Outlander fanfiction based on your prompts, featuring everything but Jamie x Claire. Please check out our About and Guidelines page before submitting a prompt.
The writers at Other Outlander Tales would like to wish each and every one of you a very happy holiday! In celebration, we have put together a series of moments during a Christmas celebration on the Ridge.
Christmas On The Ridge - December 25, 1779
William by @futurelounging
William Ransom, ninth earl of Ellesmere, kicked the warped bottom of the outhouse door which stubbornly refused to stay closed, briefly smiling to himself at a memory of his first visit to Fraser’s Ridge many year ago. Heading back down the trail, he pulled the lapels of his coat up against his ears, already stinging from the sharp winter wind swirling through the clearing behind the Frasers’ house. His father’s house. He had been trying it in his head lately, thinking of Fraser as his father, strange as it was to be adding yet another father to his collection.
The house’s lights poured from the windows, reaching halfway down the path to the outhouse and he stopped just before it, keeping himself in shadow. Through the windows he saw the blur of warm life. Mother Claire stood in the corner of the room, her fingers trailing through Mandy’s hair as she clung to Claire’s skirts. Fanny clapping, her head thrown back in laughter. Her life had been cast away by the world, but now, impossibly, it was infused with joy. He felt a pang, a sudden certainty of what it was to be treasured, and a hollow spot in the middle of his chest ached where Jane resided.
Catch up on previous installments: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
En Même Temps - Part 6
by @theministerskat
Outer Banks, North Carolina, January 29, 1971
Brianna gazed out the passenger window of her Mustang, the Outer Banks a green and blue blur of ocean and grass as the car sped down Highway 12.
The events of the last eleven days were a jumble, blending together with all the possibilities she envisioned for them beyond the stones. An obscure reel of thoughts with no clear focus.
Trying to calm the racing in her head, she stroked her thumb along the underside of her left finger, slowly twirling the ring that sat there in a circle. It was a new habit she had picked up, touching it, reminding herself it was still real, finding comfort in the small action in a way she couldn’t quite explain. It anchored her, more than anything, representing one thing - the only thing - certain in her life.
@soinspiredbyyou said: A voice prompts Joan to free Bree and help her get to Lallybroch in 4x07.
Flowers In Your Hair
by @whiskynottea
Claire. The witch. The first wife.
That was Bree’s mother?
Joan was lying in her bed, her chest heaving, her breathing uneven. She could still hear her Ma’s shouts inside her head, the echoes of her harsh words repeating themselves, becoming more frightful with every passing minute. Her breath hitched in her throat when she realized she was afraid; for the first time since she could remember herself, she was truly afraid of her mother. The way her blue eyes shone, how she kept her hands in tight fists ready for a fight, the disgust in her face when she talked about Claire. It terrified Joan. Her Ma hadn’t been that angry even when Marsali had eloped with the frog. She had been hurt, back then, and disappointed. But she hadn’t tried to kill anyone.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9
Witches - Part 10
by @whiskynottea
She knew she shouldn’t be there.
No, not again. Not after evading the Comte for years, jumping from time to time and place to place. Not after managing to hide and build a new life for herself.
A life where nobody knew who she was. What she was. And nobody could track her down.
Despite all that, there she was.
--
Becoming a nurse during the war had been a natural choice for Claire. Hiding the blue light hadn’t always been easy, but she’d managed just fine, using the blood on her hands as a cover and trying to divert people’s attention when she had no other choice but to use her magic. And by doing so, she had healed many soldiers that made it back home to the open arms of their families and loved ones. She knew that Raymond would be proud of her.
She’d met Frank just before the war and she loved him because looking at him didn’t bring any of her memories back and she could keep the pain aside. Frank was sophisticated, elegant, different. He didn’t understand her completely but could embrace most parts of her. He loved her laughter, her wittiness, her spontaneity, even her bad cooking. He accepted that Claire needed a purpose in life and that staying at home and raising their children would never be good enough for her. He didn’t exactly love that, but he put up with her need to work. He didn’t know about her gift, of course. Burning witches might have fallen out of fashion, but there were plenty of madhouses ready to accept her. When Frank asked her to marry him on their way to the restaurant where his parents were waiting for them, he had a wide grin on his face and love in his eyes. Claire hadn’t given it much thought. Frank was a good man, and that was all she could ask for.
And now, with the World War behind them, they were supposed to recover from the despair they had lived in and come to Scotland to reconnect with each other. Scotland. Frank had insisted.
Her throat was tight even at the sight of the rolling hills and the heather at the sides of the road. No matter how many times she had jumped back and front in time, she had never come to Scotland again. Scotland meant Jenny and Jamie and Brian. It meant Lallybroch. It meant home. She wasn’t strong enough to be there without them.
And yet, here she was, biting her lip so hard she could taste blood. She blamed the wind for her tears and gave Frank a fake reassuring smile.
She was supposed to be here and focus on her relationship with Frank. To go sightseeing and listen to her husband talk about parts of history she had actually lived. She was supposed to dream of a quiet home in the suburbs of London that would soon be filled with children’s cries and laughter. She was supposed to find what to do with her life. She was supposed to be happy.
When her head hit the pillow the first night of their vacation, when Frank’s arms pulled her closer to his body, Claire stared at the white wall in front of her for what felt like hours. Tears were soaking the pillow, tears that she had kept locked inside for years. But the past was gone and she was here now, with a man who loved her and a life without danger waiting for her to live it. The life she’d managed to secure for herself after many sacrifices. She had to live it. She owed it to Raymond.
That was what Claire intended to do in the morning of Samhain, when Frank woke her up, talking excitedly about ancient rituals. She kept her heart closed to the rolling hills dusted with heather. She kept her heart closed to a past gone forever. She could go to watch these druids with him. She would hold his hand and focus on their future.
This was what she thought, at least until she realised that Frank was driving them to the hill. Her hill. The stones. Frank’s gaze was fixed on the road and he missed the terror in Claire’s eyes. Her heart was beating like a drum in her chest. In her panic, she couldn’t think of any good excuse to back away from the stones. She climbed up the hill and saw the druids dancing around the stones in the sunrise. Her breath left her body in a gasp.
The stones were buzzing a single word. Home.
Fate or coincidence, this was a twisted way to play with her resolution. She’d never imagined that she’d feel the stones’ buzzing running through her body ever again.
Claire left the hill with Frank, holding his hand tight, afraid that his long fingers were the only tether keeping her from running up the hill and disappearing into the past.
She kept herself occupied to distract her thoughts from the hill. She visited Reverend Wakefield with Frank. She let Mrs. Graham read the leaves and her hand for her, and felt her throat constricting when the old lady revealed her destiny. She left the house laughing with Frank at the lady’s antics and tried to focus on herbology.
No matter how hard she tried though, all she could see in front of her was the bright blue forget-me-nots next to the stones, challenging her.
Her heart was still beating for the past. She hadn’t forgotten them. None of them. Jenny’s hugs, Jamie’s lopsided smiles, Brian’s warm eyes.
Her family. Her people. The ones who knew everything about her and accepted her nonetheless. The ones who didn’t want to let her go.
After Raymond’s death, which she had sorely discovered a few years before, the Frasers were the only family she had and she needed to protect them, even if that meant sacrificing her own happiness. Claire reminded herself of this fact. If she’d go back, she’d never find the strength to leave again.
No more time jumps, she promised herself. Stay here, be safe, keep them safe.
But then she closed her eyes and thought of the last time she’d been at Lallybroch.
Jenny, next to the parlour’s fireplace, reading Don Quixote aloud. Brian resting in the armchair with Bran’s sleepy head on his lap. Jamie sitting on the couch next to her, his fingers barely brushing hers and electrocuting her whole body.
She had stolen a kiss from him that night. Her last night. Their first kiss. It had been everything she’d dreamed of. Hesitant and sweet at first, passionate and consuming when they couldn’t keep from each other anymore. His hands had trembled lightly before he cupped her face, securing her against him, as though entreating her to stay there with him. All air left had her body at once, leaving her dizzy. For a few wonderful minutes, her whole world focused on his strong hands, his soft lips, her desperate heart. The way her magic had danced in her veins.
It broke her that she would never feel her heart fluttering that way again.
She’d stayed awake that night, feeling her heart break piece by piece. She’d waited for dawn, standing next to the window of her room, craving to see the sunlight strolling down the Scottish hills one last time. With a last tear, she had closed her hand around the stone of her necklace and left everything behind.
There was a single, tear-stained note on her bed.
Thank you for giving me a family when I had none. You’ll always be my heart, and for that, I can’t risk you.
Forgive me,
Claire
She didn’t know if Jenny had known of her departure. If she had seen it, she never said anything.
Up to the day she walked up the enchanted hill again, searching for those forget-me-nots with her heart beating at the same rhythm as the stones, Claire truly believed that she’d left the Frasers forever that dawn.
She just wanted to get the forget-me-nots, she said to herself. A connection to the past, a way to show that she still cared. She was holding the flowers in her hand when she looked back at the bottom of the hill, but her body remained rooted in place. The stones were buzzing. The breeze caressed her hair like an old friend. The flowers in her hands were not enough, would never be enough.
In a single moment, she threw every single resolution she had made during the past years in the wind. The decision, reckless as it was, made her feel terrified, elated, free. Alive. Claire raised both hands in front of her, ready to grasp her future. The past. Her sister, her father, her love.
When she came to, the ground was damp and the soil’s scent attacked her nostrils. The stones were still buzzing their magic song, calling to her, singing with her, and the one embedded in her necklace joined them as if elated to find its long-lost friends.
--
Claire looked around, wondering if the time was right.
When she saw the redcoats on the horses, she smiled to herself. When she heard the guns, she cursed.
Without losing another moment, she broke into a run, determined to find somewhere to hide. She had to go back home. She had to go to Lallybroch.
Little did she know, that she’d meet one of her beloved Frasers in less than an hour since the stones took her to the past.
Little did she know, that dislocated shoulder or not, Jamie Fraser’s eyes would twinkle when they’d meet hers again and the smile she’d loved would curl up his lips.
Little did she know, that pregnant belly or not, Jenny’s hug would be just as fierce when she would hold her in her arms again.
The writers at Other Outlander Tales would like to wish each and every one of you a very happy holiday! In celebration, we have put together a series of moments during a Christmas celebration on the Ridge.
Christmas On The Ridge - December 25, 1779
William by @futurelounging
William Ransom, ninth earl of Ellesmere, kicked the warped bottom of the outhouse door which stubbornly refused to stay closed, briefly smiling to himself at a memory of his first visit to Fraser’s Ridge many year ago. Heading back down the trail, he pulled the lapels of his coat up against his ears, already stinging from the sharp winter wind swirling through the clearing behind the Frasers’ house. His father’s house. He had been trying it in his head lately, thinking of Fraser as his father, strange as it was to be adding yet another father to his collection.
The house’s lights poured from the windows, reaching halfway down the path to the outhouse and he stopped just before it, keeping himself in shadow. Through the windows he saw the blur of warm life. Mother Claire stood in the corner of the room, her fingers trailing through Mandy’s hair as she clung to Claire’s skirts. Fanny clapping, her head thrown back in laughter. Her life had been cast away by the world, but now, impossibly, it was infused with joy. He felt a pang, a sudden certainty of what it was to be treasured, and a hollow spot in the middle of his chest ached where Jane resided.
Merry Christmas and happy holidays from all of us at Other Outlander Tales!🎄🎁
We’ve been busy with family, work, and life the last six months, but will be bringing you new stories in the New Year and beyond! Best wishes to you all!
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8
Witches - Part 9
by @whiskynottea
They rode hard until their bodies shook with exhaustion. And then, they rode even harder.
Dishevelled and with eyes glinting with fear and courage, they saw Fort William looming over the highland landscape. They arrived at noon, the rare Scottish sun hiding behind fair clouds in the sky, a day before Alex’s execution.
A clock was ticking inside Claire’s head. A bomb ready to explode. On which side was yet to be found.
With trembling limbs, they dismounted and camped in the woods, concealed from the soldiers’ wandering eyes. None of them spoke of plans and hopes. They kept their voices inside their throats, afraid they would tremble or break if they attempted to make light of their situation.
Jamie walked away with measured steps to tend to the horses. Claire couldn’t help but notice the way his hands turned into fists. Jenny followed her brother and reached for her saddlebag, unpacking the oatcakes and cheese they had carried from Lallybroch. Ceana made to move to help, but she stopped with a firm shake of Jenny’s head. When Jamie returned, he found the girls sitting in an open circle, the food laid on a cloth in the middle of it. He closed the circle, sitting between Claire and his sister, and reached for an oatcake without a word. Jenny and Claire mimicked him, but Ceana didn’t reach for her food. Jamie finished his oatcake before Claire even started pretending she was eating hers. A nudge and a stern glance from Jenny at her side made her realize that she needed to make an effort.
“Ye’ll need yer strength, a nighean,” Jenny murmured in her ear as she leaned into Claire. “Ceana, eat,” she ordered sternly as if the lass was a wee girl, startling the youngest of the company. “We dinna need empty stomachs on top of everything else tonight.”
Claire saw Ceana reaching for some cheese as she broke her own oatcake into two. Half of it now, half in a few hours, before they would enter the fort. Jenny had been right, she was going to need it. She reached down, deep inside her, experimentally. She felt warmth, and a blue light springing from her center.
Good.
Next, she patted her right pocket for what seemed to be the hundredth time. She had read once, when she lived in the future, that this was the standard move all grooms did while waiting for their wives-to-be to walk down the aisle to them. They needed to be sure they had the ring. It wasn’t a sweet or romantic gesture in Claire’s case, but the nerves were just the same. She needed to know that both her vials were there, safe in thick cloths secured with cords, next to the syringe in her pocket.
The sun glinted against Jamie’s dagger as it lay on the grass out of its sheath. His steel pistol was inauspicious in its holder, but just as lethal.
They had their weapons. They had their plan. And they had six more hours before they would execute it, which seemed like an eternity to Claire.
She closed her eyes and prayed for good luck, prayed for a miracle. She prayed she would be enough, and her magic shimmered underneath her fingertips.
During the following hours, they only spoke about their mission. They went through every little detail, again and again. When the night fell, they were ready.
It was in those last few minutes, when the sun had moved to grace other lands, that Claire wished the light would not disappear yet. But the Earth kept spinning, paying no heed to her wishes. She closed her eyes to ready herself. When she opened them again, darkness surrounded her in the moonless night. She saw the Fraser siblings nodding to each other, then at her and Ceana. A minute later, she would hardly be able to make out their frames against the trees. She nodded back and heard them move, following the trail towards the fort.
Claire could listen to her heart beating, could feel her steps crashing the grass and wildflowers into the ground. This might have been the loudest march of her life if she didn’t know that her soft leather boots were almost silent. When she turned to check with Jenny to her left, she glanced at what she assumed was her friend’s white teeth. Jenny was smiling at her.
Sometimes Claire thought the Frasers had too much courage for their own good.
They all reached the east wall of the fort and with their backs scratching against the harsh stones, took the path parallel to the river. They had agreed beforehand that even though Jenny’s seduction skills had been of great value the first time she and Claire had entered the fort, they wouldn’t risk putting them to use again, especially now that the sentry may remember what they looked like.
It wasn’t like three women vanished into thin air from the inner courtyard every day.
