I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I do love it so. And this fandom.

Into the Wild

Cleansing


Uncas.

The last full blood Mohican son.

There. On the far side from her, beyond the crackling fire.

Kneeling on a mat.

Knees down, heels under rump.

Back straight, strong hands easy upon his thighs.

Waiting, she thinks, for her.

He is unarmed, such a rare occurrence she notes it immediately.

Unarmed.

No long gun.

No powder horn.

Not even so much as a knife or a tomahawk, so far as she can see.

Just him.

There.

Staring deep into the fire.

Even knelt, he is tall and straight and proud.

Uncas.

He is garbed in a fresh, loose shirt she has never seen on him before.

Leggings. His moccasins, she is sure.

His belt, the record of the days of his father's people, proud across his chest.

Silver pierced ears.

Gold encircled wrists.

And long, dark hair down, soft and flowing.

Signaling he is not the warrior now, the tracker, the hunter.

That he is only a man.

A man here now.

And waiting for her.

A light blanket there is about his shoulders.

Very similar to the one which she feels about hers.

And this seems significant.

His chiseled face painted simply.

A single white ochre line under his eyes.

Horizontal from one side to the other.

And that is all.

To some, she supposes, it perhaps might be misconstrued as plain.

And yet to her, this is not so at all.

For it is this line that accentuates his warm caramel coloring.

And his eyes.

Those deepset, piercing, dark eyes.

That shift now from the fire before him.

Up to her approach.

His face does not register recognition and she understands that he knows she is there.

Has been expecting her approach, quite possibly even heard it.

And yet cannot quite see her clearly.

And then his eyes widen a bit.

Widen, then narrow in intensity.

He appears to draw in breath, let in out.

And then the slightest of smiles touches his almost parted lips.

His entire countenance is a study in subtly controlled emotion.

And in that moment, she wishes desperately to see herself through his eyes.

She realizes she is smiling as well, small and secret and the slightest bit shy.

As her own breath catches and her heart swells within her modest chest.

Her blood is rushing, overtaking the ambient sounds of night creatures unseen in the dark around them.

And then there is one who speaks through the din in her ears.

Not Uncas, gazing so raptly at her, no.

Chinagachgook.

It is his voice she hears as she stands gazing into the eyes of the one whose soul is perfect companion to hers.

Chingachgook, paces back from them, adorned in his finest garments, humble as they are.

Chingachgook, shirt spread open wide to reveal the proud tattoos upon his skin.

Chingachgook who moves not to intercede between them.

But only speaks.

And that, not in demand.

Or command.

Only choice.

To her.

Alice.

In soft, measured words and clear tone.

And in English.

So that there may be complete transparency and no misunderstanding at all.

"If the one before you is the one to whom you choose to join your spirit, come and kneel before the fire. If he is not, bow your respect and walk away and be free in your spirit."

There is no hesitation in her heart.

There is no one for her than him, this Mohican.

Alice Munroe takes a step forward on legs that do not tremble.

And another and another until she is there.

She kneels before the fire, onto the mat placed there.

Folding her legs carefully under her.

A mirror to him, the one she loves.

"Place your offerings to one another before the fire."

And Alice sees Uncas bring forth a small portion of meat.

Symbolic, she thinks, that he will provide for her.

Unwraps it. Places it on a rock before him.

And she, knowing now what the corn is for, places it thusly upon the rock before her.

Their father, their elder, nods.

A whisper of a smile crosses his warm eyes in the dark.

And he comes forward then, small bowl in hand.

In it, she sees a bundle of herb.

And Chingachgook reaches into the fire.

Or rather, to the edge.

A stick he takes, the tip red with flame.

Touches it to that in the bowl.

And after a moment smoke rises.

The stick he returns to the fire.

The bowl he takes to his son.

Held out for him in solemnity, reverence.

And Alice watches as the one she loves shifts his focus from her.

To the smoke wafting from that in his father's hands.

Chingachgook speaks, so softly to his son that Alice cannot understand him.

For the words he speaks are for his son and his son alone.

And Uncas brings his hands forward to the bowl.

And, eyes closing, moves his hands back to his face.

Miming, she believes, washing.

Not with water.

With smoke.

And he continues on.

His hands.

Arms.

His long, black hair.

He washes the smoke over himself.

Slowly and with care.

Then, ritual completed, stills his hands once more upon his thighs.

And becomes still.

Eyes opening.

Looking to his father.

Silent communion between them for the longest of moments.

And then Chingachgook nods.

Turns.

And comes to her.

And Uncas' gaze follows.

Anxiety begins to rise within Alice, unfamiliarity with the expectations made of her.

Fear of not being as she should.

And then . . .

"Breathe deep and cleansing, Wënichana."

. . . he speaks to her.

"Allow the bad spirits within you, those holding you back from the existence you choose, to be released."

Low and calming.

"Send them away from you."

She feels reassured instantly.

Though her blood still rushes with excitement.

"Wash yourself clean so that your heart and mind may be pure and you may step forward as you wish to be in this life."

The bowl is there. The smoke.

She reaches out.

Mimes the movements from moments ago she witnessed of the one across the fire from her.

Breathing deep, as her Wètuxëmùksit has instructed her.

Allowing the smoke from the sage to fill her nostrils, her lungs.

Pervade her entire being.

Closing her eyes, she delves down into herself.

Sees herself for what she truly is. Sees the beauty of her spirit.

The beauty and grace and wonder of her existence on this mortal coil.

Of her now, in this moment, in this place, in this time.

And she feels herself smiling. Feels the loosening in her chest.

The swell of emotion.

The acceptance of herself and everything she is and has been and may yet be.

She forgives herself her faults, sends her guilt and embarrassment and shame away from her, they are unnecessary, they matter not.

She is of this earth and she is all she must be.

And it is enough.

She feels the tears wetting her lashes.

Allows them, does not attempt to hold them back because it feels so good to so wholly accept that which she is now and has been and may yet be and release all else away.

The moment holds; it is so very brief.

And yet, it is everything.

And when she opens her eyes, her vision is doubled, tripled.

The fire and darkness nearly blinding her from those about her.

She lets it.

She does not worry.

It will balance.

She is as she may be.

And the figure close to her, the elder man who accepted her before she accepted herself, speaks once more.

Mohican now.

Soft and gentle.

"Kulalukasi, Wënichana."

You have done well, Daughter.

He moves away then, Chinachgook does.

And as her vision clears, she sees him once more.

Uncas.

He is as handsome as he ever has been.

And smiling at her.

The smallest smile.

The warmest gaze.

She is filled even further with love for him.

Utterly rapturous

And fit to burst.

And then he rises slowly, leaving the small blanket on the ground behind him.

And she, Alicia Elizabeth Munroe, follows suit.


A good cleansing clarity to all of you gentle readers out there. You are all, each and every one of you, more miraculous and amazing than you know. :D

Thanks to MedicineGal815, ELY72, sarah0406, AsterLaurel, blanparbe, and BlueSaffire for reviewing.

BlueSaffire, I hope I got the smudging ceremony right. Your mention of it gave me the inspiration. :)