A/N: I hate instant inspiration. It drives me crazy.

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Title: Dark Eyes

Rating: K and Up

Genre: Romance

Summary: John Smith paused, staring at the dark eyes that surveyed him. There was no fear, but calmness, as if she knew he would not dare shoot at her. His fingers were numb and even as he carefully set his rifle aside, his heart was thundering at the sight of the exotic woman.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pocahontas

Notes/Warnings: first attempt in this fandom; John Smith/Pocahontas

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Dark Eyes

John Smith trekked through the thick forestry, breathing in the fresh scents of the land on which they had arrived. Emerald green clashed against dark brown. There was growth of vines and thick moss upon the trees and as he slipped in and out of the rugged paths, he could not help but feel alive. As he broke out of the woods, he found himself at a cliff and gazed out at the beauty and the expanse of trees that extended far beyond him. He released a long breath, resting a hand upon the trunk of a tree. So much land! So much adventure! As he continued to stare, it seemed as if the land went on for leagues and leagues, almost as though it were never ending. He could spot a break in the trees some ways from the cliff where the reflected sunlight indicated a river. As he stood on the cliff, he tilted his head back and felt the sunlight flood over his face. He pushed a hand through his thick, blonde hair and smiled to himself faintly.

His smile vanished a moment later as he recalled Radcliffe's arrogant orders to him to discover where the Indians were located. Of course, he knew that one of the reasons he was chosen for this expedition was in order to control and contain any Indian threats. However, that didn't mean he couldn't have a bit of fun while he searched for them. He smiled again, renewed by this thought, and hastened away from the cliff, eager to do more exploring.

By mid-day, it was beginning to get warm. He tossed his rifle down next to a waterfall and sighed deeply, shaking his hair out. He put his hands on his hips and looked around interestedly, considering the area. It was peaceful. The soft roar of the waterfall was all the sound that could be heard. As he stood next to it, the mist cooled his hot skin. He knelt down at the river and splashed his face, releasing a groan of relief. He pooled more water into his hands and then paused, spotting a reflection in the water. It's not one of the men, he concluded, throwing the water into his face. They're too loud and would have announced themselves. It must be an Indian. He picked up the hard, metal hat and placed it on his head, carefully glancing behind him at the tree where he had spotted the person. They were hidden now, but he was certain they were there. Curious, are you, my friend? he wondered. Or are you simply here to kill me? A brief, grim smile crossed his lips and then he picked up his rifle and slipped behind the waterfall, climbing up into the crevice located directly behind it.

After carefully lighting his rifle, he blew on it to keep it ignited and waited patiently. He heard the soft sound of wet feet hitting stone. He tensed, listening anxiously. Through the water, he could see a slim shape crouching on one of the flat rocks. Another moment and the figure had moved to the rock directly in front of his crevice. He blew quietly again and after the figure had moved once again, he sprang from his position, covering his rifle to avoid it getting wet and pointed the mouth of his rifle at the distinct shape in the mist.

Slowly, the figure rose from its crouched position and with a sudden shock, he realized it was a woman. Even in the mist, he could see her angular face tilted towards him, her long, ebony hair blowing out from behind her from the waterfall. His grip tightened for a moment on the rifle. But then, John Smith paused, staring at the dark eyes that surveyed him. There was no fear, but calmness, as if she knew he would not dare shoot at her. His grip loosened on the rifle and he slowly lowered it, his threatening expression fading to one of wonder. His fingers were numb and even as he carefully set his rifle aside, his heart was thundering at the sight of the exotic woman.