This time all Claire could see was Jamie’s broad shoulders as he moved at the top of their small force. When he knocked down two sentries in a matter of minutes, Claire started wondering how exactly the Fraser siblings gained their disarming skills and what Jamie meant when he said that he was attending university in France. She doubted that fighting was a class he had taken right after literature or philosophy. Without lingering on that trail of thought, Claire moved next to Jamie and administered the mild soporific drug she kept in her left pocket before the sentries would faint. She needed them to have their senses, so they could swallow. The drug wouldn’t harm them, but it would secure Claire, Jenny and Ceana the time they needed inside the fort. It wouldn’t do for their plan to fail because a sentry had raised the alarm.
“How long will it last?” Jamie asked, and Claire was unable to abstain from shooting him a furious glance, sure she had already explained everything when they were in the woods.
“Three to four hours,” she nearly growled. “I’ve already told you this.”
Jamie, to his merit, at least had the presence of mind to look at the ground, blushing lightly.
“Come on,” Jenny urged them both in a hushed tone.
Jamie looked at them soberly for a moment. “Be careful,” he whispered, his eyes darting from his sister to Claire.
“Aye, we will,” Jenny reassured him, while Claire just gave him what she hoped to be a reassuring smile.
Men weren’t used to waiting for their women to come back to them. Not at this time, at least. This had once been the woman’s job, to sit patiently at the side, biding her time when her man went out in the world to live the adventure, to fight his battles, to conquer the unknown. Penelope had set a bad example, but Claire knew this was bound to change.
The perks of being a time-traveller. She smiled.
“I’ll wait for ye by the exit,” Jamie said, swallowing with effort. “If ye’re late or I hear any stramash, I’m going in,” he announced in a fearless tone a moment later, placing a hand on his dagger and the other on his pistol.
Some things would be hard to change.
“Sure,” Jenny nonchalantly agreed with him and made to leave. “Oh! And Jamie?” she turned around before her brother left them to go to his post. “Have fun, eh?”
Claire couldn’t keep from chuckling. Women as fierce and assertive as Jenny Fraser could turn the world upside-down. Jamie narrowed his eyes at Jenny, murmuring something that sounded ominous. His gaze met Claire’s for one last time, lingering before he disappeared into the night.
“Right,” Jenny mumbled, solemn once more. “Ready?”
Ceana pushed her lips together until they nearly vanished from her face. Claire swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “As ready as we’ll ever be,” she admitted at last. “Let’s get Alex out of here.”
With one last nod, Jenny turned and headed towards Alex’s cell. They knew where it was, at least. Ceana knew exactly where Randall was keeping him.
Claire moved on her tiptoes, her heart in her mouth and her senses on the edge, scouring her surroundings for any sound that was out of place. She found the fort relatively quiet and was glad Brian’s information proved to be correct.
Thank god for Highlanders and their cattle raiding. Many soldiers had left the fort to search for the offenders.
The three girls stayed in the shadows, clothed in black, their silhouettes barely visible in the dark.
They looked like Erinyes, brought out of the Greek mythology, ready to punish the immoral, the oath-breakers, the murderers. Though they were thirsty for justice, that wasn’t their focus tonight.
Tonight, they will free an innocent.
They reached the cells in less than two minutes and without disruptions. A single guard was strolling from Alex’s cell at the end of the narrow corridor to the bottom of the stairs, then to the adjacent hallway that held even more closed doors with heavy lockets on them. The way out, Claire thought, based on the map of the fort Brian had acquired. She gestured that way at Jenny.
The didn’t expect a guard to be stationed there. When Ceana had visited Alex before, the corridor was empty. Jamie insisted they be prepared in case of unexpected soldiers, though. They knew how to divert the man’s attention for as long as Claire and Ceana would need to reach Alex’s cell. They just wished they didn’t have to.
Jenny squeezed Claire’s hand. She waited until the soldier turned his back to them, walking towards Alex’s cell. Then, she daintily walked towards the opposite direction, until she was lost from Claire’s sight at the turn at the end of the hallway. Claire held her breath and waited, hidden in the darkness of the stairs.
The guard fumbled with his gun holder as he walked past her, following Jenny’s silent route. He reached the end of the hallway and stopped, leaning against the wall.
Claire hardly held her gasp. Had he heard anything? Would he go looking for Jenny?
It wasn’t more than a minute later that he started pacing towards Claire’s direction again.
Nothing, then. He just took a bloody break, ideal to mess with Claire’s nerves.
When he passed by the staircase again, Claire took a tentative step down. Then another. A few more steps and she met Jenny’s pale face and wide eyes. Jenny signaled three with her hand and disappeared again to the left.
Third door to the left, Claire repeated in her head. She ascended the few steps again and took Ceana’s hand in hers. The girl’s fingers were even colder than Claire’s and Claire pulled her close to her, hugging her tightly.
They waited until they saw the soldier again, his face as red as his uniform under the light of the torch at the bottom of the stairs. The next moment he was walking in the opposite direction of Alex’s cell.
Claire descended the stairs feeling Ceana close behind her and waited in the shadows. A moment later, she heard a loud banging from the end of the hallway.
Jenny’s decoy.
The soldier murmured something under his breath but, thankfully, his gait didn’t change. Instead of running towards the sound as Claire thought he would, he trudged along the hallway. It seemed that some of the prisoners made sure to remind him that he was not alone.
Claire smiled and thanked her luck for the extra time they had been granted.
She walked fast to Alex’s cell, already holding the lockpick Jamie gave her and going through Jamie’s and Jenny’s instructions in her mind. She knew Ceana’s eyes were on the sentry, in case he turned back and didn’t follow the sound that now had stopped.
When the door didn’t submit to Claire’s picking skills, her heart stumbled in her chest.
“Just don’t panic,” Jamie had said.
Easy to say that, when you’re sitting at Lallybroch’s large kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of you and your family around, teaching people how to pick locks.
Claire took a breath and tried teasing the lock open again. The third time proved to be a charm.
Just like magic, she thought, as she and Ceana entered the cell.
They got in and closed the door behind them, anticipating and wishing against any alarming sound from the guard’s direction. When nothing came through the iron door, Claire silently thanked Jenny and turned around, taking in the moist, dark cell.
A shiver ran along her spine and Claire felt her throat getting dry. Ceana gasped.
A torch was burning in its holster next to the door, but there was no warmth in the narrow room. A single cot lay across from them, with a tattered blanket and a buck next to it.
Ceana ran to the figure lying under the blanket, stopping at arm’s length.
“Alex?” she whimpered, reaching a hand towards him.
The figure turned, and his pale face searched for the girl. Greasy dark hair fell on his hollowed cheeks, and Claire couldn’t see more before Ceana fell on him, holding him to her, hiding him from Claire’s eyes with her body.
They were both sobbing.
Claire wished they had time, wished she could let them live this moment and cry their hearts out for finding each other again but she knew she couldn’t do that.
The clock was still ticking inside her head, just as it did that morning.
Her stride was determined, even though her touch was gentle on Ceana’s back when she reached the couple.
“Later,” she whispered. “You’ll have all the time in the world later. Now we need to be fast and quiet.”
Ceana nodded and tried to extricate herself from her loved one’s arms but Alex held her tight, not letting her go. Claire listened to his rough voice as he mumbled in Ceana’s hair that he loved her and that she shouldn’t have come, that she wasn’t safe.
Ceana just shook her head and pulled away from him.
“This is Claire,” she announced, gesturing at the woman standing next to her. “And we will get ye out of here.”
Alex’s eyes widened in trepidation, and Ceana took his face in her palms and kissed his forehead. “I trust her wi’ my life, and wi’ yer life too. Just do as she says.”
Alex kept silent for a moment before his eyes found Claire’s. She tried to smile at him and hoped the dim light hid the trembling corners of her mouth.
“Wha’ do I need to do?” he asked as he raised himself on his cot. “I canna--” he said, trying to sit up, but his arms failed him.
Claire took a breath while Ceana lowered Alex on the bed again and sat by him, holding his hand between hers. Together, they explained the plan. Claire had thought that were was no colour on the lad’s face when they first entered the room, but by the time they finished narrating the events that would happen that night, Alex looked positively dead.
It suits our purpose just fine, Claire’s sarcasm surfaced for a moment before the weight of her actions sank her deeper into the dread of the night.
Within the next hour, she would either save him or kill him.
Claire closed her eyes and reached for the light within her. With slow, tender moves she healed Alex’s wounds, leaving the superficial scratches and bruises, the proof that nothing had changed from the last time Randall had seen him. When his breathing came easier and he could stand on his feet, she walked under the torch and pulled out the vial with the curare. A minute later it was in the syringe, ready flow in Alex’s veins and arteries to paralyze him.
Ceana had already started making the noose out of Alex’s blanket when Claire approached the pair again. Ceana had been right, the lad didn’t cower at the sight of the needle. Claire fervently wished it could be easier on him, something more humane and less of a torture.
How much suffering, does being loved, takes? How much pain does freedom cost?
Not waiting for an answer, Claire administered the poison. Again, and again. Alex started feeling dizzy. The muscles of his jaw, neck, and head relaxed first, making Ceana gasp. Claire bit her lip hard and waited for the next signs. Before he became heavy they moved him towards the tiny window of his cell. After a few failed attempts, Ceana managed to secure the end of the blanket on the steel bars covering the window. Alex’s breaths came fast and short, and he desperately clutched at his neck. It broke Claire’s heart to see him like this, to know that she’d leave him like this.
“I know you can’t swallow,” she said, searching for his eyes. “You’re choking because of the saliva that accumulates in your throat. That is to be expected. Soon, you won’t be able to move. But you will be conscious, and you will feel it all. You will feel the pain, and I’m sorry.” She reached for his hands, taking them into hers, trying to ignore the sounds of life leaving his body through his throat. “I’m so very sorry, Alex.”
Claire looked at Ceana, who had hugged Alex’s arm as if she would never let go. “We have to leave,” Claire announced. “Now. The captain will come at any moment.”
Ceana started crying, then cupped Alex’s face and lifted it up so he could look at her. “I love ye, mo chridhe. I love ye so much.” His head dropped down again the moment her hands left it.
Claire’s one hand reached for his throat, the other laid above his trachea. Her magic ran through her, and she wished the air to pass through his open mouth, down to his lungs. Alex, used to getting morsels of air up to this point, took a ragged breath. And another.
“This will help for a while.”
Claire held him as Ceana secured the noose around his neck and then when the girl went to check if the guard was in the corridor again.
“Nothing,” she whispered.
“Jenny and Jamie dealt with him.” The assumption gave courage to Claire. They were alone now, but her friends were out there, waiting for Claire and Ceana to come back to them, willing to do anything for them.
“Come help me,” Claire asked, feeling the weight of the man becoming more as time passed.
Ceana held him with difficulty and Claire placed two palms on his tights. Blue light emerged, dipping into the muscle for a few moments.
“I hope this will be enough. It will help you stand. When you hear Randall outside,” Claire paused for a moment, not sure which words were suited best for the situation.
“Let go,” Ceana provided and Claire silently thanked the girl. “They will throw you outside, thinking that ye’re dead,” she said, holding his head once more. “We will be there.”
“We will be there,” Claire echoed her and gave her a few more breaths, the blue light of her hands erie on the skin of his neck. moved towards the door. She didn’t want to look back, but she did, and she felt her heart breaking at the sight of him.
At the sight of what she had done.
Just help me save him. Bring him to me on time, let me be enough.
They turned at the end of the silent corridor and reached the third door at the left, as Jenny had instructed. It wasn’t locked, and the crisp air of the night welcomed them, caressing their faces. Next came the stench.
Claire reached for her throat and listened to Ceana gag.
“Not verra pleasing, is it?” Jenny’s voice reached them and Claire looked down at her friend. “I’m afraid ye have to jump.” Jenny shrugged.
So Claire jumped into that sea of dead bodies. Ceana followed, and Claire knew the girl’s grimace wasn’t very different from hers.
“Try staying here for a while,” Jamie suggested.
“Ye do get used to it,” Jenny challenged.
“I’ll ask our friend here, once he comes to.” Claire could almost see Jamie’s lopsided smile.
“Don’t we need to… return him?” she asked, looking at the unconscious soldier beside Jamie.
“Nah,” Jamie argued. “Randall can punish him all he wants for not being on this post after we take Alex.”
Claire nodded, raising a clothed arm to protect her nose from the offensive smell, and waited. None of them spoke again, standing among the corpses, waiting for the one they wished they had saved.
Claire clenched the vial with the antidote in her hand. She would give it to Alex the moment they had him. She would give everything to save him. She reached for her magic, determined to drain her core if need to. Alex needed to live. She needed to save him.
Ceana shivered and Jenny tucked her under her arm. Claire felt the minutes drag by, each of them longer, each of them the one in which Alex’s diaphragm was paralyzed. She counted her breaths, so free and unhindered, and thought of his labored and counted ones. Each of them bringing him closer to the end.
Guilt settled in Claire’s heart, because she knew that this was the end she had chosen for him. Full of pain and despair. She felt like vomiting when the commotion from inside reached her ears. She pushed her thoughts and feelings back and started counting the seconds. Then the minutes.
One minute. Two.
What was taking them so long?
Three minutes.
She waited between Jenny and Jamie, their backs pushed against the stone wall to avoid detection. Claire could feel her own heart beating louder and louder against her ribs. Ceana’s face was hidden in the crook of Jenny’s neck. Jamie faced upwards, towards the closed door, as if saying, any moment now. We’ll have him back at any moment now.
Claire couldn’t think anymore. An endless chant took hold of her mind, urging them to give Alex back to her.
Come on, come on, come on.
Finally, the voices got louder. The door opened, and a body was thrown above the rest of soulless limbs in front of them. The soldiers were talking, but Claire’s attention was on the man. On Alex.
The moment the door closed again, Jamie brought Alex to her. Laid on top of the corpses, Alex took another injection, one that he couldn’t feel this time. But now the syringe was full with the antidote.
He still didn’t move. Claire inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of death around her and breathed it in Alex’s mouth.
Exchanging death for life.
Her hands reached for his throat and trachea as she did so, the blue light strong and iridescent at the midst of the darkness. Jamie and Jenny moved to cover her with their bodies, with dread and awe in their eyes.
Magic always did that to people. But what Claire really needed was a miracle.
She felt their silent support through their hands on her shoulders. Claire repeated the unconventional artificial respiration until her own lungs hurt. She kept going until the blue light emanating from her fingers flickered and fell. She tried bringing him back to life until she felt there was no life in her anymore.
When Alex’s chest finally moved, she fell into the darkness.
--
Claire woke up feeling two warm hands holding hers.
Jenny.
Her friend, her companion, her fellow witch. Her sister.
She opened her eyes, taking in the dimly lit room. The curtains were closed, and the embers in the fireplace gave the walls a warm red glow.
“Don’t --” she started saying, but her voice broke. Speaking was painful, and she wondered how many days she’d lain unconscious.
“Claire?” Jenny’s voice, hushed but excited, was soon followed by her hand on Claire’s forehead. A murmured, “Thank God,” and Jenny’s small smile made the corners of Claire’s lips turn up in response.
She cleared her throat. Twice. “Don’t you have any work to do, instead of sitting on my bedside like I’m dying?” she rasped.
“Ye were dying,” Jenny chastised. “We thought we were losing ye. What were ye thinking, Claire? What ye did at Fort William was totally irresponsible.” She sighed and brushed Claire’s curls from her face. “And selfless, and brave.”
A sudden panic slipped into Claire’s eyes as the realization hit her. She made to sit up, but Jenny’s forearm restrained her. “Is he alive? Where is he? How is he doing? I need to see him!” Her breaths came quick but she ignored them.
“Alex is fine, lass. His recovery is fast.” Jenny nodded, to emphasize her words. “Since ye depleted all yer magic to save him,” she added in a murmur. “How do ye feel?”
“Tired. How many days was I out?”
