Fun fact: my husband is a descendant of a certain Thomas Rolfe of Jamestown, VA on his mother's side. I kid you not. My life is so very strange.
*
She'd been here before.
The dirt was soft between her toes as she ran through the forest, the trees seeming to part for her, giving her a clear path towards the sunset, the wind pressing at her back.
Out of time, out of time; she was running out of time. Pocahontas could not stop the rising panic in her heart as she ran through the forest, the wind pushing incessantly at her back in the direction of the sunrise, towards her people, her father, John. Bile burned at the back of her throat as she ran, the pads of her feet ached, and twigs and leaves were tangled in her hair, but she pressed on, never stopping for even a moment.
Faster, faster, faster!
Then, she was at the plateau, and she was pushing her way through the throngs of warriors towards the peak. She could see her father's strong profile illuminated by the rising sun, his war club raised high in the air.
A warrior stepped in front of her, trying to stop her from going forward. She dodged his advance, ducking around him and pushed her way through the last few rows of men.
A crack rang out through the sky, like lightning, and for a split second, she half expected the heavens above her to split open. But no, the sky above her was clear, painted orange with the dawn.
She pushed through the last warrior, and prepared to run towards her father, when another crack, closer, louder this time, stopped her in her tracks.
Instead of her father, Ratcliffe stood at the top of the cliff, dressed in the white suit he'd worn to the Hunt Ball, a whip in his hands. Below him, John laid on the execution slab, his back flayed open and bleeding profusely, his entire body limp, and Pocahontas could not see if he was even breathing or not.
Another crack sounded through the air, and suddenly, she was standing in front of her love, staring down at the deep lacerations on his back, and she heard Ratcliffe laugh beside her.
"You!" She rounded on him. "You did this!"
Ratcliffe sneered at her, "I haven't done anything." He gestured to her. "See for yourself."
She looked down.
Her hands were covered from fingertip to wrist in blood, and she held the whip in her hands.
Pocahontas vaulted upwards, her breathing heavy, as a crack of thunder split through the open window of her bedroom. The wind rattled the window, as though trying to break in, and she hated the way the glass rattled like an ominous specter in the night.
Meeko and Percy blinked up at her, having been dragged from their slumber as she'd so violently awoken, and when she turned her head, she saw that Flit was still snoring sweetly from his perch on the headboard of the bed.
"I'm sorry," she apologized quietly, scratching the soft fur between Percy's ears. "I didn't mean to wake you up."
Another crash of thunder split through the air and Pocahontas shuddered, nausea building in her chest as she pressed her eyes closed tightly, her hands coming up to cover her ears. She hadn't been afraid of storms since she was a small girl, and her mother had told her that thunder was just the dance of spirits in the clouds, and over time, she had come to love storms; but now, the lightning splitting open the sky sounded far too much like the crack of a whip across the prone back of the man she loved.
She'd seen the marks earlier, when she'd helped Thomas and Mrs. Jenkins change the bandages. True to Thomas's warning earlier, it was a horrific sight: deep gashes, some as long as her hand, crisscrossed nearly every inch of John's back. Some of the particularly deep cuts were oozing pus, so Thomas had had to use a sharp knife-like tool to lance and clean the wounds with the foul smelling liquid. She'd hated the way John had winced, gritting his teeth and trying not to make a sound, though she could see how much the action hurt him. He'd clasped her hand, as if reaching for her in moments of pain were instinctual; when she caught sight of the jagged scar the bullet meant to for her father had left on his left side, just before they'd wrapped fresh bandages around his torso, she couldn't stop the throb of pain in her own heart at the idea that he may have reached for her, maybe even barely lucid, at times during his recovery, only to find she was not at his side.
She vowed she would always, always make it up to him, even if she still stood by her decision to stay behind in Virginia.
Suddenly the walls of her bed chambers felt far too small, the cacophony of sounds reverberating through the room, rattling the glass, amplifying every crack of thunder, forcing her to see every moment of her nightmare flash across her closed eyelids: the whip in her hands, the blood, John. With them, she heard the ugly voice of doubt whisper that it was her fault, her fault, her fault.
