What Is Done In the Waiting (Alice/Uncas) 1/3
Disclaimer: I make no profit off this story it is simply a way to amuse myself and anyone who is bored enough to read it.
Summary: Alice/Uncas. "She wants him to come for her, to walk through the proverbial fire, to save her. She wants him to be the Nathaniel to her Cora. She wants to live." Alice excerpts up to the fateful cliff scene.
Companion fic to 'What is Said In the Silence' (Uncas's story) and although it can be read alone I suggest you go read the other first (or after). It can be found here. Chapter 1 Chapter 2
Warning: Adult themes will include death, sex, and a heavy load of angst. Rated PG13.
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"What is Done in the Waiting"
Part One
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Alice had spent her whole life waiting.
When she was born she didn't cry like normal babes did. She lay unmoving and so still that the midwife had thought she was stillborn; dead just like her mother who had died bearing her into the world. Even without a mother to nurse her and hold her, Alice was still silent, hushed and calm.
She was always a quiet child, unlike Cora who was engaging and eager to explore anything and everything. Growing up it was always Cora who tried, and did, and acted while Alice watched. They were as different as two people could possibly be, their personalities mirrored by their outside appearances.
Cora was as dark and wild as the moors at twilight. Her hair was a contradiction of soft and hard, the curls untamed and potent. There was a strength about her beauty in the solid line of her jaw and the set of her dark eyes. Her beauty was undeniable and yet it was altogether different from Alice's. Hers was a intractable forceful type while Alice's was soft and pale.
Where Cora's hair curled and coiled Alice's hung limp, her hair the shade of the palest blonde. And while Cora's skin held a flushed rosy hue Alice was so blanched and pallid the blue of her veins traced spidery trails across her skin.
The differences between them did not end in their separate personalities and looks, but it also manifested in their physical beings as well. Cora was as healthy and hale as a horse, never once spending a day ill in her life; while Alice remembered many sickly days. She had spent those days as a child waiting indoors and abed, waiting for whatever ailed her to pass. And while she waited she would watch from the window as Cora explored the outside.
She was always watching, and always waiting, which is probably why saw him first.
She had thought he was perfect, everything he ought to be. He was everything her girlish fantasies had consisted of. He was exactly what she wanted in a man.
She wanted to draw his attention, she wanted to laugh and saunter and flirt her way across the room to where he stood. But she wasn't self assured, she was shy. And even as she shrunk further into the corner she still wanted him to turn her way. She wanted him to see her.
He didn't see her though. He looked right past the waiting girl in the corner and instead saw her sister, a fearsome creature of vibrant animated energy that filled up the room and threaten to overflow it. He saw Cora, and that was the end of that. He would not be hers.
Duncan would be Cora's.
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It had finally happened.
After years of waiting as their father fought for the English crown abroad, Alice and Cora were finally to see him again. He had sent for them and they leave Portman Square and make the journey across the seas to North America.
They land in Albany, a bustling town of wide dirt roads and Dutch roofs. Even though it is colder and dustier than the home she has left behind, Alice is so enchanted by the foreignness of it all that she hardly minds. For a long time she had been waiting for this day to come.
For years Alice had dreamt of adventure. She had longed for new faces and landscapes to surround her. She had longed for new experiences with just the smallest taste of danger. Most of all she had longed for something different than the monotony that had become her life.
In Scotland the days had seemed to blend into a never ending stream of social events, each more repetitive and blurred than the last. Calls were made followed by ball invitations which were returned with more calls. It was a never ending circle and Alice was bored of it. She saw her life laid out in front of her, planned to the full, with no room for excitement or adventure. A gilded cage with no escape.
But now that they had come to the Americas she was filled with heady anticipation. Their days were spent quietly enough, exploring the town and taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Evenings were spent in the Poltroon's back garden with Duncan's exotic tales of red skinned savages to entertain and thrill their senses. And yet despite the slower pace of life Alice was certain that there was something exciting waiting just around the corner. There was a change in the air, a kind of tangible static that she could could almost taste.
Something exciting was about to happen.
Which is why, when their fathers letter came to summon them ,she was all ecstatic impatience. Cora was for once more cautious, hesitant about the journey further into the wilderness. But Alice was certain their father would not have sent for them if it were dangerous. No... Cora was all wrong... this was going to be an adventure, she was sure of it.