“Three days, Claire. And ye were grey and hardly breathing when we brought ye home. And when I tried to see ye in the future…” Jenny trailed off, suddenly finding the duvet more interesting than Claire’s eyes.
“I’m fine, Jenny. I’m here.” Claire squeezed her friend’s hand and Jenny looked at her again.
“Ye shouldna sacrifice yerself to save another. Yer life counts just as much.”
Claire smiled, knowing that Jenny said what she had to say, but didn’t quite follow her own advice.
“I’ll go bring ye some broth and tell the others ye’re awake a leannan,” Jenny announced, standing up. “I wasna the only one at yer bedside, Claire,” she added as an afterthought.
I looked at her for a long moment, thinking that Ceana probably hadn’t left Alex’s side since they rescued him.
“Jamie,” Jenny confirmed quietly and moved to the door. “He didna leave ye alone either.”
When the door closed, tears started rolling down Claire’s cheekbones, dampening her pillow.
Anonymous said: Can I please have some modern day au Mrs Fitz?
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Onions
by @whiskynottea
Glenna FitzGibbons left the house and locked the door behind her.
One, two, three, four times.
These doors, her nephew Murtagh had insisted, were useless unless you made sure all screws were in place. So Glenna made sure.
It wasn’t easy living alone these days. Last week burglars had broken into a house at the block up the street. The police were still investigating the case.
She briefly wondered whether it would be different if her man was alive, or if he would just provide a fragile feeling of security with minimum impact on reality, were the thieves at their doorstep.
She shook her head as if to shake the thoughts away. She looked upwards, and her pursed lips changed into a smile. In greeting. Silent words formed in her head, the same she always said when she left the house.
I’m going to work, mo chridhe.
The walk to her small restaurant took less than ten minutes. Plump she might be, and the doctor might insist she lose weight, but her quick feet hadn’t failed her yet. It took her ten minutes to get there, and not one more. Rain or shine.
When John had passed away, everyone thought Glenna would close the restaurant. She was old, and running it without him wouldn’t be easy. Murtagh had suggested they sell it. Jamie tried to convince Jenny to take over the business, but the lass had declared that with that family of hers, she’d cooked enough for two lifetimes. Glenna let them talk, and fight, and brainstorm for ideas.
At last, she announced that she was keeping Leoch’s Kitchen no matter what. She was certain John would agree.
The wooden sign next to the door moved slightly in the autumn wind, and Glenna’s smile grew. For years, she had been the first to arrive to open the restaurant, to begin the preparations before her lassies and lads arrived.
Others called them employees, but for Glenna, they were family.
Ian arrived first. Glenna heard him singing one of those deplorable songs he seemed to like, and waited for him to enter the kitchen before she talked, sure that the loudest scream wouldn’t go through his earbuds. He came to a stop at the counter across from her, and as Glenna looked into his warm hazel eyes she would swear he was four years old again and begging for a slice of freshly-baked bread with butter. But she had to look up to see these eyes now. Jenny’s wee one had become a man; tall with a body shaped from the same mold as his father’s. He said a singsong hello as he tied his hair on a knot at the back of his head, walked around the counter, and gave her a loud kiss on the cheek.
“Onions? D’ye do it on purpose, auntie? Every time I come, ye’re chopping these damned onions!” he said, blinking as his eyes started to tear up.
“Well, I dinna remember ye cursing at them when ye have them in yer burger!” Glenna laughed, sniffling herself.
Ian scrunched up his nose, picked a cherry tomato from the bowl next to him, and took a few steps away in an attempt to remove himself from the onion vapor.
“Uncle Jamie said that the wine delivery will arrive in about an hour. I’ll stay to help.”
Glenna hummed. “Wasn’t he supposed to be here?” she asked, wondering when, exactly, the plans had changed.
“Aye, but he said auntie Claire started to suspect we’re preparing something for her birthday and he couldna find a good excuse to leave the house.” Ian was now in front of the fridge, staring at the shelves, no doubt wondering what else was available to eat.
Glenna smiled at herself, and moved about deliberately. Three minutes later, she was toasting a sandwich for the ever-hungry-lad.
“Do ye think Auntie Claire will figure the surprise out?” he asked with the sandwich in hand and his mouth full, spreading bread crumbs around.
Of course Claire would find out, sooner or later. If she hadn’t done that already. But Glenna didn’t have the heart to tell Ian. “Nah,” she reassured him. “We have everything under control.”
Ian continued devouring his sandwich, and Glenna picked up her favourite knife again. Who would imagine, Claire’s 55th birthday. The wee curly-heided medical student who had forgotten her keys at Glenna’s restaurant that October night she celebrated her 20th birthday.
Thirty-five years. It felt like yesterday, and yet it didn’t.
Glenna could feel each passing year in the ache of her bones. It was there, in the empty side of her bed. In the wrinkles of her face. Two deep ones between the brows, a testimony of her concentration when she was cooking, her love for perfection. And the others, so many others, lines covering her white skin and showing to the world that she had cried, and smiled, and lived.
Thirty-five years had gone by. Glenna had seen her daughter getting married and held her bonnie granddaughter in her arms, tufts of blonde hair shining under the sun. And then she had fixed that golden hair and comforted her granddaughter before her own wedding, when Laoghaire had a breakdown thinking her hairstyle had been a disaster. She had witnessed her grumpy Murtagh fall in love and make his own family. She had seen her nephews and nieces make their dreams come true, finding their own paths to happiness.
In all those years, Glenna had made wedding and birthday cakes, had prepared brunches and dinners for her family, and had laughed until all breath gone out of her lungs in those gatherings. She had made cookies with the wee ones -- each and every one of them. The FitzGibbons, the Frasers and the MacKenzies, all covered up with flour and face-splitting grins.
She had held her John’s hand when he was strong and led her up the munros, and when he was weak and let her lead him to their bed. She had felt his breaths giving her life with every kiss, and she had felt them taking life away after each session of chemotherapy, when each inhalation was more laboured than the previous one.
Thirty-five years of life. Almost double what Ian had lived so far.
Glenna’s eyes glinted, from the onions or the memories she wasn’t sure, and she looked upwards again, sending her thoughts towards him. Reminding him that she would always keep him by her side.
“See? I told ye these onions are evil!” Ian exclaimed, walking towards the sink to wash his dish.
“Aye, wee evil onions”, Glenna murmured.
Like memories. You never know if they’ll turn out to be sweet or sharp. But it’s their taste, we’re craving for.
Anonymous said: Can you write some Claire x Jenny?
Author’s note: 2019 Queerlander is upon us! This is an FF au lightly sprinkled with fantasy. Enjoy!
In the Cabin
by @ianmuyrray
Jenny was a princess. Not an ordinary princess, she was aware of that, even though she might appear as one to others. She wore the dresses and the tiara; she threw dinner parties and knew how to waltz. She could hold court, school her features into an immobile mask, even insult someone while making it sound like a compliment.
But nothing was quite as important to Jenny as escape, pretending to be someone she was not. She was never as fulfilled as when she snuck away in a pair of her brother's breeches, tied tight about the waist to keep them from falling, the cuffs rolled to prevent tripping. She preferred to escape outside the confines of the castle, to run and pretend she wasn’t, in fact, royalty. That she didn’t have obligations or responsibilities outside of herself. She considered the headache earned from her hair twisted in a tight, hasty braid a badge of honor and her sunburned cheeks a trophy well earned.
Her most trusted companion on these excursions was her horse, Marble. Marble would know, before Jenny even twitched the reins, in what direction she wanted to ride, and what speed she’d want to travel at.
There was a cabin, not far from the lake, where the court healer lived. It was Jenny’s preferred place to be.
Jenny's mind drifted there now, even as she sat in her father's council room, her brother looking as bored as she felt while he sat sprawled on his large stone chair. Throne. Whatever they were calling it these days.
Spoiled brat, Jenny thought, running her hand down the wooden arms of her much smaller chair, sitting up straighter.
She frowned, trying to regain focus on the state affairs her father worked hard to keep the two of them apprised of. She tried hard to pretend to care. But her mind kept drifting, seeking that warm little cabin, with the scent of bergamot in the air, the soft prick of a wolf fur bed against her back, her knees, her palms, her cheek, the graceful lines of the feminine person inside it, the sound of her heavy breathing...
A throat cleared, and then she heard a voice, "Janet."
"Mm?"
Brian's black brows were raised. "I was saying, I have some news for ye."
She folded her hands in her lap, the cabin vanishing from her mind as her eyes caught on the new person in the room.
A man, of marriageable age. He merely stood there and gave her an expectant look. Oh no. No, no, no.
Shock flared in her eyes before it extinguished itself into courtly, passive femininity.
"This is Ian Murray," her father said, and Jenny forced herself to smile at the man as he was introduced. He was all hard lines and angles, nothing of the softness or grace she'd come to know and prefer. "Your betrothed."
Jenny inhaled deeply, crumpling her silk skirts in her fists. She let go, and then crumpled them again. Took a breath in, let the breath out.
Her eyes were hard as stone as she studied him, though she continued to give him the smile she knew she had to.
"It's a pleasure to meet ye, Ian," she whispered, and it was only the wine she'd had with dinner that had made it possible to speak.
“He is from a neighboring clan,” her father continued. “An alliance greatly desired.”
Ian bowed slightly, the sword at his hip sweeping back just a bit.
Jenny stood abruptly, her wooden chair scraping against the stone floor with an ungodly sound, ringing in the silence. "Excuse me," she said, as soft as she could, trying to cover for the way her slippered feet stomped out of the room.
And Ian looked like he was going to apologize for merely existing, damn him.
She flew into her room to pack her bags. Her belongings were flung across her room, the wardrobe emptied, the doors left open. Discarded clothes lay in piles on the floor, the four-poster bed. She tore herself out of her silken gown, unpinned her hair. She eventually settled for two dresses that might pass for a peasant’s and stepped into a set of Jamie's clothes, stolen from the laundry a long time ago. The breeches afforded her much-desired freedom of movement and the shirt hung loose on her, several sizes too big and built for a man's body, not the figure of a woman's. But it was freedom; it was hers. She needed to claim what moves she could on the game board she’d been placed.
She was lacing herself into her boots when she heard a knock at her door. Stomach turning leaden, she opened it slowly, then swept it wide upon seeing who it was.
"Jamie.”
He stepped into her room and she closed the door behind him, latching it locked.
"I know," he began. "And I'm sorry. But ye must've kent it would always be this way."
She did. She'd known. This was her fate -- to be shipped off and married to the most eligible bachelor, for the sake of alliances and politics. A pawn in a game she had no power to play; where perhaps, as a woman, she had the most to lose.
Because this was Jamie, she nodded.
He went on, "If it makes it any easier, I know Ian. From the war. He's an officer, a damn good one. Someone who will be an asset to the family as a man, not just for his connection to Clan Murray."
"And to me?" Jenny demanded.
"He'll be an asset to you, too, Janet. If ye give him a chance."
"But what if I can't?" she said, her voice barely audible, her mind once again imagining a flurry of skirts in the garden of that cabin by the lake, of the tinkle of laughter and the flutter of a shift as it dropped. Jenny wanted to weep, to scream.
"He'll understand."
"What if he doesn't?"
Jamie's shoulders dropped. "I might --" but then he sighed. "Go. Go to her. I won't tell anyone."
So Jenny ran. She ran to the stables, to her horse. Like always, Marble knew she would be coming. She saddled him, leapt onto him. The horse let off nothing more than a grunt of excitement as she flicked the reins.
Jenny was electric, needing to outrun her own power. But as she neared the cabin, the world seemed to still its spinning, and mist seemed to hover, shimmering in the air.
Marble trotted near the front door, stopping at the fence post where Jenny always tied him. She hopped off, catching a brief whiff of her own scent, sweet with the tang of musk.
The woman who lived in this cabin was alone in the world. She had no one but Jenny -- she had chosen Jenny.
Jenny strode up the cobbled path to the door, removing her feathered hat and riding gloves as she went. Sweat beaded and dripped between her breasts and down her stomach; she picked at her shirt, trying to air it out.
It was night and yet the air was sweltering.
The door flew open before she knocked, bathing the blue night in a swath of orange light.
A soft, feminine body tackled her and held her tight, curls swarming Jenny's face. "I heard the news. The servants told me."
Jenny breathed the woman in, buried her face in that hair, her nose brushing just so against the woman's cheek. She placed a kiss to the corner of her jaw, content to just hold her.
"Claire," she breathed. Her knees wanted to buckle at the touch of her.
Claire nearly withdrew. "But what about--"
"Don't." Jenny held her tight, refusing the request to pull away. A hot tear swept down her cheek.
Claire was taller than her by nearly a head, but that didn't stop Jenny from gripping her tightly about the waist and lifting her, if only briefly, to set her back inside the threshold. The cabin door swung shut behind them, bathing the field, and Marble, once again in a sea of blue.
Anonymous said: What was it like, in Voyager, for Brianna to decide to travel through the stones if Claire didn’t do it?
Part 1
Our Farewell - Part 2 / 2
by @monisse
Roger froze at the door, quite involuntarily. Her question fell upon him like a rush of cold water, immobilizing his muscles and making it difficult to breathe, let alone for his heart to keep beating.
“To the stones, I mean.” Brianna elaborated further.
Even with his back turned to her, he could detect the faint pang of regret in her voice, and he wondered briefly if she had meant to ask if he would go through the stones with her. Blood started to flow in his body again, encouraged by the quickening of his heart.
Throughout the whole ordeal, from discovering the stones had otherworldly, time traveling properties, to learning Claire’s story, finding Jamie alive, and then realizing he too had the ability to go back in time, Roger had thought of the possibilities. He entertained the idea of running as fast as he could towards the tallest stone on Craigh na Dun, hoping not to slam against the hard surface, but to be transported to a reality he only knew from his studies. And in the first second after her question had floated unanswered in the space between them, he contemplated again leaving his life behind, the stuffy rooms and old books, and seeing history with his own eyes. There was a part of him that resisted the passive life of a professor. Being an observer of events instead of an active player had been the path of least resistance. There was nothing holding him here, in this time, and this life. He had no living kin and only a handful of friends to miss him. Besides, how could a historian deny the chance to see the past when it was only a touch on a stone away?
He turned around finally, and his eyes landed on her, sitting on the bed. Her face was stripped of the layers she always crafted so masterfully to conceal her thoughts. Her features were now soft, giving her a childlike air. Her vulnerability lay bare with no pretense whatsoever, trusting him wholeheartedly, and fear floated on the bottomless pool of her blue eyes, inviting him to dive in.
She looked small in her dark blue pajamas, despite the imposing six feet of height. Strands of red hair were loose from the long braid she wore over her shoulder, and he wanted nothing more than to brush them aside and allow the tips of his fingers to linger on the skin of her cheek.
“Will you see me off, at least?” she pressed, the gentle tone of her voice summoning him back to reality.
“Ye really are going through with it, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “It wouldn’t be forever. I just have to find Jamie, and then I’ll come back.”
If only it were that simple. But life had taught him, quite early and unexpectedly, that the most carefully laid plans had a way of going astray very fast, and often with severe consequences. Perhaps it was a byproduct of her young age, but naïveté was shining through the cracks of what she clearly thought was a reasonable plan.
“It’s not like going on a vacation to the other side of the Atlantic, Bree.” Again, he felt the irresistible gravitation towards her, an invisible energy that seemed to magnetically control his body, and he moved to sit on the bed in front of her again.
“No, it’s not. But I’m a very capable woman, Roger. If Mama doesn’t go, I have to.”
He smiled at her confidence and strength, incredibly vivid in each word.
