Disclaimer: I do not own the film, Pocahontas, characters, places, etc. Disney owns the storyline, and the characters—the historical ones, rather—belong to themselves. I'm not making any money off of this, as if I could for a oneshot. These disclaimers are getting rather tiresome, though.

Summary: He had followed her back to the New World, back to a world he never believed he would see again. He had followed her, because, somewhere deep inside of himself, he longed for that unbridled spirit of adventure too. Pocahontas/John Rolfe

Winter Moon

Jamestown, Virginia

December, 1610

She had been his sole reason in returning to Virginia.

For if he were to truly consider it, he never would have set foot upon a land as ancient and as foreign as the Icelandic myths he'd studied in childhood, compared to a world he had known since birth, which was as familiar to him as the back of his hands. He hadn't expected to ever return to what his countrymen had deemed the 'New World,' unless by the interminable will of his lord and king for a diplomatic mission. He hadn't expected to return, at all—not upon his voyage to convince the great war chief Powhatan to return with him to Greater Britain, and hold an audience with his king on the matter of peace between their people. He hadn't expected anything after peace—and he firmly believed it would be achieved at that time—had been made between the two leaders, since he was, after all, only a diplomat whose sole duty to king and country would be accomplished.

But then, he hadn't expected to fall in love along the way.

He certainly hadn't expected that he would fall under the spell of a defiant chieftain's daughter; but he had, ultimately, even though he had originally passed it off as his exasperation over her rebuffing his attempt to prevent a skirmish between her people and his. Her cool manner and outspoken tone lent her an independent strength that he had never before seen—something in which he secretly longed to have himself.

For as one born to a family with land and wealth, he had long followed the rules indoctrinated by those ordained by God. He never questioned their royal authority. Nor did he feel any injustice done on those under their rule. He had believed the monarchy wise and fair, gracious and just. He recalled the rule of Elizabeth Tudor, and how their simple island nation prospered under her long and enduring reign, which had faced down a Spanish armada and the constant threat of takeover from foreign countries whose Catholic ties to Rome would compromise a nascent Protestant England. Elizabeth, however, had managed to outmanoeuvre both fronts, the throne and church remaining in English hands.

The Tudor Dynasty was now but a shadow of a fond memory for those who grieved a beloved virgin queen, since the Stuart family had ascended the throne under the Scots' very own King James. The transition from one dynasty to another had not been met completely without difficulty, since plots and conspiracies had already compromised the monarchy, one in which nearly succeeding with both king and parliament going out in a bang.

Those who were involved in the plot were arrested and tortured, as was duly decreed by an angered King James. And yet, the Golden Age indoctrinated by an insightful Queen Elizabeth had transcended across the ocean and beyond. Rolfe had never been one for royal intrigue, although as a diplomat in service to the Crown, he felt himself honour bound to uphold the will of the monarchy. He never allowed himself to do otherwise; serving the those in power had been a proud duty maintained by his ancestors, as it had been his.

However, things had changed since his mission in returning to England with the Indians' Chief Powhatan. He had finally seen the true face of his beloved monarch whose disinterest in meeting with a princess who represented her people marked him as the callous, narrow-minded man he was. Rolfe has instantly taken exception to the king's decision in holding a private meeting in so public an atmosphere as the Hunt Ball.

His impression of King James had been tarnished, as he now found James to be impulsive, haughty, and arrogant; for the man lacked the charm of his predecessor and the allure of his mother, although he held a fairly scholarly intelligence among his contemporaries.

Nevertheless, the esteem Rolfe once held for his monarch had fallen away to disenchantment. James was not the king he had once so highly regarded as the custodian of Greater Britain, but a scrawny little man whose self-pleasures far outweighed the welfare of his country. He had been thoroughly disgusted by the king's treatment of a visiting princess as the great Pocahontas, who exuded far more maturity in her handling the concerns of her people than James could lift in a single finger, and Rolfe could not help but admire her defiance of the English king, as she deemed those surrounding her barbarians, since their cruelty in baiting a hapless creature—even if it had been a bear—struck a strong cord in the Indian princess.

He then recalled when she took down her hair from its jewel-encrusted confines and washed the powder from her face. How he imagined her more beautiful in that gown than in her deerskin dress had been a completely foolish notion, since he saw the true Pocahontas without the garish silks and false finery his barbaric society dictated that she wear. That wild dark hair should never have been bound, he belatedly discovered, as the wind enhanced the power it so naturally emanated, personifying it. He had felt his heart quaver at the sight of it when she returned after her silent deliberation in the forest, as he then knew her decision, just as he knew he would stand with her against his own king, even if he lost his head for it.

His allegiance to James no longer mattered, nor his duties thereof. He had ultimately changed tactics, his natural affinity to diplomacy changing course in the best interests for all. For as a native princess fought for her people, he had learned that loyalty to a king—even a good one—was second to the well-being of others. He had learned as much, from her.

And he had been grateful, since she taught him that he alone chose where his path went. He had even become lord advisor to the royal court, a short-lived position, certainly, but one he had ultimately denied in the interest of something more important.

His refusal to accept James' offer had taken the king by surprise, although James allowed him to return to Virginia, oddly enough, with his blessing. He recalled the queen's faint smile upon learning of his decision, since she, in spite of her husband's ignorance, knew exactly why he wished to return to a land where title and position meant precious little to the inhabitants living beyond Jamestown.

He barely had time to pack a few of his things before the ship set sail that evening. He'd only left a note for Mrs. Jenkins, trusting she would see it after he was gone. He honestly didn't expect to return anytime soon, since he planned to remain, half a world away.

And yet, as he considered all that had transpired in that short amount of time, Rolfe realised his error in not speaking to Pocahontas after Smith's wonderful news of charting some unknown course with her at his side, but he had only decided to board ship a few precious hours before it set sail. For in that time, he had heard of Smith's sailing to the far end of the world, whereas Pocahontas was still bound to return to her people.

The news of their separation had been a terrible shock to him, since Rolfe knew of the great love once shared between the two; he had felt it when they had found refuge in an abandoned cottage, had seen it when Smith told her of the king's generous gift of a ship and his freedom to sail anywhere he wanted. He had seen them embrace, and realised, to his dismay, how perfect they were together.

Whereas he…had been in the way, an unwanted interloper, who should never have been there in the first place. It was for this reason alone that he'd distanced himself from her, knowing that his presence would only bring forth more confusion and heartache since both would remember that almost-kiss at the Hunt Ball. It had embarrassed him to even think of how that reckless impulse had affected her, when she finally realised that Smith was still alive and waiting to be reunited with her all along. Rolfe hadn't the heart to subject her to his presence a moment longer, although it nearly grieved his heart when he kept himself at the king's palace, deeply immersed in his newly-appointed rôle as a confidant of the king.

He almost doubted that she had even noticed his absence…until he saw the look in her eyes when he had revealed himself on the ship. He remembered her smile and the light that danced in her eyes and face as he took her into his arms and held her close. It was then when he revealed his intent of staying with her, his awarded position as a royal advisor cast aside for the woman whom he held in his arms…as the kiss…

It had been everything he had imagined and so much more.

For even before they had arrived in London, he had wondered, if in passing, what it would be like to kiss that blunt, bold mouth. Would it taste bitter or sweet? Cold to the touch, or would it consume him in a raging inferno? He'd kissed women in the past—always discreetly and never in public, of course—and yet he'd never been more taken by the idea until he'd crossed paths with an independent Indian princess.

He had originally found her intolerable. She had all but claimed that he lacked manners, before thoroughly wounding his gentlemanly pride with a cold reprimand, that dark, discerning look criticising him for taking control over what she believed her authority. He had thought her impossible. Whereas she, had certainly believed him arrogant beyond measure. Initially, they had disliked one another from the beginning.

