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
He Had Not Loved Her
He had not loved her when he had stopped her from chasing after the fleeing horses on the George Road.
He had not loved her when he had stood in half-shadow and watched her trembling form aside the river on their trek to the fort.
He had not loved her when he had pressed one hand to her mouth, one to her shoulder, forcing her stillness and silence in a dark night full of stealthily advancing threat.
And he had not loved her when he had held her under the waterfall, drawn her back from her dangerous, wandering path.
Not then.
Not yet.
Not entirely.
He had cared.
He had noticed.
He had, at times, wondered of her.
But he had not yet loved, not truly.
And when he had fought his way up the mountainside, scrabbling and fighting and clawing for every step, his mind full of her death, her rape, her ruthless subjugation at the hands of those that held her, he had not thought of love.
He had thought of life. He had thought of death.
He had thought of survival.
He had thought that she must not be abandoned to such fate as awaited her.
Such suffering, misery, pain.
He had thought that he must save her.
Alice.
He must fight.
Stay alive.
He must try.
I am coming.
And still he had not loved her then.
Not entirely, not quite.
But as he had gazed openly upon her there, vision narrowing to all but her.
Her, there upon the ragged cliffs' edge of the mountainside, burning, searing pain radiated outward from just under his tattooed breast . . .
Alice.
. . . he had thought he might.
He had thought he would.
Felt.
So very, very much.
He had felt without thinking, felt without words.
But with overwhelming conviction of heart and mind.
A sense of protection for her.
Her slender, delicate frame, so vulnerable, fragile.
The flaxen flowing hair with its long braid the same as his.
The wide, doe-like eyes, fear and worry and dread pouring out from them.
Her mind, her spirit, already taxed so thin with all she had endured in such short span of time.
She would be broken among them. The men that had her, cared not for her, saw nothing of her but expendable battle fodder.
She would be used by them. She would be broken.
And then, without further consideration or musing, she would be dispatched and discarded.
Dead and gone from this world, never again to walk upon it again.
He had thought of how he had held her under the waterfall, her shivering, quaking form wrapped close and safe.
Protected.
Her own arms around him, clutching, clinging tight.
As he had held her.
Eyes closed, almost a meditation.
Willing peace and calm and reassurance to pour out of his spirit.
And into hers.
Be still. Be calm. It is alright.
Their breathing slowly becoming one, their heartbeats.
And she had stilled her tremors, calmed in his embrace.
By degrees, her terror laxing. Hands unclenching, grip loosing.
Unconsciously working the fabric of his shirt with her fingers.
A repetitive motion, a soothing, an easing for her.
Until even that had stilled as well.
And thus they had remained.
Until he had opened his eyes.
Scanned his post, the way they had come, alerting for the enemies that would surely track them here, only a matter of how long.
Or morning come and they would emerge to creep south, find them safe passage home.
He had looked, seen naught but crashing water.
And her.
Pale oval face turned now up to his, liquid dark eyes staring into him more deeply than he could ever have imagined from one such as this.
Seeing him. Seeing only him.
And he himself, had felt captured, caught, by her gaze.
That gaze that looked straight into the center of him.
And all he could do was look back.
And then she had shifted, gathered herself, released him.
Risen up slowly, withdrawing from his embrace.
Alice.
And returning without a word to the others.
He had thought of her then and how, in a time of peace and not war, he might touch her hair, her cheek and she might let him.
That he might speak her name and she might speak his.
He had thought of how, were they to live, she might heal from her ordeal, find wonder once more in the free beauty of the ranging wilderness as she had for the briefest of moments near the raging waters of the rolling river.
And he had thought none of these things would come to pass if she died here on the mountainside or in the capture of the Huron.
If she was taken along further. If she was harmed. If she was broken.
And he, having suffered more wounds than were his convention, considered that he might die here now upon this mountain.
Abandoning her to her fate, to her captivity, her death.
And he had known no matter the cost, he must fight and stand tall and strong until he threw down his enemy and ended him.
Or until his own last breath.
If only, if only, she would live and be safe and well.
Alive and unbroken.
All this he had felt without true words, in the breadth of a heartbeat.
All this he had seen as his focus had narrowed to nothing but her.
All this he had understood and been strengthened by deep within his spirit. All this he had felt as he had gazed upon her.
Alice.
There upon the jagged cliffs of high mountainside.
All these things.
And yet Uncas the Mohican had not loved her then.
Not completely. Not entirely.
But he thought he could, he thought he would.
If they lived.
If she allowed.
And he did love her now. Fully and without reservation.
Alice.
It was a part of him, his love for her.
Rooted deep, rooted strong.
Strengthening every day.
As he felt . . .
""Ktaholël. Uncas."
. . . it always would.
"Ktaholël. Alice."
Uncas, the Mohican.
To Alice, the Yengee.
Thoughts?
Thanks to BlueSaffire, AsterLaurel, DinahRay, ELY72, BryannaRaven, and Emphatic Guest (yes, trauma can leave profound marks on those it touches. Isn't it wonderful that with determination and hard work, it can be overcome and we can live free from it?) for previously reviewing.