I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Have missed it tho.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
*Ahem. Yeah.*
Alone
She has gathered berries, nuts, herbs.
Alone, for their father Chingachgook has offered . . .
"I will keep her. We will tend the fire together. She will tell me stories with her eyes and I will listen with my spirit."
. . . to watch over the child.
So that the mother may breathe, think, exist to herself . . .
"Thank you, Wètuxëmùksit."
"It is my joy, Wënichana."
. . . just for a little while.
The quiet, to be alone, is a new concept for Alice, so many weeks she has allowed herself little other thought than the child.
The beautiful, precious, miraculous child she has made with her Nëwitaemàk, grown and brought forth with her own body.
Fed and cared for and loved with her own body.
And she has been joyful, embracing of it.
Even so, this briefest of freedoms now is most gratefully welcome.
And so she has gone.
Farther into the wood, searching, seeking.
Knife and musket secure upon her person, confident, careful, cautious.
Her Mohican has gone a'hunting as well.
Away from camp.
But not so far.
They only kill what they need and so he is seeking smaller game, the larger left until just before their arrival.
She finds him easily enough, Alice does, after her gathering is done.
Her Mohican, leaned against a tree, crouched on the balls of his feet.
Long gun at hand, but not raised in aim.
And she knows he can hear her, knows she is not sneaking up on him, the sharp woodsman he is.
And she also knows she finds it immensely enjoyable to creep to the tree.
Circle 'round.
Lean to him.
"Hallo, my husband."
And murmur close into his ear.
"Hallo, Wife."
He speaks before looking, eyes still scanning their surroundings.
But when he does look to her, his gaze is warm, as it has always been.
And she smiles at him, her beloved Mohican.
Dark and tall and lean and strong.
The man who watched her.
The man who held her behind the waterfall.
The man who left.
The man who returned.
The man who rocked with her under the moon.
The man she followed into the wilderness.
The man she loves.
He turns back then, back to his watchfulness.
And that does not concern her, no.
He is watching and that is good.
Watching for food.
Watching for danger.
She watches with him for a short while, content to listen to the quiet of the world, content to simply be without purpose or errand.
Lays her head lightly against the back of his shirt, feeling his natural movements.
The soothing cadence of his breath, the rush of his blood through his body.
And she is happy to abide with him, feels that he is happy to abide with her.
"It is quiet here."
"Yes. We are alone."
That we are, my love.
Birds wing overhead, squirrels conceal themselves within the brush.
"It has been many days since we were last alone."
"It has."
The soft fabric of his shirt caresses her cheek as she breathes in the natural musk that is all his.
"I have missed you. I have missed us."
And her lover does not turn nor take his eyes off the vista before him.
"You have been healing."
The soft rumble of his low murmur is smooth as honey to her ears and titillating to her female spirit.
"It is complete."
Sweetening her at the very thought of him.
"And I hunger."
Her fingers trace lines along the length of his sleeve.
"I have set traps."
She smiles at his purposeful obtuseness.
"I hunger for you."
Slipping down to his hand, the hand without the gun.
"Uncas, my love."
And he turns, Uncas the Mohican turns to the woman he loves.
Her eyes are bright and full of intended purpose.
The color high in her cheeks and lips, drawing his appreciative eye to them.
"The child-"
"Is with our father. No safer could she be in all the world."
She smiles, reaches up to stroke gentle, calloused fingers across the planes of his face.
"Come to me, my love. Be with me."
He shifts, laying his gun to the earth aside from them and yet . . .
"Let me feel your touch, your heat."
. . . close enough even now to grab at a moment's notice.
"Please."
Scans their surroundings again with a trained and practiced eye.
Rises.
And her lips rise up to him.
To the turtle inked high upon his chest, just below the hollow of his throat.
Her lips are soft and warm upon his skin and he is put in a remembrance of the first time she kissed his marking under the full moonlight.
He had been touched by females before, a scant few.
But never in quite such a way as Alice had on that long ago night.
And now again, his skin tingles at her welcome touch, her lips, her hands that move across his body.
He moves his own hands up her arms, up to the delicate shoulders.
Up to her face where he lifts it, gazes upon her.
Alice . . .
Tilts his own head down.
And kisses her soft lips.
Sweet and gentle, the way she likes, the way she taught him.
She kisses him back, presses her body to his.
That body so right, so perfect, to his way of it.
He can feel her breasts through the fabric, still fuller with the feeding of the child.
His hands move to them, thumbs stroking across the heated points.
He is careful, he does not wish to hurt her or make her milk flow.
She moans deep in her throat, her mouth against his mouth.
And the heat that has begun to burn within him, central and rising, flames into need.
Need of his wife, need of the one whom he loves.
The one he watched, the one he ran for.
The one who followed him into the wild.
The one who first gave herself to him in the moonlight.
She opens her mouth to his and he relishes in the feel of her, the taste of her.
Her hands travel down the buttons of his shirt, down his belt, slip behind the flap of his breechclout.
He has not minded the wait, she has been healing and finding her way as a mother.
He has been content in this time, she is of his spirit and must not be harmed in any way, least of all by him and the needs of his physical nature.
But her touch is almost more than he can bear and he groans deep in his throat.
Groans and feels her moist lips smile as they press against own, the taste of her.
Her caress sending his desires pulsating almost painfully.