But then the dynamic shifted, a truce finally reached when he found himself defending her against his own kind. It had been second nature to him to stand up against the captain of a ship in the name of a lady's honour. He hadn't lied when he said that he had been honour bound to protect her; he had taken that duty upon himself, no matter the imposing bodyguard her father sent in his stead.

Uttamatomakkin had been a formidable man whose profound distrust of the palefaces was apparent in the unrelenting scowl he wore. Rolfe would be lying to himself if he said that he had not been intimidated by the warrior; he had been thoroughly disquieted, most especially when the man cut a deep sliver in the large stick he'd brought on the journey to London with his knife. Rolfe hadn't questioned the warrior for the rest of the journey. But then, nor had he the princess he was sworn to protect.

In the month that they had sailed toward England, Rolfe had constantly found himself at odds with the princess. Granted, they had made something of an unspoken truce, the conflict he had with her was more of an internal one. He had gotten to know her, learned of her culture, as a she taught him some of her language and history. He had been intrigued by their first discussion, captivated by the beauty she put forth into her words. She spoke with meaning, she spoke with passion. He'd never before heard anyone speak with so much emphasis behind anything, since most of those in his acquaintance spoke in pretence and never with sincerity.

The Indian princess, however, had been different, and it disheartened him, since those disarming qualities she so naturally embraced conflicted everything he'd known and believed important terribly. He'd barely grasped what it was that he felt for her, exactly. Curiosity about her culture, yes. A genuine interest in her own person, certainly. But he'd never considered it more than that until she stayed with him at his home in London.

Mrs. Jenkins had instantly befriended her, just as he believed his housekeeper would. He'd had little doubt that she would be warmly welcomed by those in his own home; however, he'd had his reservations for the rest of London. He was not so foolish, as to believe that his own countrymen would find her to be the same entrancing creature he saw her as, but an anomaly to be treated with suspicion and caution. At best, she would be a curiosity to them, since many were already engaged by the dramatic Moorish caricatures found in Shakespeare and Marlowe's plays. At worst…He dared not imagine, even now, the outcome, since fear and prejudice of the unknown had always been a defining, flawed feature among those in civilised society.

The bearbaiting incident at James' court had only proven as much, since an alleged savage princess revealed the true savagery among those who were deemed the very pinnacle of civility and good form. She had unveiled their ugliness, tearing away the powdered masks and caked rouge and thus showing the hideous truth to a very affronted court. And shamefully enough, he had been among them, since he, never once, spoke out against the cruelty which she so aptly defined as she came to the aid of a creature who welcomed her care.

He recalled his silently commending her for her defiance against his king, even though such was treasonous, and would no less stand to warrant his own head, should James had known exactly what Rolfe had thought of him then. It mattered not, since he no longer cared whether or not the king thought him a traitor. All esteem he had once had for his sovereign had dissipated with James' sickening act of arrogance in detaining a visiting princess from a faraway land. He had been all too willing to defy both king and country, if only to free her from the unjust confines of his savage country. It had been a mercy that Smith prompted him into action, since he hadn't the slightest in how to save her from the cruel fate of a beheading.

At the time, however, he hadn't known of Smith's association with Pocahontas—not the depth of its intimacy, at any rate—since he only knew that Smith had been in Virginia during the establishment of Jamestown and that the captain had somehow had been shot during an altercation between the Powhatan tribe and settlers. Rolfe knew little else regarding the man, other than the fact that Smith was supposed to have been dead. But then, he had realised the truth of Smith's relationship with Pocahontas, all too clearly.

He hadn't expected her to embrace him, though the feeling of her in his arms warmed him beyond measure. For when he held her for that brief moment, he felt an infinite sense of peace overcome him. For once in his modelled, dull, blunted life, he finally felt whole, complete in the knowledge that the one he held mattered to him, and that he would do anything in his power to protect her, even if it meant the forfeit of his life. It was for this reason alone that he reluctantly let her go, since the guards would only be detained by Smith for so long. He could not afford to risk her life, nor could he allow himself the pleasure of holding her whilst the world came crashing down around them.

He recalled taking her by the hand, hers gently squeezing his in the assurance that she would follow him. He recalled smiling at her trust in him; and, for a moment, he had almost believed everything would turn out well…until Smith appeared in the threshold of the prison cell and revealed himself.

It pained him even now to remember the reunion, where he had been forced into the rôle of the observer who watched in pained silence two lovers who had been torn apart by fate. The sight of them together, when they had sought refuge in an abandoned cottage, made him physically ill. He'd even dropped the rake he held, the shock of Smith taking her into his arms—far more intimate than the way he had held her in the Tower—as he proclaimed their finally being together again almost too much to bear, since he understood, in that moment, the pain of a broken heart.

Mending it, however, had to come at a later time, since his concern, as well as Pocahontas', was the armada. He had been vaguely surprised that she hadn't stayed in Smith's arms longer, although the thought of her people in peril proved her willingness to place those whom she loved and cared for above herself, even to the point of sacrificing her life. Smith hadn't understood that, since he could only think of her safety.

Rolfe recalled how he and Smith argued over Pocahontas' choices until she ended the confrontation by running out of the cottage. It had taken everything Rolfe had not to follow her, when she disappeared into the forest, although detaining Smith had been enough to keep him back. He still could not believe how that man claimed how he didn't care for Pocahontas' safety. He had forced himself to refrain from knocking the captain over the head with the hilt of his sword. And yet, by an ironic twist of fate, it had been Smith who acknowledged what he had not—not even to himself.

For if anything, Smith has been apt in his assessment of Rolfe loving the charge he had, at first, reluctantly found himself obliged to protect. For over the course of their time together, he had, somehow, fallen completely in love with the Indian chief's daughter. And, in a way, he could finally understand why his rival had been taken by her so; he himself had fallen into her alluring trap, her unassuming innocence so unlike any of the treachery and lies that composed the better half his society.

It had been this innocence, combined with a driving need to ensure her safety, that he openly defied his king. He no longer cared about what impression it would make, let alone causing a scandal for his family. None of that had mattered—not when he finally realised the plight of a people who were far more civilised and in need of his help, than his sovereign's need for more land and wealth. It still disgusted him in how James desired a fanciful mound of gold that the king believed to be his natural right to have. He actually feared that James, along with his successors, would want more than the little scrap of land they had carved out for Jamestown. What if their interest in the New World went beyond that?

He recalled when Pocahontas once told him that Smith had even said as much, in expanding the settlement, and how the settlers would teach her people to make the most of their land and build proper homes. She had laughed at his presumptuous views, and related how she had claimed him to be the ignorant savage. Rolfe had joined in her laughter, since he knew that she had viewed him quite similarly, upon their first meeting.

Their tumultuous relationship, however, had soon abated as they began to understand how similar they truly were. Both wanted what was in the best interests of peace among their own people, as both strove to ensure it. Even now, after almost a year after their return to Virginia, they still attempted to bridge the two worlds—both new and old—and prove that everyone, no matter how different their culture or the colour of their skin, were still the same, human in every way imaginable.

Their relationship only proved how deeply intertwined and connected such could be. Most settlers had viewed his love for an Indian princess with scepticism, since good, Christian Englishmen did not intermarry with savage foreigners, who they believed did not share the same God.

As his upcoming marriage to her…bordered on betrayal, doubtlessly amoral, and undeniably heretical among those whose tender sensibilities remained fixed upon their Old World standards. If he had been Catholic, he probably would have been burned at the stake, or suffered under the benevolent mercy of the Inquisition. God save Queen Elizabeth, who had put an end to her sister's bloody reign of terror. He doubted any would forget the burning of many faithful Protestants, just as he doubted that his countrymen would soon forget the allure of the New World.

Though even more to the surprise of all, was his decision in remaining with Pocahontas' tribe, instead of living among those in more civilised climes.