It was going to be wonderful!
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It was not wonderful.
It was horrible, worse than anything her sleeping mind could ever dream up in the fervor of a nightmare.
The journey had started off well enough. Elegant gowns were changed for more sensible frocks of stanch muslin. Bustles were discarded along with their hoops, but their corsets stayed firmly laced. No respectable lady went without her corset no matter how deplorable the travel conditions might be.
Then horses were mounted and the town slowly faded from view. They were engulfed in trees so tall and dense that she had no notion of how far they had travelled. Their surroundings looked all the same to her, only the traveling sun gave any indication that time had passed. By the time it had reached mid-sky her back had begun to sweat underneath the stifling muslin of her dress despite the chill in the air. In front of her in the edge of her vision Cora swayed atop her horse. The sound of its footsteps was quickly lulling her to sleep. Everything was beginning to blur. Her head began to drop, her eyelids getting heavier and harder to hold up. She had just closed them, drifting somewhere between sleeping and awake... and it was then that they attacked.
Nothing in her seventeen years had prepared her for what happened next. Growing up as a gentleman officer's daughter she had heard much talk of war, of strategies and honor and glory. The reality was quite different. As the solider in front of her gives a hellish scream as an arrow lodges in his neck she thinks that there can be nothing glorious about war, about death.
Then right before her horse throws her and the air is knocked clean out of her, right before all coherent thought flees in the wake of terror; she wonders where the silly naïve girl is, the girl thought this would be a grand adventure. There was nothing grand about it.
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Alice Monroe had never given much thought to how she might die.
If she had she would have liked to imagine that it would be in old age surrounded by her loved ones. The harsh reality was the greater likelihood of her dying in childbirth, as her mother before her, or even a sickness that could snatch her from this life into the next.
She never imagined she would die violently. And she certainty had never thought that she would die like this, thousands of miles away from her home with dirt and leaves crunching underneath her knees as screams of the dying fill the air. She feels exposed. Defenseless. Helpless. Hopeless.
Cora grasps her tighter and even with her nose buried in her sister collar she can still see the savages and the soldiers fight. The soldiers maintain their positions, a civilized line, as the savages hide in the trees and snake out to attack, their hellish cries filling the air. But then she wonders at how the sound of them dying, white and red men both, are indistinguishable from each other. And she wonders which is really the savage.
Then everything narrows upon where he stands, half hidden in leafy green. His eyes are black with hate and something else, something cold and hollow. Her heart thuds painfully and loudly inside her chest. Then as he raises his musket she can feel her breath still in her throat and her body tense, and she wishes she could see her mothers face or remember her fathers laugh. But there is no flashing of memories, there is only this moment. This last moment.
A shot rings out and she waits for the pain that will follow, but there is nothing. For a moment she thinks she must already be dead, and is glad there was no pain in the passing. But then she realizes the shot was not fired from him but at him, or rather where he once was. Once the smoke clears he is gone, the rest of the savages along with him.
The silence is erie in their absence and if it wasn't for the dying moans of the wounded she could almost believe it was all a product of her imagination.
And then of course there are the men. Two red and one white. Her eyes glance of the red men, they appear to be standard Indians in every way. However the white man captures her attention for he seems to be neither wholly red nor white but a strange mix of the two. His limbs are as bronze as his indian companions as is his clothing, moccasins and buckskin flap and leggings. And although his clothing and long unkempt hair screams red the aquiline shape of his nose and wide blue of his eyes betray him as white. Beside her Cora is amazed at his appearance as well.
The younger of the two Indians moves behind to the horses and unties them, setting them free, and the sound draws her attention. Without thought for propriety or boundaries she throws herself at him. His hands wrap around her arms bringing her to a halt.
"No!!! We need them to get out of here!" she screams at him, pounding her hands against him.
All she can think is that they will be stuck here forever without escape, that this nightmare will never end. She meets his eyes with hers and what she sees stills her.
The color is nothing extraordinary. Many people of her acquaintance had brown eyes. And even though the Indian's eyes slanted in an altogether exotic way, Duncan's eyes were the very same shade of deep brown. What she sees has nothing to do with the shape or color of his eyes but something else altogether, something beneath. There is something secret and wild, something her heart recognizes, and inside her something wakes.
