Archive of Our Own

Jamestown was not the same place she remembered.
The palisade wall stretched wider now, encompassing new rows of homes—square-built, sharp-roofed, stubborn things with oddly shaped windows and iron hinges.
English women leaned out over washbasins. Children scraped sticks through the mud. A dog barked at chickens that refused to scatter. The voices here were louder now.
More settled.
Less hers.
She stepped slowly down the row of market stalls, eyes flicking over a pile of red apples, a bolt of blue wool, and a man arguing the price of nails. None of it interested her. She wasn’t looking to buy.
She was looking for something she could not name.
A flash of yellow hair stopped her breath.
She turned.
But the man—laughing now, hand on his companion’s shoulder—was too short. Not him.
Of course not.
She exhaled quietly and resumed walking, her moccasins near-silent against the packed earth. One hand gripped the leather strap of her satchel; the other toyed absently with the small round shape tucked inside.
The compass.
The one he had given her.
She didn’t take it out, but her fingers knew every edge. It still pointed somewhere. It always did.
She stopped just outside the seamstress’s door and tried to picture the way it used to be.
The fence where he had once leaned—arms folded, grinning in that maddening, familiar way—was gone, replaced by a row of squat storage sheds. The gate where he would slip away to meet her in the woods had been moved, made taller and more imposing, scraping the sky like it meant to keep things out.
Only the river remained unchanged.
Wide.
Silver.
Whispering in winter, roaring in spring and summer.
She walked to its edge and stood quietly, staring down into its shifting reflection.
They had once stood here together, she thought.
Not so much with words. Just breath. Just presence.
The water still moved the same way.
But she did not.
She had grown in the time since. Leaner. Quieter. Her gaze became more patient. She did not laugh as easily. She spoke more with her silences than her tongue.
But the ache in her chest—the one he had left behind—had never quite softened.
She closed her eyes.
It was foolish, but sometimes…
Sometimes she still turned at the sound of boots on gravel, expecting to see him standing there.

-----

He moved with a limp that irritated him beyond words.
“You’ll tear the stitches again,” his sister Alice warned, catching him halfway down the hall, boots unlaced and fury in his shoulders.
“Then I’ll sew them myself.”
She sighed, softer now. “John… I know you want to get back to her. But you’re no good to her when you’re half in the grave.”
He looked away, jaw tight. The fire snapped in the grate, the smell of poultice clinging to him.
“If I wait, something could happen to her. If I wait…”
“If she’s worth all this,” Alice said gently, “then she’ll still be waiting. But you won’t reach her by dying in the bloody street.”
He exhaled. “I just… I need a moment.”
Alice watched as he moved toward the door, a prayer for her brother leaving her in the form of a sigh as he stepped beyond the threshold.
London was loud. Too loud. The carts rattled over cobblestone like cannon fire. Horse dung steamed in the gutters. The air smelled of wet coal and fish, and he hated it more with every breath.
But still, he walked.
The apothecary had warned him not to push. Alice had begged him not to.
“Wait a month longer,” she’d said that morning, pressing a hand to his chest as if she could pin him in place. “Just one more month and the wound will close clean.”
He hadn’t answered. What could he say? That the wound in his side mattered less than the one buried deeper?
That waiting had begun to feel like dying?
He limped down the alley toward the merchant’s quarter, eyes drawn to a stand of trinkets near the water’s edge. Most of it was nonsense—tin jewelry, threadbare cloth—but one piece caught his eye.
A necklace.
Not the same—but close.
It was the color of water at dusk. Deep green beads, with a carved white pendant at the center.
He reached for it.
He hadn’t meant to. Not really.
But his hand closed around it, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—his lungs remembered how to breathe.
Now the necklace was wrapped, tucked into the inner pocket of his coat.
His body was slower. His gait uneven.
But something in him still pulled toward the sea.
He turned toward the docks.

-----

In different lands, under different skies, they each looked out at water.
He at the dark swell of the Thames.
She at the gleam of the river below her feet.
One carried a compass.
The other, a necklace.
Neither spoke aloud.
But if they had, the wind might have carried the same breathless prayer:
Let it not be the end.

