I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I have loved it for nearly thirty years.
A Breed Apart
Homecoming
She is standing in the yard, chicken feed bucket tucked into the crook of her arm.
Chickens, the constant feeding of them, the routine, the rut.
If not for the eggs they provide to fill her belly and the very occasional one slaughtered for their table, she might consider rebelling against the mundane task altogether.
But it, along with all the other chores of the homestead, are there to be completed to ensure their survival.
And care not for the rise and fall of her whims and desires.
She casts her gaze here and there, almost without realizing she does so.
Birds and clouds and trees and all manner of daily life.
For days and days, weeks, she has been waiting.
Waiting for the them.
The men.
The father.
And the other.
Perhaps even her sister and the man she has chosen to walk with may return as well.
Day after day, she looks for them.
Tells no one.
But keeps an eye out all the same.
It becomes her cadence in life, her rhythm.
To work, to chore, to look.
To wait.
And then as she tosses out grain for the insufferable chickens on an insufferable afternoon of an insufferable day, she sees . . .
"Alice, to the west? Do you see?"
. . . movement.
Rebecca's direction moves her to raise a sun-shielding hand to her eyes.
Scans.
And sees them.
Two male figures, walking together toward them, still a distance away.
The shorter, only just a bit, leading a packhorse laden, no doubt, with game meat for their table.
The taller, gait instantly recognizable and one she has been watching to see, walks smooth and easy in prime of his youth.
And she drops the bucket.
It overturns, spilling feed onto the ground.
She does not notice.
For she has gathered her skirts up above her stockinged calves.
Almost to the knee.
And she has begun to run.
She runs, Alice runs, feet fleet and sure in the moccasins he made for her.
Heart pounding in her chest, breath gasping in and out of her lungs.
Deep, healthy breaths unconstricted by unforgiving whalebone and string.
Braid of pale and dark, gently smoothed and carefully washed as able, bounces on her shoulder as the rest of her long, unbound tresses stream out behind her.
Spring creatures scatter before her flight, birds burst from nested bush and tree.
Honeysuckle scent tickles her nose, unheeded, as she rushes by.
It's his wild musk her senses desire.
That scent alone.
Drawing closer, no additional companion in sight.
Only Chingachgook might she see.
Were she to take her eyes off the object of her affection.
And Alice runs.
Propriety dictates she, a proper English gentlewoman, remain aloof as a gentleman approaches.
Allow him the advance, with her remaining still.
Lower demure eyes to avoid his gaze.
Curtsy perhaps. Gifted, polite smile.
A brief embrace if he warrants.
Quick though, and not too familiar.
It would not due to make a scene, to act too overtly.
Such is to be a proper English lady.
Alicia Elizabeth Munroe has lived an entire lifetime without him during the winter and spring.
Has known not whether he was dead or alive.
Ayearn for her or embraced by another.
He is all that she sees, all that she desires.
His eyes may shine brighter, smile pull up upon his mouth, that mouth, at the sight of her running toward him, her own eyes wide, face aflush.
He may have quickened his pace upon catching sight of her running toward him.
She does not pause to note these things, so fast and swift and absolute does she run toward him.
Just as she closes the distance between them, no slow to her flight, Uncas of the Mohican people tosses down his possibles bag.
Opens his arms to her.
And she throws herself into them.
Heedless of the impropriety, heedless of the teasing she might be subjected to over evening meal.
Heedless of any and all consequence, consideration, or explanation she might feel pressed to give in the aftermath.
She simply leaps into his arms.
And he catches her, lifting her up, stepping back a pace or two with the impact, soft expulsion of breath as her body collides with his.
Her arms wrapping strong about his shoulders, clinging for all her life.
His long, dark hair tickling her cheek.
The smell of him filling her nostrils with homecoming.
"You came back," her breathless surresh comes. "You came back."
His arms wrapped fully about her, fingers pressing into the fabric of her jacket.
"Yes."
Pressing her to him, holding her close.
"Did you . . . come back for me?"
Words she has not meant to utter. Could not help to.
"Yes."
As she, as they both, close eyes in relief.
And breathe.
*music swells, scene fades, storyteller faints dead away*
What?
Well, he ran for her, right? Like, a lot.
Everybody feel better now? Because I do!
Oh but it's not over yet. Oh no, it's not over.
Three more chapters, I think, posted daily (but no pressure of course.)
And then there just might be a continuation in the works.
If you like.
Thanks to TithaJaime, BrynnaRaven, Eilan21, DinahRay, MohawkWoman, Conbird, BlueSaffire, and AsterLaurel, for previously reviewing!