Then Cora is beside her touching her side, and whatever enchantment that had hung over them is broken as he releases her arms and steps back. Duncan turns to the white man dressed like his Indian companions and demands to know why the horses were driven off. He is answered instead by the young Indian.
He speaks english as easily and smoothly as her or Cora. His voice is low and deep, the sound of it vibrating through her ears down to her toes, and something inside her jerks in response.
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The one who is white and yet red introduces himself as Nathaniel and agrees to lead them to the fort where their father waits. He names the older Indian as his father, Chingachgook, and the young Indian as his brother, Uncas. She wonders at this, that a white man would live with and name as family those that are red. But even though such an arrangement is strange what is stranger is that her mind keeps repeating his name, Uncas Uncas Uncas, over and over. It is a mantra to her footsteps.
They walk on for several hours. With each step her skirts feel fuller, her feet heavier. She feels lightheaded with exhaustion. Around her the landscape is magnificent. She has never seen its like. It is fierce and untouched, wild and untamed. It stirs something inside her. Just as he, Uncas, stirs something inside her.
When he moves past her to join his father up ahead she cannot tear her eyes away from him. She is fascinated by the deep bronze of his skin and the band of steel around his arm and the smooth long length of his hair.
In her world long hair was inherently female. There were some men who wore their hair longer but anything past the shoulders was unheard of in polite society. Long hair was simply part of a women's dress, as essential as a skirt or corset. And in her mind it was logical to assume that long hair on a man would look just that, feminine. When Duncan had told her stories of the savages of the Americas with their loin cloths and face paint and long hair she had conjured up a sort of wild naked Amazonian she-him. But faced with the true artifact she can only shake her head at what she once thought. Despite the thin braid behind the lone earring that blends with the rest of the hair down his back, or perhaps in-spite of it, he is all raw masculinity.
But there is something more than his exotic hair and dress that has her glancing his way more often. Something that makes her watch the set of his shoulders and the way the muscles leap in his thighs when he runs on ahead. She sees the quiet strength in his hands and watches how his eyes smile at his father and brother. And when they stop for a break to rest and gnaw on tough dried meat, something about the flash of his teeth tearing through the jerky makes her mouth water and her heart thud. She is aware of these thing the way a sleeping person hearing a noise is; she knows it is there but does nothing.
As always she does nothing.
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The smell of ash fills the air. It is the smell of burnt timbers of the still smoldering cabin. It is the smell of the fallen bodies, a man, women, and child. It is the smell of death.
They look peaceful lying there, as if they are only sleeping. But the dark red stains on their clothes tell a different story. She stands with Cora and Duncan in the field as the others pick through the ruins. The gentle way his fingers ghost over the boys face speak volumes of what these people must have meant to them. Something sharp and painful constricts her chest as he closes the women's eyes and she wants to cry for him, for them all.
They continue on, and each step brings her further to complete exhaustion. She is grateful for the exhaustion, it distracts her from thinking on all the death she has witnessed.
By the time night falls and they stop to make camp she is so tired she wants to scream. The chill of the air has crept through her clothing and into her bones. The skin of her feet burn with the cold and her fingertips are shriveled and shrunken with moisture. She gratefully collapses upon the damp ground and lays her head down on a pillow of fallen leaves. Her eyelids feel unbearably heavy and all to soon her eyes are closing and she is lost to sleep.
She dreams in color, explosions of reds. Deep dark and spreading. There is the red of the fallen soldiers coats. The spreading red of their blood beneath them. There is the bodies smoldering in ash, the blood soaking the woman's back. Puddles and puddles of red. The red of his skin against the white of hers. And as their flesh melds into one someone is whispering... Uncaaassssssss. Then there is the red of her fathers beard and his voice, angry at her, yelling "Why are you here girl?!?"
She jerks awake gasping in blind terror. And as she blinks away the sleep from her eyes the blind terror becomes all too visible. They come gliding through the morning mist, silent deadly shapes. Shadows bringing death.
She begins to hyperventilate, her hands clawing into the wet soil beneath her. Then without warning or sound she is enveloped, grasped and pulled into something hard. A band of steel wraps around her waist and another covers her mouth. The heavy weight of a body presses upon her. Her mind blanks and her survival instincts kick in and she thrashes beneath him, her hands tearing at the one smothering her mouth.