-----

It was a week later, and Captain John Smith hated stillness.
Yet here he was again—in the chair by the hearth, one leg stretched toward the fire, his left hand braced against the tight ache in his side. The wound was healing, they said. But it didn’t feel like healing.
It felt like waiting.
Alice hovered behind him, arms crossed, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and worry.
“You cannot sail like this, John.”
He didn’t answer.
“You can’t even walk a full street without doubling over. That wound isn’t closed. Not truly. And the ship’s movement—God help me, John—it will split you wide before you even reach open sea.”
His jaw worked, but still he said nothing.
She moved, dropping to her knees beside him as she spoke more gently. “Don’t do this. Please.”
He looked away. The firelight flickered against the windows—warm and indifferent.
“I need to get back,” he said finally. “It’s not just her. It’s… the land. Everything. I feel like I left myself there.”
Alice’s hand moved to his. She held it gently, thumb brushing over his callused knuckles.
“And if you bleed out in some corner of the deck before you make it halfway? What then? Who does that serve?”
He breathed in slowly. It hurt to fill his lungs.
“I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”
“Then don’t wait forever,” she said. “But wait a little longer. Let the wound seal. Let your body catch up with your heart.”
That silenced him.
Still kneeling, Alice watched as he stood and gradually made his way toward his bedchamber.
John now sat at the edge of the bed, shirt half-unlaced, jaw clenched. The pain in his side flared like heat when he breathed too deeply. But still, he tried to do it himself—untying the bandage, wincing, fumbling for the cloth and the small pot of salve on the washstand.
Alice entered before he could start.
“John.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Clearly,” she said, crossing the room with a look only a younger sister could deliver—half fondness, half reproach. “You’re about to knock the salve into your tea.”
“I can manage.”
“You can barely sit upright.”
He grunted, flinching as he pulled the bandage free. The cloth was stiff with dried blood. Not a good sign.
Alice knelt beside him and took over without asking. Her hands were small but steady. She dipped a cloth in warm water, cleaned the edges of the wound, and checked for signs of infection.
“You’re too proud for your own good,” she murmured.
“I’ve taken worse.”
“Yes—and nearly died from it.”
He hissed when the salve touched the skin. She didn’t flinch.
“I hate this city,” he said after a long pause.
“I know.”
“I dream of the river. Her voice. The way the trees move. I can’t—” He stopped, jaw working. “I can’t breathe here.”
Alice looked up at him, her fingers still moving with care. “And I know you think the only way to fix that is to run headlong back to the sea. But you’re not the boy you were, John.”
“I’m not an old man either.”
“No. But you’re hurt. And trying to be a hero with an open wound is just stupid.”
He cracked a tired smile.
John exhaled slowly as she tied a fresh bandage around his waist. She helped him lie back, easing him down with a gentleness that made his eyes go quiet.
“Stay until the wound closes,” she said. “Just a few more weeks.”
“And then?”
“Then I’ll help you pack.”
He turned his head slightly, looking at her. “You’d do that?”
“I want to,” she whispered. “But only when you’re whole. Not like this.”
He didn’t answer, but his hand found hers beneath the quilt. Alice smiled as he squeezed before letting go.
He was already asleep by the time she finished tidying his room.