“I have no doubt in my mind that you can, but we’re talking about a time that was not kind to women, particularly those that travel alone. And God knows what those stones can do to a person.”
A single ruddy eyebrow suddenly lifted. “Has any time been kind to women?”
She said the words in jest, but they held a truth known, and shared, by every woman, one he could not deny. “Ach, no. But still, I can’t let ye go…”
“Roger,” she said, with finality in her voice that gave no space for further argument.
He could sit there all night, list all the possible dangers she might face, and even then, he knew Brianna would not budge; her decision had been made. To an extent, he admired that side of her, impulsive and stubborn to a fault, but determined nonetheless. Roger already knew she would always carry out her will, one way or another, and that it would, more often than not, be useless to oppose her. With an aching heart, he silenced all his arguments, and resigned himself to her choice.
His hand covered hers on top of the blanket, and he gently laced their fingers together. “I’ll take ye to the stones, if that’s what ye decide to do. The least I can do is to be there beside ye if you go.”
“Thank you.” She leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek, brief and sweet, catching him by surprise.
“Claire will leave early in the morning,” he said as an afterthought.
Her eyes opened wide, and a sudden flash of hurt crossed through dark blue, as she realized that her mother would leave earlier than expected, to avoid the hurtful goodbye that neither mother, nor daughter, were truly ready for.
Brianna pulled her hand away from his, crossed the bed on hands and knees to the other side, and leaned over to retrieve something from under the bed. Her arse was suddenly pointing slightly upwards, round and incredibly tempting. He clutched his fingers together in his lap, least an errant hand took on a life of its own and he made a fool of himself.
Once she came back up again, her hands were holding what appeared to be a dress in 18th century fashion, of the most horrific green lime color he had ever seen. It even had stones, shining disturbingly all over the front, and far too unnatural for today’s standards, let alone for Georgian era fashion.
She had a guilty look on her face, and he immediately realized she had been planning it for a while, without telling either him or her mother. Her premeditation disconcerted him slightly. Roger stared at the dress, briefly imagining Brianna, too tall even for today’s standards, and attracting both curious and unwanted attention in the past.
As selfish as it was, he hoped he could count on Claire going through the stones herself so Brianna would not have to. Roger did not feel ashamed by the thought, for it was only a natural yearning, growing stronger by the day, to want to protect her, to take care of her.
He sighed and rose from the bed. At a loss for words, he simply leaned down, and this time, it was he who placed a lingering kiss upon her forehead. “We better be ready before sunrise. If anything, at least ye’ll have a proper farewell.”
–”–
Brianna felt a sort of nervous energy coursing through her veins as her feet moved, quite reluctantly, up the hill. The laces on the bodice she wore were pulled tightly, noticing it too late, and her breaths became increasingly shallow, while her heart beat strongly to be free of such a tight cage. Roger was beside her, a constant reassuring presence ever since they had met, and her hand found his easily, as if he were already expecting it. They reached the circle of stones together, and were immediately hit by the echoes of the past, present, and future, blending together in an incomprehensible, haunting call from within.
She took one step forward, and then another, Roger following her stride, until they reached the central stone and stopped. The buzzing was overwhelming, and even with the nauseating feeling rising in her stomach, she still had the presence of mind to hold onto both his hands with a strength that forced him to stand his ground. His face had gone pale, and she knew he was fighting the same impulse. Brianna stood there for a brief moment, wondering if she just moved forward and crossed the cleft in the middle of the stone, would she be able to let go of his hand, or would she pull him to the past with her?
Footsteps caught her attention and she turned towards the sound. Her mother was coming up the hill, already speechless and astonished to see her there. And Brianna knew with certainty that before the sun completely rose above the horizon, one of two things would happen: either she’d lose her mother to the past forever, or she’d make the leap herself. Roger suddenly tightened his grip, sensing her on the cusp of a decision. Their eyes locked and she nodded. Not yet, she thought. There was still a little time.
The next part of the series based on the Audrey Niffenegger book The Time Traveler’s Wife. Part 1
Author’s note: Claire is 48 in this part, and in Paris with Jamie while they look for Young Ian.
The Time Traveler’s Family: Part 2
by @abbydebeaupreposts
Claire came to, her mind sifting through the fog. She could feel boots that were pinching her toes, the heavy covering of a thick skirt on her legs. She experimentally rubbed one knee against the other, noting the absence of the telltale slide of nylon-on-nylon. Taking a deep breath, she felt the push of her stays against her ribs and that at least confirmed she was somewhere in an earlier time.
The melodious peel of church bells vibrated through her chest and with a sudden snap, Claire realized where she was: L’Hôpital des Anges. She mentally chided herself. She hadn’t gone anywhere, she’d only fainted!
It shouldn’t have been hot enough to cause dehydration, but she had walked a good portion of Paris this morning and hadn’t thought to bring any water. On top of that, she’d been far too nervous to eat breakfast this morning.
She hadn’t lied to Jamie . . . exactly . . . she just hadn’t told him that she was also planning on coming here. Provisioning the ship for their journey required them to head out separately in search of supplies and arranging for their safe delivery to the wharf. They were both aware that each day they delayed lessened their chances of catching up to the scoundrels who’d kidnapped Young Ian.
One look at his stressed face when they’d arisen had decided the issue. Claire could not, simply could not utter the name of their daughter knowing how frantic Jamie was to find his nephew. Faith had been gone twenty and more years, but they had the hope of saving Ian. Jamie needed the freedom to direct his energies on that, not dwell on things long since lost.
Claire’s glass face might have given her away, or perhaps that excellent nose of his might have sniffed out the flowers - she still couldn't believe her luck in finding any this late in the year - that she’d buried under the linen lining of her market basket, but he’d been too preoccupied with organizing his own day to pay too much attention to hers.
Thinking of the flowers, Claire sat up and cast her eyes around for her basket, not finding it, she slowly rose and walked a few paces in a circle. Something in her field of vision was off, her eyes sensing the change before she had time to really process it. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Faith’s stone no longer lay at her feet. A strong gust of wind whipped a loose strand of hair across her face and she realized how warm it was, whenever she was, it definitely wasn’t November.
A sharp jolt of panic sent her stomach plummeting. She willed her breathing to steady, counting the in-and-out rhythm. As she did so, she calmed herself by concentrating on the noises around her. The modern world sounded completely different than the time before.
Claire was reassured by the cadence of carriage wheels on the stone street just the other side of the high enclosure surrounding the cemetery, the clomp of horse hooves, dog barks and goat bleats. At last she was able to think logically. Claire forced herself to acknowledge the truth. Faith's grave was missing because their daughter either hadn't come to be or, more likely, hadn't . . . wasn't . . . yet gone. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!
When Jamie suggested coming to Paris in all due haste and seeking help from Jared, Claire had readily agreed, feeling the same sense of urgency to get here as soon as possible. If anyone had the information they needed and the connections to secure a ship to give chase, it would be Jamie's cousin. Claire hadn't even stopped to consider the implications of being back on French soil.
Oh God! Claire was sure she didn't have the strength to relive those long ago days and nights full of intrigue, heartbreak and betrayal. It had taken months, if not years, for she and Jamie to both put the past behind them. And they had. They rarely spoke of her, then. And even now, only in the briefest of mentions.
“Red hair like her sister? Like Faith?” Jamie had asked upon seeing Bree’s baby pictures.
Overcome at hearing that name spoken out loud by this man, Claire could only nod, watching as he turned each photo over in his hands, skimming a shaky finger over each line and curve of their daughter’s changing face. When the first one in color leapt from the bundle, he made a low moan in the back of his throat. The one that he used when his feelings - of love, of laughter, of happiness - had robbed him of the power of speech.
Claire had waited more than 7,000 days to hear that sound again and her whole body numbed with the impact. She hadn’t noticed in the busy buzzing of school and work and keeping house, but the truth was it had been years since she felt such a connection to another person. She and Frank never found it again after she returned, that unity of person, but she had it for a brief fleeting time when Brianna was very young, nursing at her breast as they rocked together in the hushed serenity of a 3 AM feeding. That sacred fusion of babe and parent that bonds mother to child in those early days. It was not the same, of course, what she felt for him and what she felt for their daughter, but the way such a deep connection dissolved the individual boundary of self, it was something like it.
Intimacy. A simple word of staggering complexity. Yet the knowledge of him, of herself, of them filled her senses. The solid edge of his rigid thigh pressed against hers, the sharp unfamiliar scent of him, the savory flavor of his tongue lingering on her lips, the dance of firelight from the hearth against the faded red of his hair and the rush of her heart as it glued itself back together again.
Claire held still, spellbound, as an expression of reverence played across his features. She gently touched his hand and his palm went slack transferring the precious images of Bree into hers and fixing her with a burning look of urgency. He was incapable of doing much else. He kept his head cast downward as Claire told her story after story, drinking in the variety of Brianna’s expressions as she boldly stared out at the world with her father’s eyes . . . the same shape exactly as those of her sister.
Even now, weeks after, Claire had yet to speak of it, to tell Jamie how it felt sitting beside him that day . . . the rightness of feeling them and their daughters together even if only for one moment. “Oh that is quite enough of that, Beauchamp!” she reminded herself. Whether she was in the Paris of 1766 or 1744 made no difference. She knew very well there was nothing she could do to change what happened and torturing herself in the meantime only made it a thousand times worse. Faith would always be a wishful dream, something too precious to become real.
Claire swallowed hard, took a couple of deep breaths and reminded herself that the most important thing she needed to do now was get back to Jamie in his own time. With that goal uppermost in her mind, she was able to leave the cemetery and make her way as unobtrusively as possible through the twisting, turning corridors of L’Hôpital which she navigated by muscle memory.
She had learned over many years of such unexpected travel that one of the most important ways to fit in, even if you landed in the wrong century, was walking confidently and boldly. The destination wasn’t important - as long as you looked like you belonged, you did.
Claire reached the great hall, sighing when she didn’t see any sign of Mother Hildegard or Sister Agnes. The front entrance beckoned, the sun was shining on the threshold. But just as she neared, Bouton’s happy yip of greeting stopped her cold and she hesitated, despite knowing better. The soft pitter patter of little nails clicking against the stone approached in double time. Her heart gave a little squeeze and she knew it was her Bouton. That fuzzy, furry face she would know anywhere. She thought about trying to ignore him, but knew from experience that being denied would only result in more insistent barking.
She dropped to her haunches at once and waited for him to roll, then enthusiastically rubbed his belly. The dog abruptly jumped back to all fours a moment before her own ears picked up the sound of boot heels coming down the far stairs. Her friend cocked his ear and tilted his head side to side, watching to see what she would do.
“Sorry, Bouton, I can’t stay. Take good care, I will see you soon.” Claire rose and brushed off her hands, she was across the threshold when something brushed past her. Bouton got in front of her and dropped something at her feet, giving a bark of pride. She bent to retrieve it. A fairly decent hat with which to cover her hair. She smiled at him, feeling warm all over.
“Thank you, mes amis, I couldn’t have asked for a better old chum to run into today,” she told him as she carefully inspected the cloth, and, finding nothing chancy or moving on it, fixed it securely to her head and caught her reflection as she passed by a window. She sighed in relief, seeing how well that one small touch helped her blend in better.
Claire kept walking past the hospital, trying to figure out whether she could use any of the currency quietly clinking in the deep pocket of her skirt. Better not risk it, she decided, taking herself to task for not paying any attention to the coin when Jamie handed it to her. She had no idea if the year was customarily stamped on the money or not and couldn’t very stop and inspect it in public. Besides, she’d already spent a good deal of it purchasing supplies and sending them to the ship before setting out to L’Hôpital. Claire was always conscious of the fact that a solitary woman travelling unescorted in such times would naturally attract attention. She couldn’t pretend to be shopping, not without coin to spend, there were no lending libraries that admitted women patrons . . . Look busy! she reminded herself. Right, but how?
Claire didn’t want to head in the direction of Jared’s home. It was miles away, but she’d inevitably cross to the little district where the apothecary was situated and she might give in to the temptation to visit Master Raymond. He was the one person in Paris, aside from Bouton, who might not be shocked to see her - and her graying hair and the crows feet wrinkling her eyes. Yet, she was hesitant, remembering his sleight of hand in the star chamber. Was he really her friend? She wasn’t sure and that lack of trust weighed heavily in her mind. Instead, she turned south and focused on letting her thoughts roam freely, almost forcing herself to think about not thinking about the Paris of her youth.
Awareness settled over her as her feet struck manicured grass and her head came up. She was in the park near Jared’s warehouse. She had only strolled along its delightful paths a few times, once with Louise and Mary and a couple of times with Murtagh. Yes, over to the right were the huge blooming shrubs he had delighted in showing her. Claire made her way over toward the riot of pinks and yellows she saw in the distance, nodding and bobbing the occasional murmured greeting as she went. If her out of style clothing was noticed, no one stared, nor said a word.
She came to a small bench Murtagh showed her all those years ago tucked under the swaying branches of a willow tree and sat down in relief. Her boots were comfortable but she’d walked a great distance. She was thirsty but put that out of her mind, having no way to remedy the need. She closed her eyes and breathed the crisp, clean garden air. The sound of nature surrounded her and peace descended.
Claire must have drifted off for the next she knew the quiet had been broken by the zing of rapiers clashing and the echoing grunts of effort. Two men engaged in some mock battle. In Brianna’s time they’d called it the sport of fencing, but here, in this time, it was practical training. She couldn’t parse out the words themselves but instantly caught the rhythm of the speech. Gaelic, she was sure of it. Claire shot to her feet in blind panic looking around wildly and realized suddenly that the way the branches fell sheltered her completely from the direction of the swordplay.
She couldn't help moving to the edge of the shelter of protection and peeking between the curtain of swaying branches and leaves. An enormous sigh of longing escaped her lips as she caught sight the back of Jamie’s broad back, red hair glinting in the sunlight as he thrust downward. His broadsword clashing with an almighty clang as it struck the one Murtagh held firm using both his hands. Murtagh pulled both arms upwards, causing Jamie to jump back. A good thing too, or his head would now be laying on the grass beside his feet.
“Fight it that's it, focus . . . Concentrate, lad, no . . . hold on!” Murtagh encouraged. Their arms were rigid, weapons braced against one another in what looked clear to be a stalemate but Jamie’s arms were shaking badly. Her eyes stayed on his left hand, wrapped in the special compression brace she had fashioned together and which Jamie had faithfully worn everyday since they had left the Abbey.
“Christ, man, I canna do it,” Jamie responded as sweat broke out along his forehead. Claire watched as his knees buckled and he fought to remain engaged in the fight.
“Ye ken how to get out of this, lad, so do it,” Murtagh reminded him. Jamie gave a mighty heave and twisted his body forcing the steel to disengage and readjusting his stance. The motions of thrust and parry went on for a few minutes more, but Jamie's body remained with its back turned to her.
Suddenly the two men laughed, patted one another on the back and Jamie threw down his weapon, reaching for a bottle of ale resting in the grass at his feet. She watched, quite startled, as Murtagh shouted then appeared to take a run at the crowd of onlookers that had stopped to gawk at their games. Claire ducked back into the shadows, fearing detection. She didn’t dare move and kept her eyes glued on Murtagh, willing him to stay away from her hiding spot. She held her breath as she watched him retreat back to the hillside to rejoin Jamie. As Murtagh knelt down, Claire caught her first direct view of Jamie’s face and gasped, the sound echoing loudly in the cocoon of her shelter.
He looked good - Jesus-H.-Make-Mine-A-Double-Christ! - better than good. He thrummed with the vitality and self-confidence of a man in his prime. His eyes had lost that haunted aspect that had marked their time in the Abbey and sparkled with amusement at something Murtagh said. His body was sound. She noted that his arm was still tucked up tight to his chest, the fingers splayed and unbending, but that was the only outward sign of his ordeal. Then he smiled and she forgot how to breathe.