She watched him as he slipped off the rock and into the water. He could sense her distrust and approached as he would a frightened animal. In spite of himself, his fingers were stretching, reaching out to her, wishing to touch her copper skin. Her eyes narrowed and then her legs, so strong and powerful, pushed her from the rock and she was dashing from him. Startled, he cried out, "Wait!" and then hastened to grab his items from the rock and pursued her. Branches snapped at his face, caught at his clothing, and he was aware of how much he jangled as he ran, whereas she was as silent as a deer, plunging into the woods with no care. As he escaped from the trees, he found that she was far ahead of him. He tossed his rifle and hat aside and hurried after her even as she threw herself into the canoe at the river shore. "Wait! Please!" He panted as he came to a stop at the shore. She had paused, the paddle in her hands, but she had turned to look at him, her soft eyes narrowed and yet also appearing puzzled at his pursuit. "Please...," he gasped, "just wait." After he had caught his breath, he said, "I won't hurt you."

She murmured something, her face clearing to that of uncertainty. He laughed softly.

"Of course," he muttered, "you can't understand me..." He sighed. "Please...let me get you out of there." He offered his hand and she stared at it. He realized how strange it must be to her as he glanced at his own hand. His was pale and white, with the slightest hint of pink in his colouring. Her skin was dark and rich, almost like the deep colour of caramel. She peered at his hand for a long time and then, after brushing her hair behind her ear, she offered her thin hand. Relieved, he took it, gently pulling the canoe back to shore. Her skin was softer than he expected and her hand was small in his hand as he helped her from the canoe. She was not like any woman he had met – women that were aristocratic, manipulative, and entirely ruled by the way of English society. She lifted herself out of the canoe, her eyes penetrating him. "Who are you?" he asked, even though he doubted she could understand him. Her head tilted, as though she were listening to something from far away.

After a moment, her mouth curved in a small smile. "My name is Pocahontas."

He could hear his heart beating fast in his ears again. "I'm John Smith."

Her smile was intoxicating and she had not yet removed her hand from his, even turning her eyes down to their joined hands curiously. She shifted her fingers in his palm and he felt his stomach stir in excitement. This woman...She was everything that he had been born to hate, everything that he had made his life out of eliminating, yet she was drugging him. He felt as though opium was pumping in his blood, raising him to a strange type of combination of high and numbness.

He led her from the canoe and settled at the tree that was near the shore and when she sat next to him, a raccoon slipped from behind her, climbing on her lap. A hint of surprise crossed his face as he recognized the raccoon as one that had harassed him for biscuits only some time ago during the day. He turned his gaze back to the Indian woman. Has she been following me all day? "This is Meeko," she introduced, "and this is Flit," she added as the hummingbird cast an evil look towards John.

"Amazing," he murmured as Meeko rolled around in Pocahontas's lap, seeming to grin up at John teasingly. "They're completely enamored of you. Hmm..." He frowned as Flit took a threateningly jab at him. "Stubborn little fellow...doesn't seem to like me. That's alright, I prefer your friend there, anyway." He tilted his chin towards Meeko, who looked more than a bit pleased by this, giving a self-satisfied smirk towards the hummingbird. Flit seethed angrily, but contented himself with ignoring him completely.

"You are amazing," Pocahontas returned. Surprised, he raised his eyes to hers. She was looking at him intently. After a moment, she took his hand in hers and said, "Such pale skin...everyone here is much darker. How does your skin get this way? Are you ill?"

"I'm sure I am," he remarked in amusement. She blinked, appearing concerned. "Not in the way that you think," he assured her, sensing her attitude. "From where I come, this skin tone is normal. We all look like this. Some have dark hair like yours – we're not all blonde – but everyone has white skin in London."

"Luh-dun?" she repeated, her brows knitting together. "What is that? Is that your village?"

"We call it a city," he told her. "It's much larger than what your people call villages. We have bridges that cross rivers made of rocks, buildings as tall as trees made of rocks and wood from trees. We have all kinds of ways to make food and we have cinnamon and spices from India."

"India?"

"Yes, it's another place where – er... dark-skinned people dwell. But they speak and act much differently than you." This seemed amazing to Pocahontas and she stared at him as if the idea of dark-skinned people that she was unaware of could not be possible. He smiled, enjoying her delight at the information he offered her. "But tell, what of your people? Why, ah...why did you follow me?"