It had not been easy to join her father's tribe, even though Chief Powhatan knew of Rolfe's regard for his daughter. Either way, he was only another pale face to them. Rolfe also knew that Powhatan, upon learning of Smith's having survived and coming to Pocahontas' aid, favoured the captain who had once saved his life. John Smith was a respected figure among the tribe; and Rolfe knew, if secretly, that the chief himself preferred his daughter with such an admirable and devoted man. His efforts in protecting her and maintaining peace paled poorly in comparison to everything Smith had done. For in the eleven months of his staying in Virginia, had he also found that the legend of John Smith lived on. Pocahontas, however, rarely spoke of the captain, since she knew Smith was always a subject he was hesitant to discuss.

But then, many among the warriors had done enough in that regard, as they compared him to Smith and found him wanting. Most, including Chief Powhatan, had not liked him upon his arrival, although he found himself earning their respect, however grudgingly, when they learned of his defence of their tribe against Ratcliffe and the armada, as well as protecting Pocahontas. And yet, to his dismay, they had also learned of Smith's saving her in the Tower.

Many had questioned Pocahontas of it, and she told them, although her tone was always subdued, carrying a hint of sadness whenever she spoke of the captain. He'd heard the tale around the campfire often enough, although very few asked him to contribute to the tale, even though he had also been there. No one wanted to know his part in it; he had merely been there to save her as well, after all. Smith had received all of the credit, and it pained him. And yet, it was always Pocahontas who told her people of how he, John Rolfe, not John Smith, stood by her side when she faced the King of England and, in no uncertain terms, remained with her as she told the monarch of Ratcliffe's lies. She had even told them of how he bravely fought off the Tower's guards, and how he openly defied the pale chief who he once served.

Powhatan had accepted the English diplomat into the tribe after that, and thus allowed Rolfe to seek his daughter's hand. He had even been given a new name—one that most had difficulty in pronouncing, including himself, at first—although it translated to his eye colour. Strange Eyes, they would call him, since their hazel colour would shift from green to brown to gold by turns. They had noticed the natural, almost foreign, anomaly by the change of his moods or by whatever he wore. Some were even frightened by their change, strange and mercurial as they inherently were, when he set his gaze upon them.

He had never been fully accepted into the tribe, and he doubted he ever would be. Even the settlers now treated him differently, as if he were no longer part of their kind. He shook his head in silent dismay, knowing that he would never be accepted into either society completely; he'd become too much of both, integrated beyond all recognition, a hybrid.

He had even attempted to wear the deerskin garments the warriors wore once, but then found himself retreating to his more civilised clothing, when many among the tribe repudiated him over the attempt to become one of them. Powhatan had frowned upon the warriors' behaviour, and Pocahontas admonished them as she took Rolfe by the arm and told him that she loved him, no matter what he wore. She had even given him a necklace she had made, which he proudly wore, its earthen-brown beads strikingly contrasting against his pale skin.

He wore them even now, his fingers considering their cold, circular ends thoughtfully as he walked beyond the edge of the forest, lost in thought. He'd been walking for hours, although it felt like mere moments, fractions of seconds that had been engulfed in the deep, unending precipice of his thoughts. He even doubted that anyone noticed his absence, considering that he shared his wigwam with no one. Until their marriage, Pocahontas would remain with her father—a declaration he'd imposed by himself, and one, he was sure, that made Powhatan happy.

A sigh escaped from him, and his head fell forward in resignation. They were to marry in a fortnight, though already he felt himself having doubts. In all actuality, his betrothed outranked him, despite his highborn status. And yet, he'd nonetheless fallen for one who encompassed the whole of his heart, no matter his being a paleface commoner to a great and mighty princess. He'd been utterly captivated by her, entranced by that long dark hair and those insightful obsidian eyes, as she affected him in ways he could scarcely admit, even to himself.

He then recalled Ratcliffe's question on where his loyalties lay: with his once-beloved monarch and king, to whom he had pledged fealty, or with a savage princess and her people. He could not have given an answer to the former governor then, though now…he knew exactly where they lay, and he would never again question them. For in spite of everything, he knew that those in the village needed him, as he would do everything in his power to protect them, as well as the one who had shown him that love and peace could live between his world and hers.

Already, he'd managed to help secure a peace treaty among the settlers and the neighbouring tribes. It wasn't perfect, but he prayed it would be enough to end the enmity among them.

From the settlement, he corresponded with those who sent his letters to James' advisors, as he, in turn, received word from them and the king on the welfare of Jamestown and those beyond it. And, as was his diplomatic duty, he related everything to Powhatan and his great council. He spoke of the king's intention to expand the settlement, sparing no details, even though it troubled the chief immensely. It troubled him, as well, since he knew that the little sliver of land James' had claimed would not be enough. It would never be enough. No matter the work of a thousand diplomats, the interest in the New World could not be put asunder.

In truth, he almost dreaded the future, since it would inevitably cause a powerful impact upon the tribes. He also knew that Pocahontas and her father, as well as the neighbouring chiefs, feared it, as well. Best blame yourself over it again, Rolfe, he thought quietly to himself. You've been blaming yourself for months over that wretched man's greed.

He made face, knowing it was high treason to think of his king in such a way; but strangely, he no longer cared. In a way, it was as if his ties to his homeland had been stretched beyond their bounds, his association with the king nearly severed by the vast distance that separated them. He knew that James himself would never see the New World, but that would not prevent those under him from coming and claiming a land that did not belong to them in his name. Rolfe himself could have also benefited well under James' good graces; but he had chosen a much different path, compared to his contemporaries, as he was now living in a small hut, under the good graces of his future father-in-law, all of his possessions residing within the small enclosure.

His new home was a far cry from his townhouse in London, certainly. And yet, he couldn't be happier with his present accommodations. He faintly smiled at the thought of Mrs. Jenkins tending to the wigwam, a tea tray and finger sandwiches in hand. She would assuredly please some of the women with her courtesies; she had even won over the impenetrable Uttamatomakkin—no small feat within itself, surely—with her hospitality.

Rolfe was almost surprised that the warrior had remained in London with her, Uttamatomakkin's penchant for bright clothing contradicting his intimidating demeanour. Though surprisingly, accordingly to one of Mrs. Jenkins' letters, the man had also captivated many ladies at court. Rolfe had already seen a hint of their intrigue, when he'd managed to lead Pocahontas away from the throng of court admirers, their fleeting attention resting solely upon a foreigner who had kindly relieved the court announcer of his jacket—a garishly pink ensemble, much too small for a man as great a stature as Uttamatomakkin. But then, the colour suited him immensely, Rolfe thought quietly to himself, and he smiled.

In a way, he missed the man's company, even if the warrior had been impressively silent for the most part. Rolfe could half-attest that at least one out of Powhatan's tribe approved of his relationship with Pocahontas. For there were times, when in their company, that he felt out of place, unwelcome. He attempted to speak their language, albeit brokenly, and would sometimes be ignored—mainly by the warriors.

He recalled being called a paleface woman by them on occasion, his poor marksmanship with a bow and arrow encouraging their mockery. However, his proficiency in firearms halted their laughter, when they saw how deadly his aim could be. His knowledge of the sword quelled their bitter contempt of him, as he was no longer a subject of their ridicule. He still hadn't gained their admiration—respect, certainly—but he was no longer deemed effeminate, either, which pleased him immensely.

As such, he continued in his English traditions, yet allowing himself to take in a few of their customs. He enjoyed the tribal elders' stories, as well as appreciated their wise council. He also found their dances—some in which would prove quite scandalous among British society—rather engaging, as he revelled in Pocahontas' instruction, their close proximity far more pleasurable than the stilted, distanced dances that had been ingrained in him as a boy. He loved the liberation he felt with her, that free spirit she invoked in him showing him that he could be more than what he believed of himself.

