I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I have loved it for nearly thirty years.
A Breed Apart
Intertwined
They are leaving in the morning, the men.
The men and Cora.
They may return, her sister and her husband.
If they do not continue on with the Delaware.
If they do not settle a homestead.
If they live.
Chingachgook, wandering spirit and strong heart.
He may return to walk the hills and valleys and mountains of the land his people stepped foot on long before the greedy and vicious European stole it away in deceit and bloodshed.
Return to visit amongst friends and neighbors.
If he lives.
And other one.
Uncas.
The one she loves.
For no reason other than what he is.
The one who so seldom touches her.
Sometimes speaks.
The one who looks.
If he lives, will he return?
Or will he stay to hunt the land, walk the hills and valleys of Can-tuck-ee?
Will a woman, perhaps a tribeswoman of his own kith and kin, take his dark, deep gaze?
Will he stay then, word of his newly settled life brought by his most pleased father?
Or will he return with the woman found further in the outer reaches of the wilderness?
Is this their last? Is their acquaintance coming to an end?
She is sure of her decision, sure of her winter path.
Sure of her feelings.
And has learned life is not directed by soft feelings and sheer determination alone.
And so she, eyes downcast, mouth a flat line, speaks not.
Only silently wonders.
He comes for her at evening time, after all candles have been snuffed out.
Alice, bedded down next to the young Mary, lays on her side.
Awake alone, she resides, in the long dark with her thoughts and uncertainties.
Not crying, no.
Frontier life affords no mercy for the tears of gentle youth.
So she simply lays, drifting in and out of restless sleep.
Awaiting the coming dawn.
Dawn.
When the men will leave.
Her sister.
And she will stay.
She has chosen this, she has chosen.
Though it will be a long winter without him.
And a long spring to wonder of his return.
And when and with who and how.
She knows where they are, the man she loves and his father who has been so kind to her.
They sleep under the stars, as is their custom.
Away from the river, warm close to their campfire.
Much as they did on their journey to this place.
When Alice abandoned her shoes. Her bustle and stay.
When she learned to listen and watch.
When she learned to build a fire.
When she slept near him, felt his presence strong.
And she thinks she hears a creak outside on the porch, fancies she feels his presence close again.
She sits up slow.
Listens.
Rises, clears the bed.
Wraps warm shawl around her shoulders.
Leaves the sleeping Mary to her girlhood dreams.
Moves quiet and careful across the creaking wooden floor.
And opens the door.
He is there, on the edge of the porch.
A silent waiting shadow.
But she sees him. She knows him.
When he sees her, he stands.
And they gaze at each other in the dark.
He holds out his hand. She takes it.
And into the waiting night they creep.
No noise, they two.
Him leading, her following behind, padding along in thick, woven wool stockings to the knee.
The moon is high and full and silently watching as they cross the yard.
And head to the river.
The river, gurgling in the night over rock and pebble.
Nourishing life, the tall grass, the towering tree.
The tree to which he leads the two of them.
Facing the river.
Sleeves of her cotton shift to the elbow provide little protection against the cooling autumn breeze.
The shawl aids.
And his presence.
She feels warmed by it, a low smoldering flame, burning without injury.
And waits for him to speak, to move.
And he does, turning to her, eyes dark and glittering.
The rush of blood in her veins, in her ears, drowning out the ambient sounds of night as she gazes at him, so near.
So near to touch.
And she does not move.
Only watches him raises a strong hand.
Slowly, slowly.
Raising it to her hair.
Long and blond and unfettered.
He strokes it, strands falling between dusky fingers.
He strokes it.
And then stops.
Withdraws.
And brings out his knife.
Gleaming blade, deer bone handle.
Her breath catches in her throat and her brow furrows in confusion.
But she does not move.
She trusts him.
He takes a handful of strands from his own head, there behind silver earring.
And raises the knife.
The strands cut easily, knife sharpened to the edge.
He aways the tool.
And takes her hair once more, back, near to her ear.
Close, where it lays nestled against her neck and shoulder.
Raises his own shorn length.
And divides it, braids it together with hers.
The back of one hand, fingers, knuckles grazing the sensitive flesh of her neck.
With great care and tenderness, he intertwines them.
Her pale, his dark.
A long, interwoven length.
Simple and cleanly done.
Secured it with a knot of sinew reserved just for this need.
He runs gentle touch down the length of it once.
And lowers his hands.
An eon of time passes between them.
And Alice now raises a free portion of her hair to him in the moonlight.
He smiles.
The process is repeated and she intertwines her own pale to his dark, refusing her hands to tremble.
When she is done, Uncas the Mohican cradles her head in gentle, loving embrace.
Her hands, the cotton of his shirt soft to her fingers, cling to his sides.
As he pulls her to him. Meets her halfway.
And presses his forehead to hers, eyes slipping closed the second before hers.
And they stay, breath intermingling in the cool night air.
A promise he has vowed, a promise without spoken words.
We are one.
I will return to you.
I will return.
Okay, so according to my research, Native Americans weren't a real big kissing lot before the Europeans showed up and provided the example.
So, that's why these two didn't kiss. I was trying to stay true to the culture as I understood it.
And speaking of which, the braiding thing is a part of the general culture as well.
And no, that wasn't the iced tea chapter. Not yet.
But there is one. And I think it's good. ;)
Thanks to BlueSaffire, ConBird, AsterLaurel, MohawkWoman, MedicineGal815, and BrynnaRaven for reviewing!
And yes, to respond to the general concern of everyone for our Uncas and Alice maybe-almost-eventually duo, there will be joy and togetherness and iced tea (ahem) and everything. It's already written and ready to post.
And can I say, I just adore you all for your enthusiasm and support and encouragement? You're lovely, gentle readers, each of you, reviewing and silent alike.
*big hugs*