A/N: So! Another update a week later! Unfortunately, due to my schedule, this seems to be about what I am capable of at the moment- an update of this somewhere around Saturday night or Sunday morning, and an update on Can You Imagine? somewhere around Tuesday afternoon. As that is the case, please be on the lookout for new chapters following that schedule until things calm down on my end! If things slow down, or if I somehow manage to get ahead, then I will HAPPILY begin to post more often once again! However, if that does not come as soon as I would like, this does seem to be doable, and it does seem to be doable for the near future. With that said, another pretty major canon divergence has begun in this chapter! Hopefully, I’ve hinted at it well enough without outright spoiling it ;) And, either way, I hope you enjoy the chapter, and look forward to updating this again next weekend! Skål!
Summary: When Ivar takes the throne of Kattegat, Lagertha flees to Wessex along with Björn, Ubbe, Torvi, and the Bishop Heahmund. There, they seek the aid of King Alfred. This aid comes in the form of his sister, Aethelind, who agrees to travel to Kattegat and try to reason Ivar, who she spent some time with during their youth, when her grandfather King Ecbert hosted Ragnar Lothbrok in their castle. Now, she is the only hope for Lagertha and her supporters to retake Kattegat from Ivar the Boneless.
Masterlist
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Oleg wasted no time. Little more than a day passed after they’d managed to get Hvitserk cleaned up, and he, Ivar, and Asta were being called to court before him. Well, before him and Katia, of course. Asta and Ivar were, understandably, a bit nervous about this meeting. Oleg had proven himself unpredictable, and though they both knew they’d not let him touch Hvitserk, they didn’t exactly want Oleg and Katia to know they were plotting against him just yet. So, they would have to be careful, and pray that Hvitserk was as well.
Just before they went into the room, Asta stopped Hvitserk, looking up at him seriously. “You warned me once to be careful of Ivar,” she whispered. “Now I’m warning you, be careful of Oleg.”
“Were you careful, Princess?” Hvitserk asked her with a pointed smirk and a small chuckle, and she rolled her eyes amusedly.
“I was,” she answered. “Until I no longer had need to be. But Oleg isn’t Ivar. I know what happened to Sigurd, but I know Ivar regrets what he did that day. Oleg killed his brother Askold, and I truly do not believe he could care less. He treats his nephew horribly, and Ivar and I have done all we can to stand between them, but there’s only so much we can do.” Hvitserk nodded a little as Asta let out a small sigh. “And that doesn’t even reach Katia,” she said.
“Katia?”
“Katia, Oleg’s wife.”
Hvitserk’s eyes grew large. “She is more dangerous than Oleg?” he asked in disbelief.
“In her own way,” Asta answered vaguely. “She’s cunning, I see that in her eyes. That, and beautiful, seductive, attentive…”
Hvitserk lifted a brow now. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Ivar needed to be warned that you were going to leave him,” he joked, and Asta chuckled.
“I’m not,” she assured Hvitserk. “But as good as those traits sound, that is why they’re the problem. They are good, and she’s almost too good. I can’t help my suspicions.”
“Suspicions that…?” Hvitserk prompted.
“That she’s hiding something.”
They spent little more time talking about those who currently ruled over Kiev, and soon rejoined Ivar to step into the throne room, looking up to where Oleg sat on Igor’s throne, Katia lounging by his feet. What Asta didn’t notice was the way Hvitserk’s eyes widened just a bit upon seeing her. Ivar was the first of them to speak up.
“Prince Oleg,” he greeted. “Princess Katia, your Highnesses. Allow me to present my brother, Hvitserk, just lately risen from the dead.” Asta had to keep herself from giving a roll of her eyes. Ivar was dramatic, even without watching him on the other side of Hvitserk, Asta could see that.
Hvitserk gave a simple, small bow, and greeted the pair, “Your Highness.”
“Another son of Ragnar Lothbrok,” Oleg commented curiously. “You are most welcome.” Hvitserk gave something of a small, half smile as Oleg informed him, “You arrive at interesting times.”
“So I understand,” Hvitserk answered. “My brother has told me that you intend to attack our homeland.”