Nevertheless, he maintained that he always acknowledge the women with a tip of his hat, his shoulder-length hair never faltering in his gesture as it remained bound by a leather strap. He never left it undone in their presence, although Pocahontas had seen it, and surprisingly complimented it as she ran her fine, graceful fingers through its ruddy strands. She always found herself amazed by its rough thickness, marvelling at its strange coppery-brown colour, though it was his eyes that intrigued her most.

Again, he thought of the new name he had been given by the wise Kekata, and immediately discounted it. His eyes were unlike any in his family, certainly, since most in the Rolfe family either had green or brown eyes. He didn't even have the pleasure of inheriting either colour from his parents, since his were more so a combination of both. He vaguely remembered his mother's green eyes, his father's dark-brown ones, and how constant theirs had been, whereas his changed colour like the tide, a muddy, greenish hue that inspired nothing but a lacklustre interest in those who took the time in looking at them.

His eyes were perhaps why very few took him seriously, since he did not have a pair of vivid, insightful blue, which most in his country had, nor did he have the intense dark ones of his beloved. In essence, they personified his inability to belong anywhere, although he did once, perhaps, assign himself to the great empire that still encompassed his life, even half a world away.

In this regard, he almost envied Smith, who had little connection with England, and could go anywhere he pleased, that carefree gaze of endless blue absolving any tension that the captain might have inspired in his sovereign. So unlike myself, who can barely gain the king's attention, he considered bitterly. It probably was his eyes, after all.

And yet, Pocahontas loved them, and that, he resolved, was enough—damn the king and all others who said or believed otherwise.

With this thought, he continued walking. He had no destination; he knew not where he even was. He'd never travelled this far into the forest; for even with Pocahontas, who showed him a wealth of beauty that he'd never before imagined, even in the many atlases he'd poured over as a boy, could he dare envision the wild, untamed splendour of the New World, let alone how lost he truly was at that moment. Perhaps in more ways than one.

He looked down to the ground in silence, the cold earth underneath him covered in a blanket of pure white snow. In the moonlight, it had garnered an almost heavenly blue tinge to it, making it all the more intriguing, since snow in the streets of London often acquired a dirty, sodden colour from its many inhabitants. He shook his head in silent wonder. The snows in London were nothing, compared to the pristine beauty he presently saw, just as the sight of it made him realise that he didn't regret leaving everything he knew and understood to be by the side of his beloved.

He would be lying if he were to say that he didn't miss England. He did. Though it was more so his home and Mrs. Jenkins than anything else. He did not miss the royal court and its palace intrigue. Nor did he miss all of the propriety and his need in keeping up appearances as he had invariably done with the king. With Pocahontas, he could be himself, without all of the clever farce and pretence, although he still retained being the perfect gentleman. He doubted that even she could break him of that unalienable fact.

For ever the gentleman, he always allowed her to enter a home or shop first, whenever they visited Jamestown, or even one of the homes in the village. He never allowed to carry more than she could bear, insisting on helping her, as well as the others, when the fall harvest came in. He ignored her frustration, as he secretly delighted in her anger. He found her as lovely because of it.

Though more often than not, they were happy with each other, perfectly attuned as they shared something that few seldom find.

He'd even confessed his error in giving her the horse instead of her father. She'd laughed, finding humour in his mistaking her for a mighty chief. He had also shared in her laughter, since his error was, in point of fact, amusing. There were other moments when they laughed so, other moments when both were lost in the other's gaze, moments when they kissed.

Closing his eyes, the hand which thoughtfully caressed the necklace fell to his side. He would do anything she asked of him; he even had a gift that he'd initially planned to give her this night, for it was a small sacrifice on his part, since he knew it would make her happy. She was to take him to meet someone dear to her, a Grandmother Willow, of whom he'd only heard her mention.

They were to see this grand old lady tonight, as she lived far into the woods, away from the Indian village and Jamestown. Rolfe had assumed the woman a hermit who made medicines and had a wisdom that went far and beyond James' greatest advisors. He'd never heard the others in the village speak of her personally, though he'd heard much of her accomplishments. He was certain he would like her, since Pocahontas considered her a true grandmother. Perhaps the lady could even tell him stories of his beloved, of things Pocahontas had not told herself.

For there many things he knew already, as some things…disheartened him greatly.

He could not deny his reason in why he'd immersed himself in this long, methodical walk across a barren wilderness of ice and snow. He'd done it solely for the fact that what he'd long denied himself in believing for months had finally forced him to accept the truth—a truth he wished was false.

He had waited outside of Nakoma's home, since Pocahontas wished to visit with her friend for a few hours before taking him to see Grandmother Willow. Rolfe had been far from surprised that she'd stayed longer, since Nakoma and her husband had a new addition to their family, a baby girl, whose smiling face and gurgling laughter won the princess' heart.

Rolfe decided to surprise her after waiting for hours for her return. He didn't begrudge her for her long visit, but he missed her, and he wished for her company. He'd already decided to give her the present he'd only gotten a sennight before, knowing well enough it was finally time to show her. He had hoped that she would be pleased, since he had little else to offer her. The emerald necklace he'd once given her in London had been a poor gift, compared to the necklace she already wore, as its significance meant far more than a fancy little trinket that cost him a small fortune.

Nevertheless, he had believed that she would like his gift; he knew of nothing else to give her. But then, perhaps, it would mean nothing at all, since the conversation he'd overheard in Nakoma's wigwam had pierced through the very heart of his intentions. He'd heard their laughter as Pocahontas held Nakoma's daughter close. They laughed as if they were young girls again, and it heartened him until Nakoma became serious and asked her friend if she was sure that she wanted to take a man—another white man—to see Grandmother Willow.

"You took John Smith to meet with her, remember?" Nakoma promptly pointed out, a look of real concern on her face. "And yet, you've hesitated for months in taking the man you claim to love there. Is there a reason for this hesitation, Pocahontas? Are you afraid of what Grandmother Willow might say if she sees this new John who has come upon your path? I remember you telling me how she favoured John Smith, but is there another reason in why you've waited so long to take John Rolfe? Do you still hold a semblance of love for John Smith?"

Pocahontas had not answered her friend, although her saddened expression was enough for Rolfe to conclude what her answer was. He'd left the wigwam without a word, and ventured into the forest. He hadn't even given it a second glance, unable to bear it if she were to come out of her friend's home and find him there. He had decided to leave her to her thoughts, since he had much to consider himself.

He had vaguely considered calling the wedding off completely, since he knew it would not be fair of him to bind her to him when her heart longed for another. He had been a fleeting comfort to ease her pain, a second choice that was to be easily discarded when her heartache passed.

Rolfe closed his eyes in understanding.

He knew there was still winter in her heart, had known it, even when he kissed her, as they sailed off into the sunset. He had believed that his returning with her to her homeland would be enough for her to realise that another loved her, just as much and just as passionately, as one who now charted a course to lands yet to be discovered. He had hoped that his devotion to her would ease the sorrow that had held her captive would be enough for her to open her heart to him. He had imagined that his assimilating himself into her tribe would be enough to show her that he could be everything she wanted. He had been a fool.

All along, he'd known how mysterious her mind could be, its labyrinthine passages as baffling as those he'd ventured in as a boy. Perhaps she did love him in her own way, though differently than the love she held for Smith. He visibly flinched at the notion, his hazel eyes opening to the glittering white expanse surrounding him.

He half-wondered what it would have been like if he had never come to Virginia, if he had never known her. Would he still be the upstanding diplomat whose soul purpose in life was to remain in the good graces of his sovereign and, perhaps, acquire a position as a royal advisor? It was something that he wanted once, but no more. In truth, he knew that he could never return to that life, filled with etiquette and manners and the fineries of a savage realm.

