I do not own The Last of The Mohicans.
But sometimes things just go sideways.
The Dragonfly Woman and the Turtle Man
The Mohican Sentinel
And he does.
Or so she believes.
For Uncas the Mohican, the one who loves the girl with the rage in her eyes and discontent in her spirit, would never, could never, truly leave her.
He watches her, he has always watched her.
He watched her by the rushing river, he watched her in the night.
He watched her as they fled, kept track of her as they thwarted English enemy and Mohawk alike.
He watched her under the waterfall and in the Huron village.
He ran up the side of a mountain and watched her eyes fear his death when he faced Magaw and threw him down.
He watched her walk. He watched her sleep.
He watched her feet hurt and her spirit falter in the first long days.
He has watched her joy and her sadness, her triumph and her fear and her ecstasy.
He has watched her grow strong and assured and never once has he abandoned her.
No, not once.
And he will not now.
He removes himself from her sight as she has so adamantly demanded.
Circles back and hides himself behind a tree that she does not punish with her axe.
Their daughter is safe and cared for, their family watches over her so he may take the time he needs to watch over his wife, his lover, the spirit of his spirit who has suffered so much and suffers still.
And so he watches as she swings the axe with all her strength and hurt.
It notches not very deep into the young maple she has chosen to set herself against.
Again and again.
She is making her mark with fevor and with stubborn determined will.
If the tree is not felled, it will grow damaged and disfigured as far as it may toward the sky all its days, place marker of this day and all the days that led up to it.
That Alice Munroe was here and unleashed everything she had held inside for far too long.
He watches her miss, he watches her aim ring true.
He watches through the moving of the sun, as after noon stretches into early evening.
She must release this from her spirit, she will not be whatever she will be until she is done.
And so he watches.
Not because she is weak for she is not.
Not because she is in danger for she is not.
He does not protect her because she is weak and frail, because she is incapable.
He protects her because she is important.
To him.
To their daughter.
To her sister.
To this little part of the their world.
He watches.
He watches her begin to slip, stumble, he watches, tense, as the sharp head of the axe misses her foot by a hair, the back of her leg.
She will be sorely harmed, perhaps unto death if she were to misstep too badly with the cutting tool.
He could rush her, knock the axe from her hand, pin her to the ground and hold her there until she gives up the fight.
Carry her back to the cabin, slung over his shoulder, feet kicking in the air, fists pounding upon his back, screams of rage ringing in his ears.
Perhaps he should.
But he will not.
She must come to the conclusion on her own. She must be the one to say it is done.
And so he watches, heart aching badly for the one he loves so deeply, the spirit of his spirit, the one who fights and suffers so within herself.
Their father comes, sees what is to be seen.
Looks into his son's eyes.
Lays a hand on his arm.
And returns from whence he came, understanding all he must.
Presumably to relay to her sister that she is safe, that she is well.
That the child must be cared for.
Until the mother is once again who she wishes to be.
Uncas trusts his father, knows that he will do as needs be.
Just as Uncas himself does now.
For the love of . . .
Nëwicheyok-
. . . the woman he loves who fights.
And finally, finally, when the glooming of the day is upon them, when her strength finally is no more and she stops, simply stops and stands still as the stubborn tree mangled and marred before her, axe hanging down from her bleeding hand, he knows it is time.
The tool slips from her grasp, handle slick with blood from her hands, thunks to the earth beside her, forgotten and abandoned.
And Alice Munroe stands, chest heaving, body trembling with exhaustion.
And finally . . .
Alice-
. . . collapses to her knees, strength all but spent.
As her knees jar into the dirt, the guards she has constructed around herself begin to break, tears overflow and course their way down her dirtied face.
And she cries, she cries.
Silent at first, as English women are chastised to do.
And then . . .
Nëwicheyok-
. . . louder and louder, long braying sobs and wails, raw and flayed for all her spirit laid bare.
She covers her face with her hands, hair, tangled and dirty, falls forward to curtain her from the world that she can no longer bear.
And he sorrows so deeply for her.
Uncas the Mohican steps from his hiding place.
And carefully approaches.
Kneels down next to her.
She surely senses his presence, does not flinch away this time.
And carefully, by increments and gentleness of motion and strength . . .
I am here.
. . . he gathers her to him.
You are not alone.
And carries her . . .
Spirit of my spirit.
. . . away.
She does not fight him, she does not struggle or beat at his chest, claw at his eyes.
She hasn't the strength to do anything but cry.
And so she does that.
He takes her away, by the stream, alone and to themselves for privacy.
She lays on the ground as he builds a fire.
Do not cross.
And lays her near it for warmth.
He cleans blood and dirt and tears from her face.
Bids her, helps her, drink water, nibble pemmican, dry and solid, stomach too weakend for anything more.
He removes her dress, wipes down her body in careful gentle way that has nothing to do with the allure of her womanliness.
He robes her in a fresh, clean garment; removed dress, soaked through with sweat and leaked milk as it is.
He brushes her hair with long, strong, gentle fingers.
And refreshes the braid made of their hair together against the skin of her neck.
Uncas the Mohican cleans her ruined hands with fresh spring water, Alice hissing at the flayed flesh where the blisters popped and leaked, splintered and bled.
He wraps them in clean cloth and lays them in her lap with a touch as soft as a lover's surresh.
She lulls through some of this, other times she stares, fixated, at his face, so dark and wild and gentle and strong.
Or at the sky, far, far beyond the tallest of trees.
When all is done, Uncas the Mohican lays himself down beside her, cradles her body with his own.
And they . . .
"Uncas-"
"No, Nëwicheyok, not just now. No words just now. Only rest."
"Alright."
. . . rest together.
Alice doesn't need a hero.
She needs someone who loves her and accepts her.
And that's what Uncas is.
So hopefully this isn't too cliche.
:)