-----

That same evening, an ocean away, Pocahontas sat around a fire.
It was warm against the night chill. Voices murmured nearby—laughter from children, the soft thrum of a drum being tapped by idle fingers. The scent of roasted maize lingered in the air.
Wanchese’s voice rose gently above it all.
He was telling a story. His hands moved like wind through tall grass, painting shapes into the dark. The children were rapt—eyes wide, mouths slightly open as he wove the tale of a fox who borrowed a bear’s strength and then forgot to give it back.
He mimicked the bear’s roar, then shifted mid-sentence to the fox’s sly whisper. Even the elders chuckled.
Pocahontas sat just outside the circle; shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She watched him—the way he shifted his weight as he spoke, the slenderness of his fingers, the way his eyes lit with mischief and fire. He poured himself fully into the tale, into the people gathered around him. He was generous with his voice, his gestures and his spirit.
He was very good.
And yet… she felt as though she stood behind a pane of river ice, watching it all through water.
Detached.
Wanchese was everything he should be. Kind. Present. He saw people. Knew how to hold attention and utterly give it back. He was not arrogant with his gift.
But he was not John.
Not the man whose silence spoke louder than most words. Not the one whose gaze had made her forget where the earth ended and the wind began.
When the story ended and the laughter faded, he slipped away from the circle and walked toward her. He came quietly, respectfully, and settled on the ground a few feet away.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he said softly. “You could have left with the others.”
“I enjoy listening,” she replied, voice gentle but guarded.
He looked at her—not just her face, but deeper, to the stillness behind her eyes.
“You weren’t with us,” he said after a pause. “Not fully.”
Her gaze dropped to the fire.
“I’ve tried,” she said. The words tasted bitter, but they were true. “I’ve tried to picture a life with you. Your voice, your stories… My father said you had asked if you could court me. I know you’d be kind. You already are.”
Wanchese didn’t interrupt. He waited, hands resting easily on his knees.
“But when I try,” she continued, her voice softening, “I see someone else.”
He nodded slowly.
Then, with no resentment—only clarity—he said, “I will not be jealous of a memory.”
She looked up at him, startled by the grace in those words.
“I see it in your eyes,” he added. “When you speak of nothing, your gaze still reaches for someone.”
Tears stung unexpectedly, but she blinked them back. “He may not be alive.”
“Even so,” Wanchese said, offering a faint smile, “his place is not empty. And until it is… I will not compete with a ghost.”
She bowed her head slightly in respect, her heart both aching and grateful.
“You deserve someone who sees only you,” she whispered.
“And you,” he replied gently, “deserve to follow the wind.”
Wanchese rose to his feet, brushing off his hands.
“I’ll be visiting for a few days. It would be an honor if you came to hear more stories.”
He turned, stepping toward the shadowed curve of the longhouses, his figure beginning to disappear into the night.
“Wanchese…”
He paused but didn’t come closer.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was quiet, but steady. “I would be glad to hear another story.”
He nodded once, a silhouette against the firelit dusk.
Then he walked on.
She sat still long after his footsteps faded into the hush of the village night.
The air had cooled. The fire crackled behind her, but it offered no warmth now—not the kind she needed.
Not the kind that lived in John Smith’s embrace.
Wanchese’s words echoed in her chest:
“Until it is… I will not compete with a ghost.”
She folded her arms around herself, the shawl slipping from one shoulder.
And the tears came.
Not loudly.
But fully.
She had held them back for so long—for the sake of duty, of pride, of sparing those who loved her. But now, with no one watching and nothing to explain, she let them fall freely.
She missed him.
Missed him—not just the sound of his voice or the warmth of his hands or the way his eyes held hers—but the space he created inside her when he was near.
The way he saw her.
Not as a curiosity, nor as a burden—
but as someone he trusted with the whole of himself.
“I don’t even know if you’re alive,” she whispered, wiping her cheeks with trembling fingers. “But I still see you everywhere.”
She looked up at the sky, stars sharp and steady overhead.
The fire behind her cast long shadows, flickering like memory.
“I can’t let go. Not yet.”
The wind stirred gently, brushing a loose strand of hair across her face.
She closed her eyes at the familiar touch, as if the wind itself remembered him too.
There was no shame in crying.
Not here.
Not in her village, where sorrow was not hidden but held.
Wanchese had freed her—
Not from grief, but from silence.
And now that her mourning had room to breathe, it eased—just enough.
The heaviness in her chest did not vanish, but it shifted.
Less like a wound.
More like a place she had once lived, and might, one day, return to whole.
And in that shift, that quiet softening—
She felt something she had not felt in a very long time.
Hope.
The earth was cool beneath her knees.
She placed her hands palm-down on the soil and bowed her head.
“Great Spirits,” she whispered. “If you see him… if he still walks beneath the same sky… guide him. Let him heal. Let him remember.”
The wind moved, lifting the edge of her shawl. She did not open her eyes.
“And if he cannot return… let me carry him gently. Let the pain become peace.”
She stayed there a long time.
Not praying for answers.
Just… presence.

