I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I do still love them so. And this fandom.
Into the Wild
The Markings and Movements of the Turtle Man
Alice seems to enjoy tracing his tattoos.
Feather-light touch, slow and languid.
His arms, his wrists.
His chest.
Sometimes it soothes him, draws him into deep relaxation, deep peace.
Almost a meditation of sorts.
Sometimes it sets his body on fire for her.
And sometimes . . .
"What is this marking upon your chest? I have never asked."
. . . it leads to conversation.
"It is a turtle."
Her growing smile is sweet and amused, doe-like eyes bright and teasing.
"A turtle? You are not like a turtle. Turtles go slow and steady."
He cannot help but to return her smile; it fills him with warmth and quiet joy.
"My mother was of the turtle clan."
"Your mother? You belong to your mother?"
He nods, explains.
"It was she who gave me life."
She seems to consider this.
Uncas continues.
"Turtles are grounded to the earth. At one with their surroundings."
She does not understand.
"They consider everything around them."
It is not what he is.
"They possess great wisdom, understanding of the world in which they move."
It is what he has learned to be.
"They are determined. Calm."
Is learning to be.
"Even in times of disturbance and chaos."
She does not know this. She is still sometimes a breed apart.
He supposes, to a certain extent, she always will be.
He is continuing to learn that is alright.
The one he loves seems to consider all he has said.
This girl, this woman.
Next to him, unadorned beneath the fur covering as he is.
Corn-silk hair fanned out over his arm as she lies curled into his body.
Tracing with her fingers over and again the blue ink upon his chest as she does so.
He lets her, reveling in her close presence and attentions.
And finally, her voice light and amicable, she speaks.
"Well, I suppose then you are like a turtle."
Her touch makes his skin tingle.
"Yes."
And his own growing smile then becomes mischievous.
"And I can go slow and steady."
And to prove this, he reaches over to her as she shifts back upon the bedding.
Brings his hands, his lips, his body to hers.
And demonstrates how slow and steady . . .
"Uncas-"
"Alice-"
. . . he can go.
They are lying together, the two of them.
Sweat drying upon their bodies in cool air.
Her bare body is curled into his once more.
Her head upon his shoulder.
And he is on the edge of sleep.
"Do they hurt? The tattoos?"
When she speaks.
"No."
Her voice is soft.
"Did they hurt? When you got them?"
"Yes."
Curious.
"How was it done?"
Questioning.
"Why do you ask?"
As is her want.
"I wish to know."
"The elders sharpen an animal bone and scratch and poke the skin until it bleeds. Then they rub soot or ink into the wounds. When it heals, the markings remain."
And her thirst for knowledge is not satiated.
"How do they make the ink?"
He begins to wonder if she will keep him awake all night.
"They crush berries."
He does not mind this, he supposes.
"Does it take a long time? To receive the tattoos?"
He enjoys, appreciates, her curious nature.
"Yes."
Ever wondering. Ever learning.
"Do they give you something to dull the pain?"
Though he supposes if she intends on keeping him awake much longer . . .
"No. The pain is needed. It keeps you mindful of why you are choosing to mark your flesh and what the markings represent."
. . . he will have to find some way to keep her awake . . .
"Do you . . ."
. . . as well.
Alice has never seen her Mohican like this.
Uncas.
He is still.
He is resting.
He is asleep.
And yes, she has seen him still and resting and asleep on many occasions.
Braced against a tree, long gun in hand.
Curled on his side toward the campfire, long gun in hand.
He has seen him rest in daylight and dark.
Outside and within.
For a short memorable time, in a cave.
More recently, before this wigwam, a longhouse.
So she has seen him sleeping.
But not like this.
She is laying curling against his body under the furs.
They are both bare. More bare than they have been.
Out in the wilderness, there are people and creatures and things of unknown temperament.
Here, within this wigwam he has made for them with his own two hands, there is only them.
And she . . .
Uncas . . .
. . . relishes it.
And the sight of her . . .
Nëwitaemàk . . .
. . . Mohican.
So at peace.
So vulnerable.
It is actually quite fascinating.
Uncas the Mohican, the woodsman, the warrior, asleep in his wigwam.
On the flat of his back. Smooth chest rising and falling in slow, even intervals of breath.
Head tilted slightly to the side, toward her.
Face a picture of peaceful relaxation.
Eyebrows, forehead unfurrowed. Mouth a soft line.
Hair free and flowing from his head.
One arm under her. The other down upon his belly.
Hand open, fingers loose.
Entire body in restful repose.
And Alice, the woman who loves him, gazes upon him so openly.
In consideration. In wonder.
In awe of the man laying before her.
And she . . .
My love, . . . what may awaken you?
. . . smiles.
And slips a hand under the fur . . .
Ah, perhaps this?
. . . to arouse him . . .
"Mmm . . ."
. . . from his slumber.
Not really sure what the tattoo on his chest was supposed to be in the movie. I know in the book it was a turtle.
I think they turned around and gave that to Nathaniel.
And Pinterest popped up this information and I thought, yaaasss.
And since this is my story, I'm giving it back to Uncas.
So there. ;)
And well, hopefully you enjoyed it. And the rest of it too. ;)
Thanks to the lovely MedicineGal815 for powering through four straight chapters in one sitting, bless you! Thanks also to Conbird, DinahRay, ELY72, and blanparbe for so graciously reviewing!
Look for another chapter around Thanksgiving break! Stay safe and well! :)