There is a breath of warmth in her ear and then a voice "...be still..." She thinks there is something familiar about the voice, something comforting and compelling and she stills underneath his hands. "...you must be still... I will not hurt you..." She recognizes the low deep tone of his voice even spoken in a whisper... Uncas. The realization sends her limp with relief. For a moment she had imagined death and much, much worse. In those brief moments before she knew it was him she had imagined every kind of foul, painful, intimate act being forced on her person.
Instead, knowing it is him washes a calming sense of security over her. But being in the arms of a savage red man should terrify her, not bring her comfort. Yet comfort is what she feels. Comfort and the sweet feeling of safety. She has not been embraced so tightly since she was a child. The feeling is foreign but not unpleasant. And though his weight should feel stifling and heavy instead it feels warm and easy. She relaxes into the hard planes of his chest and the rough skin of his palm against her lips.
The others back off, melting back into the forest where they came from. He releases her and his fingertips brush gently along her lips as he does. It starts a strange fluttering in her stomach. As she slides out from beneath him she already feels bereft of his warmth and weight. Sitting back on her heels their eyes meet and she can't tear hers away. Even though his face is lost in shadows there is something magnetic about his gaze that holds hers. It is a great social misstep to stare up at him so boldly. She wonders at her boldness just as she wonders at his. But out here in the wild societies rules seem much less important. His gaze leaves her mouth dry and palms trembling. It is unsettling. She finally flushes and looks away. She is glad that the darkness covers the color in her cheeks. She can't deny that his stares awaken something primal in her. His gaze never wavers from her.
After several long moments he reaches out and takes her hand. His fingers envelope hers and he tugs her back down on the ground. Lying there, with him sitting beside her, she gives into sleep. She holds fast to his hand throughout the remainder of the night.
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When she wakes he is no longer next to her.
Her skirts hang heavy with dew, her feet chilled to the bone, but her left side glows with remnants of shared heat. She gets up slowly, reluctant to lose the heat from him, and goes with Cora to the river to wash before they must leave again. The river is little more than a stream, but Alice is grateful none the less.
There is no time to bathe but there is time to beat the days dirt off with their hands. It is hardly effective and Cora removes her dress first and together they shake it out the best they can. Standing in the open in any state of undress is absolutely abhorrent and certainly far beyond the realm of ladylike behavior but after all that they have seen and the distance they have travelled it hardly seems important.
Then it is Alice's turn to take off her dress. Without it she feels exposed but also lighter, as if her shoulders can breathe again. Her torso still feels stifled and constricted and without thinking her fingers have already made their way to her back and make quick work of the laces on her corset. She draws it off with a deep sigh of relief and pleasure. Her chest feels light, her lungs deliciously full with air. But the corset in her hands weighs heavy. The river beckons. She has half a mind to toss it away, watch as the river carries it away, carrying with it her exhaustion and fear, carry away all of societies rules and constrictions. If only it really was so simple.
But those rules and expectations are tied as tightly to her as the corset that laces her in. She has almost made up her mind to throw it into the river when Cora's voice halts her arm.
"Alice? What are you doing?"
"I just thought to" she motions to the water with her corset in clenched fist "it's only that there would be less to constrict us and slow us down if we..."
"If we what Alice? If we discarded out corsets into the stream? Cora clucks her tongue at Alice, shaking her head. "Silly goose! The Indians would see and surely find us then."
And of course Cora is right. Cora is always right. So she wraps herself back into the corset and as Cora begins to lace her up she vows that she will do better. With each tug and pull she vows to walk farther and longer. She is determined to be strong, to not show any weakness. She doesn't want him to think of her as weak.
They comb their fingers through each others tangled hair as best they can than join the others and continue on. Each step is as tortuous as the one before it. Her body feels sore and tired. She slips and her ankle turns underneath her and then out of nowhere he is there, grabbing her arm and steading her. She thanks him under her breath, face heating at her own clumsiness. She is disgusted by her own weakness and thinks he must be too. But she is helpless to turn that weakness into strength. For the first time she despises what she was molded to be and realizes how truly frivolous it is. She is nothing more than ornamental. Her skill at the harp and the neatness of her stitch cannot help her in this place. She has no purpose beyond aesthetic value and no practical talents to help her survive.