------

The London sun was higher than it had been in months. Light streamed through the windows, casting soft gold across the worn floorboards. A ship waited in the harbor—his name already written on the manifest. His passage arranged. Cargo secured.
He could move more freely now. The pain had dulled.
His brothers sat at the table in his flat. Francis with his usual frown, Richard slouched with his arms crossed. Alice stood beside John, her hands clasped before her.
“I’m going back to Jamestown,” John said, without preamble.
Silence.
“Not just for a campaign or a season. I’m going back to stay.”
Richard shifted. Francis stared at him.
John went on. “I don’t know if I’ll ever come back to England. And if I do, it won’t be for years.”
Francis leaned forward slightly. “You’re sure?”
John gave a small smile. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
“You’re still healing.”
“I’m well enough to travel. I’ve waited. Rested. I’ve made peace with the pain that’ll follow me the rest of my life.”
Alice looked at him quietly.
John met each of their eyes in turn. “I’m not asking anything of you. But I wanted to offer. If any of you wish to come with me… there’s room. There’s land. There’s work. A place to build something that matters.”
Richard raised a brow. “Something more exciting than grain ledgers and tax disputes?”
John grinned. “A little.”
Francis looked uncertain. “It’s dangerous still. No king’s court. No comfort.”
“No,” John agreed. “But there’s freedom. And I’ve already given too many years to men who sit behind walls.”
He turned toward Alice last.
She was quiet.
“Will you come?” he asked softly.
She didn’t answer right away. She stepped toward him instead and wrapped her arms around his middle, resting her head briefly against his chest.
“I’ll think on it,” she said. “But whether I follow or not—go. Find her.”
He hugged her back, tightly. “Thank you.”
When she stepped back, there were tears in her eyes—but she smiled.
Francis stood and offered his hand. “God go with you, brother.”
Richard rolled his eyes. “And if you get eaten by a bear, I’m keeping your books.”
John laughed. “Fair enough.”
And when everyone had departed he sat alone, gazing out the balcony windows.
He watched the moon rise over the city that no longer felt like home.
His satchel was packed. The necklace tucked carefully inside.
Tomorrow, he would leave.
He did not know what waited across the sea.
But he knew who.
And that was enough.

-----

The fog was lifting over the harbor. Men shouted as they loaded crates. Ropes creaked against the masts. The sea smelled of salt and smoke.
John adjusted the strap of his pack and turned to look one last time at the narrow, cobbled road that led back toward the city.
And there she was.
Alice.
Hair pinned, skirts hemmed slightly higher than fashion, travel cloak fastened at her throat.
She walked toward him without fanfare, jaw tight, eyes bright.
He blinked. “You’re here.”
“I told you I’d think on it.”
“And?”
“I’m not letting you disappear into the wilderness alone,” she said. “You’ll forget to sleep, eat nothing but dried venison, and likely attempt to wrestle a bear.”
He smiled. “I could win.”
“You’d try.”
He stepped forward and embraced her—tighter than he meant to.
“You’ll love the land,” he whispered. “It breathes different.”
She stepped back, grinning. “I’m counting on it.”
They boarded together.
And the ship began to pull from the shore.

--------

She was gathering water by the edge of the trees, woven basket at her side.
It had been an ordinary morning. The birds had begun singing before the sun rose. The village was quiet, a few children helping their mothers with early chores.
But then—it came.
The wind.
Not a breeze. Not a gust. But something deeper. A stirring that rolled through the leaves, whispering through the trees like a forgotten name.
She straightened slowly.
Her hair lifted around her face.
And she knew.
She didn’t know why. Or how. But she did.
She closed her eyes, breathing it in.
The wind smelled of salt. And smoke.
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
This time, it wasn’t for sorrow.
It was for something else.
He is coming.
She didn’t speak it aloud. She didn’t need to.
The wind already carried it.
She walked through the village with a different rhythm now—lighter, though her steps were no quicker. Her face was calm. Her shoulders less heavy. When she smiled, it lingered. When she stood still, her eyes flicked toward the east.
One day, Nakoma caught up with her near the drying racks. “Everyone sees it.”
Pocahontas looked at her. “Sees what?”
“You’re not restless anymore. You’re not walking the edge of something. You’re settled. It’s like… something is about to happen. Or has already.”
She didn’t answer. Not yet.
Later, at twilight, she sat beside her father as they finished their stew in silence.
“You are not drifting anymore,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
She stared at the flames between them.
“He’s coming,” she said.
Powhatan nodded once.
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She gave a soft, barely-there smile. “The wind told me.”
He didn’t question it. Just said, “Then the land will prepare to receive him.”

