I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I would like to continue to write for it.

Into The Wild

Quiet Time


It is in the long afternoon of the day.

The day that is warm.

And the breeze cool.

And Alice and her Mohican are alone in the grass.

Some distance from the cabin.

A hidden glade. Within shouting distance, if emergency warrant.

A quiet, peaceful place unto themselves.

She is sitting crosslegged, petticoat and slips and leggings all modest and covering.

Feet bare and tickled by the bed of green grass in which they repose.

Uncas stretched out on his back before her.

Hands folded upon his belly, fingers loosely interlaced.

Head upon her crossed ankles.

And she is stroking his face.

Slowly, languidly.

As if they have all the time in the world to spend with one another.

As if this, and them, is all there is.

Her touch is feather-light as she glides her fingers along the ridges and planes of his face.

Thumbs lightly grazing the thin covering of his eyelids, bold of his brows, slight indentation of his temples.

Slender cartilage of his straight nose, the fullness of his cheeks.

Her fingers whisper up the lines of his defined jaw, trace paths around the swirls of his silver pierced ears.

His chin. His lips.

There is no rhyme nor reason to her wanderings.

She is only indulging herself in the study of him.

Uncas.

Her Mohican.

His eyes are closed, body lax, breathing slow and even.

Long gun, loaded and ever at the ready by his side.

One smooth movement and it will be in his hand.

He will be up and braced for conflict.

Though for now there seems to be no need.

She thinks she might have lulled him into sleep, quite a feat for her to accomplish upon the ever alert warrior.

She loves him. She loves him so.

And then he speaks.

With eyes closed and body still at ease.

"You are happy here with your sister."

Her answer is simple, spoken with truth.

"Yes. It is good to be with her again."

And then she reciprocates, fingertips tracing the the nonexistent lines of his smooth forehead.

"You are happy here with your brother."

His answer is simple, spoken with truth.

"Yes. It is good to be with him again."

She smiles, huffs a silent amused chuckle.

That he seems to feel.

Soft smile breaking the line of his mouth.

And Alice speaks that which has been on her mind.

"I would wish to stay and see her child born."

Uncas' reply a low rumble.

"Yes, my father would as well."

"He has spoken of it?"

That unassuming smile again.

"He did not need to."

And Alice thinks on it.

"What is it that you wish? We have only begun to travel again."

There is a pause.

She does not think of it with worry.

It is his way.

He will . . .

"I would stay."

. . . when he chooses.

And then, eyes yet closed, he lifts one hand from the other.

To find her face.

Easily, smoothly.

Rough, gentle palm slipping up to her cheek.

Warm and caressing to her skin.

She pauses in her attentions of him.

Raises her own hand to cover his.

Not the first of this motion, nor the last.

And now he does open his eyes.

Dark and deep and searching.

Gazing up to her.

Alice.

She knows what he sees.

A young oval female face.

Dark eyes.

Framed by long pale hair.

Now unfettered and unbraided, save for the small pale and dark that lays near to her neck and shoulder.

Hovering over him.

She knows he sees her.

She enjoys it immensely.

And she still, after many months, a year's worth in fact, cannot fathom what it is about her that he may see.

"Why do you love me?"

That please him so . . .

"What reason do you have?"

. . . to care.

A silly, girlish question.

Not spoken with near the lightness and aloofness she might have were she more protective of herself and her dignity.

His eyes alert, eyebrows creasing just the slightest.

Forehead furrowing just a touch.

And she almost wishes she had not spoken it at all.

But now that she has, she cannot do naught but wait upon his reply.

She does not have to wait long.

Uncas the Mohican rises then.

She watches him.

That fall of jet black hair.

The movement of his muscles underneath his loose shirt.

And she sees him.

Turning back to her, even as he sits up.

Dark, deepset eyes peering deep into hers.

Seeing her as no other ever has.

As no other ever will.

And then he speaks, this man for whom her heart beats.

His voice a deep rumble.

Tone clear and sure.

Words Mohican.

And she, the woman to whom he speaks these select words, listens.

"Ktaholël wënchi ki."

I love you because you are you.

As the one who loves her reaches out his hand once more, calloused fingertips light upon her cheek.

"Ku nuwatuu kench watamëwakàn."

I need no other reason.

Gaze warm and direct.

"Ktaholël yukwe. Ktaholël apchìch."

I love you now. I will love you always.

And she cannot think to speak.

Only moves forward.

Toward him.

Finding his lips with hers, finding his face with her hands, his neck, his hair.

His skin.

There under the warm sunshine of the August afternoon.

Birds and squirrels and manner of life making revelry and life and taking no notice of them in the afternoon air.

She kisses him and kisses him again.

Innocent and in happy love.

And he kisses her back.

Embraces her, pulling her into his lap.

And she presses herself to him.

Their kisses and caresses evolving into deeper, hungrier desire.

Hands moving upon on another's bodies.

Just as he desires.

Just as she desires.

One hand eventually slipping discreetly under her skirts.

Gentle, silken touch making her shudder and cry out . . .

"Uncas-"

. . . his name.

And he does not stop.

And she does not wish him to.


And so it is decided, 'round the table that evening, that the travelers will stay a while.

On into the fall they will tarry.

Reside with their family.

The adopted Mohican.

And the woman who has chosen him.

They will stay.

Help prepare for the oncoming winter.

Help prepare for whatever may come.

Celebrate the arrival of the child, new beginning in this world.

They will stay.

It, and the year before, have been years for changes.

Life progresses and men change the course of their paths and thus the course of their chosen calendars and lives.

The Mohican men, adopted and true blood, accept and embrace this wholeheartedly with equanimity of spirit and mind.

There will may be a time when life as they know it may come 'round again.

But they do not wish for it, they do not waste time mourning what was.

They instead embrace what it is and what they may make of it.

For it is all the time they have in their entire lives.

And they are not people to waste it.


Of course he's gonna get laid after a statement like that, honestly. But hopefully it's clear that is not the reason he said it. ;)

Thanks to DinahRay, MohawkWoman, Susannah-Belle, AsterLaurel, The Guest That Loves Chingachgook (he's just the best, isn't he? and thank you), ELY72, BryannaRaven, BlueSaffire, and blanparbe (btw, BlueSaffire is with you on the whole Uncas thing, she wanted me to let you know, total Uncas for taking the time to review! You're all always just so kind and generous. Hugs!

See you again soon!

You know, if Cora gets much bigger, she may explode. So something's gotta give.