So a few months ago, I promised my friend Kayla that I would write her a story for her birthday, and after enduring the painful atrocity that is "Pocahontas 2: Journey to a New World" on Bluray together, I decided to write her an alternate ending to the horrid sequel.

So here's what I've done! Originally it was only intended to be a oneshot, but now it's looking at around five or six chapters worth of material. Sophie is currently visiting me, and she's promised to help me come up with key plot ideas and twists, so luckily I have a guiding hand to make sure that everything goes well! If anyone has any suggestions, I'm open to them! :)

Enjoy. :) I hope the characters aren't too OOC; I haven't written them in so long, I'm a bit rusty!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Thanks for the reminder.

Shadows Cast

A Pocahontas fanfiction

By doodlegirll

.:Dedicated to Kayla:.

...oOo...

All things considered, things were going well.

Of course, the dress she wore was heavy, hard to maneuver, and held an unnatural feeling, however beautiful it was, and she found that she was still having a bit of a problem keeping her balance in the tight, high-heeled shoes that constantly pinched her feet. But she had managed to make it this far, and the King had promised to speak with her at the conclusion of the ball on the subject of stopping the armada against her people, so she decided that the night was going as well as could be expected.

Pocahontas curtsied gracefully to the man who had just completed a dance with her, and he bowed to her. She dared a glance across the room at John Rolfe, who smiled at her encouragingly as he danced with an older woman. Another gentleman approached her, and she accepted his invitation to dance despite the fact that she was growing increasingly dizzy from all the excitement and movement.

Forward, back, right, left. Forward, back, right, left. She mentally reminded herself. Don't mess up. Forward, back, right, left. You can do this.

Just as she stepped back from the gentleman that she had been dancing with, she was suddenly caught up by yet another man, who pulled her against him forcefully, holding tightly to her hands. Pungent breath assaulted her nose, and she recoiled as far as she could away from the revolting man that currently held her against her will as she remained in-step with him, refusing to allow him to think that he had caught her off guard.

"My, my, my," Ratcliffe crooned. "Don't you look lovely? I almost didn't recognize the real you in there. I do hope no one else does."

Pocahontas glared at him.

"I was going to say the same thing about you." She spat.

Swiftly she yanked her hand from his, and raised the heel of her shoe, bringing it down on his foot with a gratifying crunch. Ratcliffe gasped in pain, and released her. Seizing her only chance, Pocahontas quickly pushed away from him. Gathering her skirts, she retreated, as fast as was permissible, from the vile governor.

"It's a good thing Smith is dead." Ratcliffe called nonchalantly after her as she walked away. "Seeing how disloyal your heart is would undoubtedly kill him."

The cruel words hit their mark on her heart like the cut of a knife, and she whirled around to face Ratcliffe, a nasty grin on his face. She blinked away the tears that suddenly flooded her eyes, and as badly as she wanted to march right up to the man and slap the smug smile from his face, she knew that doing so would only create a scene, and would only hinder her in the effort of peace for her people.

She would not give this man the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt her, just as he had intended.

So instead, she stalked away, her heart hammering painfully in her chest.

She set her eyes on the window at the far end of the room, and walked towards it, smiling politely at those who nodded at her respectfully.

If only her people could see her now. What would they think? Would they be proud of her for standing up for them, for proving to the English King that they were a civilized people worthy of recognition and respect? What would they think of the dress she wore, the makeup Mrs. Jenkins had applied to her skin to make it appear lighter?

Or would they be repulsed at her swift transformation from the daughter of the great Chief Powhatan to a regular English citizen, acting as though she were one of them? Would they cast her away? Would they think that she was ashamed of them, that she had put them behind her as a part of her past, because she had paled her skin and donned the clothing of an Englishwoman? She had even cast aside her mother's necklace, allowing yet another part of her old life to be taken away from her.

And what would he think if he could see her now? Would he, too, be disappointed in her for giving in so easily? For allowing herself to become caught up within the revelries and formalities of the life he had scorned, of the life he had never wanted?