-----

John tightened the strap on his satchel; fingers tense with urgency. The ship had barely docked, yet every muscle in his body ached to run—not to the Governor’s Hall, not to the barracks—but inland.
To her.
Alice stood beside him on the weather-worn planks of the dock, arms folded, hair pulled tightly back as if to mask the emotion in her eyes. She had traveled far for him, and she knew—knew—he would not wait long now.
“You’re going, then,” she said.
“I have to.”
“I know,” she replied softly. “But just see that I have a place to stay before you vanish into the woods.”
He smiled, faint and crooked. “There’s a house up near the chapel. Ask for Mr. Leeds. He’s a decent man.”
She studied his face. “Are you sure she’s there?”
He nodded once. “I feel it. I know that is strange, but I just know it.”
“Then go,” Alice said. “But be careful. She may not be the only one waiting for you.”
He hesitated only a moment longer, then touched her shoulder in quiet thanks before setting off through the gates.

-----

The guards saw him first.
A shape emerging from the trees—not a shadow, not a threat, but a figure worn down by time and driven by something deeper than duty.
John Smith.
His boots were dusted in the red earth of the trail, his once-bright coat tied at the waist, his linen shirt open at the throat and sweat-damp at the collar.
The familiar gold hair was now darker with travel-grime, sun-lightened in places, but longer, curling against the nape of his neck. He walked with a slight limp, his left leg favoring caution over pride, but his broad shoulders were as straight as ever.
He raised one hand. Open-palmed. Peaceful.
“I come in peace,” he said to the men. “I seek Powhatan.”
Two of the guards exchanged a look. There was no alarm. Only stillness. And recognition.
One of them disappeared back into the village.
John waited. He did not push forward.
When Powhatan appeared, the crowd parted with reverence. He stepped forward with quiet power—aged more than John remembered, but no less commanding.
John bowed slightly—formal, stiff with old pain. “I come with respect,” he said. “I seek only a welcome, and a chance to speak.”
Powhatan studied him a long time. The last time this man had been before him, he had taken a musket ball that was not meant for him.
“I remember,” Powhatan said at last. “You did not have to do what you did.”
John's voice was steady. “I would do it again.”
A beat of silence passed. Then a nod. “Then you may enter.”
The guards stood aside.
And John stepped in.
The village had changed—more homes now, more people. But still the same scent of woodsmoke, river mist, pine and soil. The same sky stretched over them, wide and blue.
Children ran barefoot past the longhouses. Warriors leaned against carved poles, arms crossed. Women worked or tended open cooking fires. All movement slowed as they noticed him. Conversations paused and the whispers began.
Is that him?
The one who…?
But I thought he—
And then—
she looked up.
She had been kneeling near the water’s edge, just beyond the central clearing, rinsing maize in a wide woven basket while the younger girls chatted beside her. Her hair was half-braided in the fashion of planting season, the rest falling in loose waves down her back. She wore soft doeskin, and a mantle tied at one shoulder, beadwork gleaming faintly in the sunlight. Her bare feet pressed into the wet earth, her movements calm—until they weren’t.
A hush stirred the air.
She straightened. Her hands, still dripping, stilled above the basket.
She turned her head toward the sound near the gate.
And then she saw him.
Her breath caught.
John Smith
He looked different—more worn, somehow. His hair was longer, sun-bleached and wind-tangled. His clothes were rumpled from travel, and though he stood tall, there was something cautious in his posture. As if even breathing too loudly might break whatever moment this was.
But it was him.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t.
He saw her, too.
Even through the knot of people gathering near Powhatan—he saw her. Immediately. As if all the miles between them had not dulled a thing.
His gaze locked to hers like a lifeline. His chest lifted, then froze, as if afraid the next breath would wake him from this dream.
Around him, Powhatan was still speaking—welcoming, thanking, calling others forward—but John heard none of it.
His ears filled with the rush of the river and the pulse behind his ribs.
Pocahontas.
He couldn’t move.
Neither could she.
Not yet.
For now, they only looked—two figures suspended in silence while the world kept turning around them.
Powhatan followed John’s gaze. He turned slightly and saw her—saw what was happening. Not just a meeting of eyes.
Something more.
Something older. Something the wind itself might recognize.
The Chief raised a hand.
At his gesture, warriors stepped back. Elders drifted away. The crowd hushed.
Then, after a pause, Powhatan turned to John.
“Come,” he said.
And he led him—wordlessly—through the thinning path. Toward her.
She still hadn’t moved, but her fingers closed around the rim of her basket as if to ground herself.
John stepped forward, heart in his throat.
And as Powhatan drew aside, giving room with the silent blessing only a father could give—
They stood once again face to face.
Not across a river. Not across an ocean.
Only a breath between them.
Pocahontas didn’t remember taking the steps forward. She wasn’t sure if John had moved either.
And yet, neither spoke.
He looked at her as if he didn’t dare blink. As if the air between them would shatter into splinters if he did. Her eyes searched his face—taking in the sun-lined creases that hadn’t been there before and the stubble at his jaw. The way his hair hung just so near his eyes.
He did the same.
He saw the woman in her now. Not the girl who had once dived off cliffs and scolded him with a laughing gaze—but someone deeper. Wiser. Her features had sharpened slightly with age. But her eyes… her eyes were the same.
And they were looking at him like he might disappear.
Around them, the village kept breathing.
A child ran past them, laughing—chased by an older sibling. A basket of fish was carried between two young men, who cast glances and quiet words but did not interrupt. A dog trotted by, then circled back, sniffed John’s boots, and lost interest.
People moved around them like they were stones in a stream.
Still, neither reached.
John’s chest rose slowly as he tried to steady the storm inside him. His fingers flexed once at his side, as if fighting the instinct to reach out. But he didn’t.
Pocahontas’s mouth parted slightly, breath catching in her throat. Her hand twitched at her side, the memory of his touch as real as the wind on her skin.
They didn’t smile.
They couldn’t—not yet.
There was too much between them still. Not hurt. Not confusion.
History.
Time.
And something else. Something fragile.
The moment teetered.
She blinked, and a tear slipped free. Not sadness—something else. Relief. Or disbelief made real.
John's hand rose. Slowly. He didn’t touch her—just hovered near her cheek, palm open.
Pocahontas swayed closer, just enough for his fingers to brush the ends of her hair.
She closed her eyes. He let out a breath.
The silence broke—but not with words.
With the sound of drums.
A soft beat from the center of the village. Someone had begun the rhythm for the evening meal. A few others joined in—flutes, low humming voices. It wasn’t intentional, not for them. Just the rhythm of life moving again.
But it gave them a pause.
John lowered his hand. Pocahontas opened her eyes.
Still silent.
Just standing in the middle of the noise, the movement, the firelight, and the scent of the earth. Two people who had found their way back through time, across an ocean and grief, beyond the fear that this moment might never come.
It finally had.