For his own part, he had only known the semantics of British society. Manners and proper etiquette had been ingrained in him at an early age. And perhaps he was not what Powhatan expected, let alone wanted for his daughter, for his daughter. Nor was he what the chief wanted for in a son; but then, he hadn't anticipated falling for a woman, well above his station. Just as he hadn't anticipated his need to stay with her, no matter how much his heart broke.

He then looked up to the sky and saw the winter moon. From his studies, he knew that each month relegated a name for the full moon. December's was the winter moon, as such a moniker was aptly fitting. He considered for a moment more before continuing on his way, the small stretch of trees before him revealing a break in their monotonous precession.

Finally.

Perhaps he'd managed to find his way back to the village, though all too soon were his sudden hopes dashed as he found himself standing before giant willow tree, encircled by a labyrinth of trees. He sighed in frustration, half-believing that he would never find his way.

Nevertheless, he hesitated in continuing to find his way home as the willow tree seemed to beckon him. A cold wind nipped at his face and arms at his reluctance, as if urging him forward, and he almost swore he heard a woman's voice accompany it, the rustling of brightly coloured leaves—a strange sight, given the season—swirling around him, cloaking him, capapie.

Day and night, but this is wondrous strange, he thought, absently recalling a play he'd once seen at the Globe. He'd already accustomed himself to many strange sights he'd seen already, to Pocahontas' deep connection to the earth and nature, as well as the spirits she said that guided her. Rolfe himself had been incredulous of it, at first, given how his own Christian upbringing went against such beliefs.

He shook his head the reality, for he'd been deeply convicted in those beliefs, though now, he had begun to question them; for if the church believed in demons and in witches, why not in spirits, as well? He himself had felt a presence in the wind on more than one occasion, as many in the village, especially the great Powhatan, deemed it to be Pocahontas' mother, and he honestly believe them, since he felt her presence even now, tugging at him, urging him forward.

And he heeded her.

Casting aside his present doubt, he proceeded forward as he considered the ancient tree. Snow covered its many, twisting branches, whilst a wealth of ice encased its drooping leaves, a large stump before it adding to its almost, mystical appearance. A small pool encircled its roots, the water a cold mirror of ice that reflected the light of the moon. Rolfe half-smiled at the sight, mutely transfixed by the awe such a grand old tree represented. He idly wondered if Pocahontas had seen this tree herself, and then frowned. Surely, she had seen it, just as she had seen the better part of fifty miles of the forest surrounding him.

He even knew of the ledge, where she had first seen the Susan Constant laid anchor in the tepid waters of the James River, as she had also seen it depart with its precious, wounded cargo. Nakoma's husband had told him as much, since Rolfe knew that the warrior's words only served to injure his love for Pocahontas. But he hadn't allowed himself to reveal the extent of his sorrow, since he was, first and foremost, a gentleman. He had even joined her on the cliff as both took in the beauty of the river and the surrounding trees.

And yet, sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered if those calm, resolute eyes that took in the oceanfront looked for a ship belonging to one who realised his mistake all too late. He would not blame her for it if she did. He was no John Smith, after all.

The thought left him hollow.

He barely noticed how close he was to the large willow until almost stumbling over one of its thick grey roots. Shaking his head, he righted himself, obviously embarrassed by his less-than-graceful tact; for even alone, and in the middle of an isolated forest, could he not completely break away from what had been ingrained in him. Keeping up appearances had once been a matter of utmost importance to him, especially in a family that, although not technically part of the nobility, still strove to attain the mantle of such a coveted title. He inwardly sighed, knowing that he would never turn from that customary practice completely. Perhaps he was too much of an Englishman to be anything but.

"It's in my blood, after all," he mused dejectedly, and looked at his hands in apparent defeat.

"What's in your blood, young man?" a voice, as ancient and as legendary as his Celtic ancestors, asked him from behind.

Rolfe turned abruptly, nearly stumbling over himself as he made to stand on the large tree stump, those green-gold eyes searching through the darkness yet finding no one save himself. "Who is it? Who is there?" he demanded, attempting to sound every inch the commanding diplomat he so inherently was. "Show yourself at once."

He received a hint of amused laughter in return, and he frowned. "I see nothing funny about this," he remarked, his eyes never abandoning their search as they again fell upon the pool of water, near the stump on which he stood. He nearly gave up in his pursuit until the mysterious voice spoke again:

"I know you, John Rolfe. My Pocahontas has spoken much of you." It then released a verbalised grunt. "Oh, do turn around. It's difficult enough speaking in this cold weather; my face and eyes are already frozen enough as it is."

With a hint of reluctance, Rolfe turned around, facing the tree with a touch of doubt, dread etched upon those discerning features. Utter bewilderment overcame his expression, however, as he looked into the face of the willow tree. "My God in heaven," he uttered, half in awe, when he watched an old woman's face appear from within the ancient bark. He stared at it, mystified by its transformation.

His present company, however, frowned. "I don't understand what it is with you strangers from lands so far away; you always seem so surprised by a talking tree. Do trees not speak from where you come?" Catching a slight shaking of his head, she continued. "Perhaps you don't listen hard enough to them," she said pragmatically. "Ah, no matter, I have much to say, anyhow."

Rolfe hesitated. "Who—who are you?" he found himself ask, unable to say anything else as he watched the ancient willow shift in movements.

"Pocahontas has not mentioned me?" she queried. "That is strange, considering that she intended to bring you here tonight. The child must have forgotten, since she's been busy with the settlers and her own people, as well as planning a wedding with you. But it appears that I'm forgetting myself." Her dendrital face smiled among its many, weathered wrinkles. "I am Grandmother Willow."

He blanched at the revelation. So this was the elusive grandmother Pocahontas spoke so fondly of. It all made sense now, strange as it was for him to admit. He could actually understand, if in part, why Pocahontas hesitated in having him to meet this grand old lady she'd lovingly deemed a grandmother. Merciful God if heaven, he could scarcely imagine it himself!

In England, trees were not filled with spirits as lively as what he presently saw before him, let alone actually speak. In truth, he'd only read of such in myths, since the Church of England would never adhere to such a thing. He had little doubt that the heads of those over the church, including James himself, would find Grandmother Willow and all her kind to be outside the grace of God, utterly and irrefutably pagan, savage in the means of proving how inferior the Powhatan people and those of their kind were to the glorious majesty of Christian kings, an ocean away. And yet, perhaps those who deemed themselves Scholars of the Word, as James himself was certainly known to be, knew precious little of the world beyond their own, narrow-minded views.

Rolfe frowned inwardly, knowing well enough that his thoughts bordered on blasphemy, if not treason. He himself had exposed Pocahontas to his own beliefs, and she had shown in interest in Christianity, although she could not, by any means, discount everything that she believed in; and Rolfe could not blame her—not after tonight, for the foundations of his own faith had been shaken by this living entity standing rooted before him.

He visibly shuddered as the wind seemed to pick up, its cold breeze causing part of the bearskin cloak to fall off his shoulder and exposing the thin material of his shirt. He muttered an apology to Grandmother Willow as he attempted to right his cloak; though before he could set it upon his shoulder, a handful of willow vines took him by the arm, their curious lengths caressing the material where the tattoo was visible before pulling the fabric away from it entirely. Rolfe flushed furiously at the tree's action, finding himself unable to hide the truth of his gift.

"You must truly love her, to give her such a gift," the willow tree said as she covered the tattoo, which matched her little Pocahontas' perfectly.

Rolfe looked up, uncertainty clouding those hazel depths. "There is nothing I wouldn't give her," he said quietly, one of his hands absently rubbing the tender skin over where the mark resided. "This," he gestured to his left arm, "is only a bit of flesh carved to show my love for her."