Over the years, Claire had forgotten that for all that Paris had been rife with sorrow it had also been the place of Jamie’s rebirth, his healing and in many ways the place of his making. Observing him now, she could see what she’d not noticed, then.
Gone was that impulsive, young man she’d wed. The one who cheerfully told her he hadn’t much to offer a wife, but promised to keep her fed. As if the only barometer for universal happiness - marital or otherwise - was a full stomach. Given his age and lack of experience with courtship, he’d likely thought that to be true.
In his place now stood a man who had walked through the very heart of darkness and survived. It had been touch and go and it had taken months and, Claire realized now, it had taken this city - and a chance to test himself by swimming in unfamiliar - if not shark infested - waters that had become his proving ground. Jamie relearned the way of himself and that had allowed them to forge a deeper connection, one that had stayed in tact all these years.
The phrase “egghead and lard bucket” carried on the breeze followed by a “curiously large head” and then she heard the sound of his laugh and she caught a look at his face as his head turned with a smile as bright as the sun.
Tears sprung from her eyes and she pressed her fingers tight against her lips to keep from crying out. Christ, I hope he knew how much I loved him, that in my restlessness and grief I hope I told him that much, at least. Quite unable to look at Jamie without continuing to fall apart, Claire turned her gaze instead to his companion. He was, per usual, scowling as he kept up a grumbling commentary regarding the olfactory delights of France.
Claire wanted to give him a hug and never let him go. Thank you, thank you, thank you! For being his godfather, for always taking care of him. God, may he be safe, wherever he may be. She prayed. She hoped they would find him one day, that she’d be able to tell him herself how dear he was to them.
As if Jamie had heard her thoughts, he said, “Did I ever thank ye, Murtagh?” Jamie was looking out over the long expanse of high society on parade in the park and not at Murtagh.
“What for?” Murtagh squirmed uncomfortably. Jamie made a scoffing sound. What, indeed.
“For my life? for Claire’s? For our child’s?” Jamie said softly, looking at Murtagh now with an expression of unabashed gratitude. “Willie - afore we left the Abbey - said Dougal didn't want them to go to Wentworth but ye convinced the rest to join ye.”
Murtagh scoffed. “Twasna me, yer lady, she did all that,” he said pausing a moment. “Do ye ken we spent weeks searching for ye?”
“What?” Jamie’s eyes widened in astonishment.
“Och, aye, up and doon the coast. I danced,” Murtagh gave him a shaggy browed wiggle when Jamie laughed, “Aye, that’s about what it was like, But Claire, ye should ha’ seen her, man. We tried everything we could ta talk to as many as we could hoping word would spread and ye’d pick up our trail as yer had gone cold about four days after Ian came limping back to Lallybroch. She told fortunes and did the doctoring and when that didna work she wrote songs and joined me on the stage.”
“My Sassenach?” Jamie’s eyes had gone huge. Claire bit the inside of her lip it was difficult for her to imagine it, too, and she’d been there!
“Och, aye, a bonnie-wee-lark is yer woman and stubborn as the day is long, forebye. When we discovered a band of Roma had stolen her song and was driving our crowds away by using it, there was a stramash the likes of which I’ve never seen. When Dougal was inclined no’ to be generous, she did the same to him and it was she that got the lads to agree wi’ that mad scheme.” What Murtagh hadn’t said was that the mad scheme in question, using the coos as a diversion had been his clever idea, but somehow Jamie knew that.
Jamie placed his hand on Murtagh’s shoulder, “As I said, I owe ye much, goistidh.”
“Jamie, ye are as a son to me. I dinna say it often but ye ken my heart.” Murtagh said so quietly Claire had to hold her breath to catch the words. “How are ye doing? Tell me the truth.” Murtagh’s steady gaze stayed on Jamie’s face. For the first time, Jamie looked uncomfortable in his own skin.
“During the day, I’m fine, dinna think of . . . it, hardly at all,” Jamie told him. “Most nights I’m alright as well. I’m no’ overly fond of cavortin’ with the prince, that poppinjay's bannocks arena quite baked all the way through, if ye ask me and spending time wi’ him is tedious, but sometimes it’s . . . easier to be out wi’ him than home.” Jamie sat heavily on his bum and leaned a shoulder into Murtagh’s.
Claire thought about leaving. This was getting far too personal and her throat felt like she’d swallowed broken shards of misery. “She still looks at me as she did before, makes me feel like I hung the moon for her alone and I . . . canna say what it does to my soul to see her shape change day by day wi’ the bairn. God, she deserves so much more than I can give her. It’s still mixed up for me, Claire and Randall and it’s no’ her fault, but mine. I canna get my mind clear. Yet whenever she is near I ache to . . .” The rest of what he said was lost on the wind, his face had turned away from Claire and Murtagh. She saw Murtagh bend his head and could catch a murmuring response but nothing distinctive.
“Do you think she kens?” Jamie’s face was turned back in her direction and Claire felt lightheaded as she focused on the tender expression in his eyes.
I do, Jamie. Never doubt that. Claire thought as her body started to fly. She sighed in relief and didn’t fight it.
When she came to, she felt the chill in the crisp November air at once and knew she’d returned to the Cemetery of the Angels. She took a few breaths waiting for the dizziness to clear then slowly got to her feet. With enormous relief she spotted her basket leaning against a small stone. She reached inside and pulled the precious bundle of tulips from the bottom of the sack. Still fresh, telling her that not too much time had passed.
Claire reoriented herself and walked toward Faith’s stone. She caught a wink of color that defined itself as she moved closer. Her heart tightened like a vice in her chest. A posy of violets, their beautiful deep purple vivid against that cold gray stone, set precisely between the words Faith and Fraser.
But I am not the man you knew these twenty years past. His words to her upon their reunion echoed in her mind. No, she thought, you are so much more. And with a shaky hand, Claire lay her tulips on top of his, their offerings forming a cross.
Jamie looked up from the scratching of his quill with quiet satisfaction, always pleased when he could get a sentence to go clear across the page neatly, as Claire bustled through the door to their room. “Ach, there ye are, Sassenach, I was just wondering how ye faired wi’ the-” Jamie let out an Eep! of surprise as her body slammed into his, locking him in a full body kiss.
His lips asked questions she wouldn’t answer and he decided to curb his curiosity. She was in a terrible rush to get his shirt off and when she started unlacing his breeks, he responded on an elemental level to the raw desperation of her desire, helping her get her own shirt and then her stays off in short order.
He attempted to stand, to lay her out on the bed and love her properly, but she placed her hands on his shoulders and held him rooted to the chair with a strangled sound that tried for English but emerged as feral.
“What is it, love?” Jamie crooned softly, “Tell me, my own.” He grabbed her hair in a ponytail and yanked it back hard, forcing her to look him in the eye, at last. He stared at her, refusing to look away or let her do so, either.
Her lips were sunkissed and swollen. She looked like she’d been crying. He bent his mouth and flicked his tongue over the valley between her breasts, tang and salt, outside the contoured trail of his lips he could see her skin covered in grime, evidence of the kind of day she’d had.
He inhaled deeply, thinking how he could maneuver his body lower to further the explorations of his mouth when his brain registered something unexpected. He bent his head again and sniffed, casual at first then picking up more steam, like a pig rooting out a truffle. His nose never failed him. After a minute or so he looked up at her.
“Ye care to tell me why ye smell like new cut grass and it’s November?”
“I saw you this afternoon.” Claire said by way of an explanation, which he’d noticed provided no answer at all.
“And ye didna call out to me?” Jamie’s eyebrows rose trying to figure out where their paths might have intersected on their respective errands. He wondered if maybe she’d gone to see Faith, too? But if so, why did she not say anything?
He knew she’d been uneasy ever since learning of Laoghaire but it had been Ian’s abduction - while trying to bring back the treasure they needed to be free of her - that had opened this particular chasm between them. All of the challenges of living then, to say nothing of its dangers, death and disease, floated across her face as she sat beside him trying to soothe him with reassuring words, while he - useless, helpless man that he was - sat on that hill staring into the gloam long after Ian’s ship had slipped over the horizon - still shaking his head in disbelief.
Finally, she adjusted his sling and urged him to action. Before setting sail for France, he offered to take her back to Craigh Na Dun. He had to force the words from his lips and his heart hammered in terror waiting for her response. The fact that his suggestion had not been greeted with the kind of shocked protestation he had prayed to hear but more of a “Focus on Ian, we’ll talk of this later,” came back into his memory now.
He should have told her what he had planned that afternoon and asked her to come, too. But when they arose, she’d barely touched their meal, kept fiddling with her basket, pulling out all her wee notations regarding needed supplies for the ship’s surgery. He tried to broach it a couple of times but Claire wouldn’t make eye contact with him and he found he didn’t have the courage to bring it up and risk her upset. If she’d not mentioned it, then he shouldn’t call it to mind, either. They were back to keeping secrets from one another.
Jamie could bear anything in this world except being parted from her again, but the moment his fingers traced the faded letters of Faith’s name, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake and wished he’d spoken of it first thing this morning. When he returned to an empty room, her absence nearly drove him mad. Her instant need of him upon her return was a much needed balm on his anxious heart.
Claire gave him a shake of the head and a brave little smile that let him know she hadn’t meant she’d seen him today but something else.
“Oh?” He ventured cautiously. He knew what she was and he’d seen it happen a number of times but that was then and it hadn’t happened since she’d been back.
“In the Jardins des plantes,” her gaze was steady but he saw the flicker of deep emotion inside her. It had been over two decades since he’d last been in that park. His mind raced to try and figure out what she needed him to say.
He finally settled on, “Had ye been back in Paris before today?”
“No!” Claire genuinely seemed horrified at the thought. “I haven’t set foot in France since 1743, and I never intended to do so in my lifetime again. You remember how it works?” She was watching him and when he hesitatingly nodded, she continued, “I can only travel a short distance . . . er . . . geographically speaking, that is, and my actions can’t change what has already happened.”
“Did ye see yerself, then?” Jamie asked her but he didn’t seem as upset as she would’ve thought. As if reading her mind he added, “God, I’d love to see ye round and fat in yer silk and lace again, Sassenach.”
“No, I told you, I saw you . . . oh, and Murtagh.”
Jamie made an affirmative noise in the back of his throat. “Ye ken, Paris wouldna ha’ been the same wi’ his sunny countenance.”
“Oh, stop, Murtagh is a great travel companion!” Claire laughed.
“Aye, and no one I’d rather have guarding my back. It was an act of grace, seeing that face, wearing gray whiskers and rags, at Ardsmuir. It felt good to be the one caring for him for once. I hope we can find him again, Sassenach and bring him home.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Tell me what happened today,” he encouraged.
“I spent the last twenty years not going to the places we shared. To find myself in Paris, then?” Claire shuddered. “To run into myself and to know? I might have tried to forewarn but then I would have condemned myself dreading new day fearing what would come instead of savoring every day to come. Knowing the future hasn’t helped us avert disaster so far.”
“So ye didna want to run into anyone ye knew and ended up in the park?” Jamie surmised.
“Yes, indeed. Imagine my surprise when I realized you were just on the other side of the willow tree that shielded me from your view. You were so young, Jamie. Full of grace and in great spirits. Murtagh brings out a very playful side of you. I’d forgotten how much fun you had with each other. Then, watching you, I realized how much we had enjoyed being here. All the wonderful things we had found here, too. We were part of history, something so much bigger than ourselves. It was thrilling and full of grand possibilities. I look back on our lives here and can’t believe that was us, at Versailles, dining with the prince, so much beauty and luxury.”
At this Jamie snorted, “Aye, too bad the two of us are more at home in a tent on the moor than in a mansion wi’ servants.”
“That’s true, but I still appreciate everything Jared did for us - and is still willing to do for us. Being here set me on the path to becoming a doctor and helped by giving you a different kind of purpose.” Jamie nodded and Claire continued, “It was here we found Fergus.” Jamie smiled in memory. “Nothing turned out like we’d hoped in Paris but it had been magical and after today, I can look back on it and remember it that way.”
“Swords, was it?” Jamie beamed when he heard her sigh lustily.
“Jamie you looked . . .” Words failed her, she had no other way to tell him but to show him, kissing him passionately with an explosion of soft mewling noises he found deeply gratifying, if only because they echoed the ones she was drawing from his lips.
Jamie let himself be diverted for a good long while. Claire hadn’t responded to his physical presence like this since they were in Edinburgh and he was mightily roused by her reaction. Yet, just as she was about to get completely carried away, he pushed her body back and looked searchingly at her.
“Claire?” he began, and she looked dazed, her cheeks pink from exertion. “Was it . . . that is, I dinna want to make assumptions about how yer feeling nor imply that ye should feel--” it was his turn for pinkened cheeks now.
“Jamie,” Claire held her hand out to him,”Just say it, whatever it is. Trust that I will listen with my heart and try and understand. When things go unsaid . . . that's when trouble starts for us, I think.”
Jamie nodded and started over, “I ken why ye couldna bear to . . . I dinna blame ye one bit. But I think maybe yer fretting about making that choice - no’ for yerself or me, but for her sake.” Seeing her stunned expression, Jamie started second guessing himself, but he'd gone this far, he needed to finish. “Will ye maybe find some . . . comfort in knowing she wasna alone today? I was wi’ her, brought her a wee posy, told her how much we both love and miss her; asked her to watch o’er her little sister for us. If she’s anything like Jenny, she’ll have been doing it all along.”
“Oh, Jamie,” Claire bit her bottom lip hard willing herself not to burst into tears. How did he manage to cut her wide open and then cauterize the wound in less than five sentences? “I saw your violets when I brought her tulips. That’s where was. I awoke in the cemetery, but her grave wasn’t there.”
“Christ, Claire.” Jamie’s eyes swam with unshed tears. The second Claire reached her hand to his cheek, they spilled over, across her fingers, leaking down the back of her hand.
“I’ve needed to say something to you since Edinburgh, no, it’s not supposed to make you cry harder,” Claire gave him a sobbing hiccup, “You are, and have always been, a wonderful father, Jamie. I never told you that and I should have. I couldn’t think of anything more important than returning to you to make sure you knew it. Thank you, for giving them to me and for keeping our family together.”
“Ye thought that wouldna make me cry? Jesus, Claire, what ye do to me,” he said into her ear as he crushed her to him.
Sometime later, on the edge of sleep, he whispered, “Yer wrong though, Sassenach.”
“Hmmm?” she said in drowsy reply.
“Knowing the future did help. A great deal. Kept Jenny and the bairns alive, kept me from being hanged. It’s maybe true for the big things ye canna change time, for its stubborn and fights back. But in hundreds of small ways, it mattered. Hearing ye speak of our adventures worries me some, though. Do ye think ye can be content once we have Ian in hand just living a quiet life wi’ me in a highland croft?” It was said in a flirty tone but Claire heard the anxiety underneath.
“Yes, but don’t count the chickens in your kale yard just yet, life may have more surprises in store, General Fraser.”
Anonymous said: Modern day au where Fergus and Marsali are members of opposing biker gangs.
This is the last chapter of this story. Catch up here on Part One and Part Two.
Sadly, it is also my last regular publication on this blog. I have written a longer post elaborating on that on my personal blog, but I want to take a quick moment to say thank you on here as well - trust me to go out with a bang (although, which is unusual, in this instance I say that without innuendo)!
