I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I would like to continue to write for it.

Into The Wild


The men have been returned for a week, no less.

And Alice Munroe has, every night, gone to the river with her Mohican lover.

A joy it has been, to be close to him.

To no longer find herself resolved to simply look without looking.

Speak without speaking.

Now free and welcome to touch.

His hair, the long curtain of thick, smooth tresses.

His hands, fingers. Strong and rough.

And gentle with her.

His body, lean and dark and so responsive to her touch.

His face, the prominent cheekbones, the straight nose.

And his lips, those lips.

She has taught him to kiss.

They learned together.

There by the river, under the starry sky.

Creatures of the night in rhythmic cadence around them.

Them.

Embraced and gazing into one another's eyes.

Faces close and intimate, the way he so likes to be.

And she had brushed her lips against his, much the same as their first night he had returned to her.

Brushed his lips and he had held his still.

Brushed again and pressed for the merest seconds.

Felt him want to press back.

And then, tender hand to his face, brushed her lips to his and pressed once more.

And he had returned.

Just the slightest bit.

And she had thrilled.

Drawing back a breadth.

Gifting him a pleased, secret smile.

Him returning.

Stroking hands along the length of her pale hair.

Up to graze her ears, her neck, trace the line of her jaw to her delicate chin.

And they had . . . continued.

He is, she believes, quite good at kissing now.

And other forms of nightwork.


Journeying for more than the day, it is known, nay, expected, of English ladies to travel with only what they absolutely require.

For survival.

Large clothing trunks. Hat boxes.

Shoes. Combs and jewelry.

And all other manner of items deemed most essential.

And that is all fine and good for the well-to-do ladies of Portland Square.

But Alice Munroe is a woman of the frontier now.

All of her worldly possessions are to fit in one single possibles bag.

Similar in appearance to the ones her traveling companions have carried upon their persons since the day they materialized out of the woods and saved their lives.

Alice's possibles bag.

Pemmican rations, those long-lasting meat and tallow squares, wrapped in cloth.

A tin cup. Plate. Battered spoon and fork.

Small pouch of tinder and flint and steel.

Bone needle and sinew.

Cloths for her time of bleeding.

A bit of candle.

She has no sentimental bits and bobs, having nearly nothing to her name.

And she carries no pipe, no tobacco.

No tools for the maintenance and preparation of firearms.

Not quite yet.

Her possibles bag is a bit emptier than those with which she will walk.

But she will carry it with pride.


If not for the tall, dark Mohican who loves her.

"Uncas, . . ."

Who has decided . . .

". . . my bag?"

. . . to relieve her of this unnecessary encumbrance on the bright and sunny morning of their departure.

"I can carry it, you know."

Light, bright smile from her; returned by him.

"No need."

Whilst shouldering her bag himself.

Alice Munroe, gentle and kind . . .

"No need?"

. . . is of a different mind.

"No need?"

And will not be denied.

"No need for me to walk as you do? No need for me to become more than what I have been?"

Drawing up the full force of her slender frame.

"I am no longer an invalid schoolgirl. I and the winter have seen to that."

Determination in her dark, gleaming eyes.

"Now if you please, hand over my accoutrements, sir, or I will wreste them from you!"

She is hardly capable of accomplishing such a feat against one so strong and battleproven as this one before her.

Nevertheless, Uncas of the Mohican people mulls over the possibility of being pummeled by her delicate fists.

Kicked by her moccasined feet.

And otherwise physically assaulted by this mere slip of a woman.

Or, more likely, verbally so.

Slowly removes her gear from his person.

And offers it to her.

She does not yank them from his hands.

"Thank you."

Not quite.

But her touch is not quite so gentle as it has been under cover of star-filled darkness.

And as she turns from him, another catches his eye.

His father standing at a distance.

Observing his so freshly flayed son.

And fuming femme taking no note of either of them.

A small smile of amusement and pride crossing his aged countenance.


And so they are to go.

The three of them.

They are trussed, they are garmented, they are accoutremented.

Uncas and his father, each.

Large possibles bag.

Small bag of coin.

Blankets, rolled and fitted about them.

Weapons.

Long gun prepared and ready at all times.

Powder horn.

Hunting knife across the middle.

Tomahawk straight down the younger's back.

Warstock gunclub for the elder.

And Alice.

Gentle, sweet Alice.

Upstanding gentile English daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel George Munroe.

Born and bred to a life of luxury and comfort.

Now adorned with her own set of traveling gear.

Possibles bag.

Blanket around her back.

And her own newly gifted hunting knife . . .

"What do I do?"

"Grip it tight. Do not hesitate. Stick it in anyone or anything that tries to hurt you. As hard as you can. And twist."

. . . strapped across her own middle.

"Alright."


Hello! Everybody still doing okay out there? What're ya'll up to on Apocalypse Bingo? I'm up to "MotherShip Cloud Appears Over City".

Seriously, I hope you all are okay.

Most sincere and grateful thanks to BlueSaffire for encouraging and supporting me through my crisis of confidence in beginning this new story. You are so kind and gracious! :D

So, here we go! Not daily updates but every few days, I think.

Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.