"A bit of flesh that would surely cause a stir among your own people," she replied pragmatically. "Oh, come now, young man, I know of the pain you must have endured in order to receive that mark. I also understand the repercussions you would receive, should your king and countrymen learn of its existence. Binding yourself to a 'savage princess' through a mark of her people, and not a piece of metal you wear upon your finger, would undoubtedly upset many from your land."

The man in question said nothing in return, although the surprise in his expression confirmed her words. In truth, he hadn't intended to give Pocahontas a wedding ring—not after his failure in presenting her with that necklace he'd given her in London. He adamantly refused to make that same mistake twice, since he would not dare assimilate her into his culture, even if such was merely through a small band of gold. The tattoo that he now bore was an affirmation of his intentions, a testament to his vow in being a devoted husband and consort.

But none of that really matters now, he thought wretchedly, since another should be wearing this tattoo.

Grandmother Willow seemed to sense his thoughts as she placed one of her cold limbs upon his left shoulder. "You are troubled, John Rolfe," she aptly stated, those dark, peerless eyes looking beyond his composed visage. "Thoughts of marriage to a princess have begun to change from happiness to hesitation, since you believe yourself unworthy of both her and her affections."

The man betrothed to her little Pocahontas closed his eyes however briefly. "It is a little more than that," he answered. "It is a complicated matter, my lady. One, that I've not wish to trouble you with."

But Grandmother Willow was not impressed by his thoughtful evasion. "And yet, you doubt the love that you two share," the old willow calmly pointed out.

Rolfe said nothing in response, his eyes cast down to the ground in shame. He felt one of the willow vines come to his face, its frozen leaves tilted his chin up, and Grandmother Willow looked at him.

"Your eyes…" she remarked, outwardly mystified. "They are much unlike from any I have ever seen. Even John Smith's eyes, though contradictory and as wild as the summer rain, were never this perceptive. They say much of you, John Rolfe." She almost smiled when she felt him flinch at Smith's name. She'd hit a nerve. "I see that you care little for the man who saved the life of the great Powhatan."

"It's not that," Rolfe said, shaking his head. "It's just that…"

"It's just the fact that he and Pocahontas shared something special before you came into her life," Grandmother Willow supplied pragmatically. She grinned at his shocked stare. "Oh, I'm not so old and ignorant, as to not notice something like that. I've been around for centuries, to know the hearts of those who find themselves in love, as I've also known Pocahontas since she was a small child, who would climb up to the top of my branches and see the world."

The English diplomat considered her words carefully. "She was not afraid of falling," he said, realising that it was a fact and not a question.

Grandmother Willow smiled. "She is much like her mother: wild and free as the wind. She goes wherever it takes her, you realise."

And he did. He'd known that since they'd departed on the ship for London, those wide black eyes brightening as she thanked him for coming to her aid. He'd almost fallen for her in that moment, his emotions caught in those wild, flowing strands of her raven hair. He'd wanted to stay longer, to talk, but society dictated that he keep his distance, given the divergence in their stations, as well as their cultures. It simply wouldn't do to entangle himself with a woman whose spiritual practises would take the heart of a man who claimed himself God on earth.

But then, Rolfe was never very good at listening to what society always required.

Turning a cautious eye to Grandmother Willow, he said, "The hour grows late. I should return to the village, since I do not wish to keep you."

Grandmother Willow snorted at that. "Oh, come now, young man. You and I both know very well that you haven't any intention in going to the village. You're simply going to wander these woods, without any sense of direction."

Rolfe blanched at her forthright manner. She was almost as bad as… "Madam, not to sound rude, but what I do is my business," he stated firmly.

"It may be," she allowed, a hint of reproach in her voice, "but it certainly isn't the wisest decision, even for a diplomat." She almost laughed at his chagrined expression, knowing well enough that she'd checked him. "There's no sense in what you're about to do; the forest will not give you the answers that you seek, since the answer itself resides above. Look up, young man, and tell me what you see."

And he did. "I see the moon," he said, those hazel eyes widening at the sight.

The old tree nodded. "It is, as there are many moons in the year, each with a different name and meaning." She considered him carefully. "The moons even represent those closest to us, some of whom live in our present, while others remain in the past. Pocahontas' father is the Harvest Moon, for he prepares and protects his village from famine and all else. John Smith was the Storm Moon, since he came upon Pocahontas' life like a raging thunderstorm. Whereas you, John Rolfe…"

Rolfe frowned, as if dreading to hear her verdict.

Grandmother Willow cast him a withering look. "Oh, you need not make a face about it," she chided him. "After all, Pocahontas has always been fond of the Winter Moon; she loves the snow and the cold, perhaps even more than she does the spring and summer rains." She took in his hopeful look of disbelief, and her smile deepened. "You represent the Winter Moon, for did you not come into her life when it was at its peak?" she queried. "You came during a dark time in her life, brightening it."

But Rolfe shook his head. "She hated me, then. I'd gotten in the way of a confrontation between the settlers and the Indians and it angered her. I was not supposed to interfere, she said."

"And yet you did," Grandmother Willow aptly pointed out.

"Yes, because I felt that I needed to take charge over a situation that only a person striving for peace could handle," he broke in suddenly. "It's not as if I wanted to continue such, since I wasn't the one in authority there. The governor wasn't even out among the rest to oversee everything. I felt that I had little choice in the matter."

Grandmother Willow inclined her trunk slightly in understanding. "You didn't want any unnecessary bloodshed. It is a commendable trait, John Rolfe. You are truly a man of peace, as your diplomatic status suits you," she gently commended him. "I've heard that you were even rewarded for your services. Your king must admire your qualities and wisdom in diplomacy."

Rolfe, however, shook his head. "I am no longer held in the same regard that I once was, as I am merely striving to keep everything from falling apart. I am not a warrior, just as I am not…" He stopped in what he was about to say, although Grandmother Willow understood him perfectly.

"I realise that you are not John Smith, and I am sure that everyone else realises that, too. Even my Pocahontas knows and understands as much. And yet, as you may recall, young man, she did not choose to sail with him to the edge of the world, did she?" the old willow prompted, and she received a penitent look from him.

"No, but she may come to regret it, although she loves her people, and believes she is doing the right thing by staying with them to attain peace among them and the settlers. It does not mean that such is the best for her," he replied, a little despondently. "I know that what she and Captain Smith shared was something that put an end to the war between my people and hers, and that if I hadn't come into her life, then she would have eventually found him. I cannot fault her for any of it, and if she wants to return to him, then I could never keep her from her heart's desire. I could never…" he broke off, evidently resigned to a fate he couldn't bring himself to even utter aloud.

"You could never have her remain with you, when you know that her heart isn't yours," she supplied for him, and Rolfe silently nodded. "Oh, what a fool you are! I sometimes wonder about the human heart, since it obviously never understands what is right in front of it."

Rolfe took a step forward, a faint look of hope registering among his clouded expression. "What do you mean?" he ventured to ask, and Grandmother Willow sighed with a hint of frustration.

"Obviously, you don't know my Pocahontas as much as you believe you do," she said, albeit enigmatically. "For if you did, then you would know that she loves you, perhaps even more than she ever did John Smith. You doubt me? I can see the uncertainty in your eyes. Well, do you know for how long she actually knew him before he sailed back to England? It was only a scant, few days, young man, whereas she has known you for months."

Only days?

Rolfe could scarcely believe it. Surely, Smith had been in Virginia, far longer than that; though if his memory served him, he vaguely recalled hearing of Smith's accident and his sudden return to England.

"But I heard her speak with her friend just this evening about Smith. Nakoma mentioned him," he returned, a bitter reminiscence of what vexed him.