-----

The sounds of the village stirred around them again—laughter by the cooking fires, a baby’s cry in the distance, the low thrum of drums keeping a heartbeat beneath it all.
Pocahontas tilted her head slightly, studying him. His eyes still hadn’t left her.
And then, softly—quiet enough that only he would hear—she asked, “Are you hungry?”
It wasn’t what he expected. He might’ve thought she’d say his name. Ask where he had been. Why it had taken so long.
But instead, she asked if he was hungry.
It hit him harder than any of the questions he’d prepared for.
A question wrapped in care.
As though no time had passed at all.
His lips parted, then curved into a grateful smile.
“Yes,” he said.
She nodded once and glanced toward the fire circle where food was already being laid out—roasted squash, smoked fish, stewed maize.
Pocahontas handed him a carved wooden bowl and accepted one for herself. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Together, they found a place near the outer curve of the gathering—not isolated, but far enough that their nearness became its own quiet world.
They sat beside one another, bowls warm in their hands, the steady hum of village life surrounding them.
John glanced at Pocahontas’s profile, the glow of the firelight touching her high cheekbones.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured, not yet looking away.
She gave a soft smile, eyes on her stew. “So are you.”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“Then don’t. Not yet.”
They ate in silence for a while, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
A boy darted behind John and nearly tripped over his heel. Pocahontas reached to steady him, her hand brushing his arm before the child squealed and ran off again. Her fingers lingered a moment longer on John’s sleeve.
“Your people have missed you,” she said. “My father speaks of you with respect.”
John smiled faintly. “I never stopped thinking of this place.”
“Of Jamestown?”
He turned to her then. “No. Of you, of this place.”
She held his gaze, her breath catching just once before she spoke again. “I never knew if you were alive.”
“I was. But not always well.” He shifted, wincing slightly. “It took longer to return than I hoped.”
“I understand.” Her voice softened. “Sometimes the path is not the one we want… but it brings us where we’re meant to be.”
“Do you regret waiting?”
She shook her head. “No. Even when I tried to move on… I couldn’t.”
His fingers brushed hers along the edge of the bowl. She didn’t pull away.
“I want to hear everything,” she said. “Where you’ve been. What you’ve seen. And I want to tell you about home. The planting and harvests, the summers you missed.”
He nodded slowly. “Will you walk with me after the meal?”
Pocahontas smiled, and for the first time it reached her eyes. “I hoped you’d ask.”

