A/N: Before you read this, if you are the kind of person who thinks that Disney screwed up history with this movie, stop here. Seriously, you might faint, or try to murder me. However, if you're interested in history and willing to suspend disbelief, I think you'll enjoy this chapter the most. And if you're just a Pocahontas fan who wishes they could have had a happy ending, I think you might enjoy it even more. I happen to fall into both camps :D

Pocahontas sat beneath the shelter of her favorite willow tree, playing with the branches as they blew past and touched the water. This was always the place that she came to think; she told her people that her spirit guide lived here, and she swore that this was the best place for her to listen and gain the most understanding. They wouldn't have cared what she said, though—they loved her almost as much as they loved Chief Powhatan, the wise leader of the Algonquian tribes of coastal Virginia. She had proven herself to be the wisest medicine woman they had ever had—even the oldest could not remember one with such great insight, courage, and humility. But this did not even begin to describe the scope of her abilities—she had proven a vital intercessor with the white settlers. Several skirmishes had broken out over the years, and even one serious large-scale battle had occurred, but Pocahontas' dignity and grace always seemed to calm both sides as she diplomatically helped to resolve issues. The original settlers practically worshipped her, and the newer ones—for there had been many, many more, and most of them of aristocratic background—stood somewhat in awe of her knowledge of their own culture and her capable manner.

There had even been a proposal, from a man named John Rolfe. He had come from a long stay in the Bahamas to plant tobacco, which grew well in the marshy Jamestown soil, and had marveled at her beauty at first, then her strength of spirit. And she had very nearly accepted—he was kind, generous and considerate of her people, and would make relations between the English and Native Americans even stronger. And, in her deepest heart, she had for years felt an ache for little hands to hold and a little forehead to kiss. But in her dreams, that little face always had blue eyes, and it reminded her that, though they shared the same name, John Rolfe would never be John Smith. She knew it was not fair, and she felt very guilty because she knew that Rolfe's former family had died, and he desperately needed someone to fill the void. But, just as she had said to Kocoum's spirit years before, she told him the only thing she could in honesty: "You deserve better than a woman who cannot love you." With that, she had walked away, ending up here.

Seven years had not changed her much. She was still as youthful and athletic, she still loved to run in the forest and canoe the rivers. But now, she generally did so with a purpose. Even though she was still relatively young, her eyes always shone with a deep wisdom and understanding. Her childlike nature was still there, but it was tempered with much more maturity than she had once had, and she now knew how to laugh more deeply because she had known more sorrows. But as she looked at her reflection in the pond, she still saw the somewhat flippant teenaged girl that was always searching for her path, just as she was now.

Would John ever come back? No, she knew he would, her mother had assured her of that. But the spirits always worked in mysterious ways. What if he came back utterly changed, and she no longer saw the man who stood as an eagle about to take flight? What if he came many years later, too late for them to start a family, when they both only had a few years left in their bodies to spend with each other? What if she had been wrong, and he came back bound to a cane? She knew she would still love him, but he would be distraught at not being able to do the things he once could. It would ruin him. If only she knew what had happened to him...she had received one letter, sent soon after his arrival in England, but no more. She kept that one letter tucked inside her dress, close to her heart. It was now terribly faded, but she had memorized the words long ago, and said them to herself now for the short comfort they would bring.

Pocahontas,

I hope this letter finds you well and safe. This was the first time I was able to find a ship headed to Jamestown that would carry letters. I am still in the hospital, a godforsaken place if there ever was one. It's somewhat better than the field doctors on the battlefield, if you could even call them doctors. More like butchers, really. But it doesn't compare to that cool, clean, fragrant longhouse where you and Kekata took care of me. Did I ever mention how wonderful your people's names are to write? Much better than James or Sarah or any number of other uncreative English names.

I hope to write again soon after I'm fully well. I always thought that London was one of the best places in the world, but now I find myself missing the clean air and solitude of your land. And there aren't any talking trees here to keep me company.

Much love,

John

Her eyes stung. She could almost hear his voice saying the words, his typical humor understating the depth of his pain and loneliness.

"You know, I've really missed this tree. After meeting her, all the other ones were rather a disappointment, even though they couldn't help it."

Pocahontas started. She hadn't thought she was going crazy with longing, but maybe she was. And when she turned around, she was almost sure of it.

For there, leaning comfortably against the willow's majestic trunk, stood a blue eyed explorer, with long blond hair that ruffled slightly in the breeze. He looked much different than the typical Englishman one would expect to see in this area. He was clean shaven, his shirt trimmed with some sort of exotic embroidered fabric. Around his shoulders lay a mantle of animal hide, fluffy tails hanging off either side. And around his neck lay an ivory pendant in the shape of a fierce eagle, next to the prerequisite cross. A casual observer might wonder what kind of man would dare hang a heathen symbol next to the cross, but if you knew John Smith for any length of time, you knew that he was exactly that kind.

Pocahontas still couldn't decide if he was real, if maybe her imagination had taken her far beyond reality and completely re-imagined John, even making him somewhat older. Even though she had just been longing for him, it seemed impossible to her that her wish might come true.

