I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I'm so happy in this cave.
Into The Wild
Beyond The Light
They have stepped into the darkness.
Lit it with their light.
The torches. The flames.
They have advanced beyond what they know.
Beyond what they have previously seen.
They have stepped into the realm of the deep underdark of the cave.
And found . . .
Of course there wouldn't be.
. . . no apparent monsters . . .
Such a silly, childish thing.
. . . whatsoever.
And they advance deeper into the belly of the world.
They walk, Alice the Yengee and Uncas the Mohican, into the darkness of the underworld.
Him in the lead, her behind.
Torches in hand, possibles bags and weapons upon them.
For this is the wild.
And they are in it.
Safely for now, they have heard only the smallest of scuttlings on the occasion.
Beetles. Spiders.
Briefly the illumination of . . .
"What was that?"
"Wood rat."
. . . nocturnal eyes low to the ground.
They pass through vast galleries so large she can feel nothing above her, only cool, yawning, emptinesses of the beyond.
And squeeze through . . .
"Should we stop?"
"Do you wish to?"
"No. Do you?"
"No."
. . . narrow crevices she wonders the crush of.
Winding is their path.
Winding and long.
They walk upon jagged blue-tinged stone and soft brown and red clay.
Run their hands along embedded fossils of ancient creatures of earth and sea.
They skirt sinkholes, make their way around stalagmites the size of family cabins.
Marvel at the flowstone formations along the walls, the layered ridges future spelunkers will term "baconrind".
And they walk . . .
"Uncas. Look. Do you see?"
. . . on.
Another new chamber they pass into.
Steps beyond.
And he stops then, sudden and without warning.
"Uncas?"
Places the torch on the rocky ground.
"What is it?
And turns to her.
"Why have we stopped?"
His face a shadow to her sight.
"Naxuhàni."
We are alone.
And yet . . .
"Ahikta."
Yes.
. . . she feels the intensity of his gaze.
"Konàch?"
What of it?
He does not respond, her Uncas.
Not with his words.
But the way he looks at her, deepset eyes glittering in the flickering torchlight.
Tell her everything she needs to know.
Only arms-width apart, he need only reach out.
And reach out he does.
Taking her braided head in both hands.
Large and strong and rough and gentle hands.
Hands on either side of her head.
And he brings her to him, at the same time, steps forward to her.
Their bodies meet, their lips.
And they are warm, his lips.
Warm and wanting, pressing lightly against hers, barely more than a brush.
Gentle and tender, the way she has taught him to be, the way they both like.
He gives the smallest pause to nuzzle his nose to hers.
And for some reason, it is this that causes her to begin to come undone.
Breathing the embers of her body into flame.
Melting now, she is melting.
And becoming steadily more breathless, the both of them.
Losing themselves, releasing themselves, to everything but each other.
Here in this deep, dark cave under the world.
Alice feels his hands moving, heavy and warm and welcome upon her skin, the fabric of her clothes.
His hands, those calloused fingertips, grazing the front of her thin cotton shirt.
Thumbs stroking the pointed flesh that is reaching out to his touch.
She hears the utterance of a desirous gasp, feels it in her throat.
Feels him respond, his mouth on hers.
Deeper now, more urgent.
And hands, his hands.
Gentle as is his way, kind and tender.
But rising in passion nevertheless.
As if in a haze of a dream, Alice feels them shuffling slowly back, step by step together, almost a dance.
Until she rests against the wall, the rock of the cave to her back.
And she can move no further away.
And his body, strong and lean and solid, presses to hers.
A welcome pressure, not suffocating, not trapped.
Welcome and wanted.
There is a ledge there, to their right, waist-high for her, or thereabouts.
And he bends, wrapping arms around her, hands sliding down just under her rump, spread wide for the support of her body.
And he lifts her up, placing her down upon the rock.
Smooth and even, as if placed especially for them here in the moment.
And she is perched on it now, knees wide to either side of his lean lower torso, his hips.
As he presses his body to hers, to the rock upon which she sits.
One hand braced against the smooth, cool stone, the other to her back.
Pulling her to him, needful. Bodies aching to be joined.
Face buried in her hair, breath, lips, tongue, to the tender flesh of her neck, that sensitive spot just behind her ear.
Her arms are wrapped around his shoulders, fingers digging into the soft cloth of his shirt.
The flame of the torch is flickering wildly now and she . . .
"The . . . light is . . . going . . . out."
. . . tries to focus her melting thoughts onto practicalities for a fleetingly, unimportant moment.
"Na në lekèch. Nkàski nëwëska."
Let it. I can still feel you.
And he does.
Reaching down, long, slender, strong fingers of one hand trailing along her skin.
Ankle to calf. To knee.
The thin, fine hairs of her leg so light and downy she has no trouble feeling every inch of his touch.
Raising her leg higher, pressing it to his side.
And he is sliding a warm hand under the hem of her petticoat. Her shift.
Warm to the flesh of her bare thigh, moving higher and higher.
And she is on fire.
She is aflame.
She-
"Oh-"
-has nearly bumped into him, almost spilling falling embers from her torch down upon his head, his back.
"Umf-"
Because Uncas the Mohican, who was not pressing his lean, strong body to hers in an urgent matter of passion and desire, . . .
"Uncas?"
. . . has stopped.
"Look."
Okay.
Well.
Hmmm.
Coupla things.
Would that ledge really be so smooth and insect free there in a Hollywood-free environment?
Would it really be such a good idea to let that light go out in a deep, dark cave like that?
What happened to that braid, that Miss Romance Novel wild and flowing damsel do?
And where did Alice's lit torch go in the hot and heavy?
Speaking of which, what about her mysteriously missing leggings?
All these little plot holes.
And you know what?
And that's okay.
Because it's a daydream fantasy.
And the rules of reality do not have to apply. ;)
Hope I haven't disappointed you, dear blanbarpe, after all your gracious compliments of my restraint of the steamy storm scene.
But Alice is all relaxed here and a teenage girl and Uncas is right there, a decent reason for any living, breathing female to get all amorously daydreamy, you know?
I mean, I myself remember seeing Gavin Rossdale in a ribbed shirt and his choker neckband with that hair, strumming and singing 'MachineHead' live on an awards show waaaayyy back when and I do believe I fell face first into puberty at that very moment-
Ahem.
Where was I? What year is it?
What? Gavin is old now?
*sobs*
Hey, some people reviewed previously too, didn't they?
My bad. I got so caught up.
Thanks to DinahRay, BlueSaffire, AsterLaurel, Guest, MohawkWoman for previously reviewing!
One more chapter before a little break! :)