-----

The path curved beneath the canopy of trees, lit only by soft moonlight.
They walked side by side without touching, but their steps fell in rhythm. Occasionally, their arms brushed. He glanced over when she stepped around a low root; she turned slightly when he paused to adjust his gait, still cautious of the healing wound at his side.
John broke the silence first. “I’ll ask your father in the morning.”
She slowed, looking at him.
“For your hand,” he said, voice gentle. “I know I must return to Jamestown—my duty is still there—but I want it known, properly, that my heart belongs here. To you.”
Pocahontas didn’t speak right away.
Then, softly: “He will say yes.”
John looked at her, uncertain.
“He already has,” she added with a faint smile. “He just hasn’t told you yet.”
John let out a quiet laugh, part breath and part wonder. “You always did know things before anyone else.”
“I know you,” she said, and then, a beat later: “You’re different from when you left. But the part of you that matters hasn’t changed.”
They kept walking, slower now, their shoulders nearly brushing.
“I brought someone with me,” he said after a pause. “My sister. Alice.”
“You’ve never spoken of a sister.”
“She’s younger. The youngest. Brave in her own way. She insisted on coming with me, though she’s furious I left her behind this morning.”
Pocahontas smiled, glancing sideways at him. “She sounds like someone I’d like.”
“I think she’ll like you more.”
A soft breeze stirred the leaves overhead. She breathed deeply.
“I want you to stay,” she said, not turning toward him this time. “In every way. You don’t need to wait for a house to be built or permissions to be granted. Stay with me. You already have a place here.”
He stopped walking. She did too.
Their eyes met in the filtered moonlight, the air thick with everything they had lost and everything they were beginning.
“I don’t want to leave your side again,” he said.
“You don’t have to.”
She stepped closer, slowly, until her fingers found his hand. He turned his palm up, lacing their fingers together. Her other hand rested lightly at the base of his throat.
They stood like that for a long moment, wrapped in the hush of trees and the warmth of summer air.
Then he bent his head and kissed her.
It was soft at first. Familiar. Tasting of old memory and new beginning. Her lips moved gently against his, her hand rising to his cheek.
He deepened it only slightly—his fingers sliding to the small of her back, her body curving into his with trust, not urgency.
“I dreamed of this,” he murmured against her mouth.
“So did I.”
They kissed again. And again. Each one slower than the last.
He said her name between kisses—softly, like prayer, like promise.
“Pocahontas…”
Another kiss.
“Pocahontas.”
Again.
Each time he spoke it, it felt like his lungs could breathe a little deeper.
She answered with her touch—fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the hollow between shoulder and collarbone. Her body pressed to his, warm and alive, grounding him in the now.
The moss beneath them was cool, the forest dim with moonlight that filtered through the branches. When her legs brushed his, he gasped—more from the closeness than surprise. She shifted to ease him down but paused.
Her hand found his side, just above the waistband of his trousers.
“Your wound,” she whispered, lips barely parted, her breath trembling with care. “Are you—?”
“I’m all right.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her temple. “Truly.”
Her palm hovered there a moment longer. Then slowly, slowly, she let herself settle atop him.
Their limbs aligned like they had never been apart.
Her thigh draped over his hip. His hand smoothed the length of her spine. Her hair fell over both their faces, like a curtain drawn around the world.
He trailed kisses down her collarbone, lips parting as he tasted her there. Her breath hitched as he found the curve of her breast. Gently, he brought it to his mouth, unsure at first. But then—
Her fingers clenched softly in his hair.
A sigh left her lips.
Not pained. Not surprised. But aching.
“Yes…” she whispered, almost a breath.
He looked up, lips still at her skin, the sound awakening something inside him. A hunger to give, not take. He drew her again into his mouth, this time more sure, and her back arched beneath his hands.
She didn’t tell him what to do. Her body told him everything.
