“Tryon wants his Scot; I’ll give him a Scot.”
How long has it been since Jamie has worn his kilt? Since he has donned his Fraser colors proudly for all to see? Since he has been fully himself?
It has been over two decades.
Twenty years of slowly, but surely, resigning himself to hide away the most singular part of his identity. He is James Fraser. A Scotsman. A laird. A warrior.
A rebel.
It was not merely his life with Claire that seemingly died brutally that day on Culloden Moor. No. It was also his heritage, his family, his brethren, his clan, his culture, his identity.
It all wasted away, rotting with the blood and mud.
For years out of necessity, Jamie played the game. Through gritted teeth albeit, but if not for his own neck, for the life of his men and Murtagh. He curtsied to the redcoats, but he never bowed.
And now Jamie has reached a crossroads where he can no longer plaster the smile. It is time for real James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser to rise up.
Donning his armour, he welcomes it as an old friend. Kilt. Dirk. Sword. Crest.
Je suis prest, indeed.
Claire hears him coming. As she lifts her gaze, she is stunned into silence. Unmoving. She cannot even drawn breath. She simply stares at him. She is enraptured by this man.
This is the man who tenderly carried her heart all those years ago and holds it to this day.
And there they are: a scot and a sassenach.
She rises to approach him. With this depth of love, no words are needed. Merely nodding, she blesses his conquest and charges herself right beside him where she belongs.
And now here he stands; those wild Fraser eyes blazing. Jamie has returned.
