I do not own Last of the Mohicans.

I will always love it.

The DragonFly Woman and The Turtleman

The People of the Waters That Are Never Still

They have come to the place his adopted son has settled with the woman he loves.

A homestead, fields.

And a fence.

A fence of a white man.

Which he does not understand the necessity of.

And will not press judgement upon.

It is his adopted son's life and he will do as he will.

He has raised him well, instilled in him much wisdom and truth along their wandering travels together.

His sons have witnessed the insatiable greed of man and the inevitable bloodshed that follows thereafter.

And so he knows, fence or not, this one will always strive for the right path.

And the protection of the ones he loves.

At any and all costs.

This Chingachgook of the Mohican people knows.

And accepts.

He surveys the world laid out before him now.

Surveys.

And sees that it is good.

Not as good as in the time before.

The time when his people flourished and lived free in the forested mountain villages further to the east, twenty, thirty wigwams and longhouses gathered together in community and protection.

Born of, and so belonging to, their mothers.

Guided wisely by their sachems and councils.

Blood enemies of the cunning and cruel Mohawk.

Nevertheless, surviving and thriving in the land they and their ancestors had walked for generations.

Mohicans, known amongst other tribes as The People of the Waters That Are Never Still.

Built of three strong clans.

The People of the Stony Country, The People Of the Ocean, and The People Who Live Down River.

The Wolf, Turkey, and Turtle.

Wolves, intelligent, given to their instincts. Loyal and protective of those they hold dear.

Turkeys, symbols of abundance and fertility, pride, generosity, and freely giving of self for the benefit others.

And, of course, the Turtle.

Grounded and calm. Patient. Unwavering.

Blessed with longevity and good health.

Uncas, born of his mother's Turtle clan, strong in his determination and persistence of whatever the course he sets for himself.

Yet so like his father's Wolf blood, of wanderlust and a desire for freedom.

Impetuous nature.

Uncas, his blood-borne son.

Strong and tall and well there in the harvesting field.

Laughing with the sun in his eyes, teeth bright against the dark of his skin.

Uncas, never taken from the earth by sickness, by war, some evil spirit.

Uncas, who looked upon a lost Yengee woman with pale skin and pale hair.

Looked upon her in her most difficult and trying times.

Gave her comfort. Gave her protection.

Bolstered her up, to become what she chose to make herself into.

To bind her spirit to his.

Or walk her own path of her own accord.

Uncas there now.

With Nathaniel.

Nathaniel, once so small and afraid and lost.

Now in the fullness of life, certain and confident and bold.

Broad smile upon his face, hand firm and warm upon the shoulder of his adopted brother.

Uncas.

Uncas, the son of Chingachgook's youth, the love between Chingachgook and Chenoa, the healing woman gone so many years from his side.

Spirit of his spirit.

The unexpected gift he was not seeking.

Much as the ones embracing now on the porch.

The sisters.

The sisters so close to being slain, so close to being dispatched on the George Road.

Only moments from death when they had caught up to the Mohawk war party.

These women, lost and afraid, untrusting and un-understanding.

Now, they have chosen his sons for their companions.

They have followed them where they have chosen to go.

They have lifted them up, strengthened them.

They have made themselves kindred spirits.

And borne children, the boy and the girl, that will walk into the sun, into the future, with their heads held high and their ancestors proud behind them.

There is much that has been lost to them, they who are reunited together now.

Lost forever and not to return.

But there is hope here as well.

Hope and life and gladness.

Cora turns suddenly and raises a hand in gesture, smile open and true upon her pale face, beckoning him welcome.

Cora alone, for Alice beside her, wholly focused on disengaging Chenoa May's pulling fingers from her mother's tangled blond tresses with gentle touch.

Nathaniel, handing over his own son Uncas. Uncas who takes the giggling boy in his arms, lifting him up to the sky with joy and reverence.

The child.

And Uncas.

Uncas.

The man in whose veins flow the last full measure of Mohican blood.

Youthful and strong, brave and true.

It will end with him, this pure Mohican blood, it will be diluted, lessened.

More and more as generations pass.

But it will live on.

It will live.

And that will be, must be, enough to suffice.

The Master of Life, The Great Spirit, has looked upon them with favor, blessed them with the opportunity for each other.

And Chingachgook of the Mohican people knows . . .

"Wètuxëmùksit, come! Your grandson is looking for you!"

. . . that it is good.

Thank you to chiarab87, DinahRay, S.L.Y.M, MohawkWoman, Conbird, and blanparbe for so kindly reviewing the previous chapter. I'm also glad to have these wonderful people together again! :)

And thank you to FairyGodmother89 (I always wanted a fairy godmother, yay!) for adding your support to this story as well! :)