Ivar glanced between the two men anxiously, and Asta noticed this, having glanced over toward him to see what he thought of Hvitserk revealing this, that they had talked. Clearly, he was wanting to know Oleg’s thoughts on this, far more than he was having any of his own thoughts on it at the moment. And so, her eyes turned instead to Oleg, in time to catch him almost laughing.
He hummed, before answering Hvitserk, “It was once my homeland. I’m only reclaiming the past. I trust you will be happy to join King Ivar and myself in this great undertaking.”
So, he went with the lie. She and Ivar knew the truth, that any papers giving Oleg claim to Kattegat were forgeries. There was an assumption then, Asta realized- Oleg didn’t believe Ivar would have told Hvitserk this, nor did he believe she had done so, herself. Interesting.
Hvitserk chuckled a little. “I have nowhere else to go,” he confessed, and all but Asta laughed slightly- though, she did give something of a small huff, emulating laughter, as not to tip anyone off. Truthfully, she hated that Björn and Ubbe had turned their backs on him. Sure, he had killed Lagertha, who they had both loved, but this was their brother, their little brother. A part of herself whispered that Ivar was too, and she found herself suddenly far less surprised.
“Hearing this just makes me all the more glad to know Ivar found you,” Asta said, turning and putting a hand on Hvitserk’s arm. “That, and the simple fact that we have been reunited.”
Hvitserk offered her a small smile, and replied, “Yes, I am also very happy to see you again, and to be reunited with you, Asta.” Asta smiled at him sweetly, and squeezed his arm before releasing him as he turned back to Oleg. “And, I am at your service, Prince Oleg. I, too, need to reclaim my past.”
“The Prince and I are so happy to have you at our court, Hvitserk. Ivar has spoken a lot about you.”
Asta hadn’t expected Katia to speak up when she did, and turned to her with a curious expression. She watched her stand, and start to make her way down the stairs, moving in such a way that she demanded all attention be on her. Freydis hadn’t moved like that, Asta remembered. Even as a Queen, she had just moved like any other woman. Katia was good, Asta wanted to believe, but Freydis had been sweet, and warm, and gentle, in ways Katia was not. She swallowed hard as she remembered her, and closed her eyes briefly to stem any tears which wanted to leak from them.
When her eyes reopened, Katia was standing with Ivar now, and continuing, “When you were children, when you jumped ship… He told me that you always believed you were fated to be together, however many times fate itself seemed to pull you apart.”
She smirked up at him knowingly, and Ivar met this with a tight smile, nodding slightly to acknowledge what she was saying was true, and then she was moving on to stand in front of Hvitserk.
“I find, myself, that fate works in… mysterious ways,” she said, and rested a hand against Hvitserk’s chest. Asta lifted a brow as she watched the two lock eyes, a million words seeming to pass between them, and yet not one could she translate for herself. Looking then to Oleg, Asta found it curious how truly, deeply unsettled the man appeared.
Katia had behaved similarly with herself and Ivar for quite some time now, and yet Oleg had never seemed all that bothered. But, he believed them to be married. Perhaps it was, then, that he believed neither of them to be a threat to his own marriage? And with Hvitserk being unwed and also unattached… Who knew what concerns were beginning to work their way into his mind, as Katia finally returned to him. Both his eyes, and Hvitserk’s, followed her, until she returned to her place at Oleg’s side, lounging on the dais just in front of him.
“Our army’s assembling,” Oleg began, clearly wanting to return to a more professional topic. “Tonight, you will watch some of it parade past the Palace.” He paused in his speaking to reach down and run a hand through Katia’s hair, and she seemed to almost pull away from him, though not quite, an uncomfortable expression crossing her face. So, there was trouble brewing between them. “It should be an interesting experience,” he finished, and nodded to dismiss the Vikings who stood before him.
