I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I do still love them so. And this fandom.

Into the Wild

A Breed Apart


Another week they have walked.

Leagues and leagues and leagues.

It is has been a strange time for Alice.

She has been with her Mohicans.

She has walked with them.

She has eaten with them.

She has slept near them, close to the fire.

And yet she has felt separated and apart from them.

As if she is a liability to them, these men who kill for her without hesitation.

When the men had saved them on the George Road, her and her sister and Duncan, there had already been a fray, a slaughter, in place.

Strangers coming to their aid, by gun and knife and warstock gun club.

Alice clinging to her sister like a child, screaming, nearly catatonic with terror and helplessness.

When the men had cut through the ambush on the journey from the fort, there had already been a fray, a slaughter, in place.

A red-skinned savage holding her sister by the hair, blade to her throat.

And Nathaniel had fought his way through the mob to save Cora.

They had run away.

Once, when the men had dove into the waterfall to save themselves so that they may survive to save them.

Uncas never more than glancing at her.

Not speaking, not embracing.

As Nathaniel had shouted his love, his promise to her sister over the crashing din of the waterfall.

And they had run then.

Only to return and save Cora away from the Huron village.

No fray, no slaughter.

Only shouted, spitted words.

Nathaniel beaten and bleeding.

And more words, words setting her sister free.

Uncas then, scaling the entirety of a mountain and working his merciless way through the Huron and their leader, saving her.

Another fray, another slaughter.

Because there had been no other way, no other choice.

Only one option.

Unlike the French trappers.

They had been sleeping when Uncas cut their throats in the darkness.

Filthy, vile men intent on misdeeds, misadventure.

But unaware, undefended in that moment when Uncas had killed them.

Her Mohican lover's attack had been unnecessary.

Savage. Brutal.

She had not seen it, had not been there.

Neither he nor his father had spoken of it aloud, in English or Mohican.

None that she has heard.

And yet she knows.

Her imagination, garnered from what she has witnessed in battle, is vivid and brutal.

Blood gouting upon the ground, men twitching, writhing, struggling to breathe.

Collapsing.

Dying.

The flat affect of her Mohican, the way he does not deny his actions nor beg her forgiveness or understanding tells her all she needs to know of his thoughts.

The way she has seen him dispatch his kills, animal and man alike, tells her all she needs to know about his actions.

And what she will do with that knowledge, the way she will choose to accept it into her life, she does not yet know.

Only . . .

"Hallo, Uncas."

"Hallo, Miss."

. . . that she must find a way to evolve and allow the evolution of her thinking if she is to continue on here in this new world in which she moves.


The one he loves is unnaturally quiet, removed.

The light in her eyes is diminished, much so.

She is not as she was, broken and hardly more than a spirit moving about in the living world.

But she is not as she has been since.

And he would not have her displeased with him.

Though he unflinchingly acknowledges displeased is preferable to raped and dead.

She is a breed apart still.

Her heart yet tender, of a desire to extend mercy.

And he knows there is no mercy in the wilderness.

The men he has left behind to molder and decay had planned to harm her, rape her.

Dispatch him and his father.

Without grace, without mercy.

And so it was necessary for them to die.

It is the only way to ensure they would not harm her.

Or them.

She wishes for him to have spared them.

He could not.

If he had, they might have tracked them.

Found them.

Hurt her.

Hurt them.

He would not allow it.

Nor would he allow them to be tracked to the village.

Harm befall to the people there.

Men such as the ones he left behind in the blood soaked earth would not change, would not be stopped.

And so he had done what he must.

And the men had died.

He had not minded it.

Their actions demanded it, required it.

Without question, without hesitation.

The one he loves does not understand.

But Uncas does.

And that . . .

"Hallo, Uncas."

"Hallo, Miss."

. . . is what he knows.


"We will reach the village before the sun sets tomorrow."

Alice does not respond to this statement from her Wètuxëmùksit.

"It will be good to be among our people again."

Simply continues to tend the fire.

"They are peaceful and kind."

Even as her usually taciturn elder continues to speak.

"You will be glad to be among them."

And Alice . . .

"There is no war. No violence."

. . . listens.

"They only kill to survive."

And Alice . . .

"As do we all."

. . . listens.


"Hallo, Uncas."

"Hallo, Miss."

He has accepted her displeasure, allowed her her time of alienation with him.

She has slept next to him in the night.

Eaten food with him in the waking hours.

Walked in the direction he and his father have walked.

And she has done this without complaint.

She has built, lit, and tended the campfires.

Assisted in the skinning of kills. The dressing of meat.

Followed along in the routines of life in the wandering wilderness.

And yet he has understood that she was still there, back in the camp.

With the dead men that he killed to protect her.

He has not begged forgiveness for his actions, has not demanded her acceptance of his choices.

He has simply allowed her the space her spirit requires to once more find peace in the world as she may.

That was three nights and a bit ago.

"You have been patient with me. Protected me. You have done so without asking anything for yourself."

And it would seem . . .

"I do not understand you in all you do. I do not know if I ever will."

. . . she is returning to him once again.

"But I am glad to be by your side. I am glad to walk with you."

And he feels . . .

"Ktaholël. Uncas."

. . . it must be alright again.

"Ktaholël. Alice."

As much as it can be.


Thanks to MohawkWoman, AsterLaurel, OrneryOak, ELY72, The What If Guest (ick, can't write that, no not me), blanparbe (shields your eyes from Uncas' glare), BlueSaffire, sarah0406, MedicineGal815, and BrynnaRaven for so graciously reviewing!

Thanks also to Rojoy for adding your support to this story!

And if you're worried Alice is going to be fretting over this for a long time, well, sometimes we think we will muse a long time and then-

SQUIRREL!

-well, something else captures our attention.