CRASH!
Another flash of lightning, and the thunder crackled and boomed. Meeko flinched and dove under a fold of the duvet while Percy covered his little eyes with his paws, but Pocahontas didn't notice; she threw back the blankets and ran to the door.
She had to get out of this suffocating room.
She threw open the closed door and stepped around a slumbering Uttamatomakkin, who had taken to sleeping on a bedroll outside her door to make sure he fulfilled his promise to her father and keep her safe. She quietly tiptoed around him, thankful he was still sleeping despite the storm, and made her way down the hall towards the large staircase.
She was almost to the bottom of the stairs when another particularly loud crack of thunder broke through the quiet parlor of the house, and Pocahontas pressed her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes closed tightly as she sank onto the steps, and began to cry.
Blood on her skin, the whip in her hands. Her fault, her fault, her fault.
She hugged her knees to her chest and buried her face in the soft buckskin of her native clothing, and allowed herself to fall apart.
She missed her homeland, her father, Nakoma, Grandmother Willow. She missed the feeling of soft earth between her toes and the scent of pine needles as she ran through the evergreen forests. While coming here had been the right thing to do, and she was endlessly fascinated by the white man's way of life, she desperately longed for the day she could leave it all behind her, and return home.
If all went well with their plan, and they were able to convince the King of Ratcliffe's lies, there was a good chance she could be home by the autumn's advent.
Would she be able to take John with her? Would he even want to return to Virginia? Or, given the freedom, choose to continue to explore the world, as he'd done before he'd met her?
Or would he die here, at the hand of his King, for crimes he was innocent of?
Would she even be able to save her own people, let alone the man she loved?
Pocahontas had learned to choose, to say goodbye. But she wasn't sure if she could do it to John Smith a fourth time. Not when fate had continued to show that it wanted them to be together. How else could she explain the way their lives had become so intricately linked?
She had to believe the spirits had a plan, even here in London.
More thunder, softer this time, rumbled, and Pocahontas pulled herself tighter into a ball. She didn't hear the footsteps coming up behind her until a hand reached out and gently touched her shoulder.
Pocahontas startled, gasping as she turned to face whoever it was behind her, nearly tumbling down the last few stairs as she did so. Lightning flashed, illuminating the face of John Smith as he held his hands up placatingly.
"It's me." He said quietly. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"John," she said, relieved. "You should be resting."
John half shrugged. "A bit hard, considering the weather." He looked around them. "Besides, I slept most of the day away. I was already awake when I heard footsteps in the hall and came to investigate."
He slowly made his way down the few steps that separated them and eased himself down to sit next to her, wincing and grunting softly as he did so. She instinctively reached out to steady him, and he smiled gratefully at her.
"You shouldn't exert yourself." She chided gently.
"Perhaps," he agreed.
"Your stubbornness will be your downfall, John Smith." She shook her head, but couldn't stop the smile that spread throughout her entire body.
"It's going to take more than stubbornness to finally bring me down." He said. He looked at her, and even in the dark, she could see his blue eyes were worried. "Are you alright?"
Pocahontas looked away. She didn't know if she could tell him what her dream had been about without breaking down again, without allowing the guilt to seep back into her bones when John's very presence was enough to send it scurrying back into the darkness.
Still, she did not believe that secrets were the way. Keeping secrets had nearly cost her his life, to her own father, once.
She reached out and took his hand. He threaded their fingers together easily.
"I had a dream," she finally admitted. "I was back at the plateau, the morning of your execution. But it was different. Ratcliffe was there, and he was whipping you, but when I looked down I was the one holding the whip." She felt tears well up again, and she pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes to quell them. "I've dreamt of that morning dozens of times since you left, but none have ever been like this one." She turned her face to look at him. "I'm so sorry that this happened to you because of me."
"You think any of this was your fault?" John's voice was incredulous. "I chose to be at that ball, Pocahontas. You didn't even know I was alive. How could anything that happened because of my choices be your fault?"