Deep in her heart, she was terrified that what Ratcliffe had said, however cruel, was true. John Smith had loved her as she was, not for who she could be, or could pretend to be, as the people at this ball loved her. They loved the idea of her: a savage princess taken from the forests and heathen ways of the New World and made into a shining, civilized, and graceful lady in English society. They did not know her as she truly was. They did not know her ways, her life, or the names of those she loved and held dear. And she doubted they cared.

Pocahontas shook her head and continued on her way towards the window.

She gazed out through the panes of glass into the garden below, wishing that there were lighting so that she could see the immenseness of it all, as well as the beauty she knew it held. It was so peaceful, there away from the stuffiness of the ballroom, and she longed to be with it, the grass between her toes and the fresh air tousling her raven hair, now done up in curls and held in place with more pins than she could count.

As she continued to take in the scene below her, something in her peripheral vision caught her attention.

Her eyes were drawn to the wall that surrounded the palace, where a shadowed figure huddled in the darkness. The figure stood as still as a stone for many moments, until finally it turned and walked away, towards the other side of garden. Even from a distance, Pocahontas could see that it was a man, tall and muscular, despite being concealed beneath a billowing cloak.

She squinted her eyes and moved to step closer to the window when she felt someone reach out and lightly touch her elbow. She gasped and spun around to find John Rolfe smiling at her.

"Sorry." He said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, it's alright." Pocahontas said, turning back to face the window. "Did you see that?"

"See what?" Rolfe asked, frowning.

"There was a man down there, in the garden." Pocahontas said. "By the wall. I couldn't see his face."

Rolfe pressed his face against the glass, bringing up a hand to aid in blocking out some of the light that provided a glare, and looked intently below for several seconds before stepping back and shaking his head.

"I don't see anyone." He said.

"But he was there, just now!" Pocahontas insisted. "He was hesitating by the back wall, and then he walked off, towards the other end of the garden. I'm sure he was there!"

"It was probably just a guard, making his rounds." Rolfe assured her. "Think nothing of it, Pocahontas."

"But – "

Just as she opened her mouth to protest, the sound of a bell being run interrupted her, followed by the bellowing call of one of the servants.

"Dinner is served!"

Rolfe smiled at her, and held out his arm. "Well, shall we?" He said, gesturing towards the majestic doorway that would lead them into the dining area. "The Hunt Ball has the grandest feast of any other. I also hear that the King has arranged for there to be entertainment while we eat…"

Pocahontas said nothing, and took his arm, allowing him to lead her along with the other throngs of people, and she tried to smile as he continued to prattle on, the stranger in the garden momentarily forgotten. He led her towards the long table piled high with strange and curious foods that Pocahontas had never seen before, let alone tasted, and Rolfe pulled out a chair for her to sit. She smiled gratefully at him as she went to sit, but an attendant quickly rushed to stop her.

"Oh, no, my dear." He said. "You are a guest of the King. Guests such as you always sit at the King's right hand."

Confused, Pocahontas looked to Rolfe for an answer. He gestured for her to follow the attendant, who led her to the seat on the right side of the King. He pulled the chair back as Rolfe had, and she sat. King James spoke with an man dressed elaborately in puffy clothes directly across from her, the fabric dyed shades of purple that Pocahontas had never known. Queen Ann, seated next to the King, smiled at her kindly. As she glanced around the rest of the room, she noticed that Ratcliffe had seated himself only a few chairs down from her adjacent side, and he was looking directly at her, a spiteful grin on his face. Pocahontas quickly averted her eyes, unable to stand the thought of enduring another moment with the repulsive governor that had caused her such grief, despite his being much too close for comfort. Her stomach twisted, and she suddenly became very aware of the corset that pinched her ribs, and how suffocating it was beginning to feel.

After everyone had settled themselves into their seats, the King stood.

"Welcome, welcome, and thank you all for attending!" He said, his voice echoing through the room as the guests quieted. "Please, enjoy the feast!" He sat himself back into his chair and the chatter from around the room started up again.