With a solemn look, Grandmother Willow reluctantly muttered her answer in accord, "Nakoma has always been the more practical of those two; for where Pocahontas has always followed her heart, Nakoma has followed her intuition. Nakoma prefers the safer course of the river, while Pocahontas chooses the rushing mountain spring. She never follows the easy path, as you well know." She winked at him. "John Smith will always be with her…as a part of her past. Even I cannot deny the impact he's made on her life, just as I cannot deny the impact she has made on his. I doubt he will ever hold to his old beliefs of those your people deem savages. But then, she has also impacted your life as well, has she not?" she queried, and Rolfe silently agreed.

He would be lying if he said that Pocahontas had not impacted him in some way, perhaps in more ways than one. He then wondered what her moon was. Was it one that reflected the splendour of summer, or a cold, winter one like his? And yet, he felt that he already knew the answer, and it encouraged him.

Seeing a slight return in his confidence, Grandmother Willow continued in their strange discourse. Taking him by the shoulder with one of her vines, she urged him to kneel upon the stump and look into the frozen lake. "Tell me what you see," she urged, gesturing to his cold reflection.

Rolfe looked at the mirrored image of himself in silence. He considered his appearance, with his fine shirt and breeches and the deerskin cloak he wore and realised, to his surprise, just how English he truly was. He shook his head and looked down, crestfallen, until Grandmother Willow urged that he look again, this time, with his heart.

And he did.

The light of the Winter Moon reflected on the pool as silence and the cold white landscape pervaded the stillness of the moment; and John Rolfe knew, if vaguely, whose face it was that reflected in the pool's mirrored surface.

Briefly glancing upward to a silent Grandmother Willow, her knowing, silent smile confirming that which she'd already known—the very moment she'd gazed into his eyes and saw the soul within—as she extended one of her comforting willow limbs.

"There," she said, "now you know who you really are."

Rolfe said nothing, though he nodded his head in agreement before turning once more toward his reflection. Yes, he knew he was; had know it all along, perhaps, somewhere, deep within his own heart. His doubts dissipated and his uncertainty faded, leaving only a man whose surety in himself broke away from the timid, reluctant man he'd once been. He smiled, if faintly, his reflection returning the gesture, as his eyes, now greener than ever, by the light of the Winter Moon—his moon—reflected that self-ingrained knowledge.

He breathed out in a sigh of contentment, as he then understood that he was neither English nor Powhatan; he was both. His faith and his appearance tied him to the Old World, yes, but his love for Pocahontas and the tattoo upon his left arm bound him here, in the wilds of a new land. "Oh, brave new world, with such people in it," he mused, unaware of the quizzical look Grandmother Willow gave him, as he vaguely heard the crunching of a horse's whiny and approaching footsteps steps in the distance.

His smile lost none of its brilliance as he turned to see a very concerned Pocahontas, her wild midnight flailing wildly against the wind, which had surely led her here.

"I've been searching everywhere for you," she exclaimed in hurried, yet gentle, English, before coming to his side. She cast Grandmother Willow an apologetic look before fretting over Rolfe in her native tongue. She frowned at his lack of warm clothing, since the bearskin cloak did little to shield his thin linen shirt from the cold. She shook her head, muttering to herself in words that Rolfe could barely understand.

"I'm fine," he promised her in broken Powhatan after a moment, trying to allay her worried expression. He was truly heartened by her concern, but he had to reassure her. "England is colder by far than this. I've suffered winters that nearly went into summer, and the constant, cold London rain…Oh, Pocahontas, 'tis only a little snow, nothing more. I'm truly all right."

She looked at him, her dark eyes unconvinced. "But the cold affects everyone," she calmly pointed out. "As I am sure that your cold London weather still overcomes the best of your warriors, even your king."

Rolfe nearly laughed at the last remark. Truth be told, James, although a Scotsman as heart, was never truly one for the cold. He shook his head, and his smile widened. "Just don't let him hear you say that. Truly, I doubt that even my diplomatic powers could save you from a sound corset wearing," he warned in jest.

Pocahontas wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. "Well, that I am glad that he won't hear me, since the whole of my father's warriors would gladly have him wear it instead." She winked at him mischievously, but then became serious again. "But, honestly, John, when I couldn't find you after I left Nakoma's…You had me worried."

He looked down, obviously contrite. "I am sorry to have worried you," he returned softly, before taking her into his arms. He felt the tension in her shoulders fall away to the smooth assurance that so naturally composed her. He took in the scent of her hair, an intoxicating combination of the sea and air, her deerskin dress—one very similar to the one in which he'd first seen her—soft to the touch.

They broke apart a moment later, as if finally aware that someone was watching them.

Grandmother Willow laughed quietly, truly amused by the lovers' exchange. Truly, she hadn't seen such a tempestuous romance, for the better part of three hundred years. Even Pocahontas' own mother and father never had so much trouble during their courtship. Perhaps it was simply Rolfe's English sensibilities, or the fact that Pocahontas had difficulty in staying at home. Either way, the old willow tree, quietly reasoned, the two lovers before her had a very long and rocky path ahead of them. And yet…she believed that they would weather well together.

With a gentle nod, she extended her branches forward and joined their hands. "I know you wanted to bring this young man to meet me," she said to Pocahontas, "but it seems that he managed to stumble upon me all by himself. I've enjoyed talking with." She gave Rolfe a conspiring. "Indeed, I should enjoy speaking with him more often with such a handsome man as he. I wouldn't mind to speak with him all night if the tree roots weren't so stiff, and he wasn't so cold. You need to find him some proper clothing; he could catch his death out here."

"Grandmother Willow!" Pocahontas cried out, though she certainly shared the sentiment. She then promised that she and Rolfe—in more suitable attire, assuredly—would return in a few days, since she felt her old mentor urge her to have a moment alone with him.

You need to talk to him, the old tree's expression echoed silently, and Pocahontas heeded Grandmother Willow's council.

For after all, when had Grandmother Willow ever been wrong?

…

It wasn't long until they reached the cliff's clearing.

Only the solemn sound of a distant owl shattered the deep void of silence that engulfed the night's sky. The Winter Moon, however, shone brightly above them, and Pocahontas appreciated its comforting presence.

As the journey there, although she and her beloved walked together, hand in hand, was rendered in silence, since Pocahontas, beyond some reason unknown, even to her, had decided to leave her trusted friends behind. She almost smiled at the thought of them and their grudging reluctance in staying at the village—something she had only done once before, and even that time hadn't stopped them from following her. But then, since Rolfe had returned to Virginia with her, she had begun to notice a change, however subtle, in her everyday life.

For if she were to truly consider it, things had begun to change since Rolfe decided to live among her people. Percy had taken a sudden interest in remaining with him, whereas Flit had not once come between her and Rolfe. Meeko, however, who had been so easily won over once by biscuits, usually found himself at a dilemma, when he learned that Rolfe deplored biscuits. Rolfe had developed an aversion to them on the voyage to Virginia the first time, and would only eat them when necessary. It greatly surprised Pocahontas to find him discovering a taste for her people's own food, since they did not dine in the high-style in which he was so accustomed.

It surprised her even more to see him assimilating so well among the tribe, although the warriors, and her father, perhaps, had yet to fully approve of him. She almost shook her head at her father's stubbornness, since she knew that no one could ever replace the one who had saved her father's life, as even a diplomat, who strove to ensure peace among everyone, and tried to become, perhaps, even one of the Powhatan was, still, not enough.

And it grieved Pocahontas terribly.

But then, as soon as they had unwillingly come, all thoughts of her father dissipated as she looked at the man at her side. Their path had not been an easy one, at first. But then, with time, she had come to genuinely enjoy his company, even upon the point of falling in love with him. She hadn't expected that, hadn't anticipated it. And yet, when faced with the decision of choosing the love she had for John Smith—a love, she once believed that would last throughout the ages—and the growing love she had for John Rolfe, the choice…had been a difficult one, and yet was so simple to make.