"I feel that the reason he did this to you, the reason he tried to kill you, is because of me. Because you love me. Because hurting you hurts me."
"Ratcliffe hated me long before I met you, Pocahontas." He said. "I was a threat to his status quo the moment I set foot on the Susan Constant." He grinned wryly. "It doesn't help that I have this habit of coming back from the dead to foil his plans, either."
Pocahontas let out a wet laugh, sniffling and wiping at her eyes.
"No, I'm sure it doesn't." She agreed. "But I for one am glad you do."
They sat in companionable silence next to one another for a few moments, the sound of thunder beginning to quiet as the storm moved on.
"I missed you." She said quietly. "I missed this, being able to be with you. I missed you so much."
"I know." He said softly back. "I can't even begin to tell you how badly I ached to return to you. But I wasn't willing to risk your safety, or the safety of your people, not after the lengths Ratcliffe had gone to try and silence me. That's why I contacted Thomas' parents, had them reach out to him. I'm sorry that you had to mourn me thrice, Pocahontas. But if we can manage to get this right, I promise you, I'll never leave you again."
"Will you return to my homeland with me?" She asked, daring to allow hope to well in her chest.
"You once told me that I could belong there." John said. "England holds nothing for me. But I think I could belong with you, with your people, if...that's what you want."
"Of course I do." Pocahontas assured him, and she felt like she was bursting at the seams without joy at the idea of him returning to Virginia with her, of having a future she'd only dared dream of with her. "My father already told you that you are always welcome among our people. And I have wished for little else for two years, of you returning to me, of having a lifetime of adventures with you."
"I would sail to the sources of the oceans, climb to the foot of the stars, if it meant we could be together, and be at peace."
"Lathuso utitaia norwottuck." Pocahontas said softly, remembering her mother explaining it to her when she was younger.
"What?" John asked, interest woven into the question.
"Lathuso utitaia norwottuck." Pocahontas repeated. "It's something the people of the north say whenever there is conflict. Lathuso utit—"
"—ah nowaah…" John tried to follow her pronunciation, but failed terribly. They both dissolved into gentle laughter, and for a moment, Pocahontas could almost imagine they were in Grandmother Willow's glade, laughing at each other's stories as they'd done so many times on the nights they'd snuck out to meet back in her homeland the summer they'd met.
"I'll get it." John promised. He gently wrapped his hand around hers. "But what does it mean?"
"It means, 'we will meet in the middle of the river.'"
"The middle of the river?"
Pocahontas nodded. "My mother used to say that when there is discord, two sides can meet in the middle of the river, where there is peace." She ghosted her free hand's fingers over his bruised knuckles. "You and I met in the middle of the river once, and we were able to bring peace between our people. I believe we can do it again, if we can only get through to the King." She looked at him. "I believe we can convince the King that my people are not his enemy. We are not the savages Ratcliffe makes us out to be. That Ratcliffe is lying about the gold, about us, about me, and about you."
He smiled. "I'll be with you every step of the way." She could hear the conviction in his voice, the way he said, even without words, that not even the power of all the storms in the sky could take him from her, could make him be anywhere else but at her side.
She only hoped she was able to keep that this time around.
"I love you." She whispered.
"I love you, too." He squeezed her hand again, and she squeezed back. "Come on, it's late. We should both get back to bed."
Pocahontas nodded, and helped John to slowly stand. He stumbled slightly as he straightened his back, and she set a firm hand against his chest to stop him from toppling all together.
"Careful." She softly chided.
"Why be careful when I have you to catch me?" John teased.
"Careful, or I just might drop you." She teased back.
She'd forgotten how easy being with him was, how much she loved his banter, his humor. As they slowly ascended the stairs together, John trying not to let the fact that several steps pulled uncomfortable at the wounds on his back, Pocahontas found herself praying to the Great Spirit that there would be a lifetime of jokes and fun and adventure together.
They only had to get this right.
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If you caught the references to the "Middle of the River" deleted storyboard song, you win the internet for today.
Until next time!