She moved with him, above him, beside him—tangling their limbs, exploring with fingers and kisses of her own.
She found that he gasped—truly gasped—when her lips sucked gently at his lower lip, her tongue brushing against it before she let it go. She did it again.
His hips shifted forward with a groan against her mouth.
“Pocahontas,” he breathed, like the name was the only anchor left to him.
She kissed his throat, his shoulder, then wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper.
He groaned again—this time quieter, like he didn’t want to lose the moment in sound.
“You feel…” he whispered, but words failed him.
“Say it,” she whispered back, brushing her nose along his. “I want to hear it.”
“You feel like… wonderful like I belong,” he said, eyes wide, as if stunned by the truth of it. “You always did.”
She held his face between her hands and kissed him again, slow and deep. “You always have,” she murmured, lips brushing his. “You never left me.”
They rocked together slowly, moving in a rhythm that built not just to climax, but to something fuller—joy. Her body opened for him completely. His held her reverently.
When he began to whisper again—her name, pieces of her in syllables and sighs—she whispered back:
“I love you.”
“I’m here.”
“You’re safe now.”
“Don’t stop.”
“Yes.”
Their foreheads touched. Her fingers laced into his. His thumb stroked her wrist. They were moving, still, but slower now—less drive, more devotion. Each motion was learned. Remembered.
And when they reached the peak—together—it was not a cry that broke from their lips…
It was her name from his mouth.
It was his name from hers.
Afterwards, they lay wrapped in one another beneath the canopy of trees, their clothes gathered in a soft pile nearby. Their bodies warm from love and the nearness of skin.
The forest had quieted for them.
John’s head rested on her chest now, ear over her heartbeat. One hand traced the length of her side, from shoulder to waist and back again—slowly, almost absently.
Pocahontas ran her fingers through his hair; her other hand curled lightly against the scar beneath his ribs. She touched it gently. He didn’t flinch.
“I worried,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I thought you were gone.”
“I was. But not from you.” His voice was low, quiet against her skin.
She didn’t speak again right away. Her eyes searched the treetops above them.
“You never gave this to anyone else?” she asked, softer than the wind.
He lifted his head slightly, met her eyes. “No,” he said without hesitation. “It’s always been you.”
She swallowed, brushing his cheek. “Even after everything?”
He turned into her palm. “Especially after everything.”
She smiled, but there was a fragility behind it.
He shifted, brushing a kiss to her collarbone. “Are you all right?”
“I am now,” she said. “But it still feels like a dream. I never gave myself to another. It was always you in my memory.”
John slowly kissed her mouth, savoring her bottom lip before whispering, “No more memories then.”
John lay flat on his back now, Pocahontas curled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin. His arm wrapped around her shoulder; her legs tangled with his. It felt natural—like no time had passed.
They didn’t speak at first.
Not out of discomfort.
But because silence had weight too—and they could feel everything in the space between their breaths.
Eventually, Pocahontas stirred.
“Your sister,” she said softly, “Alice. You said she came with you.”
He nodded, brushing his lips against her forehead. “She stayed behind at the fort. Likely furious with me for running off without her.”
“She’s welcome in the village. I’ll see to it.”
He smiled. “You’re not the same girl I met by the river.”
She looked up. “And you’re not the same man.”
He reached up, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb. “No,” he whispered. “But you still undo me.”
She kissed his jaw, then his neck—slow, unhurried.
“I want to stay like this,” she said. “For a while.”
“You won’t hear any argument from me.”
He held her tighter. The moss beneath them was damp now with night, but they were warm. Protected by the trees. By the moon. By the way their bodies had fit together like something sacred. Known. Returned.
And as she drifted toward sleep, her fingers curled in the strands of his hair, John whispered one more truth to the quiet:
“We will have many years left to make memories. I’m never leaving you again.”