The Borders Between Us
by @wunderlichkind
Three
She’s never been comfortable in hospitals. The harsh lighting and sterile smell, the hushed noises – all of it reminds her of too many motorcycle accidents, too many visits after gang fights, too many of Laoghaire’s diagnostic appointments. Marsali squirms in the uncomfortable chair, staring at her own reflection in the small room’s window, unable to see the dark parking lot beyond it. A ghost stares back – someone she has to work to recognize as herself. Her hair is unruly, her eyes are ringed with dark circles, her expression somber, haunted almost. She hasn’t slept in nearly two days, hasn’t been well-rested ever since she left Fergus’ apartment.
Laoghaire stirs in the bed and Marsali jumps in her seat, but her mother doesn’t wake and she takes a deep breath. Her eyes are still scanning Laoghaire’s body, taking inventory of her broken wrist, her bruised cheek, the tear at her hairline, the swollen left knee – something she’s been doing several times every day since the fall down the stairs, something she can’t seem to shake.
„Miss Fraser, have you thought about exploring other options for your mother? It might be time to find a nursing home for her, for both your sakes,“ the hospital’s social worker told her the day before, her stuffy office filled with the sound of a ticking clock. Marsali only nodded and accepted the bunch of brochures, eager to escape the too small space, the implications of considering such a solution. The words haven’t left her, though, and neither has the feeling of uneasiness.
She sighs and stands, resolving to channel her inner unrest into movement, to temporarily fill the icy hole in her chest with coffee. She takes the long way down to the cafeteria, which is closed at this hour of the day, but has a coin-operated coffee machine much better than any of the hallway vending machines on this floor. She stares at the white walls, the bland hospital art, the petrol green room number signs. She counts the steps as she descends the stairs, but it does nothing to calm her. The strain on her nerves is almost unbearable. Marsali is sure that any minute now she’s going to snap when she rounds the corner opposite the hospital entrance and almost collides with Dr. Taylor.
„Oh, Miss Fraser, you’re still here? Shouldn’t you get some rest?“
Marsali manages a wry smile. „I could ask ye the same thing, Dr. Taylor.“
The doctor laughs, a genuine, friendly laugh that shows her white teeth and the dimples in her dark cheeks. „I’m on my way out, actually. I’m glad I bumped into you before leaving, though. I’ve been meaning to tell you that we’ll have your test results ready by tomorrow and I’d like to see you in my office, say 10 am?“
She waits for the string of her nerves to snap, waits for the impact of the doctor’s kind words to hit, but instead of the violent crash she’s expecting, there’s only a feeling of surreality. For a second, Marsali has the impression that she’s watching herself from a distance, eerily indifferent to her own numbness, her own shock. She has to force herself to nod, to mumble her assent.
Dr. Taylor is already walking away, but she turns again after just a few steps, finding Marsali still rooted to the spot.
„How’s your mother?“ she asks, and there’s real sympathy in her voice, a hint of worry in her dark brown eyes.
„She’s... not great,“ Marsali answers honestly, her voice cracking a little on the last word. Dr. Taylor nods.
„You get some rest, okay? And I’ll see you tomorrow,“ she says and it sounds like an order and a reassurance at the same time, like something her father might say to her. It makes Marsali smile despite herself.
„Aye, I’ll see ye tomorrow.“
The fight with Fergus. Laoghaire’s fall. The possibility of having to place her in a home. Her own test results. Marsali’s mind is a battleground, a tangle of fear and pain and nerves, a virtual hell. It’s why it seems almost cruel, an unlikely twist of fate, when the moment after the door has fallen closed behind Dr. Taylor, it opens again and the quiet of the nightly hospital is broken by loud shouts for help.
Her body reacts before her mind is able to register the whole picture, and she takes in details while already moving; their jackets, identifying them as Hell’s Angels, the strained muscles in their shoulders, evidence of their struggle to hold up the slim figure in their middle. The blood on his face. The pain in his eyes.
She reaches him just when they set him down on a chair, one of them gesturing wildly at the woman behind the welcome desk.
„Marsali?“ he says and it’s a question, his voice quiet, disbelieving.
Her own voice is everything she would have expected it to be in her conversation with Dr. Taylor. There’s despair, terror. There are tears.
It seems all hospital offices are too small for comfort. Dr. Taylor closes the door behind Marsali and gestures for her to sit, moving to open the small window as if she can sense Marsali feels trapped. A cold breeze wafts in and Marsali is grateful for it; a reminder that the world keeps turning, that the seasons are progressing.
„Before I let you know the results of your blood tests, I want to go over the facts with you one more time,“ Dr. Taylor says as she sits down behind her desk, her calm gaze focused on Marsali, who just nods.
„You’ve decided to have your blood tested because your mother has early onset dementia, which can be hereditary. However, the results of this test will not conclusively tell you if you’ll suffer from the same disease.“
Marsali nods again. She knows all this, she’s had a lot of time to get informed.
„The test identifies certain genetic markers. People with mutations in certain genes are statistically more likely to develop early-onset dementia. We know your mother has tested positive for one of the markers,“ Dr. Taylor pauses and sorts through the papers on her desk.
Marsali grits her teeth together, balls her hands so tightly she feels her nails cutting into the flesh of her palms. She holds her breath. She’s aware that no matter the results of the test, she could always develop the disease. She’s aware how little reassurance a negative result really holds. But she wants it, needs it. She needs to know that she can live her life without the sword of high risk hanging over her neck.
„Miss Fraser.“
Marsali hasn’t realized she closed her eyes until she opens them to meet Dr. Taylor’s smiling gaze.
„You do not have any of the mutations, you tested negative for all the genetic markers.“
And Marsali breathes. She breathes in the cold air wafting through the still open window and Dr. Taylor reminds her again, that the test results provide only an indication of what may or may not happen. And Fergus is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, two floors up, because he deliberately got into a fight with some of her father’s men. And Laoghaire is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, three floors up, because she fell down the stairs to the basement when Marsali hadn’t locked the basement door. And the hospital’s social worker is looking through nursing home brochures with her father five doors down.
But Marsali breathes, and for the first time in days, she feels like the air is reaching her lungs. She feels like there’s a tiny sliver of hope. And where that tiny sliver grows, a plan slowly starts to take shape.
It’s raining when the procession of bikes reaches the cemetery, the roaring of motors drowning out the splatter of water against stone for just a moment before the bikes stand as still as their riders.
Black is their everyday color, and only their somber expressions hint at the special occasion. The pastor has held gang funerals before, but never one like this, he realizes with worry, when he stares at the mix of Mongols and Angel signs on the jackets of the assembled. They’ve come together, and it seems they’ve come in peace. He hadn’t really believed in it until now.
„Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs. Proverbs 10:12.“ The pastor’s voice raises over the cries of heaven as the heads of the assembled men and women rise at his words.
„We lay to rest your children,“ he continues, „who, despite their youth, knew the truth of God’s word in their hearts. Marsali Fraser and Fergus St. Germain have loved deeply. Their love crossed borders, and stood safe in the middle of a stormy sea of conflict that finally consumed them. Let us remember that love and let us honor it by calming the conflict between us.“
Jamie Fraser is a wall of stone, a picture of hard edges. Claire softly squeezes Jamie’s hand, her face hidden in his shoulder, and after a moment of hesitation he squeezes back.
„Marsali and Fergus’ love has endured great conflict. It is now, on this day, reason and incentive for us to come together as they have, to cross borders as they did. May you be united in love and grief for your children as they have been united in love for each other.“
Nobody moves when the pastor ends his speech. The rain is too loud in the silence of their shared grief, too warm on their icy skin. It’s a day to be marked – the day they buried Marsali and Fergus, the day they’ve let a semblance of peace enter their hearts.
Jamie and Claire are the last to leave the cemetery. Jamie’s phone rings just when he sits down on the bike’s saddle and he shuts off the motor again before picking it up.
„How did it go?“ she asks and he thinks he must imagine the tinny quality to her voice – modern technology doesn’t bother with distance as much as the heart does, after all.
„All according to plan, a leannan,“ he assures her, and Claire smiles at him. „Ye’re safe?“
„Aye, Da, we’re safe.“ She sounds full of wonder, as if stunned this crazy plan of hers has worked, has somehow spit them out safe and sound on the other side of the border.
„Yer Ma?“
„They say she’s adjusting well. We’re going back to visit her on Sunday. I have a good feeling about this, Da.“
It takes him a moment to answer her, emotions warring in his chest. The pastor was right, he decides for himself. There have been too many wrongs in this story, too many obstacles in his daughter’s path. But however winded the way, however dramatic and unusual the means, love covers all the wrongs.
Anonymous said: What was it like, in Voyager, for Brianna to decide to travel through the stones if Claire didn’t do it?
Author’s note: I took a liberty with an early appearance of Uncle Angus, the Scottie.
Our Farewell - Part 1 / 2
by @monisse
October, 1968
Inverness
Rain lashed violently at the bedroom window and Brianna observed each drop on the glass racing downwards against each other, leaving crystal clear tracks behind. In the distance, lightning illuminated the mountain peaks, and thunder galloped fast towards Inverness, though she barely noticed.
Having given up on sleep for now, she sat cross legged in the middle of the bed in one of the guestrooms of the late minister’s house. The sheets and covers were spread far and wide around her, telling a crumpled tale of the tossing and turning she had done to escape the rampant thoughts inside her mind. On her lap was a stuffed Aberdeen Scottie, once well-loved by Roger, and she absently stroked its worn-out black fur.
Tomorrow, her mother’s story would conclude in this time. A story that disrupted Brianna’s preconceived notions of logic, and forced her to adapt to a reality that existed outside the boundaries of reason. In a few hours, her mother would leave, would travel back centuries. Though Brianna made a genuine effort to support that decision, she had not yet made peace with it.
Her thoughts remained somewhat self-centered, driven by a sense of abandonment that sat heavy on her chest. And amidst the selfishness that corroded her heart, reason was almost completely shoved aside by jealousy, though she did have the decency to feel ashamed enough to not mention it, not even to Roger. The truth was, Brianna felt jealous of a man she did not know, her father, her real father, because in a few hours he would have her mother all to himself.
Not even Roger’s words from earlier, filled with both sense and empathy, had been enough to completely settle the imminent collision between reason and heart. There were still far too many doubts in her mind.
“Bree?”
His voice filled the silence of the room, and it was as if her mind had materialized him. His voice sliced through the privacy of her thoughts with that Scottish brogue, warm and smooth, and for a split-second, Brianna wondered how she could go back home, go on without hearing that melodious lilt calling her name every day.
Roger was leaning against the doorframe, staring through the partly open door. There was a look of concern across his face. His eyes, clear and alert even in the dim light of the bedside lamp, seemed to ask a myriad of questions, to which she had no clear answers. Are you alright? Certainly not. Will you ever be? No guarantees.
“Come in,” she said, “I can’t sleep anyway.”
Roger was still dressed in the clothes he’d worn all day, not having bothered to go to bed yet despite the late hour. She wondered if he, too, was having trouble digesting the choices made by her mother and all they encompassed.
He sat at the foot of the bed, the wooden bed frame creaking under his weight.
“Anything else on your mind?” he asked.
Brianna was immediately glad he asked, not sure how she would be able to tell him otherwise.
“Mama is about to leave. I think she still has doubts. Maybe because of me. It’s visible all over her face.”
Brianna had learned over the years to read the emotions on her mother’s face, fleeting glimpses of feelings she rarely voiced. Her mother’s face amplified all her thoughts, and ever since they discovered that Jamie had survived, it reflected a conflict far too great to deal with without pain. She had been confronted with the horrible truth that whatever, and whoever, she chose, she would be giving up on the other, and losing one part of her heart in the process.
“That makes sense.” Roger said, calmly. “No matter how much she wants to see Jamie again, she’s leaving her daughter behind. I canna imagine how torn she must feel.”
Brianna sighed, feeling limp and resigned. “You were right earlier. I need her, I always will, but I’m not a child anymore.” Her hand reached for his, seeking the comfort she had not allowed herself to enjoy earlier. “And I’m not alone either.”
He did not speak, but instead held her hand firmly, squeezing it back in reassurance.
“But what if she doesn’t go?” Brianna asked, her voice a whisper, finally letting out the one question that had been circling her brain for a long while, a record spinning endlessly.
“If she does not go, it will be because she wants to be here for ye. And that’ll be her choice.”
“She has to go-- it can’t just be over for them, not now, after we’ve found him. She needs to be with him and I can’t be the reason they remain apart. I can’t be that selfish,” she hissed under her breath, looking down at her lap while she picked at Uncle Angus’ ratty plaid bonnet.
The bed creaked again as Roger slid toward her, pulling her into an embrace. His arm circled her shoulders, and she leaned on him willingly. Warmth radiated from his body and steadied her. Maybe it should bother her how easily he reached for her these days, but the truth was that she craved his touch just as much, despite the multiple warnings her mind produced. Too much. Too fast. Too soon.
“You know, I could never figure out how much I was like Daddy. It was never the mannerisms, and certainly not the hair.” She chuckled, but there was no hint of humor in her voice. “Now I know I could never be exactly like him, no matter how much I loved him, not even if I followed in his footsteps.”
He turned to look at her, but she averted her eyes. She spoke again, this time with only a slight tremble to her words.
“That man, Jamie, my father,” her voice caught on the word, “has spent his life wondering if his wife and child made it safely through the stones. He deserves to know, Roger. And if Mama can’t make that decision, I will make it for her. I owe it to myself to know where I came from, too.” Her voice had become stronger as she spoke, though it was not the longing for a father that moved her. No, she had known a father’s love all her life and was glad for it. She was moved instead by the curiosity to know the man who captured her mother’s heart completely, and a strange sense of duty to tell him they were alive.
“What d’ye mean by that?” he asked. And as close as they were, she felt his heartbeat quicken under his woolen sweater.
She went on after a moment of silence, her tone close to a whisper, determined. “I’ll go through the stones myself to find him.”
His reaction was immediate. He stood up from the bed quickly and looked down at her, green eyes wide open in shock and anger. Maybe fear. “No Bree, ye canna do that.”
“Why not? We both know that I could do it.”
“We also know it’s dangerous!” he nearly shouted.
“It’s dangerous for me, but not for my mother? What kind of double standard is that, Roger?” Her voice rose to match his, defiant and aflame with irritation. She had been prepared to be met with resistance, but had not anticipated the strength of his reaction, how it would feel.
“That’s not what I meant.” His hands came up in the air in frustration as he started pacing the room.
Brianna swung her long legs from the bed in an elegant move for someone so tall, and her bare feet landed on the floor with a soft thud. She crossed the distance between them in a single stride and pulled him to face her. Her face glowed with barely contained anger, turning into a brilliant red that masked the freckles across her cheeks.
“Then what?” she roared.
His hands closed around her upper arms with such desperation that she had to bite her lower lip not to yelp from both pain and surprise. She was rooted in place by his firm grip, forced to look at the fire that burned freely in his eyes, and she observed, completely fascinated, how that desperation had transformed his usually soft expression. His jaw was clenched, and even his olive skin, not usually prone to flushes, had acquired a faint red hue.
“Yer mother has done it before! She is going back to find the love of her life and I canna-“
Lose mine, her mind completed. The thought caught her off guard. It seemed too soon for such an assumption, even though she could not deny the tenderness growing between them, beyond mere friendship, an attraction that kept pulling them slowly towards each other.
“You can’t what?” she demanded through gritted teeth, daring him. There was a side of her that wanted to probe his veiled words and touches, to truly know what feelings lay underneath. Her question echoed on the walls and came back to her ears sounding desperate for confirmation.
His mouth opened, though no sound came out, and for the first time since they met, she saw him at a loss for words. Roger attempted several times over, failing each time. Eventually, he sighed and gave up, his feelings not yet ready to be acknowledged.