"Pocahontas, it's me, John. Don't you—remember me?" He still looked confident, but he faltered slightly, and doubt began to rise in his chest. It's only been seven years…am I really so changed?

She slowly made her way towards him, stepping gently and stopping every second to stare at him. She reminded him of a deer as she moved, just like when he had first met her, chasing her through the forest. At least now she was coming towards him, but her expression was still as frightened. Finally she stood immediately before him, and her gaze was just as compelling as it had always been, as if she was staring straight into his soul. She reached out and hesitantly touched his cheek, then let her fingers wander over his eyes and nose, and finally his mouth. He couldn't help but sigh as she cautiously explored his face. He didn't know how he'd gotten along for so many years without feeling her touch, so light and gentle. He knew that it was not just for him, but an extension of her personality. She hadn't a callous bone in her body. And when her fingers lingered on his lips, he gently kissed them, then brought her hand back down. Even though she was still looking at him in confusion, she was now blushing, a dark red spreading across her cheekbones—so much more beautiful than any of the English women that had vied for his attention. He wondered how he had ever thought otherwise.

The wind picked up, and Pocahontas closed her eyes, listening to the familiar melody. Even though it was not fall, brilliant red leaves began to swirl around their feet. Once again, images were clouding her mind, and just as John Smith was comparing her again to the numbers of women that he had met, a clear picture formed of the afternoon that he had likened her to Nefertiti. That had only happened once before, this seeming exchange of thoughts—when his ship had sailed. Suddenly, fiercely, she embraced him, nearly knocking him over with her force. He laughed, hugging her back and swinging her around.

"John!"

"You didn't believe me in the first place?" She began laughing ecstatically.

"I thought you were a dream, or that I was going crazy! It really wouldn't have been a surprise, given how much I think about you." She would never know the effect those words had on him.

"I'm so, so sorry I wasn't able to write. I'm surprised you haven't gotten married and had a little one yet, I had no right to expect…wait. You are…" he trailed off, and his expression was closer to panic than any man that knew him had ever seen.

"John, I couldn't—I couldn't marry anyone else. I was asked, but I refused. I guess I'm stubborn." Then she caught on to what he had been saying at first. "But…why didn't you write?" She looked merely curious, but he knew her well enough to know that there was hurt there as well. Well, she was completely right in feeling that way, and he sincerely hoped his explanation did not come across as an excuse.

"As soon as I got out of the hospital, I signed up for another tour with the British Army so that I could pay for my passage to Virginia. We were sent to Grenada and the East Indies for colonization—" He broke off. "It was horrible. I can't believe I used to be able to do that. I fought well, but I didn't kill anyone. Whenever I was going to, I thought of that young man who died so long ago. It wasn't worth it, and I thank God it wasn't necessary." His eyes closed, and he was rubbing his temples slowly, trying to get rid of a mental image. "I soon had the money, but I couldn't find a single ship that was headed to America. Even if there had been, I doubt they'd have let me go, the fighting was so intense." He closed his eyes once more, and Pocahontas wondered what he must have seen that made him react so strongly. "I did, however, write the letters…I was thinking that maybe, if I died, I might put it in my will that these be sent to you. But I got to give them to you instead." He smiled, and pulled out a thick packet of sealed envelopes. "I guess I should have thrown them away, but it's strange, reading my own letters and thinking of what you might say back was almost as good as hearing from you. Well, it was then, now it can't even begin to compare."

She lifted the letters reverently, inhaling the scent of the ink and wax. There were so many to read…but she had time. Looking back up at him, she realized that it now seemed she had all the time in the world.

"My question still stands, by the way."

"What question?" Had she not heard something he said? She thought she'd been hanging on his every word!

"Does your father respect me enough to make me his son-in-law?" He knew better than to ask her if she wanted him as a husband.

Like she had so many times before, she pretended to regard him with some doubt. And he, like so many times before, pretended to be nervous under her "intimidating" gaze. But he really was unprepared when she pulled him toward her and kissed him passionately, her fingers tugging through his hair sharply. She trailed kisses down his throat, smiling at each one, and massaged his shoulders gently. Even though he was barely suppressing a groan, he was also barely suppressing a laugh. He reluctantly pulled her away, his shoulders shaking. Passion and hilarity—it was a really strange combination.

"I thought those kinds of kisses were improper for unmarried people!"

"Well maybe we should ask my father now, so we can fix that." Her eyes still danced, but she was serious as she took his hand and ran with him towards the village. And once again, they were flying.

A/N: I know, two in one chapter, yikes! But I just wanted to thank all the people who have faithfully reviewed my story. I didn't expect to get as many as I have! It has really prompted me to start writing more. And to those who have been just reading, thanks as well. I love knowing that my work isn't just sitting there, in a corner, unread. I am getting started on a sequel-prequel of this story-the journals of john smith! I've read some of the excerpts of his actual ones, and he seems like such an awesome guy...he's really speaking to me. If you think you'd like to read something like that, please review!