She is truly useless.
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chapter 2
Summary: Alice/Uncas. "She wants him to come for her, to walk through the proverbial fire, to save her. She wants him to be the Nathaniel to her Cora. She wants to live." Alice excerpts up to the fateful cliff scene.
Companion fic to 'What is Said In the Silence' (Uncas's story) and although it can be read alone I suggest you go read the other first (or after). It can be found here. Chapter 1 Chapter 2
Warning: Adult themes will include death, sex, and a heavy load of angst. Rated PG13.
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"What is Done in the Waiting"
Part One
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Alice had spent her whole life waiting.
When she was born she didn't cry like normal babes did. She lay unmoving and so still that the midwife had thought she was stillborn; dead just like her mother who had died bearing her into the world. Even without a mother to nurse her and hold her, Alice was still silent, hushed and calm.
She was always a quiet child, unlike Cora who was engaging and eager to explore anything and everything. Growing up it was always Cora who tried, and did, and acted while Alice watched. They were as different as two people could possibly be, their personalities mirrored by their outside appearances.
Cora was as dark and wild as the moors at twilight. Her hair was a contradiction of soft and hard, the curls untamed and potent. There was a strength about her beauty in the solid line of her jaw and the set of her dark eyes. Her beauty was undeniable and yet it was altogether different from Alice's. Hers was a intractable forceful type while Alice's was soft and pale.
Where Cora's hair curled and coiled Alice's hung limp, her hair the shade of the palest blonde. And while Cora's skin held a flushed rosy hue Alice was so blanched and pallid the blue of her veins traced spidery trails across her skin.
The differences between them did not end in their separate personalities and looks, but it also manifested in their physical beings as well. Cora was as healthy and hale as a horse, never once spending a day ill in her life; while Alice remembered many sickly days. She had spent those days as a child waiting indoors and abed, waiting for whatever ailed her to pass. And while she waited she would watch from the window as Cora explored the outside.
She was always watching, and always waiting, which is probably why saw him first.
She had thought he was perfect, everything he ought to be. He was everything her girlish fantasies had consisted of. He was exactly what she wanted in a man.
She wanted to draw his attention, she wanted to laugh and saunter and flirt her way across the room to where he stood. But she wasn't self assured, she was shy. And even as she shrunk further into the corner she still wanted him to turn her way. She wanted him to see her.
He didn't see her though. He looked right past the waiting girl in the corner and instead saw her sister, a fearsome creature of vibrant animated energy that filled up the room and threaten to overflow it. He saw Cora, and that was the end of that. He would not be hers.
Duncan would be Cora's.
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It had finally happened.
After years of waiting as their father fought for the English crown abroad, Alice and Cora were finally to see him again. He had sent for them and they leave Portman Square and make the journey across the seas to North America.
They land in Albany, a bustling town of wide dirt roads and Dutch roofs. Even though it is colder and dustier than the home she has left behind, Alice is so enchanted by the foreignness of it all that she hardly minds. For a long time she had been waiting for this day to come.
For years Alice had dreamt of adventure. She had longed for new faces and landscapes to surround her. She had longed for new experiences with just the smallest taste of danger. Most of all she had longed for something different than the monotony that had become her life.
In Scotland the days had seemed to blend into a never ending stream of social events, each more repetitive and blurred than the last. Calls were made followed by ball invitations which were returned with more calls. It was a never ending circle and Alice was bored of it. She saw her life laid out in front of her, planned to the full, with no room for excitement or adventure. A gilded cage with no escape.
But now that they had come to the Americas she was filled with heady anticipation. Their days were spent quietly enough, exploring the town and taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Evenings were spent in the Poltroon's back garden with Duncan's exotic tales of red skinned savages to entertain and thrill their senses. And yet despite the slower pace of life Alice was certain that there was something exciting waiting just around the corner. There was a change in the air, a kind of tangible static that she could could almost taste.
Something exciting was about to happen.
Which is why, when their fathers letter came to summon them ,she was all ecstatic impatience. Cora was for once more cautious, hesitant about the journey further into the wilderness. But Alice was certain their father would not have sent for them if it were dangerous. No... Cora was all wrong... this was going to be an adventure, she was sure of it.
It was going to be wonderful!
