Unlike Cora, Alice told her story without sobbing and without stopping. Uncas felt as though he was being told the story by a stranger, as though it was not Alice speaking to him but a cool impartial observer.

She told of a man named Fitzwilliam, a favorite in her Father's white army. How he was handsome and heroic and loved by all the ladies. How he turned her head with compliments and poetry and small gifts. How he came to her late at night saying that he had just received word that his dear mother had died, and that he needed Alice's friendly ear.

The next part of the story Uncas could barely hear. The volume of Alice's voice changed not, but the roaring sound in his ear made it difficult to be sensible of what she was saying. As she told of how the man forced himself upon her and stripped off her clothes, he felt himself nearly lose his grip on his own sanity. Instantly, images flew unbidden through his mind-images of Alice being harmed and frightened, her small, soft body helpless and woefully mistreated by a monster of the highest proportions. Oh! He raged. He wanted the man dead, he wanted to watch the life bleed out of his eyes as he scalped him slowly and sloppily.

But Alice continued. And the next part of her story made the rage cease and his heart bleed for her. His Alice, trapped away in a dark, dirty room, hungry and dirty and uncared for. His little mouse, being told that she was damned and bound for hell. Alice, frightened out of her mind, thinking she would never be free or loved or warm or treated kindly again.

When the story ended, she lay stiff in his arms. He had been wordless the entire time. Now, he spoke.

"Sit up," he said.

She obeyed meekly, clearly expecting this rejection. He sat up as well, then surprised her by moving behind her, pulling her seated body in between his open legs.

Then, he began to take the pins out of her hair, reverently stroking each glossy stand smooth down her back.

"What- what are you doing?" She asked.

"Shh, shh. No more talking tonight," he said.

And then, in silence, he finger combed her long hair, dividing it into equal strands. Humming a Mohican lullaby his mother used to sing to him, he patiently braided her blonde hair.

She sat motionless for many minutes. But as he worked, he began to feel a change come over. He sensed the tension stream out of her as he braided, as he devoted himself whole-heartedly to her care. Let me tend to you, his hands seemed to say, let me be the one to lick your wounds and mend your broken spirit.

And, as she sank back against his broad chest, her hair in a shining braid down her back, she seemed to say in return: Yes, you are the one, you are the one who can mend me.

oOOOo

It was before dawn when Uncas shifted in his sleep, his eyes blinking in confusion as he broke through the surface of waking. Alice was snug against his chest, her scent overpowering his nostrils as she snuggled deeper against his moving body with a moan.

But for once, her scent did not bring him comfort.

Something was wrong. Something was wrong.

His body tensed and his black eyes shot fully open. Even before he sat up, he knew: They had been discovered. Every cell within him screamed in alarm. How could he be so stupid!? How could he have fallen asleep? Like a doe in a hunter's sights, he felt his ears prick back and his stomach clench with dismay.

He straggled up out of his supine position, his eyes narrowing ferociously as he reached for his weapon. He would fight to the death. He would shed as much blood as he could. He was prepared to sacrifice himself, body and soul, to earn even a small moment of safety for his treasured belonging.

No sooner was he standing and loading his bow then he heard a deep shaking of laughter coming from the trees. Keeping his expression hard and motionless, Uncas watched as several Huron came out from their hiding places. Ferocious looking warriors, each was prepared for battle, many in war paint. They were enjoying themselves, thought Uncas, this was a pleasure for them.

The man he knew to be Magua stepped forward, and Uncas noted that a pelt of red hair hung from his belt. Duncan.

Uncas kept his gaze steady, refusing to even look down at Alice, though he could tell from a sudden gasp she made that she was now awake and watching the scene unfold as well. Don't move, little one, he willed her, and he felt that she was heeding him as her very breath seemed to stop.

"We are here for the white girl," said Magua, not unkindly. "We want not to war with you."

Uncas grunted.

