I do not own The Last of The Mohicans.
So, um, we're taking a shift here. And I understand if some of you wish to discontinue.
The Dragonfly Woman and the TurtleMan
*Trigger Warning For Disturbing Content. I apologize.*
All Will Be Well
Alice ministers to Cora when she stirs.
Guides her in drinking, tea she has steeped generously with healing herbs.
"Please drink, my sister, it will help."
Feeds her bits of stale bread to quell the churning stomach.
"Just a little more. Good. A bit more."
And when all these dealings are done, Alice blots her dampened brow, even such simple exertions as these drain Cora of the little life she seems to have left within her.
"How is my husband? My . . . son? Where is the . . . the . . . the bod-"
Her words are but a raspy whisper, eyes remaining closed as if the world even in this small cabin is too much to bear to look upon.
Alice smooths Cora's hair with a touch as gentle as her sister has before used before to soothe her.
"Rest, dear Cora. All is cared for."
And kisses her damp forehead.
"How is she?"
Nathaniel is on his feet even before the cabin door is fully opened.
Dead child still cradled protectively in one arm.
The other reaching out for Alice.
And Alice, breasts aching beyond all measure for a feeding, replies.
"She is resting."
And that must be . . .
"Thank you, Alice."
"You are welcome."
. . . enough for now.
Chingachgook brings her daughter to her and Alice nurses her under the light of a bloated orange autumn moon.
There is no joy here either, no joy nor content nor emotional relief here, not now, she cannot bear it.
How dare she take comfort in what she has when the same has been taken from her sister?
And so Alice holds the child close, nourishes her charge . . .
I will return to you, Little One.
I will.
. . . and returns the sleep-and-milk drunk child to the care her grandfather.
"Thank you, Wètuxëmùksit."
And dully watches them go away again into the darkness.
She will forgive me.
They will.
Alice sleeps at the table that night, head upon arms on the rough wood surface.
And her dreams are ill and evil in their rehashings of the day.
She wakes frequently to check her sister for breath and death.
And each time is lulled back to sleep with the hope that all will be well.
All. Will. Be. Well.
She is awakened long before the full dawning of the day.
"Sister, what are you doing?"
By Cora, who is struggling to rise from her bed.
"Lie back and rest yourself!"
Cora, who shakes her head, damp tendrils hanging in her ghostly pale face.
"I must make water, Alice. And I must care for my family."
Alice tends to the first need, helping her sister as she fills the chamberpot with more blood than anything else.
"This dress, this dress is filthy now, I must-"
Grapples with helping her remove it as well as restraining her from falling to the floor in her weakened state.
Cora needs to rest, she needs to lay down.
But instead Alice finds herself standing near her sister as she stands fully bare in her one room cabin so very far from Portland Square, from even Albany.
"The sheets, the sheets, the sheets are ruined-"
And Alice begins to realize her steady elder sister seems to have entered a sort of hysteria of grief, much as Alice herself had done when she had thrown the dirtied linens out into the yard in an effort to rid herself of the physical evidence of the dastardly and damned day.
"Cora, Cora-"
And Cora Munroe, bleeding and naked, stops.
Alice's hands firm upon her shoulders.
"I will tend to this. Please, let me dress you. Join Nathaniel and the baby. Please, Sister, do as I say."
Cora, long hair streaming and disheveled, dark eyes wild and slightly unfocused, hesitates, seems to stare blankly without understanding and Alice reassures herself she has spoken in English and not Mohican.
Finally, Cora draws deep breath.
Nods in defeated acquiescence.
And Alice feels tentative relief even as her sister remains rigid and inwardly struggling under her hand.
"There . . . there is another shift, just there, under the bed."
Alice pulls the garment out from its storage.
Cora provides the arms and the head, and Alice dresses her as she would a child, carefully and with great gentleness and love.
Kneels before her.
Eases on stockings for her warmth.
And rises, draping her in a long wrap for her preferred modesty.
"Hold to me, Sister. We will walk together."
Cora shuffles, Alice shuffles with her.
And when the door is opened, . . .
It is dark now, so dark.
. . . Nathaniel rises so abruptly, . . .
Will there ever be light again?
. . . his chair rocks back to thunk against the wall behind him.
"Cora-"
Alice settles her as gently as possible into the hard, unforgiving chair that nevertheless causes her sister pain enough to cry out.
And Nathaniel kneels next to her, child in his arms.
"Cora, I am sorry. I-"
He cannot continue, fresh tears streaking down his rugged face in the candlelight.
"I know, my husband. I too am sorry for my- failure in all of this."
"No, Cora, no-"
And they weep over their dead child together.
The work is not done.
Alice stays on, sitting on the steps of the porch, forearms on thighs, hands hanging limply, legs near to splayed under her sweat stained dress, feet thrust out and tilted, ankles meeting the wooden slats underneath.
Most unladylike and Portland Square scandalous.
Weary to the bone and hollow as she has never experienced before.
She sits and she stares at nothing at all, she listens to the weepings and murmurings of her sister and her sister's husband as if they are coming from a long, miserable distance away.
Chingachgook beside Alice, speaks not, seeming to allow her the space to simply exist as she has not since this tragedy struck her sister and unborn babe down.
It is almost a meditation of sorts, this still and quietness between them.
It cannot hold, there is work to be done.
She must clean Cora's abandoned garments, tend to the cabin as it has been neglected, the bubble and squeak within the cauldron must surely be burnt away by now.
All that and more but for now . . .
Uncas has watched over the children a long and trying time.
. . .
. . .
. . .
He is a brave and mighty warrior.
. . . this moment serves to rest her as much as she may for the tasks ahead.
Thank you so very much, MohawkWoman, for such insight and gracious encouragement into these difficult chapters. It means so much to me. *hugs you*