaining for I got to know you, and that was more than I could have wished for. Meeting you has been the best thing in my life, leaving you was the worst. I hope that one day we can meet again. That one day I can rejoin your presence. That day will come, I know it will. If it was our fate to meet, then it is our fate to be. And that it is, my dearest. We have to be. It's our fate. Just wait and see. One day…