He reaches behind her, grasps at the trunk of the tree for support. Strength of his fingers shearing bits of bark to shower down to the forest floor beneath their feet.
And she murmurs low, insistent and of need.
"Please, my love. You will not hurt me."
And he trusts his wife, the spirit of his spirit, and he trusts that she is speaking the truth of her body.
And he leans forward, lifts her up in his embrace, her arms wrapping themselves around his neck as they go.
And he leans them . . .
"Uncas . . ."
"Alice . . ."
. . . against the trunk of the tree.
He has lifted her skirt, slipped his hands under, warm, upon the outside of her thighs, the curve of her rump.
His strong arms holding her up.
She has gone with him, willingly wrapping her legs about him as he has lifted her.
And she has welcomed . . .
"Uncas . . ."
. . . him in.
"Alice . . ."
To where she wants him . . .
"Do I hurt you?"
"No. Do not stop. Do not."
. . . to be.
The bark of the tree is rough against the cloth of her traveling shirt.
The breeze curls under her lifted skirt, tickling little zephyrs that heighten her senses further.
One legging is down, the other still upon her knee.
And all these things do not cause her concern.
Her Mohican has found his rhythm and it is good and strong.
It fills her passion and light.
They are joined together, his strong face tucked away into her neck, breath heavy and warm upon her collarbone
Her face an open 'o' of pleasure over his shoulder.
As her eyes open and catch a glimpse of the blue sky.
It is a tight fit, she has been without him for quite some time and her body must realign to his welcome presence.
But there was pleasure as well and it overrides the expected discomfort.
And she holds close to her Mohican.
As he holds close . .
"Uncas . . . "
"Alice . . ."
. . . to her.
He is nearing the end of his stamina, the completion of their coupling fast approaching.
The trunk of the tree he grips rough in his hand, the flesh of her rump warm and firm in the other.
Her breathless surreshes and cries close in his ear.
He has missed this woman, the way their bodies fit together so well.
He can feel the changes the baby has wrought upon her.
And accepts them without hesitation or displeasure.
She is as she may be and he will love her in any fashion she presents.
Especially . . .
"Uncas . . ."
. . . now in this moment.
The moment is upon him, he can only groan deep in his throat and ride the little death of pleasure and pain to its conclusion.
He grips the ridges of the tree trunk, holds tight to the woman he loves.
"Uncas . . ."
And feel all that he has to offer drain from him.
And weaken the strength in his knees.
His movements have quickened, become erratic, and finally slowed to a stop under the blue, clear sky and the blazing autumn trees.
Alice has held tight to him with all her strength and will, feeling that moment when his body gave everything to her.
The soft gutteral moans that overtook him.
Their breath together, ragged and heavy, beginning to even.
And then, slowly and together, they slide.
Uncas, knees buckling, legs folding.
Down to the ground.
Him, legs under him, her under her.
And her still in his lap, thighs about his hips, arms lose about his neck.
His head bowed, broad forehead pressed to the dragonfly just below her throat.
Arms loose now about the perimeter of her hips.
And so they stay for moments, regaining themselves, the reason of their senses.
And he raises his head, dark eyes seeking hers.
They look upon each other, there in the afterglow.
And . . .
Oh, I do love him so.
. . . they break into shared smiles and muted chuckles.
He raises a hand to cup the side of her face..
"Hallo, Nëwicheyok."
And she . . .
"Hallo, Nëwitaemàk."
. . . cradles into his touch.
They abide a bit longer, allow the breeze to cool the moisture upon their skin.
They converse.
They laugh.
They kiss, light and easy.
And then . . .
"We should be returning. Kënichanëna xu kahtupu."
Our daughter will be hungering.
"òsòmi. And our father will be wondering."
. . . gather themselves to go.
It is natural between them; it is good.
They are a breed apart and yet they do make sense of one another.
They, the two of them, each with one foot in their own world, one in the other's.
And the two of them standing together.
In the middle.
Along the way, Uncas collects a rabbit, a squirrel from his simply constructed traps.
Alice, yet more herbs.
And before the fire . . .
"Ablaaa . . ."
"Hello, dear daughter, nulelìntàm newëlàn nal."
I am glad to see you as well.
. . . places them and water to boil.
Whilst she nurses the hungry babe . . .
I would only have one of you, dear one.
. . . who has begun to clamp harder than before.
For now.
The herbs are particularly singular in their smell.
And Chingachgook, once lifepartner of a healing woman, recognizes their distinctive aroma.
And makes no mention of it . . .
"The trapping went well, then?"
"It did."
"That is good."
. . . at all.
"Get some good booty then, son?"
*Uncas clears throat, peruses rocks and trees and sky innocently*
"Ye-p."
*Chingachgook, who's been around the block, I mean, forest, a few times*
"Good."
XD
XD
XD
I'm sorry.
No, I'm not.
Ya'll remember BrynnaRaven's story about the golf cart and the elk, right?
XD
XD
XD
And check out this BEAUTIFUL fanart by blanparbe in the pic! Isn't PERFECTION?!
You can find more of her lovely artwork as elevenofspades on Instagram.
Anyway, thanks for reviewing the previous chapter, DinahRay, BlueSaffire, S.L.Y.M., and MohawkWoman ( so many chapters all at once, bless you!).
p
And I hope you all enjoyed this one!
See you again soon for the next installment of Booty In The Woods, ahem, I mean, The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man.
;)