I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

But I do so love them. And this fandom.

Into the Wild

Winter Stories and Winter Markings


The snow has fallen, enshrouding the world in a white blanket of quiet winter.

Alice and her Mohican and the other members of the Delaware village huddle close for warmth.

Quiet and still in the creeping, biting cold, in the longhouses.

More they sleep, more they sit by the low burning fires of warmth.

And the more they are all together.

Stories, they tell, winter stories to pass the long evenings.

Different stories, different nights.

Stories of ancient days.

". . . Yakwawi, great and monstrous beast that roamed the Earth, fierce and powerful, no spear nor arrow could pierce its hide . . ."

Stories of magic and wonder.

"-ator made the giant squirrel small so that he and all his descendants would forever be eaten by man instead of the other way around."

Stories of guidance and consideration.

". . . Grasshopper War, that selfishness and greed and jealousy only destroy those infected with it and those they hurt . . ."

In some ways, it is similar to the winter she spent with the Walls.

Close to the fire for warmth.

Man, woman, child.

Alice as well among them, Uncas now close by her side.

All eyes riveted upon the evening's storyteller. Minds filling with vivid, arresting images.

Stories, what stories.

Ancient and treasured.

Some more recent and fresh.

Stories of bravery.

". . . into the waterfall, falling far, far down, the thundering river threatening to crush them as they struggled for the surface . . ."

Stories of courage.

". . . slit his throat and threw his treacherous body down the mountainside . . ."

Stories that, told through another's eyes, seem almost alien to Alice . . .

". . . deer wrapped its long neck around the girl's waist, sensing in her no ill will . . ."

. . . that cause her to duck her head and blush . . .

". . . swung the ax high above her head, fear and hesitancy banished by fierce protection for the terrified children . . ."

. . . as her Wètuxëmùksit and her Nëwitaemàk separately . . .

". . . carried the weight of them upon her shoulders for leagues and leagues across the wild lands without faltering . . ."

. . . add their own tales . . .

". . . swimming with no light at all, deep in a cave in the belly of the earth . . ."

. . . to the winter stories.


And Alice decides she wishes . . .

"Wichëmi?"

Will you help me?

. . . to commit further to the life . . .

"òsòmi. Katatàmën."

Yes. If it what you want.

. . . she has begun to build for herself . . .

"Nèkàch nuxëna?"

Would our father?

. . . here in the vast land . . .

"Ktuxtao, ika xu ahpu."

If you ask it of him, he will.

. . . of the untamed American wilderness.


And Uncas has been right.

"òsòmi, Wënichana. Nulelìntàmën."

Yes, Daughter. I will be glad to.

All she may do is ask their father.

"Wanìshi, Wètuxëmùksit."

Thank you, Father.

And he, craggy of face and warm of eye to her . . .

"Katatàmën."

If it is what you want.

. . . responds his support . . .

"òsòmi. èt na."

Yes. It is.

. . . as did his son.


And it does hurt.

It does.

Very much so.

Burning, stabbing pain.

Chingachgook, her Wètuxëmùksit, with his sharpened deer bone and his soot.

Dark eyes affixed and concentrated at his task.

Uncas, the one with whom she has attached herself, followed without hesitation throughout this long and winding journey, holding one hand.

An Honored Mother, she of the berries and nuts and bonding ceremony preparations, the other.

Honored Mother who is chanting softly, humming, just under Alice's hearing.

Not quite heard, though she may guess as to the meaning.

Strength. Endurance. Determination.

Woman of Earth.

Alice does not struggle, she does not cry out.

She remains still, calm.

Focused.

She has been smudged, she has been cared for.

And now she is enduring that which she has chosen.

She does does does gnaw upon the fat one has given her.

Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, and it will not be broken down, swallowed, only gnawed to allow her some relief of movement against the piercing pain.

The piercing pain she has asked for.

Has requested.

And with some . . .

"Will I have lines on my arms as you and Uncas and Nathaniel? Snake upon my head as you?"