Pocahontas looked down at the bowl that had been set before her, and picked up the spoon. The bundle of nerves that she had thought she had gotten under some sort of control again began to make themselves known, and she silently prayed to the Great Spirit that she made it through the rest of the night.

The King turned to look at her, reaching out to pat her hand gently.

"And how has your night fared, my dear?" He asked her. "I do hope you are enjoying the ball! You seemed to be quite popular among the other guests. Where did you learn to dance with such precision?"

"John Rolfe taught me." Pocahontas answered honestly.

The King raised an eyebrow, and she swallowed, wondering for a moment if she had said the right thing.

"You were an absolute natural! Perhaps there is much that your people can learn about the ways of my kingdom, don't you agree?" The King said, grinning widely at the nobleman at his side, who nodded in agreement.

Pocahontas gritted her teeth, clenching her spoon tightly in her hand. She smiled stiffly, despite the rage that boiled deep in her chest for the bigoted way the King had spoken of her people, trying to desperately to hold onto the ropes of her composition that were one-by-one beginning to slip from her grasp.

Remember that he only knows what he has been told. She reminded herself patiently. Show him that there is much that can be learned from you as well.

"Your Majesty," she spoke slowly, so as to allow her anger to abate before she continued. "There is much to discuss about—"

"All in due time, my dear!" The King said as he took a long sip from the goblet of wine before him. "I promised to speak with you about the armada at the conclusion of the ball, did I not?"

Pocahontas opened her mouth to respond, but the King continued on.

"Yes, yes I did, and I assure you I am a man of my word. For now, enjoy the feast! The roasted duck is to die for."

At that moment, Ratcliffe appeared at the King's side, his hands behind his back casually as he addressed the King.

"Your Majesty," he said. "I have been told that the dinner entertainment has arrived."

"Ah, yes, wonderful!" King James said gleefully as he took yet another drink of wine. "Do send them in!"

Ratcliffe bowed as well as he could with his round belly, and he looked pointedly at Pocahontas, who glared at him contemptuously.

"I believe you'll enjoy tonight's entertainment, my dear." He said, his voice sickly sweet and calm. "Haven't you ever heard of a bear baiting? It is absolutely to—"

Before Ratcliffe could finish, or before Pocahontas could inquire as to what, exactly, a bear baiting was, there was a sudden BANG as the doors at the other end of the dining room were thrown open, the heavy wooden doors banging and bouncing off the walls as they made contact. Three guards came hurrying inside, two of them supporting a fourth figure between them, holding tightly to his upper arms as they pulled him forward, his feet dragging on the marble floor.

Pocahontas suppressed a gasp. It was the man from the garden! He was still dressed in his long, dark grey cloak, and she couldn't see any distinguishing features, but she was certain it was the same man she had seen not an hour before. The guards stopped as they neared the King, and the figure slumped between them, his knees to the floor.

"What is the meaning of this?!" King James demanded, his face red and puffy with anger. "How dare you interrupt the Hunt Ball feast in such a manner as this!"

"Forgive us, Your Majesty." The third guard not holding the cloaked figure said, bowing respectfully. "But we found this man sneaking around in the hallways of the palace, and when we spotted him he gave chase. It appears that he climbed the outer wall and gained access there."

"A common thief, no doubt." Ratcliffe guessed, rolling his eyes.

"You know that you're to take any apprehended suspects to the prisons upon arrest!" The King said, his voice biting.

"Yes, Your Majesty." The third guard agreed. "But we believe that he is much more than he seems. We decided it best that you see this."

The third guard walked forward towards the man that knelt, unmoving, between his comrades, and grasped the hood that covered his face. With a swift flick of his wrist, he removed the hood of the cloak, and there was a collective gasp throughout the room as the identity of the prisoner was finally revealed.

Pocahontas felt her stomach drop to the floor, her heart hammering so loudly in her chest that she was almost positive everyone else in the room could hear it as she stared at the prisoner hanging unconscious between his captors.

It was John Smith.