I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I do still love them so. And this fandom.
Into the Wild
Worries Contented
And yet her questions are still not yet done.
A few remain.
And these she keeps to herself as she moves throughout another day in the Lenape village to which they have so long traveled.
She muses.
She considers.
She worries and wonders.
Do Delaware even practice marriage?
Silent as she keeps them, these questions.
How do they decide? What is done?
She worries to speak would be to push him, as a Portland Square socialite might do.
And she does not mean to be such, she does not mean to.
She is happy as they are.
Only wishes to understand what is expected of her.
Of them.
She knows Uncas has spoken of the freedom of choice, of freedom of spirit within the village.
And yet she still wonders.
Because now that it is more than just her and her chosen Mohicans wandering the vast, free wilderness.
Always on the move.
Never needing another's leave.
And now that they have stopped and for quite some time it is planned.
These are not straight-laced English, or even independent settlers.
She is an unmarried woman. She travels freely with a man, sleeps by his side.
Painfully clear it must be that she knows him, knows the feel and taste of his body to hers.
In the society she has left so far behind, it would be considered brazen, scandalous.
She would be whispered about, secretly watched and gossiped about in Portland Square, even in the Americas here.
She could toss it aside out in the wild, ignore that it might be looked down upon by those they encountered.
For they were on the move and soon to leave all behind.
But now they have stopped.
And these are those she does not know well.
Save for him. And his father
And she is so very, very . . .
I do not know these ways. I do not know what to do.
. . . uncertain.
Beyond the longhouses, there are wigwams.
Set in slightly irregular intervals.
Room for all.
And space.
Little for some who are glad to be near.
Much for others who prefer more paces away.
This one set beside a tree.
That one set beside a rock.
Another set away from the main thrush.
And yet clearly still a part of the community.
Each simply set down where and how they chose.
All harmonious together.
Individual.
And part of the whole.
There are less than a hundred people in the village, she thinks.
Men, women, children.
Older, younger.
They are all there.
They are all together.
As they so choose and as they so like.
All.
Except one.
And Alicia Elizabeth Munroe decides it is time to go . . .
You shall not hide from me, My Mohican.
. . . and find him.
And found him she has.
Found and has been watching in secret.
Uncas.
The one she loves.
Alice has been watching him from her hidden place by a tree.
Watching him, for a time, at his chosen work.
A structure he is working to build.
A wigwag, she thinks. A hut.
Well within the boundary-less confines of the village.
But a bit to itself in a very small glade.
She does not know for whom he works.
Perhaps his father.
Perhaps another of the community.
She does not concern herself with this.
Only watches contentedly.
His lean, dusky body, the way it moves as he bends and lifts and works. Bare to the waist as his body heat warms him in the cool autumn air.
His hair, that curtain of smooth, coarse black she so loves to run her fingers through.
His face, a picture of focus on his task, mouth a frown at times, eyes a consternation.
She has been drinking him in, quite content to consume him only with her gaze.
For . . .
Oh my-
. . . now.
And then from the side, he is approached by . . .
"Hè, Uncas!"
. . . others.
Ones such as himself.
Young. Virile.
A trio, she sees.
And none of whom that see her.
Great hunters and woodsmen, one and all.
Including her Mohican.
Nathaniel would have something to say about, I venture.
And she smiles . . .
"Hè, Mahkah!"
. . . in amusement to herself.
The one she loves breaks his flat, focused demeanor into an easy, congenial expression and light welcoming as he is joined by the newcomers.
"Sakhàke ktupali?"
You have been gone hunting?
With affectionate slaps on the back and the newcomers converse . . .
"Osòmi. Ntalai wëlët luwàneyunk."
Yes. The game is good north.
. . . as they move to join in the labor.
Out in the world, Uncas and his father are well respected, revered, among all who know them.
They are near mythical figures to some, these wandering men who cannot be beaten.
Friends to others.
And fearsome foe to those who would seek harm against them.
Or those they have chosen to keep watch over.
And that is true, that is all a part of them, these Mohican men of the wild.
And yet here, in this tucked-away little village in the undisturbed land of Can-Tuck-ee, they are also . . .
"-mënèn . . ."
-heard . . .
. . . simply men.
Uncas, the wandering Mohican, having been . . .
". . . athiluhakàn alëmi chuwi . . ."
. . . the winter stories will be full of . . .
. . . far and wide out of the valley.
Seen many sights and experienced many things outside of this secreted valley.
These tales of which are eagerly anticipated . . .
". . . hàch xèli chipilinamuhëna!"
. . . your many adventures!
. . . by those who wish to hear them.
Uncas, who has . . .
". . . mòxkàmën xkwe ayahpamskaa . . ."
. . . found a woman during your travels . . .
. . . brought a stranger back to the village . . .
"Ntuxkweyëm lëpàkëk xahelukwëni."
My sister will cry for many days.
. . . to live among them.
This stranger with her . . .
". . . milàxk wisaontpe?"
. . . yellow hair?
. . . unique features.
"Ku."
No.
And . . .
". . . òptikinkwehële?"
. . . pale skin?
. . . singular coloring.
"Ku."
Much to the innocuous curiosity of his friends . . .
"Kòch kwishimao xkwèchi?"
. . . so much like him.
"Mpipinamën . . ."
I chose her . . .
And also not in the way of knowing.
". . . èli ntahola."
. . . because I love her.
At all.
And Alice, . . .
"Ah, kìchi? Uxò awèn ktause xèli mimëntëtàk yukwe na!"
Ah, is that true? Your father will be looking for many babies soon then!
. . . blushing smile of delight coloring her face, . . .
He loves me.
. . . takes herself away.
Here.
Deciding she shall worry herself with those old concerns . . .
He loves me here.
. . . no longer.
And though she does not know it . . .
"Hè . . ."
Hallo, . . .
. . . she is very soon to find out just how much . . .
". . . Alice Munroe."
. . . the one she loves . . .
"Hè, . . ."
Hallo, . . .
. . . loves her as well.
". . . Umas."
. . . Honored Mothers.
And that more matters to him . . .
"Wëntaxa."
Come.
. . . than she yet realizes.
Yes, I changed the chapter. Sorry to confuse. ;)
Thanks to DinahRay, BlueSaffire, blanparbe, AsterLaurel, MohawkWoman, BrynnaRaven, hotforteacher3, and Socially Distant (so glad things are looking up for you, that is wonderful! and thanks also for reviewing!)
Also, I might need to warn you for the upcoming several chapters.
Major sappiness. I mean, the sugar content is going to be unreal.
So yeah, just be prepared. ;)