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It was not wonderful.
It was horrible, worse than anything her sleeping mind could ever dream up in the fervor of a nightmare.
The journey had started off well enough. Elegant gowns were changed for more sensible frocks of stanch muslin. Bustles were discarded along with their hoops, but their corsets stayed firmly laced. No respectable lady went without her corset no matter how deplorable the travel conditions might be.
Then horses were mounted and the town slowly faded from view. They were engulfed in trees so tall and dense that she had no notion of how far they had travelled. Their surroundings looked all the same to her, only the traveling sun gave any indication that time had passed. By the time it had reached mid-sky her back had begun to sweat underneath the stifling muslin of her dress despite the chill in the air. In front of her in the edge of her vision Cora swayed atop her horse. The sound of its footsteps was quickly lulling her to sleep. Everything was beginning to blur. Her head began to drop, her eyelids getting heavier and harder to hold up. She had just closed them, drifting somewhere between sleeping and awake... and it was then that they attacked.
Nothing in her seventeen years had prepared her for what happened next. Growing up as a gentleman officer's daughter she had heard much talk of war, of strategies and honor and glory. The reality was quite different. As the solider in front of her gives a hellish scream as an arrow lodges in his neck she thinks that there can be nothing glorious about war, about death.
Then right before her horse throws her and the air is knocked clean out of her, right before all coherent thought flees in the wake of terror; she wonders where the silly naïve girl is, the girl thought this would be a grand adventure. There was nothing grand about it.
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Alice Monroe had never given much thought to how she might die.
If she had she would have liked to imagine that it would be in old age surrounded by her loved ones. The harsh reality was the greater likelihood of her dying in childbirth, as her mother before her, or even a sickness that could snatch her from this life into the next.
She never imagined she would die violently. And she certainty had never thought that she would die like this, thousands of miles away from her home with dirt and leaves crunching underneath her knees as screams of the dying fill the air. She feels exposed. Defenseless. Helpless. Hopeless.
Cora grasps her tighter and even with her nose buried in her sister collar she can still see the savages and the soldiers fight. The soldiers maintain their positions, a civilized line, as the savages hide in the trees and snake out to attack, their hellish cries filling the air. But then she wonders at how the sound of them dying, white and red men both, are indistinguishable from each other. And she wonders which is really the savage.
Then everything narrows upon where he stands, half hidden in leafy green. His eyes are black with hate and something else, something cold and hollow. Her heart thuds painfully and loudly inside her chest. Then as he raises his musket she can feel her breath still in her throat and her body tense, and she wishes she could see her mothers face or remember her fathers laugh. But there is no flashing of memories, there is only this moment. This last moment.
A shot rings out and she waits for the pain that will follow, but there is nothing. For a moment she thinks she must already be dead, and is glad there was no pain in the passing. But then she realizes the shot was not fired from him but at him, or rather where he once was. Once the smoke clears he is gone, the rest of the savages along with him.
The silence is erie in their absence and if it wasn't for the dying moans of the wounded she could almost believe it was all a product of her imagination.
And then of course there are the men. Two red and one white. Her eyes glance of the red men, they appear to be standard Indians in every way. However the white man captures her attention for he seems to be neither wholly red nor white but a strange mix of the two. His limbs are as bronze as his indian companions as is his clothing, moccasins and buckskin flap and leggings. And although his clothing and long unkempt hair screams red the aquiline shape of his nose and wide blue of his eyes betray him as white. Beside her Cora is amazed at his appearance as well.
The younger of the two Indians moves behind to the horses and unties them, setting them free, and the sound draws her attention. Without thought for propriety or boundaries she throws herself at him. His hands wrap around her arms bringing her to a halt.
"No!!! We need them to get out of here!" she screams at him, pounding her hands against him.
All she can think is that they will be stuck here forever without escape, that this nightmare will never end. She meets his eyes with hers and what she sees stills her.
The color is nothing extraordinary. Many people of her acquaintance had brown eyes. And even though the Indian's eyes slanted in an altogether exotic way, Duncan's eyes were the very same shade of deep brown. What she sees has nothing to do with the shape or color of his eyes but something else altogether, something beneath. There is something secret and wild, something her heart recognizes, and inside her something wakes.
