I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
But I will go hide in a cave with them at this point.
Into The Wild
Quiet Conversation and The Warmth of a Lover
She is asleep when he returns with more firewood.
Laying on her side, body curled toward the fire, peaceful face flickering in the dim light.
He sets the stack close enough to one side of the fire to dry. Leaves it.
And takes his place next to his father.
Uncas is wet and the fire is warming and he soon begins to dry off.
Regain inner warmth from the cold rain.
They reside together, he and his father, for a time without speaking.
It is a companionable quiet between them.
And he feels at ease, familiar with this man he loves and respects.
He is content to walk by his side always.
He is a good companion, a good father.
And . . .
"She is a good woman."
. . . speaking.
Chingachgook.
The Mohican.
Speaking Mohican.
Quiet, measured words . . .
"Yes."
. . . to his fullblood son.
"Kind. Smart. Strong."
About the woman across the fire from them.
"Yes."
The one who now sleeps, deep and restful.
"She has come a long way on her journey."
The one who has walked so many miles alongside them.
"Yes."
Walked and fought and learned and lived these many months past.
"She may go much farther still."
The one Uncas loves.
"Yes."
His father is quiet for the moment and Uncas takes it in stride.
It is their way.
The quiet. The consideration of words and thoughts before uttering them.
His father moreso than he.
Uncas supposes that is the way of it, that he someday will be as such.
And does not overconcern himself with the digestion of this further.
Though he is glad . .
"You have both chosen well."
. . . one of the last of the Mohican people has found it within his heart to so wholly and peacefully accept their union.
His only bloodborne son.
And this white woman.
"Thank you, Father."
For it would have sorrowed him . . .
"I am glad of your heart."
. . . to have gone against his father's peace of mind.
"I am glad of yours, my son."
Though he knows he is to make his own way, forge his own path in life.
It does sit easier within him that there is no strife here between them.
Them who sit for a time more.
Before his father smiles around his pipe, pats a hand to his son's.
And shifts his gaze to the sleeping woman across the fire.
With the slightest of nods.
The message clear.
Leave my side. Go to the one you love.
And Uncas, the dutiful one . . .
Well, Father, . . .
. . . small smile turning one corner of his mouth . . .
. . . if I must.
. . . goes.
He lays himself down carefully.
Not wishing to stir her from her rest.
It is not a problem.
The one he loves is sleeping more deeply, more peacefully than he has seen her at any time along their journey.
He briefly regrets this that she has lost for so many nights past.
And a silent huff issues from his chest . . .
She would argue the regret of that. With great passion and vigor.
. . . as he remembers this is the journey she has chosen.
Desired.
Insisted upon.
And, day after day . . .
"Uncas, look! Did you see that?"
. . . embraced with wonder and joy and openness of spirit and mind.
A light in her eyes, on her face.
That has warmed his heart.
And renewed his mind and awareness.
To the world he has lived within, save for his time at the Reverend's boarding school, since the day of his birth.
And he eases himself down behind her.
Fitting his body to the curve of hers.
Providing her warmth, comfort, reassurance.
May she need it.
Her body is relaxed, moving with slow, even breaths.
Hair, free from its braid, save for the one that binds them together, tickles his nose.
And he moves it aside just a little, just enough.
Curls one arm comfortably under his head, cushioned from the stone ground by his possibles bag and the blanket he is too warm to lay atop himself.
And he allows his thoughts to continue upon her.
Alice.
Sleeping Alice.
Her skirt fans out below her under the blanket, the pet-ti-coat, she calls it.
Feet bare, moccasins he has made for her removed. Set near but not too near, to the fire that warms them.
The cotton shirt she has donned, different from the one she wore before.
Looser. Softer. Thinner.
It shifts upon her body, allows him to feel her when he touches her.
Her.
Her warmth radiates from beneath the cloth of the shirt, the roughness of the blanket.
He can feel it as he slips a careful hand and arm around her, reaching to encircle her slender waist.
Respectful midground between her chest, those breasts that are modest, yes, yet just right for him.
Because it is her body, belonging to her.
That.
And her lower region.
That secret place.
That place below her belly, that place between her legs.
That place she welcomes him.
So warm and secret.
Fitting them together, the feeling of it, their movements, the sounds she makes-
He has allowed his thoughts to wander, has lost himself.
And now, as a result, feels his loins begin to stir.
Tight and needful.
For her.
Not comfortable. But not entirely unpleasant.
He accepts this as part of the experience of man.
Knowing the discomfort, the need will reduce, fade away.
And a time will come when he and she may bring it again to full realization.
The union. The love. The pleasure.
The sounds she makes, the way she looks at him, the intensity of-
For now he contents himself with the nearness of her body, this one that he loves.
The stillness and peace and trust between them.
And closes his eyes there near the fire.
And Uncas of the Mohican people, eventually, sleeps.
Okay, so, slight sidebar, you all remember that song "Hot Mama" by Trace Adkins?
I'm not a big country music fan but whenever the video for that song used to come on, I would just laugh and clap. I loved it. Still do.
This guy sees his wife as this sexy, hot thing and yeah, she is, but she's also disheveled and a mess dealing with all these kids and nasty and sweaty exercising. But he still sees all her ways and adores her for them. Just the realest thing, right? And he's thinking about her and he reaches over in bed to get all randy. And she is just totally knocked out and drooling asleep. He just grins and chuckles and rolls over and goes to sleep.
I mean, yeah, he should have been up off his ass helping and all.
But the fantasy idea is still there. And it is precious.
Love. Lust. Annnnd respect for his wife that he doesn't shake her awake just because he's horny.
Best. Music video. Ever.
I really didn't think of it until I had finished the chapter.
And now it's all I can think about it.
Well, not all.
Ahem.
Anyway, and all Uncas/Chingachgook dialogue or thought in this chapter is in Mohican. I just didn't type it out that way because I thought it might get a little tedious for the reader to work through. But all Mohican.
Thanks to BlueSaffire, DinahRay, Eilan21, and AsterLaurel for coming back and reviewing the previous chapters!
TithaJaime, I sincerely apologise for omitting you from the review list of the last chapter. It was not intentional.
Blanarpe, you made me laugh so hard with your review of chapter 21, omg. My whole family was staring at me by the time the guffaws tapered off. Thank you and I'm glad you are happy to be back. I'm happy too!
See you all again soon! :)