I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I do still love them so. And this fandom.

Into the Wild

And Then They Were Alone


She has not yet moved from beside the campfire.

From the cool, refreshing night air.

From under the moon, so bright and entrancing.

From under warm, blanket warm and secure.

From the embrace of her Mohican, her Uncas, her Nëwitaemàk, so comfortably, so deliciously near.

His arms are around her still, etched face close.

And Alice Munroe is simply content to be where she is.

And with whom.

They have been kissing, long and slow and deep.

Her entire body is warm and tingling.

And now, as ready as she is to join together with him, . . .

"That is our wigwam? Our home?"

. . . she also hesitates.

"Yes. Until the winter becomes too cold."

Just long enough . . .

"May I see it?"

. . . to ask a question to which . . .

"Of course."

. . . she already knows the answer.


The inside of the hut is simply set and smallish; it would not be fifteen feet across if it were properly measured.

Lashed together wood and thatch dome over swept clean dirt.

A circle of stones there is, set in the middle of the space.

Inside the circle, a small fire, warming and nearly smokeless.

There is no birthing pole here.

Only woven grass mats.

Furs upon the mats set to one side of the fire.

More mats on the other side.

Food set upon.

Gathered fruits and nuts in a bowl.

Portions of smoked meat upon a smoothed, wooden slab.

A corn cake, removed, prepared, and replaced back into the same shuck from which it grew in to bake in the fire.

One of many that Alice herself was of help preparing in days past.

Fresh, clean water from the river there is as well.

A veritable feast this is for them.

Simple. Plain.

And enough.

Uncas' weapons she sees as well, at the ready near the flap opening.

His powder horn, possibles bag.

A loose shirt.

And that is all.

It is less than her sister's West Virginia cabin.

Substantially less than the humblest abode she has visited in Boston.

Nay unthinkable in Portland Square.

And yet here, in the hidden Delaware village of northeast Can-tuck-ee, it is everything beautiful and good.

And Alice . . .

"It is wonderful."

. . . loves it.

And Mohican.

Her Mohican who, having lowered the flap closed over the entrance, comes to her.

Her with her hand outstretched, offering him the water, food.

And they sit down together, they feed upon what they have been gifted.

And Alice, as mischievous as she is in love, speaks.

"I have a secret."

Her Mohican, with his softly flowing hair, looking so different to her now, raises a curious eyebrow.

Says nothing.

Allows her to continue.

And so . . .

"I watched you."

. . . she does.

"Work to build this."

And the one she loves seems fondly amused by her confession.

'"Ah, you did?"

She nods, quite pleased with herself.

"Yes. I was hidden. You did not see me."

He nods amicably, seems to muse over this.

A secret smile forming in his eyes and on his closed lips.

And then it is he who speaks.

"I have a secret for you then as well."

Low rumble that warms and entices her.

"Ah. And what is that?"

As she finds herself profoundly enjoying this little flirtation between them.

"I watched you by the river."

As it is now it is her turn for mild surprise.

"You did?"

And his for revelation.

"Yes. I was hidden. You did not see me."

And she remembers not a time when this might have occurred.

"When?"

He smiles.

"When you removed your . . ."

Lightly gestures.

". . . binding."

And Alice truly is . . .

"My stay?"

. . . surprised.

You saw me take off my stay?"

Her stay. So long ago.

"Yes."

And she wonders at the time when she and he were not as they are now.

That she was not as she is now.

And she cannot think . . .

"Why?"

. . . as to why he would do such a thing.

"Why would you watch me then?"

Back at the beginning.

"To protect you."

And she is in a wonder.

"From what?"

Her Mohican does not reach out a hand, graze her temple, the side of her face with a gentle touch.

"Anything."

Does not attempt to placate her if she is of a mind to be angry about his secretive viewing.

As if it is her right to think as she will, feel as she will.

Though he will . . .

"And why would you tell me now?"

. . . give an honest, straightforward answer . . .

"I do not wish to keep secrets from you."

. . . to any query she sets forth.

Because it is what he does, a part of who he is.

And Alice thinks.

"So you hid . . .

And asks.

. . . and watched me take my clothes off?"

And Uncas the Mohican . . .

"Yes."

. . . answers.

She muses over this.

"I see."

Considers.

"You kept a respectful distance . . ."

The reasoning behind the action.

". . . and protected me . . ."

The response she may have to it.

". . . from the dangers of the wilderness?"

Her Mohican does not speak.

Only nods.

And Alice, full of confidence and flirtatious mischief, . . .

"Then I am most grateful for your protection."

. . slowly rises.

"I have no petticoats skirts or jackets or stays to remove now."

And stands before him.

"When I undressed and you saw me, I was in my stockings and moccasins and shift, . . ."

Her Mohican watching, swallowing what will be his final morsel of food . . .

". . . was I not?"

. . . for now.

Another nod.

And she smiles coyly.

"The moccasins you made for me are lovely and wear well upon my feet. I am grateful for them. But the day is long now and I am tired of wearing them."

Placing a foot delicately, lightly upon her Mohican's knee.

"Would you remove them please?"

The one she loves gazes upon at her with eyes that near glitter in the firelight.

And she down upon him, all demurely innocent smile and playfully raised eyebrow.

And he, speaking not, acquiesces her request.

Hands slow and lingering.

One moccasin. And then the other.

As offered.

Soft hide footwear set to the side.

And then he stills his hands, eyes rapt upon her.

She lifts her dress, just the slightest.

"And my leggings as well?"

His hands move again.

And he unties the string of sinew below her proffered knee.

Sliding the garment down and off, fingers gliding lightly along her flesh as he does so.

Revealing the bare leg.

Ankle.

Foot.

Heel.

Arch.

Toes.

First one.

"Mmm . . ."

Then the other.

Until finally . . .

". . . that is better. Thank you."

. . . she is only in her dress.

She is quite covered still, quite modest.

And yet he smiles, eyes seeming to drink her in as he gazes upon what he can see of her.

And Alice . . .

"Well, since we have come this far-"

. . . is not yet done in her game.

And brazenly, yet carefully aware of her precious buckskin dress, removes it.

Places it down on a mat, out of the dirt.

"- it would be a shame . . ."

And stands before him.

". . . to waste it."

In all her bare glory.

"So . . ."

And her Mohican . . .

" . . . what you think then?"

. . . reaches out for her.

And she . . .

"Uncas-"

. . . lets him.


Thanks to AsterLaurel, Conbird, DinahRay, The 20 Year Guest (same as me, 1 year less, oh and I'm so glad, thank you), PanickedPossum (thank you so much, sugar floss sweetness on the way), BlueSaffire, sarah0406, ELY72, BrynnaRaven, blanparbe, and Socially Distant (thank you, *cue Keanu Reeves*, "no, you're perfect) for so kindly reviewing.

Also, blanparbe has graciously given me allowance to crow about her unbelievable talents! First, she drew the brand new story picture you definitely new to check out. It's amazing!

She also writes a blog that you can find it at "Eleven of Spades - Sometimes I like to write about little things." Today's post is called 'On Stealing' and is about our Mohican Uncas.

(I'm not offering this as a brag on me but a near worship of her incredible writing talent!)

Give her some love, ya'll! (That's Southern talk for 'kind and gentle readers', hee).

See you again soon!