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.*

The Watched Pot

Her sister now abed, Nathaniel knelt next to her, Chingachgook watching over them both.

Alice wastes no time, no time for hesitation, no time for fear.

She simply places the black cohosh root she has gathered on the table and breaks it rapidly apart, placing it bit by bit into the mortar she has set out, that smooth wooden bowl into which so many herbs have been prepared before.

None she can think more important than this, the soothing, the comforting of her suffering sister.

She picks up her pestle, a smooth river rock that fits so smoothly to her hand.

And begins to grind.

She grinds with a firm, confident hand that does not tremble nor shake, does not.

She grinds for her sister, for her sister that always cared for her.

And then she pours it, and fresh spring water, in the teapot to boil.

As the tea is boiling, she washes out rags that will be needed, gathers everything she can think, puts it close.

It is pitifully little and will not save her sister if she is doomed to die.

But she must, she must try.

A watched pot does not boil.

A one day famous quote penned by the one day famously renowned Benjamin Franklin.

People all over the world will say it, in one form or another.

The phrase itself was likely relayed to Old Ben by a female relative or confidant, seeing as how the big, opinionated statesman probably didn't cook much.

Either way, Alice doesn't know of him.

And she doesn't know why the blasted pot doesn't boil . . .

Evil thing.

. . . faster.

Cora is suffering, her sister is losing her baby.

And Alice can do nothing to make the damned pot boil faster.

Nathaniel blots his wife's brow, Chingachgook watches over.

And Alice watches . . .

There must be a faster way. There simply must.

. . . the pot not boil.

But eventually it does and Alice Munroe tends the tea as her sister suffers . . .

"Squeeze my hand, Cora. As tightly as you need."

. . . steps away in the bed.

Truth be told, Nathaniel should not be in here; it is highly improper.

These are women things, in both the English and Delaware way.

And he is a man.

Chingachgook neither.

And the time may come, will come.

"Sister. Please. Drink."

But not now.

Nathaniel cradles Cora's head, helps her lift up enough so as not to spill the hot liquid, not to choke.

Alice, the cup. Tilting little by little.

She coughs against it, Cora does. She is not familiar with the flavor and the aroma challenges a roiling stomach.

She tries to push it away . . .

"Daughter, it will ease the passing, please, drink."

. . . but the three of them . . .

"Sister. Please."

. . . manage to encourage nearly the entire cup down.

And then Alice sets it down.

"What now, Wètuxëmùksit?"

He has taken them out onto the porch, himself and Alice.

Alice who is relieving both herself and her baby daughter.

Herself of her fullness, her daughter of her emptiness.

She nurses, not with the simple peaceful single mindedness she has enjoyed many a time before.

But with determination, functionality.

And irritable displeasure . . .

I will bite you back if you continue to bite me so, Little One.

I am of a mind.

. . . she very much dislikes in herself.

No, I am not. I am sorry. I love you, I love you, dear little one.

And she tries, she tries, to listen to her elder, her adopted father.

"Cora is losing the baby," Chingachgook relays succinctly. "There is no way to stop it."

It does not straightaway occur to her that her adopted Mohican father is speaking in English.

That he is speaking in her native language lest she is too overcome to translate his native Mohican.

"The black cohosh root tea will ease the passing as much as it can. Beyond, I do not know what may happen."

Alice looks to her husband, her Nëwitaemàk, the spirit of her spirit.

Sees the same grim look in his dark eyes she knows he sees in hers.

And looks back to their father.

"Will she die, Wètuxëmùksit?"

Women died in childbirth, full and premature, England.

It is an occurence.

And here, in the wilderness of the Americas, . . .

"I do not know what will be, Daughter. None can see what has not happened."

He stops, they wait.

"If the birthing is complete and without issue, she may heal."

And again.

"If fever takes her, we may bury two by winter."

Alice feels herself filling up with grief, her vision blurs.

It is too much, it is too much.

And tears . . .

"We will do all we can so that may not come to pass."

. . . fall their way down her face.

At their agreement, Uncas takes the children further away, into the next glen.

So that they may not hear the screaming . . .

I will bring your brother. We will stay together."

. . . of the woman who suffers.

Alice watches him go, they have not touched nor yet spoken.

She would, in her earlier days, have worried on this.

But now they are of the same spirit, she trusts that he understands.

That they both have a job to do.

And that they will be together again.

"Daughter."

In time.

"I am coming."

Nathaniel does not wish to leave his wife's side.

"Cora, . . ."

He is afraid.

". . . I would not leave you."

And rightfully so.

"You . . . I . . . we . . ."

This is the last he may look upon her.

"Nathaniel, please."

If she succumbs to her suffering.

Alice watches as her sister's trembling hands grasp his face.

"I do not know what- what will happen to me but- but I love you a-and if it goes badly - the fault is not yours."

He covers one hand with his own, closes his eyes, and Alice wonders which god he prays to in times of distress.

"Please. Go. Be with our child. My sister is with me."

And the confident, cunning, brave warrior, with tear-streaked face, . . .

"My son. Come."

. . . goes with his father.

And the women . . .

"Cora."

"Alice."

. . . are left alone.

Thanks to bcawriter01 and MohawkWoman for reviewing such a grim previous chapter. I'm reluctant to say this one isn't any better and future ones won't be for a while and I do apologize.

But to paraphrase MohawkWoman, sometimes this is life.

If you wish to skip, I understand.

If you do continue reading, thank you.