Perhaps he sensed that she wasn’t ready, either.
They breathed together for a moment, his grip on her arms loosening as they both became aware of how close they stood. How, with a slight shift of their heads, they just might…
“Look, Bree,” he said, his voice quiet as he started to let her go, “this is not a decision ye can make on impulse. Ye should get some rest, and we’ll talk about it in the morning, aye?”
Her eyes flashed. “This isn’t just a whim, Roger. If my mother doesn’t go, I will go to Edinburgh to find my father, whether you want me to or not. He deserves to know.”
Brianna loosened her arms from him and moved across the floor to the bed again. She took a moment to arrange the sheet and blankets around her neatly, though she watched him from the corner of her eye. He walked towards the door, shaking his head as he went.
“Will you come with me?”
It was her unfiltered, irrational side that spoke as she decided to test his limits, to understand how far he was willing to go for her.
Roger froze at the door, his stillness betraying the energy from the charged question, and for a moment, the room remained silent. But the answer was there, while thunder roared in the sky above their heads.
Hi mods. This is a question, not a prompt. I haven't been active on here since the Tumblrpocalypse, but I popped on hoping that you might have an answer, and I thought that I'd submit rather than DM because others fans might find it useful. I'm trying to figure out how create a collection on AO3 to organize some of my bookmarks, but I'm having some trouble adding anything to it. Since you all manage a collection for OOT, I wondered if you had any pointers. Thanks for the help :)
Good question!
Here’s a basic step-by-step of how to set one up (for anyone not familiar).
Go to your dashboard on AO3 and click Collections (on the left sidebar). There you’ll see the option to add a New Collection.
Set up your collection (consider making things closed/private if you don’t want anyone else adding to it)
Then to add your bookmarked stories, go to your bookmarks and you’ll see Add To Collection as an option
Click that and type the name of your collection and it should find it for you and you can start adding stories.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Witches - Part 8
by @whiskynottea
Hours had passed when Claire finally woke up. The light was dim in the room, the house quiet, the blankets around her body so warm and inviting that she spent a good five minutes contemplating staying in bed.
Five good minutes of chasing dreams before she was crushed by reality.
She sat up quickly and felt light-headed, the heavy wooden furniture of the room blurring around the edges. She squeezed her eyes closed and took two deep breaths before the world settled onto its axis.
How many hours had she slept?
Claire’s stomach growled and she realized that she had eaten nothing for almost a day. Broth, Jenny had said, waiting for her in the kitchen. Not her first choice of food, but something warm and nourishing was what she really needed.
Claire got hastily out of bed, forgetting about her wounded shoulder until she felt the bandages restraining her movements. The pain had subsided considerably and she smiled, proud of Jenny’s work.
“Removing the bullet, putting me to sleep,” Claire murmured as she scanned the room searching for her clothes. “We’ll forget who the healer is in this house.”
Claire dressed with strained moves, now mindful of her injury. She was surprised when she found her body had gone through the inflammatory period of healing in just a few hours of sleep. Once she got something to eat, she would heal her shoulder to the best of her ability. If she would focus on the regeneration of the muscular fibers and formation of the connective tissue scar, the wound might soon be just itchy, if not a little sore.
No matter how content she was with her healing process, and thankful for a few hours of rest, Claire felt guilty for letting precious time pass. She knew there weren’t many days left until Alex’s execution. No matter Jenny’s visions and Brian’s inquiries, they had to leave for Fort William soon. The invisible noose of time was gradually closing around their necks.
Claire walked down the stairs, passed by the empty parlour and headed for the kitchen, the only room of the house that looked lived in. They were all there. A bit paler than she had left them, and with eyes red and tired, but their gazes when she entered the room were fierce and determined.
Frasers, all three of them. She should have known. They wouldn’t rest until Alex was safe in Ceana’s arms, away from the redcoats. If all went according to the plan the two of them would escape to Stornoway and would live there, forever lost to the world.
“Claire!” Jamie talked first, rising from his chair and motioning for her to sit down. “Do ye feel better, lass?”
Claire took a moment to look at him. It was strange, how he’d gone from calling her a witch and telling her how dangerous she was for his family, to asking her if she would be safe in the future and then searching for her in the midst of nowhere to bring her back home. Hadn’t he even told her this morning that she wasn’t allowed to leave after Alex was rescued? Did he want her here, now?
What had changed? Had Jenny boxed his ears as she had promised she would?
It was at that moment, when she bombarded herself with questions she didn’t know the answers to, when Claire realized that the way he had looked at her the first day was the same as the night he’d found her. He wasn’t angry; he was afraid. Not afraid of her, but afraid for her -- for them all. And the softness in his eyes when she met his gaze suddenly made sense.
“Will ye stand there all night, Claire?” Jenny’s voice brought her back to the present, and she took the two steps that kept her away from Jamie and the chair. He moved aside, smiling at her, and went to the parlour to fetch another one.
Jenny stood up and moved about, and a few moments later set a bowl of lukewarm broth and two oatcakes in front of Claire. “Eat.”
“I’m eating,” Claire rose an eyebrow together with her spoon, “and you’re speaking. What have you seen?”
“Not much, but enough.”
Ceana, who had entered the kitchen right after Jamie left, sniffled back tears when she heard Jenny’s gloomy tone. One look at the girl was enough for Claire to imagine the streams of tears she had shed during the past few days. But Ceana’s jaw was set, her hands clasped together in a defiant manner. Painful though it was, she would go through whatever they needed to do to get Alex away from Captain Randall.
Jamie came back into the kitchen and sat down on the chair he carried under his arm, right between Jenny and Claire. “Did ye tell Claire?” he asked his sister, reaching for an oatcake only to have his hand slapped by Jenny.
“I’m waiting for her to eat first,” she replied, her voice stern. “And she doesna need help wi’ her food, brother.”
Jamie shrugged, although a light blush rose upon his cheeks. They didn’t speak much until Claire finished her food. Every time they fell silent, the air in the kitchen got heavy with anticipation and sorrow.
“I’m listening,” Claire announced, pushing her plate away.
“I’ve seen him twice, Claire. The Captain, I mean.” Jenny paused, biting her lips as she glanced at Ceana. “Do ye want to go to yer room, lass? Ye don’t need to hear the details of it.”
“No.” Ceana sat straight, looking at Jenny straight in the eye. “I decided…” She looked uncertain for a moment, then cleared her throat and spoke again. “I need to know what is happening in that cell.” Jenny nodded. Brian and Jamie gave her similar heartening smiles.
“Captain Randall is beating Alex. And he is using him.” Jenny swallowed hard and lowered her gaze on the table, eyes fixed on the sturdy wood. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, as though the words had failed her. “He takes him to bed,” she added, at last, her voice almost a whisper.
A gasp came from Ceana’s side, but no other comment followed. Jenny continued. “Randall goes to his cell every night after dinner.”
“Sick bastard.” Hatred echoed in Jamie’s words. Brian coughed in warning, and his son didn’t say more.
“He doesn’t want to be heard.” Claire belatedly realized that she had spoken aloud. Jenny nodded, her face grim.
“The execution is in five days,” Brian’s deep voice made all eyes turn towards him. “We could report him, but I dinna think we would be fast enough to save Alex. Were it not to fall on deaf ears, that is.” He sighed, resigned, as if he’d rather not mouth the next words. “If you want to save the lad, ye must leave tomorrow.”
“This is what we’ll do, then,” Claire agreed.
“Yer shoulder?” The frown on Jamie’s forehead got deeper.
“I’ll heal it tonight. I feel better already; Jenny did a magnificent job.” Jenny beamed hearing Claire’s praise, but looked at her uneasily, as if she didn’t really believe her. “I can take care of the rest by myself,” Claire insisted. “Now that I’ve slept and eaten.”
“D’ye get the poison and the antidote?”
“I did. Raymond gave me both, before…” Her voice failed her. Before what? Before she disappeared? Before he died? She couldn’t complete the sentence.
Jenny didn’t let her. She spoke again, too quickly to seem casual, but Claire welcomed the distraction. “I think Jamie has to come wi’ us,” Jenny proposed, her slanted blue eyes searching for Claire’s.
“Why?” Claire questioned, eyes darting between the two siblings, unsure if there was more in Jenny’s visions than she let them know with Ceana present.
“He can carry Alex until we reach the horses. Ceana has told us Alex is thin, and he is so in my visions, but ye’ll be frail after using yer powers Claire, and I don’t think Ceana and I can carry a man if he’s paralyzed or anesthetized.”
Claire didn’t know what to say. This was new to her, and totally unexpected. She hadn’t told Jenny, but in the worst case scenario, she planned to take them all away to another time. Four people were a lot, but five? She didn’t know if she could do it. She was sure she couldn’t, especially after stopping the poisoning and making sure Alex would live.
“It will be better, Claire.” Jamie was resolute and stubborn as always. “I can look out for ye, if I’m there.” His eyes glinted, but his easy smile was not enough to persuade Claire.
Five people meant that their initial plan was all they had. No alternative. No plan B. She didn’t even want to think about it.
“Do we know at what time does the Captain have his dinner?” Claire asked, more to divert her thoughts than to suspend Jamie’s anxiety as to whether he would be a part of their mission.
“Around seven,” Brian supplied, most probably getting some intelligence of his own to complement Jenny’s visions.
“I wish we knew when he visits Alex.”
Claire thought everything over. Raymond, her sweet Raymond, had included a syringe and a needle in the package. He knew that curare wasn’t effective if administered orally and had saved her the trouble of cutting Alex raw to apply the poison on the wounds. Doing the injections would save her the time she needed to heal the cuts and clean the blood before they left his cell. She would need approximately fifteen minutes to talk to Alex, convince him they were not witches -- this is why they needed Ceana -- and make him relax to start with intramuscular injections that would paralyze his arms and legs.
“Curare has a range of action between thirty minutes and eight hours, dependent on the administration, the product, and the dose. If we suppose that Raymond has found me the clearest curare available, which I’m sure he has…” Claire looked intently at the empty plate in front of her while making calculations. “If I use a moderate dosage, and increase it in case it’s ineffective, we can more or less expect the poison to reach its full effect about thirty minutes after I do the intramuscular injections.”
“The what?” Jamie asked, and the way he screwed up his face made Claire chuckle.
“Injections. A syringe, a needle… I can show you later,” Claire said invitingly, both eyebrows raised in a challenge.
Jamie’s eyes widened, blue changing into black. “No, thanks.”
Jenny shook her head and smacked her brother lightly. “Claire knows what she’s doing.”
“I ken. I just have never heard about such a thing before.”
“Intravenous injections started back in the 17th century, actually. The syringe used back then, however, was a crude device. Raymond has given me one from the 20th century. It is precise and the needle is thin, so the pain it causes is substantially less.”
“I dinna think Alex will mind a wee needle,” Ceana murmured, the colour gone from her face.
“Aye, of course. Ye’re right lass.” Jamie pressed his lips together bashfully, regretting the change of subject. With a glance at Claire, he implored her to continue.
“What was I saying?” she wondered, trying to buy time to decide how much she would divulge.
“Thirty minutes to get the effect,” Jenny reminded her and Claire could see her friend was trying to form their plan of action in her head.
“Right. Which means that if we get there at seven, and I finish by seven fifteen, the paralysis onset will be around seven forty-five. But we can ask Alex how meticulous Randall is considering the time he visits. If he follows a schedule we can calculate the time of the injections to be more precise. And we will have everything ready before Alex gets paralyzed.”
She didn’t want to say how by ‘everything’ she meant the noose, or to reveal the last, intravenous injection that would paralyze Alex’s diaphragm to make the suicide seem real. The injection that would require Randall to be on time for his visit to find Alex and the guards to dispose of Alex’s body quickly for Claire to reach him, administer the antidote and force some oxygen into his lungs. She didn’t want them to know how Alex would have his senses throughout his ordeal, how he would feel the pain, how he would not be able to swallow and would feel choked in his own saliva. How easily he could be killed by curare, and that if his heart stopped in the process Claire would have three to four minutes to get to him before losing him forever. She didn’t want them to know what being a healer means. The terrible decisions you have to make, and how often you walk on the precipice between right and wrong. She couldn’t tell them. Not all of them, anyway. She might tell Jenny later.
“Pa-paralyzed?” Ceana mumbled, confirming Claire did right not to inform them about the ugliness of the situation.
“There is no other way, lass,” Jenny reassured her, taking Ceana’s trembling hand between hers. “It won’t be permanent.”
“And then?” the girl asked.
“Alex will hang himself.” When Claire’s voice faded, the kitchen was so quiet one would think no one breathed in the room, no heart was strong enough to keep beating. Not when they all faced what they had to do.
“But how? How will we save him if he hangs himself?” The despair in Ceana’s voice made Claire’s heart shrink inside her chest.
“Alex has to hang himself when he hears Randall approach the cell. If everything goes well, he will be paralyzed and Randall will think he’s dead.”
Because he will be close to death, Claire thought.
“Judging by what Randall has done to the lad, he won’t be happy to let the doctor examine the prisoner. What we believe,” Jenny hesitated, realising that ‘believe’ wasn’t a strong word to console Ceana. But it was the true one. “We believe that he will order the body to be disposed of, at the place everyone ends up after the noose.”
“We will be there, at the east side of Fort William. Claire will give Alex the antidote and I will carry him back to the horses,” Jamie’s belief in the plan was unquestionable. “We’ll be back in no time, lass.”
“What d’ye mean? I’m coming wi’ ye.”
“Ceana, a nighean…” Brian was calm as he talked to the girl. Claire looked between him and Jenny, trying to understand when this change of plans occurred. Ceana was supposed to be with them to help Alex believe they had come to his rescue. In his emotional distress, a familiar face would be necessary to calm him and explain the plan before the injections began.
Brian kept talking and Jamie agreed with his Da, insisting that the risk was bigger than the profit, but Ceana had none of that. When they turned to look at Jenny for help, she shook her head in a negating manner. Both men glared at her. “What?” she exclaimed. “I would want to go if it was my man in that cell.”
With Claire’s assertive, “Me too,” Ceana’s face changed with a victorious smile. Her first smile in weeks. “We need Ceana,” Claire added. “It will be easier if Alex sees someone he loves.”
“Aye, ye’re coming, then.” Jamie sighed in defeat. “We’ll leave at dawn.”
Claire didn’t mention she hadn’t agreed to his coming, but she was tired and Jamie would insist on coming anyway. Jenny rose from the table, and Ceana followed her. When they left the room, Claire looked at the men and spoke again. “Once Alex is safe, I’ll leave again. Jenny won’t let me, but you two have to understand.”
Two pairs of blue eyes looked at her incredulously. “Ye’re family, Claire.” Brian’s deep voice ran straight into her heart. “We canna do what ye’re asking, we canna let ye go. Unless ye don’t want to stay here, that is.”
Jamie didn’t say a word, but his fingers kept drumming a frantic tune on the table. “Is it because of what I said to ye that first day?” he finally asked, his voice soft. “I didna mean it that way, Claire. All I meant to say was --”
“No, this is not your fault, Jamie,” Claire interrupted him. “You called me a witch when you met me, and this is what I am. I was lucky to find another witch, one with a big mouth and a bigger heart but I…” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Jenny won’t let me do it, but I have to go. I have to make sure you’ll be safe. You’re my family, right? This is what families do, they take care of each other.”
She rose from her chair before either of them had time to state their disagreement. And as Claire walked up the stairs to her room, she lingered outside Jenny’s door and felt a part of her heart falling behind, always safe within the walls of Lallybroch.
What was it like for Fergus when Milord arrived home to Lallybroch from Culloden?