Then Cora is beside her touching her side, and whatever enchantment that had hung over them is broken as he releases her arms and steps back. Duncan turns to the white man dressed like his Indian companions and demands to know why the horses were driven off. He is answered instead by the young Indian.
He speaks english as easily and smoothly as her or Cora. His voice is low and deep, the sound of it vibrating through her ears down to her toes, and something inside her jerks in response.
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The one who is white and yet red introduces himself as Nathaniel and agrees to lead them to the fort where their father waits. He names the older Indian as his father, Chingachgook, and the young Indian as his brother, Uncas. She wonders at this, that a white man would live with and name as family those that are red. But even though such an arrangement is strange what is stranger is that her mind keeps repeating his name, Uncas Uncas Uncas, over and over. It is a mantra to her footsteps.
They walk on for several hours. With each step her skirts feel fuller, her feet heavier. She feels lightheaded with exhaustion. Around her the landscape is magnificent. She has never seen its like. It is fierce and untouched, wild and untamed. It stirs something inside her. Just as he, Uncas, stirs something inside her.
When he moves past her to join his father up ahead she cannot tear her eyes away from him. She is fascinated by the deep bronze of his skin and the band of steel around his arm and the smooth long length of his hair.
In her world long hair was inherently female. There were some men who wore their hair longer but anything past the shoulders was unheard of in polite society. Long hair was simply part of a women's dress, as essential as a skirt or corset. And in her mind it was logical to assume that long hair on a man would look just that, feminine. When Duncan had told her stories of the savages of the Americas with their loin cloths and face paint and long hair she had conjured up a sort of wild naked Amazonian she-him. But faced with the true artifact she can only shake her head at what she once thought. Despite the thin braid behind the lone earring that blends with the rest of the hair down his back, or perhaps in-spite of it, he is all raw masculinity.
But there is something more than his exotic hair and dress that has her glancing his way more often. Something that makes her watch the set of his shoulders and the way the muscles leap in his thighs when he runs on ahead. She sees the quiet strength in his hands and watches how his eyes smile at his father and brother. And when they stop for a break to rest and gnaw on tough dried meat, something about the flash of his teeth tearing through the jerky makes her mouth water and her heart thud. She is aware of these thing the way a sleeping person hearing a noise is; she knows it is there but does nothing.
As always she does nothing.
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The smell of ash fills the air. It is the smell of burnt timbers of the still smoldering cabin. It is the smell of the fallen bodies, a man, women, and child. It is the smell of death.
They look peaceful lying there, as if they are only sleeping. But the dark red stains on their clothes tell a different story. She stands with Cora and Duncan in the field as the others pick through the ruins. The gentle way his fingers ghost over the boys face speak volumes of what these people must have meant to them. Something sharp and painful constricts her chest as he closes the women's eyes and she wants to cry for him, for them all.
They continue on, and each step brings her further to complete exhaustion. She is grateful for the exhaustion, it distracts her from thinking on all the death she has witnessed.
By the time night falls and they stop to make camp she is so tired she wants to scream. The chill of the air has crept through her clothing and into her bones. The skin of her feet burn with the cold and her fingertips are shriveled and shrunken with moisture. She gratefully collapses upon the damp ground and lays her head down on a pillow of fallen leaves. Her eyelids feel unbearably heavy and all to soon her eyes are closing and she is lost to sleep.
She dreams in color, explosions of reds. Deep dark and spreading. There is the red of the fallen soldiers coats. The spreading red of their blood beneath them. There is the bodies smoldering in ash, the blood soaking the woman's back. Puddles and puddles of red. The red of his skin against the white of hers. And as their flesh melds into one someone is whispering... Uncaaassssssss. Then there is the red of her fathers beard and his voice, angry at her, yelling "Why are you here girl?!?"
She jerks awake gasping in blind terror. And as she blinks away the sleep from her eyes the blind terror becomes all too visible. They come gliding through the morning mist, silent deadly shapes. Shadows bringing death.
She begins to hyperventilate, her hands clawing into the wet soil beneath her. Then without warning or sound she is enveloped, grasped and pulled into something hard. A band of steel wraps around her waist and another covers her mouth. The heavy weight of a body presses upon her. Her mind blanks and her survival instincts kick in and she thrashes beneath him, her hands tearing at the one smothering her mouth.
