As the tomahawks rang together, the sound fractured the air surrounding the vastness of the cliff face. Magua's knife whistled and flashed and it carved the air between them. Again, the weapons locked and Uncas saw an opening. He struck low, but Magua's knife was already at his side and Uncas felt it draw across his stomach. Hot and sharp. Like nothing. And all. It was done.
Uncas sucked in his breath. Strange. He thought. Up until then, everything had been so frantic. So chaotic. He barely had time to question himself. His flight up the mountain had left him feeling exhausted and desperate. He was not accustomed to either of these feelings. Certainly, he had felt weary. The deep ache in his muscles from a full day of walking the course of a river when trailing a bull elk. The languor brought about by his singular calm focus maintained for a full arc of the sun. It was a good type of feeling, that weariness. This was different. Uncas felt tired. Exhausted. His limbs had been strangely cold and heavy as he had sent them at each man in the war party. Sundering them with knife and rifle butt. His muscles had felt caustic as he forced himself to move, though his motions were instinctual. He had stepped, paused, advanced. Catching the air and bending it to his will.
Alice. The desperation had crept upon him again. Alice! Two, three men had fallen to his blows. He had cut the last one down with a strike to the temple but his actions had felt curiously sluggish. Uncas had paused to breathe and adjust. He must regain his control. This was not how he had learned to fight. Chingachgook had taught him better. His father had instructed him to practice his kata for hours until his movements became swift and instinctive, as much a part of him as breathing. Until his contenders fell, one after the other, like tripping on the wind. He had learned to anticipate an opponent's motions. Their fear, their weakness. And, like the impassive flow of a river, he wore them down. Each one. There had been no time for Uncas to compose himself before Magua was upon him. He had towered over him. Tomahawk and dagger ready. His gaze had been expressionless and reposed. His tomahawk had felt leaden in his hand. An odd feeling. Without hesitation, Uncas had used all of his remaining strength to lift his arm, for Alice. He had not understood why. Only for the feeling in his belly and the dream spirit that had spoken to him.
It was his mother who had told him to trust in the dreams. She had been a dreamer, like him, and she had dreamed her own passing. She had come to him that day when he was a boy. He was playing with a corn shuck doll that Nathaniel had made him. It had had a bright red yan kee linen jacket and Uncas had carved it a dugout which he placed in the water by the river. He was only a boy and had felt impatient at the length of time that she had held him. A long time. Longer than he felt was usual. She had stroked his brow and had told him that he was to be a fine warrior. That he should trust in the spirits because they would show him the future that must be. That he was a bough in a great, strong tree of which the trunk was built of earth and the leaves were shaped of moonlight. Only when he was grown, and she was gone, had he understood why she had held him for so long.
Now, he looked down and saw the crimson stain begin to spread on his shirt. Red. This is not right. Was this the cardinal? His mother had believed that the monogamous bird would be the one to show him where to find his heart and place it in his chest. He knew this. But then, why was he dying? Uncas looked up. Alice. Her eyes were infinite pools. As large as the moon. He fell into them. The sound of the waterfall washed over him and he could smell her. Feel her small, warm form held tight against his. He forgot the aching in his body and the urgency and the desperate fear. In these bottomless eyes, Uncas found something hidden. He saw... her. Felt a stillness, deeper than even he himself had felt before. Uncas yielded to the great spirit. The life force who had guided him for so long, and who already knew his fate. Then, curiously, something in the girl's eyes changed. Hardened. Strange. He thought.
Every single man in the war party was watching the contest between the bold and reckless young warrior and their formidable and pitiless leader with a rapt fascination that bordered on amusement. Nobody noticed the girl as she moved toward the warrior beside her, and the bone knife at his side.
Author's note: I have revised this chapter after I had originally posted it to improve the flow and the perspective of time a bit more (A big thanks to BlueSaffire in particular for the helpful guidance). Thank you so much for all of your supportive comments and valuable feedback. It means the world and is really encouraging me to keep going with this story. I hope I don't disappoint!