"I saw strange clouds above the trees," she explained, "and so I followed them along the shore. I was up on the cliff and saw you and three other white men." She moved a bit closer to him, excitement and interested alighting her features. "Those strange clouds...they were on pieces of trees, weren't they? What do you call that?"

"They're not clouds," he said, "but sails. The entire thing is called a ship. Like your canoe there, but more sturdy. It can carry more and go longer distances. The wind," he raised his hands, one of them vertical and the other horizontal, "hits the sails like this, see?" He tapped his own palm with the horizontal hand. "And it pushes the ship forward."

"You don't use paddles?"

"No, that would take too much of an effort." He smiled. She said nothing for a long while, appearing thoughtful, absorbing what he had told her. She was close to him and he could smell strange, earthy scents from her. He reached out and slipped a hand through her thick, dark hair. She stirred slightly and looked at him in question. "You didn't answer my question. Why did you follow me rather than watch the other three?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted, "but you were the one that wandered off alone. You had just come to a new land...I couldn't imagine someone doing something like that without others around them to protect themselves." She frowned and then asked, "What is that thing you were pointing at me? It must have been a weapon, but we've never seen such a thing."

"It's called a rifle. It...well, it basically shoots these small metal pieces that will kill your opponent."

"That sounds awful."

"It's a powerful weapon," John told her, "and faster than a bow and arrow." This appeared to disconcert her, so instead he asked, "Do you have names for these places here?"

"My village is called Werewocomoco, it is where my father, the chief, lives." Pocahontas told him, lifted from her dark thoughts. With a swift gesture, she indicated the river, saying, "This is Chickahominy River that we are on."

"So you are a princess?" he asked.

"What is that?"

"That is what we call the daughters of our kings. A chief, to us, would be the king of your people."

"I am only called the chief's daughter," Pocahontas said. "Things are so much different from where you come from." She lifted his hard hat, turning it about. "I've never seen things like this before you came. The names that you have are so strange, as well. John Smith...Luh-dun...and this word, princess...It's all so different from our ways." She placed the hat on her head and Flit tapped on it. She winced and lowered it.

"Things are much different here, too," John remarked. "Ch-Chicka...hominy...Pocahontas..." The air seemed still. Very carefully, he reached out and took her hand in his again, covering it with his other hand. It was warm and his thumb stroked her knuckles absently, gazing into her dark eyes. He had never been a man ruled by propriety, having spent the majority of his life on the sea and in other, foreign lands, but even he wondered if he was being too forward with his actions. At the same time, he hardly cared. He lifted one of his hands and his fingers brushed along her cheekbone and then slipping into her soft hair. Flit immediately was snapping at his hand. "Alright, alright!" he said exasperatedly as he withdrew his hand from her face.

Pocahontas appeared amused and leaned back, slipping her hand from his. "What do your people plan on doing here? Are they staying?"

"We'll be creating a place like London," he told her. "There will be streets for carriages and horses, decent houses, nice buildings – "

"Our houses are fine," she interrupted sharply.

"But we've been improving the lives of savages all over the world!" he told her animatedly. A second later he cursed himself at his word usage. He had been purposely avoiding that word the entire conversation, checking himself when he was about to use it. She let out an offended exclamation and leapt to her feet, storming to her canoe and jumping in. "Wait, wait!" He followed her and dashed into the water, putting a hand on the front of her canoe. "Let me explain..."

"Let me go," she told him angrily.

Irritated a bit himself, he leaned forward and said, "I'm not going to let you go this easily."

She glared at him.

"Listen, savage is just a word that we use for...for being uncivilized."

"I don't consider us uncivilized. I think you're the ones that are," she retorted.

John sputtered a moment at this, realizing that he was somewhat insulted by this and not at all certain what he should say to such an accusation. He muttered, "That's not...savage doesn't mean..."