There is a breath of warmth in her ear and then a voice "...be still..." She thinks there is something familiar about the voice, something comforting and compelling and she stills underneath his hands. "...you must be still... I will not hurt you..." She recognizes the low deep tone of his voice even spoken in a whisper... Uncas. The realization sends her limp with relief. For a moment she had imagined death and much, much worse. In those brief moments before she knew it was him she had imagined every kind of foul, painful, intimate act being forced on her person.
Instead, knowing it is him washes a calming sense of security over her. But being in the arms of a savage red man should terrify her, not bring her comfort. Yet comfort is what she feels. Comfort and the sweet feeling of safety. She has not been embraced so tightly since she was a child. The feeling is foreign but not unpleasant. And though his weight should feel stifling and heavy instead it feels warm and easy. She relaxes into the hard planes of his chest and the rough skin of his palm against her lips.
The others back off, melting back into the forest where they came from. He releases her and his fingertips brush gently along her lips as he does. It starts a strange fluttering in her stomach. As she slides out from beneath him she already feels bereft of his warmth and weight. Sitting back on her heels their eyes meet and she can't tear hers away. Even though his face is lost in shadows there is something magnetic about his gaze that holds hers. It is a great social misstep to stare up at him so boldly. She wonders at her boldness just as she wonders at his. But out here in the wild societies rules seem much less important. His gaze leaves her mouth dry and palms trembling. It is unsettling. She finally flushes and looks away. She is glad that the darkness covers the color in her cheeks. She can't deny that his stares awaken something primal in her. His gaze never wavers from her.
After several long moments he reaches out and takes her hand. His fingers envelope hers and he tugs her back down on the ground. Lying there, with him sitting beside her, she gives into sleep. She holds fast to his hand throughout the remainder of the night.
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When she wakes he is no longer next to her.
Her skirts hang heavy with dew, her feet chilled to the bone, but her left side glows with remnants of shared heat. She gets up slowly, reluctant to lose the heat from him, and goes with Cora to the river to wash before they must leave again. The river is little more than a stream, but Alice is grateful none the less.
There is no time to bathe but there is time to beat the days dirt off with their hands. It is hardly effective and Cora removes her dress first and together they shake it out the best they can. Standing in the open in any state of undress is absolutely abhorrent and certainly far beyond the realm of ladylike behavior but after all that they have seen and the distance they have travelled it hardly seems important.
Then it is Alice's turn to take off her dress. Without it she feels exposed but also lighter, as if her shoulders can breathe again. Her torso still feels stifled and constricted and without thinking her fingers have already made their way to her back and make quick work of the laces on her corset. She draws it off with a deep sigh of relief and pleasure. Her chest feels light, her lungs deliciously full with air. But the corset in her hands weighs heavy. The river beckons. She has half a mind to toss it away, watch as the river carries it away, carrying with it her exhaustion and fear, carry away all of societies rules and constrictions. If only it really was so simple.
But those rules and expectations are tied as tightly to her as the corset that laces her in. She has almost made up her mind to throw it into the river when Cora's voice halts her arm.
"Alice? What are you doing?"
"I just thought to" she motions to the water with her corset in clenched fist "it's only that there would be less to constrict us and slow us down if we..."
"If we what Alice? If we discarded out corsets into the stream? Cora clucks her tongue at Alice, shaking her head. "Silly goose! The Indians would see and surely find us then."
And of course Cora is right. Cora is always right. So she wraps herself back into the corset and as Cora begins to lace her up she vows that she will do better. With each tug and pull she vows to walk farther and longer. She is determined to be strong, to not show any weakness. She doesn't want him to think of her as weak.
They comb their fingers through each others tangled hair as best they can than join the others and continue on. Each step is as tortuous as the one before it. Her body feels sore and tired. She slips and her ankle turns underneath her and then out of nowhere he is there, grabbing her arm and steading her. She thanks him under her breath, face heating at her own clumsiness. She is disgusted by her own weakness and thinks he must be too. But she is helpless to turn that weakness into strength. For the first time she despises what she was molded to be and realizes how truly frivolous it is. She is nothing more than ornamental. Her skill at the harp and the neatness of her stitch cannot help her in this place. She has no purpose beyond aesthetic value and no practical talents to help her survive.
She is truly useless.
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chapter 2