"We are here for the white girl," Magua repeated. "I respect your people. I want not to war with fellow Indians. The white man is the enemy now. Do you heed?"

Wordlessly, Uncas shook his head.

"I will have her," said Magua. "Her father owes me blood."

"She does not belong to her father anymore," said the Mohican. "She belongs to me."

Magua's eyebrows shot up at this. "You have taken her as your own?"

"She is my property," said Uncas flatly. "You will not take her."

Magua laughed again, a sickening empty sound. "I will not shed your blood," he said, "You are a fine warrior and the last of your people. The Great Mother would surely punish me for removing your noble bloodline from this earth."

A bit of relief dawned in Uncas, only to be dashed at Magua's next statement.

"But I will have your "property", do you understand? I will have the daughter of the vile white beast. I will have all of her. " he said with menace, motioning now to the two men beside him.

They approached as one unit, headed straight for where Alice was now quivering in senseless fear behind Uncas. She grabbed his legs desperately. Uncas raised his bow.

"Do not come forward," he threatened. "One step more and I will end your lives."

Then, the shrubs behind him moved and Alice screamed. Her arms were suddenly yanked from his legs. Uncas whirled around.

A lean, hungry looking warrior held a knife tightly around Alice's white neck. Four more Huron came out from behind the bushes, their expressions cold and victorious. One picked up the buffalo skin on the ground and wrapped it around his shoulders.

"It is no good," announced Magua. "You have lost. Accept defeat as a warrior. Do not bring shame upon yourself by begging."

Uncas could not speak if he tried. He stared at Alice in devastation, her large gray eyes wild with fear as the knife dug closer to her skin.

"Uncas," she whispered, "Uncas."

Keeping the knife flush against her skin, the Huron warrior pulled Alice to her feet and dragged her to where the others stood.

"So simple," said Magua. "One minute she is here, one minute she is gone. So turns the wheel."

With that, he turned on his heel and began heading east back into the thick trees. Uncas watched as his warriors followed him, Alice's twisting white body dragged alongside as she looked desperately back at her lover.

"Do not follow us, boy," said Magua, turning and calling out loudly to the frozen Indian. "I will slit her throat open the moment I hear your footfall. Go back to your people. The white girl is not yours any longer."

He wanted to curse out at Magua, to assure Alice he would come for her regardless of all threats. But nothing came. No words. No comfort. No hope. Lost in the blackness. No air.

"Uncas!" cried Alice, her voice nearly muffled as she was unceremoniously tossed over a Huron's back. "Uncas!"

Alice, he thought, and then—she was gone.

oOOOo

Uncas sank in utter despair onto the soaked grass of the morning. He felt a sense of loss beyond anything he had experienced in his twenty-seven years, beyond the death of his mother, beyond the near destruction of his tribe. He could not have felt more bereft if he had discovered the earth had disappeared before his very feet.

Shame and rage battled within him—shame that he had lost his woman, allowed her to be taken, to be…ravaged…tortured, and surely killed. He felt as though his very manhood had been cut off, as though he had failed at his most primal and necessary task.

But soon rage spoke louder, drowned out the sounds of his own inadequacies. He did not protect her, he did not save her: But he could avenge her. Bloodlust charred his veins. He would see Magua prone and beaten before him, he would slash him open until his intestines ran like a river from his belly, he would remove his scalp, his eyes, his teeth, one by one, while he was still alive. Magua would become a byword, a legend, a warning to all. His death would frighten little children and warriors alike for decades to come. And it would take a monster to deliver such an end.

Uncas tightly pulled his long black hair into a low ponytail and strapped his bow to his back. He knelt to the ground and said a low simple prayer to Kwakwaka'wakw, the god of war.

"Make me a monster," he commanded. "Kill the man inside of me. Fashion me wholly to your service—the service of bloodshed, pain and death."

He rose. He knew his prayer was answered. The man—the man Alice once held in her arms—was now dead.