I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I have loved it for nearly thirty years.
A Breed Apart
No Less and No More
They take up arms for the journey.
Weaponry and accoutrements.
Possibles bags and bedrolls.
Farewells and well-wishes are exchanged.
It is time to go.
He gazes upon the one he loves, one last time.
A full, long, lingering look to last for months.
She looks back, eyes large and dark and open.
He will think of her often during their time apart.
He will think of her hair, long and flowing pale over her shoulders.
How it felt when he held it in his hands and twisted his own hair into it.
He will think of her eyes, those eyes.
How she looked at him.
So open and unafraid and trusting.
He will think of her determination carrying the water pail and cleaning the squirrel.
How she pushed him away and struggled to do it herself.
He will think of her laughter when the bladder broke and how he touched her cheek and she shone like the sun.
He will think of the way his heart lifted in his chest and swelled each time at her laughter, her smile.
He will think of her delicate frame, her simple beauty.
Of how she is gaining in strength and endurance.
How she seems so less afraid now. How she is growing in confidence and assurity.
He will think of how he felt upon learning of her brave dispatchment of the weasel, the pride and awe he felt at her neccesited savage brutality.
And how, most inappropriately, he had briefly envisioned scooping her up over his shoulder and traipsing off into the forest right then and there.
He will wonder after her, as the morning breaks and he awakes without her near him.
He will wonder after her when the sun sets in the west.
If she is healthy and well.
If she has succumb to cold, hunger, or illness while he was away.
If she was felled by some misadventure he could have prevented.
Or if she simply began to look upon another man, far closer and far paler than he in the long months of their separation.
He will move along, warm fur draped across his shoulders.
Moving about the slow, quiet existence of deep winter.
He and his father will pass long days in companionable silence.
His adopted brother and the woman Cora welcome, but as newlyweds, on the perimeter of all other life than the new love between them.
He will move amongst the Delaware people, those having fled their homeland in search of peace from the white man.
He will listen to stories, take part in discussion.
He will be of service, be of the community.
And glad of it.
And he will wonder privately if he should return to her at all.
Stories abound of their two peoples unable to assimilate and accept one another.
He does not wish to cause her hardship, sorrow.
And he will wonder.
The women of the village, mothers, grandmothers, subtly and not so subtly, will place their daughters, granddaughters in his path.
They will be strong, suited for survival. Able. Capable.
They will be pleasant to look upon, in their demeanors.
He will notice them no less than he did the previous winters when his father had hoped for a happy union and ensuing horde of grandchildren.
No less than he did when the hunt, the journey, the adventure called to him to move onward.
No less than before they came upon the war party.
Came upon the ambush.
Came upon the English soldiers and the terrified women.
No less than before he came upon her.
"No! No! We need them to get out!"
Foolish girl, stop.
No less.
They will kick you in the head.
And no more.
Most grateful thanks to these previous reviewers: DinahRay, TithaJamie, AsterLaurel, Eilan21, Guest (Uncas can my braid my hair anytime) , ConBird, BlueSaffire, and BrynnaRaven!
So many swoons, I'm gonna have to wrap you all in bubble wrap!
*heads to the store, properly social distanced and face masked, of course*
And for those of you whom I have made sad, just hang on and trust me. You are gonna love this. ;)
See you all tomorrow!