Life’s Rhythm
by @futurelounging
Eloise had the sweetest voice of them all. Not perfectly in tune, and rarely remembering the correct lyrics, but nevertheless, she sang as though she were drifting through a field of wildflowers, not squatting over a basin in the corner of her room in a brothel. Her songs were lewd and coarse, delivered in dulcet tones.
Fergus would hold a fresh cloth out for her and snatch it away at the last second, trying to disrupt her. When that didn’t work, he would pretend to sing along with her, prancing dramatically, and invariably she’d break, dissolving into giggles. They would both quickly cover their mouths, silencing their joy at the sound of the Madame’s heavy footsteps in the hall. Eloise was only a few years older than him, still a child herself.
For years, he would recall those silly songs, Eloise tapping a rhythm with her hair clip against the side of the basin. In the midst of depravity and abuse, she had found a way for them to be children, to stem the tide of misery, if only for a moment.
Fergus had been born on a tattered blanket in the corner of a dark room. He had learned to guard himself, to hide in shadows and disappear into the folds of drapery. If life insisted on punishing him for existing, then he would hide from life. He would find the splits in the seams where eyes did not linger.
He had relied on the rhythm of his movements to become invisible. The smooth motion of his hand brushing against an elbow, distracting from his other hand dipping into their pockets. Most people were content in their inattention. Until Milord.
He should have known. The man stood out in the crowds of pompous Frenchmen, his body disrupting the air, broad shoulders and a discomforting gaze. He should have noticed from the narrowed, darting glances that the man was no mark. But hubris overruled his better instincts.
Madame had often told the girls their arrogance would attract ire. Too haughty in their replies, and fists met flesh with little recourse. Men paid as much for the pleasure as for the pain. Fergus learned this lesson himself but had forgotten it over time. And when the rugged Scot caught him at his game, the anticipation of his punishment filled his tiny frame with adrenaline, escape his only hope for survival.
What then to make of mercy? He had no knowledge of it, but recognized it nonetheless. Milord was the first person to ask something of him instead of taking what he wanted.
A new rhythm developed with Milord and Milady. Pride punctuated his narrow escapes. He found joy in not merely surviving but pleasing. Milady washed his hair whenever it grew matted with grime, her long fingers tracing a pattern through his curls, nearly putting him to sleep with the motion. She hummed under her breath, sweet songs whose words were not bawdy. He became soft with them, longing for Milord’s heavy hand to squeeze his shoulder in thanks. Sighing at the gentle press of Milady’s fingertips on his neck as she wished him a good sleep.
Arrogance. Soft and trusting, he had not noticed the world searching for him in the shadows, ready to sink its teeth into him again. Milord’s fists fell upon the Captain, too quick to count the blows. Had he cursed them? They who had done nothing to deserve this misery, who had rescued him from that life? He confessed to Milady one night as he imagined Milord dying in prison, but instead of striking him, she held him.
The drums at Prestonpans restarted their hearts. The blood had slowed in their veins, but he felt his heart shuddering as it sped up. All his life, death had tried to trip him up, sneaky and unexpected, and he ran from it. The battle had forced him to face it head on while it rushed at him through the fog. His skin had been cold until blood sprayed across his vision, wet and reeking of drained life. He must have been shouting. All the men were shouting, except for the ones sinking into the mud under his feet. When the drums disappeared, he could hear only his heartbeat, the pulse of raging life.
Milady’s heartbeat was nearly as fast as his own when she pressed him to her chest, her fingers no longer gentle against his neck, but desperate.
When had that been? It felt like years ago. Was he still a child at Prestonpans? What was he now?
“Milord. Milord, you must drink. Your lips are bleeding.”
Jamie’s eyes looked right through Fergus. He tilted his head and accepted the water, swallowing painfully and groaning with the effort. He had stopped shaking, and Fergus was grateful for it, the erratic movement disturbing in its intensity. But the rhythm of breath moving in and out had slowed and faltered, the space between too long, the drawing in too short. And now he worried Milord might be giving up, letting death settle into his weary bones.
Anger welled in Fergus at the thought. That after everything, he might be abandoned by both of them. That without Milord and Milady, the Murrays could not keep him, and he’d be left to starve in this strange land. There was no one to rob here. No one to sell himself to. He would rather have died on the battlefield.
“Go to bed, Fergus.” Jamie’s voice was raspy and raw with disuse. It was the most Fergus had heard him say since he returned.
“It is not so late, Milord. Dark from storms, but too early for sleep.”
Jenny had moved Jamie to a makeshift bed in the office, wanting to keep him from the chaos of the children. The fear of soldiers returning to take Jamie away cast a pall over the household. They’d practiced moving him quickly to the priest’s hole with him biting a strip of leather to keep from crying out in pain. After one attempt that had left him soaked in sweat and nauseated, he insisted there would be no other practice runs.
Fergus leaned in closer to Jamie, glancing around to make sure Jenny and Ian weren’t lurking in the hall. “You must tell me where Milady has gone. I can go to her, and protect her.”
Fergus drew back slightly at the startling focus of Jamie’s eyes on him. Despite his weakened state, a tremor of fear ran through Fergus at the power still held in Milord’s large frame, the rage that might be unleashed were he not exhausted from fighting to live through what seemed like endless days.
“She…” His voice faded, swallowed by a mist of sorrow.
Tears began to well in the corners of his eyes and Fergus felt desperation rise in his gut, stemming the sadness he’d unwittingly loosed in the man before him. Fergus opened his mouth to apologize. “Milord, I’m -”
He was interrupted by Jamie’s hand grasping the cuff of Fergus’s shirt, fingers trembling, still swollen and bruised. “No. ‘Tis no’ for you nor I to see her safe now.” A tear escaped the grip of his lashes and disappeared in the stubble of his cheek. “Ye must keep watch here now. Jenny and Ian need ye. The bairns need ye. Dinna… Dinna speak of her.”
His final words were not spoken as a command, but a plea. The vulnerability in his voice was as foreign a sound as pettiness would be from Milady. Fergus wanted to shake him, tell him to sit up and fight. To cut through the Redcoats with his blood-stained sword until he found her, and together they would run from this haunted land.
Death had not claimed her. This much Fergus knew. He told himself he would have felt it. His heart would have skipped a beat, his muscles gone slack if her spirit had been freed from its body. A chill would have filled the air in his lungs. But he had felt no such thing. Could Milord go on if she was truly gone? He did not believe it.
He looked down at Milord’s hand now grasping his knee, and he saw the strength of him slumbering beneath the surface. It was not gone. In that moment Fergus resolved to be the man Milord and Milady had encouraged him to be. He would protect this new family, ensure they survived the years ahead, so Milord might know he’d made the right decision that day in Paris, taking a chance on him. And should they live to find Milady again, that she, too, might be proud of what he’d become.
Anonymous said: Jem has a few doubts after Mandy is born.
Author’s note: Missing scene from A Breath of Snow and Ashes, a little time after Amanda was born.
Mo gràdh ort, mo ghille (My Love On You, My Son)
by @monisse
June, 1776
Jem Mackenzie sighed again and made the small wood wheels turn faster on the new car his dad had made him. It’s a vroom, Dad had said a few years ago, the first time he ever placed a toy car on his eagerly waiting hands.
It took a long while after that, but his dad eventually explained what they were, how they worked and that, where he came from, real cars traveled on smooth, black roads all over the world, and much faster than horses. He told him how Mama used to have a blue one she adored. That day, with their heads so close together that long black hair mingled with red, they had talked in whispers, as if possessing a secret that no one else should know. Jem remembered feeling giddy, not only because that new vroom was an improved version of past incarnations lost forever to the woods of the Ridge, but because his dad had made a second car for himself and they had played together for hours, laughing and racing them on the wood floors that Mama had just swept.
Jem was now by himself with that same car, sitting on the porch floor, the Big House shielding him from the light rain that had started to fall. With the heat of the season fast approaching summer levels, that sort of weak pour seemed to evaporate even before hitting the ground. On any other day he would gladly have been under it, tongue sticking out to savor the warm showers, but today he remained watching life go by from afar, with no will to play. Germain had left, gone to live with his parents in New Bern, and suddenly the days seemed longer than before with one less friend to keep him company.
The wheels kept spinning as his mama and grannie came into view, coming off the main road. Even from a distance, Jem was surprised at how tall they were, taller than many of the women he knew. They always towered above him, sometimes ready to kneel to his level and envelop him in a warm embrace, other times standing straight and looking down in reprimand. He often felt small in comparison to them, even to the rest of his family and the world itself. Inside, he knew it would not always be that way, but time was not passing fast enough for him to grow as tall as his dad and no longer having to feel small and helpless as he felt now.
He observed his mama carrying the small bundle in her arms, made of soft blankets and his sister, delicate and new. Maybe to Mama she really was the most precious, and as quiet and small as his sister was, she was already the center of all attention. He observed in silence how Grannie leaned towards the blankets and made a silly face followed by a wide smile. Jem did not understand what was supposed to be so fun about babies. In his view, they only cried, ate, and slept without even saying a word. Except Mandy did not cry so much, and every time he peered inside the cot, she was asleep in a way that was entirely too quiet. Sometimes the tips of her fingers turned a light shade of blue, so did her lips, and he was often tempted to shake her to see if she was still breathing. Maybe that was why his parents, and even Grannie and Grandda, seemed to surround her all the time.
With all eyes on the baby, and even though there was no shortage of happiness in the family for her arrival, Jem knew something was not right with Mandy the moment she was born. And yet, no one seemed to have spare time to tell him. In the weeks that went by after his sister’s birth, all faces around him had slowly changed to a picture of sadness, gaining permanent wrinkles between their eyes and tremors on their lips. Late at night, when everyone thought he was asleep, he heard the softness of Mama’s cries and Dad’s soothing her in a raspy voice, low in his throat, but filled with love as he held her in his arms. Jem saw his family become quiet as time went by, and with each new day, his mother held the baby just a little bit closer to her chest, as if Mandy was soon to evaporate like a cloud in the wind.
To a certain point he understood why. Soon after Mandy was born, Jem felt a warmness settle in his chest, unexpected and wholly new, dropping into him and spreading like a bead of Mama’s dyes in water, all the way up to his head. It made him wonder how he had lived without it for so long. When he had heard her cry for the first time he knew he was not alone, not really, and would never be again. Not knowing what it was, he at least knew it grew stronger and brighter whenever he was close to Mandy, pulling him towards her even when he did not want to be around. And along with that came the unsettling feeling that her wee heart was damaged, and struggling slowly.
Jem kept near his parents, and even though they still held him close and he adored his sister, he could neither shake the feeling that she was consuming all their attention, nor that uncomfortable poking of loneliness.
Alerted by the sound of steps in the distance, Jem turned to watch his dad walk down the path towards his mother and Grannie in large paces, looking eager to reach them as quickly as possible. He kissed Mama’s forehead first and she smiled immediately. Jem smiled as well without realizing, his small mouth spreading involuntarily as if he was an extension of his mother’s happiness in that moment. Then, his dad kissed her lips and even though it was a common occurrence, Jem felt he was intruding on a private moment by the way her lips lingered on his a little longer than usual in front of others. In the end, his dad leaned in and placed a last kiss on Mandy’s dark hair, which made her spread her arms towards him.
Mandy already looked a lot more like Dad than he did, despite the blue eyes they both shared. As he passed a hand through his red hair, he wished there was something in him that was more like his dad, and maybe he would not have all these doubts in his mind.
“There ye are.”
He was startled by the sound of his dad’s voice, a little too rough in his throat, and suddenly Jem was assaulted by the memory that it had not always been so. In the distance, his mama and grannie walked away, disappearing fast into the greens and browns of the tall trees, taking Mandy with them.
“Daddy?” It was only a small question, though there was a little tremble in his voice throughout, and it came out as he stared at the wood car, now motionless in his small hands.
“Yes, a bhalaich?” His dad said while sitting down on the porch next to him.
Deep inside, there was a part of him that knew it would never be true, but as the circle around his sister became closer and closer, he felt more and more left out. “Are ye going to forget me now?”
“Why would ye think that?” He placed a large hand on Jem’s back, turning his small body towards him. “Jemmy?”
“Because of wee Mandy.”
Again, an uncomfortable feeling moved through him, like a million ants traveling all at once over the surface of his skin. It felt odd to say it out loud, and his cheeks burned red and hot in embarrassment.
He was a big brother now, his dad had said so, speaking in a serious tone just after Mandy was born. It was a concept he could not quite match with the feelings of protection towards her that were just as strong as the wish that she was never born. That way, Jem thought, he would still have his parents all to himself, in a quiet harmony between the three of them. With no tears, no fear.
His dad’s hand moved to one of his shoulders and rested there. “Jem, be assured that my heart is big enough for both you and Mandy. Ye dinna have to worry about that.”
Jem did not reply and, still filled with uncertainty, only stared into the clear green eyes of his dad.
“I know yer mam and I have been a little absent because yer sister is sick and we are very worried about her, but it doesna mean we are forgetting you or love you any less than before.”
Jem nodded quietly, allowing the words to sink in, and while they did help calm his anxiety, another thought came to his mind, uninvited. He averted his eyes, watching the trees move with the wind and feeling the earth become alive with the smell of flowers and wet pine trees. His face turned into a frown and his next words came out before he was able to stop them.
“Germain once said ye were not here when I was born, but ye’re here for her. Were you not worried about me?”
The words hung loose in the air between them until Jem heard a groan deep in his dad’s throat, despite the discomfort it caused. As Jem glanced beside him, he saw pain twist his dad’s face, one which he had not seen before.
“No, I was not, by no choice of mine, but I came for you. I will always come for you.” His dad urged him to look towards him again. “And ye were such a braw lad, big and strong since the day ye were born. I loved ye from the first time I held ye and that will never change. Ye’re my son, alright?”
“But I don’t even look like you, and she does!” Jem exclaimed, matter-of-fact, and a little too loud, startling the otherwise peaceful birds nearby into flight.
“Ye may have yer mam’s hair and eyes, but you and I are more alike than ye think,” his dad said with a little smile, his features entirely relaxed now.
“How?”
“We both like cars, for example,” he said, pointing to the wood car in Jem’s little hands.
“What else?” Jem’s eyes were open wide now with interest and he felt himself smile again, on the verge of excitement to know more.
“We can both run really fast, even faster than yer mam.” His dad leaned closer. “Especially when she’s mad at us, but dinna tell her I said that.”
Jem could only giggle in reply, the laughter rolled freely out of him as it had not happened in a long while. He felt a little more at ease with himself knowing that he was not forgotten and just as much part of his parents as his sister was. Slowly, and further encouraged by the sound of his dad’s own laughter, the doubts that had been on his mind were fading away.
“And we also have the same spot on our head!” Jem shouted with pride, while pointing a finger at his own head, entirely oblivious to the fact that his dad had been constantly aware of their shared mark ever since it was discovered.
He was immediately swept into a strong embrace, the familiar warmth of his dad seeping through him and resetting his heart to a steady beat.
Jem heard him whisper in his ear, “Aye, we do, mo ghille. And I can never forget you.”
When Other Outlander Tales was first started, our main goal was to share our love for all of the wonderful characters that the Outlander series encompasses.
Now, less than a year later, Other Outlander Tales has reached the 500 follower milestone. We want to thank all of our followers and readers for your support, it means the world to us.
And with that, we would like to welcome @monisse as Mod Moni and our newest writer for Other Outlander Tales.
Moni has been writing wonderful canon compliant stories and missing moments for Roger and Bree and we are very excited for her to join us and share more wonderful writings with the Outlander fanfiction community.
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