"What you really mean," she told him softly, leaning forward, "is 'not like you.'" He opened his mouth to contradict this and then sighed, defeated. Pocahontas considered him for a moment and then dropped the paddle back inside the canoe and slipped out of it, pulling it back to the shore again. Meeko and Flit watched her anxiously, sensing her temper. John followed her out of the water, a sheepish look on his face. "How do you know if we're like you or not - or if we're bad or not if you don't make an effort to try to know?" She turned and faced him again, holding out a hand. "Follow me." He took it and she led him away, back into the forest. She pointed out bear tracks and although he was not at all comfortable with following bear tracks without his rifle, he followed her, trusting her judgment. There was a bear lumbering ahead, but he saw three baby cubs rolling around its feet, mewling. One paused and then galloped towards them.

"What are you doing?" he asked nervously, looking at the adult bear that simply turned and stared at them. "It's going to attack us if we touch that thing!"

"No, it won't," she told him and picked up the cub that licked its nose. She smiled and then handed it to John, who took it with trepidation. She chuckled at his expression. "The first thing that you think of when you see this bear is that it's dangerous, so you should kill it. The first thing that we think of is that it's a potential threat, but if it does not harm us, then there is no need for its death. It has a family, just as our fathers do."

"This is madness," he muttered, shaking his head as he set the bear down. Pocahontas laughed at him and then pulled him away again.

He was awash in wonder at the things she showed him. He was accustomed to dark buildings, carriages, and the coolness of London. She showed him the sweet smells and views of nature, she taught him how to handle an eagle, and when they came to a large expanse of sunflowers, she cartwheeled down the hill and he ran after her, tripping over his own feet and rolling roughly down after her. She laughed, delighting at his bewildered expression and rolled towards him. His breath was taken away when she came to his side, hovering above him. He felt as though every inch of him was on fire from the close proximity. She was beautiful, her dark hair forming a curtain around his face. He breathed in the scent of sunflowers around them and he was certain that he was going to kiss her. Before he could consider longer on that thought, however, she was pulling him away again, to the river where she dove in. He followed and when a sea otter slipped between them, dancing in the waters with them, he nearly swallowed a mouthful of water. Pocahontas smiled at every point of surprise that he showed. Afterward, she led him through the forest where deer were racing down a path and exhilarated, she chased after them with John following her. It was wild, with no inhibitions, and it was unlike any experience he had with nature before. If ever he did experience the animals within nature, it was always to supply himself with food.

"Pocahontas," he said when they returned to where they had begun, "forgive me for calling your people savages." She put her fingers to his lips.

"Don't apologize. As long as you understand."

John had no reply to this, but his hands found hers again and they stood there, fingers interlocked. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers. He was still slightly breathless from running. In the distance, a sudden thrum of drumbeats sounded. Pocahontas withdrew and he raised his head, glancing behind him. "What is that?"

"It's the drums," she said, her brow furrowing in worry. "It means trouble. I...I shouldn't be here. I need to go back to my people."

"Pocahontas," he took her wrist as she moved from him. She turned back to him and he felt a horrible wrenching in his chest as he looked at her. John Smith wasn't a romantic man and had never felt such a terrible desire to keep a woman with him as he did with this foreign woman. His blood was drawn to her, his heart yearned for her, and his body wanted nothing more than to satisfy her. He knew he was foolish for feeling this way after a mere day of being with her and while he had thought her entertaining in her ignorance at first, now he realized that he, too, must have been amusing to her at his own ignorance. They could learn so much from each other and her vivid, energetic personality could only compliment his own. "When can I see you again?"

"I...I can't," she murmured, but he could see the conflict in her eyes. She tugged, trying to pull from him, but he only pulled her closer. She raised her face and said softly, "I'm sorry." His grip tightened briefly, wanting to force her to stay, but he released her and after a moment's pause in which their gaze met again, she turned and fled to the canoe, her companions following. Meeko looked back at him, as though sensing his pain.

John watched her for a long time, an empty feeling overcoming him.

TBC

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A/N: I only plan on this being a two-part or three-part. I was intending on it only being a one-shot, but...I wanted to continue it. So sue me. In any case, please leave me some feedback. Criticism is always appreciated and embraced! Ciao!