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.*

Abortifacient


"Cora!"

Cora's beautiful face is pale, features drawn in a visage of pain, confusion, and fear.

"I . . . I . . ."

Her hands, pressed the swelling mound of her stomach, pale and trembling.

"I do not know . . ."

Her voice a terrified whisper.

"Do you . . . shall I . . ."

Alice doesn't know quite what to do, only that her heart is hammering, she's reaching out blindly for her sister, and-

"-a, Mama!"

-she hears the crying of children.

"Mama!"

And wildly doesn't know if they are within or without.

"Cora!"

She catches her sister as she crumples, there in the dim stuffiness of the West Virginian log cabin.

"Sister-"

She eases the suffering woman into a chair, . . .

"Wait here."

. . . whirls . . .

"Little ones, . . ."

. . . and gathers up . . .

". . . you must come with me now."

. . . the little ones from their play.

"Mama!"

She heaves them up into her arms.

Her nephew protesting, crying, . . .

"Mama! Mama!"

. . . all the way.

And her own daughter . . .

". . . . blah, ahblaaaa . . ."

. . . arguing loudly, distantly, in her ear.

Alicia Elizabeth Munroe staggers out onto the porch, blinding noonday sunshine mercilessly fracturing her vision.

Makes out the vague form of her adopted father . . .

"Wètuxëmùksit!"

. . . a ways off.

The other two further beyond.

"Nhakewsëwakàn!"

Help us!

All three men starts towards them immediately, at pace.

"Cora! The baby!"

They rush to her aid, Chingachgook taking his grandson, Uncas his daughter.

Nathaniel, face a terrible visage of fear leaps up the porch, disappearing into the dim of the cabin.

Alice turns as well, stumbling back into the single room..

Nathaniel is on his knees before his hunched wife, brushing back the hanging tendrils from her forehead, trying . . .

"Cora, Cora, is it time?"

. . . to comfort his terrified wife.

"No-"

Her voice is but a whisper.

"- it cannot be . . . something is wrong-"

Nathaniel's face crumples, his hands flutter here and there.

He knows how to kill but not how to heal.

"We need help," Cora murmurs. "I am bleeding."

And Nathaniel's face pales, stricken.

"There is . . . there is no one. The widow over the ridge-"

And Cora gasps with pain, words halting and disjointed, her hands work themselves upon his sleeve.

"No! No. She - she cannot heal, only wound - with her words-"

And Nathaniel shakes his head, helpless.

"What do I do, Cora?"

Alice watches as her sister swallows, seeming to think through something she does not give voice to.

"Your father. Get your father."


The door is opened and Chingachgook and Uncas, children in hand, are on their feet, if they were ever sitted to begin with.

"Wètuxëmùksit. Please come."

The adopted father of Nathaniel Poe and Alice Munroe rises without hesitation, hands little George to his uncle.

And enters . . .

"Please help my sister."

. . . the cabin.


He does not inspect her, there is no need.

He has seen the bright, red blood Alice has held out on the cloth, seen what is becoming of his unborn grandchild.

He kneels by her side, Cora, and takes one thin, trembling hand in his own, presses hand of comfort to her damp brow.

"Daughter. I am here."

And Cora Munroe's dark, fearful eyes latch onto his.

"Chingachgook, can you help me? Can you save my baby?"

And the old man's craggy visage is solemn and mournful as he responds to her desperate plea.

"I am sorry, my daughter. I cannot stop what will be."

His voice is so quiet, were Alice to breathe loudly, she would not hear it.

For it is not for her ears the words are spoken.

They are for Cora's.

Nathaniel's, crouched at his wife's side.

"The child will come and it will live or die as it may. It is beyond my abilities, or the abilities of any who walk upon the earth to change it."

His voice is gentle, so gentle.

The gentleness alone threatens to break down the walls Alice has constructed for herself to manage the situation, be strong for her sister.

"What may be done is to care for you so that you may not follow the child before your time. Wënichana, maeha sëke cohosh chëphìka-"

It takes several seconds for Alice to realize he is speaking to her, speaking to her in Delaware . . .

". . . òk shkwiskha punkw ti-"

. . . giving her instructions . . .

Black cohosh root. Crush to make tea.

. . . to help her sister.

And Alice . . .

"Nich, Wètuxëmùksit."

I will, Father.

. . . goes.


The spirit of her spirit does not try to halt or impede her steps in any way as she once more exits the cabin.

He does not demand precious time for the importance of his own personal gain of knowledge, this is not for him.

He knows all he needs at that moment, that he is to care for the children whilst others care for the ill.

He is there, the tall, strong warrior.

Sitting at distance from the cabin, holding the children, the boy, the girl, distracting them with play, with song, with attention.

Though his eyes track the one he loves.

As she races away into the wood.


Cohosh, black.

The leaves are white.

They grow thin and narrow, up to the sun.

Healing properties.

Ease pain, relax muscles.

My sister, my sister-

Black cohosh.

The leaves are white.

Thin, narrow, reaching up toward the sun-


She returns with her collection, everything is as it was.

The warrior, the playing children.

They have hungered, he is feeding them from his own stores.

The boy feeding himself, the girl-child, masticated food, thinned and moistened from her father's mouth so that she may not choke.

Alice's breasts swell with milk, they pain.

She ignores them for . . .

". . . ablaaa . . ."

My loves, my sister-

. . . those within the little cabin.

"Wètuxëmùksit, apànàxe."

I have returned.


I apologize for this.

There is more to come.

Thanks to bcawriter01 and DinahRay for your gracious reviews previously! :)