"No. Those are warrior markings. Strength, steadiness, speed in battle. We do not wish to mark for you battle, Wënichana. Not unless we must."

"A turtle then, for Uncas' mother's tribe?"

"No. You were not born to her."

. . . enigmatic preparation . . .

"What will you choose for me then, Wètuxëmùksit?"

"A symbol for you and you only, Wënichana. That bespeaks your journey in this life. Something that calls to who you are."

. . . received.

And now here she is.

Flat on her back, upper half of her chest open and exposed to the winter chill.

Not modest in the eyes of Portland Square.

But in her own.

And those of the community, the people of whom she has chosen to become a part.

As well as her lover, her dear one, those dark eyes that seem to hold her up, strengthen her.

His jaw clenched as he silently holds firm her hand.

Brows drawn together, solemn.

She would smile at this care, this directed consideration and concern.

If she were not concentrating so on her . . .

I will be brave.

. . . immediate, yet somehow reoccurring goal.


And then . . .

"Kishelìntàmën."

It is done.

. . . she rises anew.

The area of the marking, the first for her, is much smaller than the pain led her to believe.

It filled her whole body, streaking outward from its origin to every bit of her being.

And now she is seeing it, . . .

Am I not as strong as I wanted to believe myself?

. . . it seems so very small.

She cannot yet see the marking itself, a healing salve being rubbed over it and covered so that it may heal and not become set with infection.

Not yet.

Not for a day or two.

Not . . .


. . . until now.

And Alice, excitement and anxiety intermingling within her, may now see.

She breathes deep, eyes seeking what she wishes to finally, finally, finally see.

A soft cloth she has used, to wipe her marking clean.

And she sees it now, for the very first time, positioned upon her as it is upon the chest of the one she loves.

She sees it.

Her marking.

It is simple, cleanly done.

Black lines stand out upon her pale skin, mere fingers width from the hollow of her throat.

One straight down, small circle atop.

Two lines across, one under the other.

It looks familiar, something she has seen in the world when she was not looking.

And she touches it gently with a trembling finger.

And looks up to her-

"Wètuxëmùksit?"

Question in her eyes.

"It is a dragonfly," Chinagachgook of the Mohican people surreshes gently in English. "It symbolizes transformation, happiness, purity. It is you, Wënichana. You are the dragonfly."


All stories spoken in Lenape, I just didn't want to slow the pace of the chapter. :)

The Yakawawi, The Giant Squirrel, and The Grasshopper War are just some of the many Lenape stories handed down from generation to generation, according to my research.

And in Lenape Lore, the Yakwawi was a mastodon, can you believe it?

The rest of the stories you'll recognize from the movie or my stories.

Okay, at the risk of ruining the winter stories sections anybody seen Return of the Jedi? Remember our heroes all snugged in with the Ewoks whilst C3PO told the stories?

Well, this is exactly that. Because the Ewoks were totally a reference to natives.

And I don't see any disrespect intended at all there.

Anyway, I have temporarily replaced the story pic with Alice's first tattoo. Check it out of you like.

Thanks to DinahRay, BlueSaffire, MohawkWoman, MedicineGal815, ELY72, BrynnaRaven, Evergreen1272, and blanparbe for so kindly reviewing the previous chapter near the beginning (oh gosh!) of December.

Thanks also to Guest, who must have wondered if this was becoming an unfinished work, for also reviewing.

Thanks also to Ashleyy . burns, hannah . e . thomas , InuDstories, and YesMyDarling for adding your support to this story. I think left you out before. If so, I apologize.

Thanks you all for waiting for this story for a while. You are, and have been, always so very gracious.

There are three more chapters left in this story. I will be posting them between now and December 31, 2020.

I do plan on a possible third installment, the theme of which will be revealed to you in the coming chapters. You'll know when you see it. ;)

However, I don't plan on publishing before summer (though plans can change).

But for any Big Eden (Eric, Eric, Eric!) fans, I will be posting some of these funsies in the meantime.

Anyway, please grace me with your thoughts if you like; I'm just grateful you are out there in the world. :)