She could not deny that she still loved John Smith; she would love him, even after she joined her mother's spirit in the wind. But hearts are funny things, and her heart, as steadfast as it had once been to one love, had changed course. For the death of John Smith—a false death, thankfully—had compelled her to move on. She hadn't wanted to, not at first, but even she knew that Smith would have wanted her to move on, to live and find love, and she had, even with his blessing.

And she hadn't regretted her choice, either. Although tonight, when Nakoma asked Pocahontas how she could love another after everything she had shared with Smith, Pocahontas had no answer for her friend. For the answer she had, as such had taken her long to speak, had been one of a woman no longer heartbroken by a lost love. It had been spoken from the heart of one who, in the wisdom of her ancestors, issued an answer that could never be challenged.

"I loved John Smith, and always will, as the young woman who made me see a world beyond our own, but I love John Rolfe as a woman who binds herself to a single grain of sand—one in which I shall never let go."

It was an answer that both satisfied and relieved her friend, and she earned Nakoma's blessing in marrying Rolfe.

But had he overheard? She had a deepening feeling that he had, and that was what had spurred him into the woods. It pained her to imagine what he must have thought, and as she stood at the end of the cliff with him—a place that she had shown him many times before, her favourite, secret place—she questioned the matter that lay so deeply entrenched between the two of them.

"It doesn't matter," he assured her in a gentle whisper. "I'm not hurt or affronted by it, since I know how much he must have meant to you."

"He does," returned Pocahontas neutrally. "He made me see and understand a new world. But then…so have you." At this, she took his hands into hers, her eyes never leaving his. "John, I shall always love John Smith…but as a memory." She caught a flash of something glint in those dark-green eyes, and she laughed. "Yes, John, I love you! For you are my path—one that I shall never diverge from, for as long I shall live. You're my companion, my other half."

A heady wind swirled around them, as if in confirmation of her words, as part of Rolfe's bearskin cloak fell from his shoulder and revealed the dark tattoo underneath his shirt. Pocahontas' eyes widened, noting its significance. A gentle cry escaped from her, truly touched by the gesture, and her hand touched over where the tattoo lay so distinguishably under Rolfe's white linen shirt. She lightly traced its delicate black contours, before pulling the sleeve away and revealing its true shape. How she hadn't noticed until now she would never know, but now she admired it in all its wild wonder.

It glinted darkly in the moonlight, contrasting against her fiery-red one. It was the complete opposite of her tattoo, larger, darker, masculine…and yet perfectly matching hers. He could not have found a more fitting gift for their union.

Rolfe gave her an endearing smile. "I couldn't very well give you nothing for our wedding," he mused wryly, before his teasing expression grew serious, those dark-green eyes shifting to intense brown. "I hope you like it. It's all I could think of—"

Pocahontas silenced him with a soft press of her fingers to his lips. "It's perfect," she answered, meaning it, and she looked at him, a tenderness in her eyes that he only saw whenever she worried for him or for those she cared for. "But the pain you must have went through…"

"Was nothing," he retuned simply. "I actually find it rather dashing myself. I doubt many among the court have anything like this."

Pocahontas tilted her head to the side, wholly amused. "Surely not many diplomats do."

"I may, very well, be the only one," he posed, winking at her. "Although it is understandable, since not many diplomats have the good fortune of winning the heart of a beautiful princess from a new world."

A slight flush flew to Pocahontas' cheeks. "Surely not, since most wouldn't have the manners and etiquette to win their love," she agreed with a smile, and she revelled in his heartfelt laughter as she allowed him to take her into his arms.

He embraced her, tightly, and he smiled. It had been a long journey for the both of them, since their love had taken the long route of time, compared to one whose shorter expanse that had been all-consuming and passionate. His love for her had come slowly into fruition before becoming something as beautiful and intrinsic as the brilliant, idle throes of a first love.

He heard Pocahontas whisper her love for him into his ear, his heart beating soundly at the declaration of her words, as he forgot about Smith entirely in that moment, never to think of the man—at least about an ongoing love between Smith and his love—again.

The Winter Moon seemed to glow in accord with this thoughtful reasoning, its ivory luminance casting a soft glow upon her winter-born child. His hair gleamed with a slight red sheen, his face pale as a first snow, as the colours in his eyes, the truest of all greens and browns and golds, were combined into one vibrant hue that expressed the entirety of his being.

Pocahontas was stricken by that brilliant gaze, for she had never seen his eyes so. They were either dull-green, or a ruddy-brown, or sometimes both, but they were never like the colour she saw now, and she, if faintly, understood why.

He had had more than a simple conversation with Grandmother Willow, as he had surely found who he was, just as she had once done, in a foreign English forest. She would have to thank Grandmother Willow, when next they spoke.

But for now…

Now, she would only think of her betrothed, and of the truth that lay within his loving gaze. For as she felt his lips fall upon her own, she watched those brilliant spheres of green, brown, and gold—colours that spoke of unity among two worlds—close before closing her own, a silent promise whispered against her lips. Pocahontas smiled, and gave into his kiss.

Yes, this was the path they had chosen, a good path, a right path.

The kiss ended not longer after; and, although both were short of breath, they never broke apart from each other as they looked to the river that lead to a world far beyond them. They would perhaps travel it to where it led again one day. Perhaps. They had yet to cross that moment in their path. Until then, they would live here, carving out a life for themselves in the roughly-hewn majesty of an untouched land.

She promised him this, and he kissed her, as he then revealed the significance of the great orb of light above them.

The Winter Moon enveloped them in its soft-spoken radiance as the secret of their heartfelt moment together, of their many hopes and promises, and of the wondrous revelation of his eyes remained theirs alone.

…

Author's Notes: I'm more than likely going to receive a lot of hate mail and flames for this, but I don't care.

I couldn't find a single story on this site that contained this pairing, so I decided to write one. I mean, don't get me wrong, I loved Pocahontas/John Smith together when the first came out. I still do. But, honestly, I have to commend Disney for having enough courage to go against the status quo of one of its fairytale endings, and give us a good dose of reality, albeit even the whole Pocahontas/John Rolfe thing in the film was still inaccurate, and even though Disney I just felt that the sequel had destroyed the beauty and integrity of the original, to the point where it pained me to even watch the original. I hadn't for years, honestly. In truth, I was that deeply affected by one of Disney's cheap, shoddy sequels. I had actually almost lost faith in the company because of it.

I still have issues with Disney, but I cannot help but like this pairing now. They're just sweet together, and perhaps should have more stories written about them.

Also, like Disney, the historical aspects of this oneshot—albeit some, not all—are grossly inaccurate. Really, I'm usually one, who strives for historical accuracy, but I thought, 'What the hell,' I'll be a bad student of history and break the rules for once. (I made the whole Winter Moon thing up, by the way! XD) Also, since I feel I need to mention this, on the whole thing about Pocahontas and Christianity, she did convert to it in real life; however, knowing what I do of many church doctrines, her beliefs in spirits in trees and such would be outside of some church beliefs. And, since this is the Disney Pocahontas we're talking about here, I simply couldn't see her just turning her back on Grandmother Willow and everything she believes in, because I know that she wouldn't. I'm sorry. I just can't imagine her doing that. So, there's a bit of a compromise between the two beliefs, just as I feel that it fits the compromises Rolfe and Pocahontas have made in order to be together.

Also, I apologise for any errors. I looked over this once, and didn't feel like going through it again. Finals have almost drained me this week, sadly enough.

Anyway, I hope everyone liked it. I'd love to know what everyone thinks, even if it is a 'How dare you not pair Pocahontas with John Smith!' response. Really, I'd more than love to discuss the love triangle! It's just so…conflicting, yet utterly spellbinding at the same time.

Best wishes,

— Kittie