Ivar and Hvitserk exchanged a look which was unreadable to the Prince, but Asta… that woman was harder to read than the two men combined. He could see her looking into the eyes of his wife, seeming to silently communicate with her. How troublesome this so-called Prophet was, and yet, how bold. He slid his hand through Katia’s hair once more, trying to draw her attention away from Asta, and it worked. But there was something distant in her eyes now, and he looked up again to watch as Asta followed her husband and his brother from the room, wondering what thoughts the little witch might have just put into his beloved wife’s mind.
It didn’t take five minutes, once Asta had reached Hvitserk and Ivar, for her to grit out, “I want to choke him.”
“Who, Oleg?” Hvitserk questioned, tilting his head a little.
“Who else?” she almost hissed.
“Well, he’s the obvious choice, but I couldn’t blame you if you meant Ivar-” He was interrupted by a grunt as Ivar elbowed him in the ribs.
“Say what you want, but Asta would never do that to me,” Ivar said confidently. “She loves me too much for that.”
Asta’s cheeks turned a slight shade of pink, and she rolled her eyes. “Just for that, you’re dead by morning, Ragnarsson,” she teased, though her tone held very little levity to it. Ivar laughed, and Hvitserk found himself chuckling as well.
“So, you two for real then, hmm?” he asked curiously. “I mean, I saw it back in Kattegat, but I wouldn’t have thought after everything that happened…”
“Who else did we have?” Ivar pointed out, looking over at Hvitserk. “Who else did I have, hmm? Asta is the only one who did not ever leave me, who never betrayed me. There is no one else I would have trusted enough.”
Asta smiled softly at his words, and slipped a hand into his, wrapping her free arm around it and holding him a little closer as they walked. “Nor I, darling,” she replied, and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Ivar turned to her with a soft smile.
Hvitserk realized as he watched the pair that he hadn’t seen Ivar look at anyone that way aside from Freydis, nor Asta. Though he hadn’t known her long enough to know if she’d looked at someone that way before, he knew it was quite a special look. It was love, he saw in their eyes as they looked at each other, and he smiled slightly. With all luck, and the favor of the gods, he hoped he might also find someone to share that sort of look with one day.
They decided shortly after this that they were hungry, and seeing as they had not been to see Igor yet that day, busy as they’d been with Oleg, Asta and Ivar agreed they would go and fetch him. Hvitserk, having liked the boy well enough the previous time they had met, had no complaint about this.
Once they had him, they went to one of the smaller dining areas, and were served a meal, which they all sat around the table to eat. A light conversation was kept up for most of the meal, until it seemed to die out naturally. That was all well and good, though, as Ivar had something he’d been meaning to bring up. And, he did. He looked up at Hvitserk, who was still eating, and opened with a casual, “So.”
His brother looked up from his meal and prompted him, “So?”
Igor also looked up now, glancing between the two curiously as Ivar questioned, “What do you think?”
“About Oleg?” Hvitserk asked, a bit confused. Hadn’t they discussed him just a few hours prior?
“No, not about Oleg,” Ivar replied as though it should be obvious. “About his wife.”
“I thought she was… attractive?” Hvitserk said. “Rather provocative.” Asta smirked.
But Ivar was clearly not satisfied, and in fact, seemed a little irritated almost at Hvitserk’s response. “Nothing else?” he pressed.
“No,” Hvitserk answered. “What else?”
Ivar was stunned. Asta couldn’t keep herself from chuckling quietly at that expression of his. She recalled once likening it to a startled duck. He hadn’t quite believed her, but she’d still had a good laugh about it with him. She wondered if Hvitserk would find it amusing, as she did.
“You look like a startled duck again, darling,” she told him, and Hvitserk choked.
“You do,” he agreed easily.
Ivar now looked at Asta as if she had betrayed him, and he was deeply hurt by this. “You said you would never tell!” he accused, and she giggled.
“I still haven’t,” she defended. “In fact, I don’t think Hvitserk or Igor would even think there was something to tell, had you not just given it away.”
Ivar tried to stammer some kind of answer about that out, but only met the expectant eyes of both his brother, and Igor. She was right, he definitely brought that one on himself. “Ah, she said I looked like a startled duck one time, and I said we should not let it out that I was so easily stunned by her. There,” he said. “Anyway, Hvitserk.” Asta giggled at how eager he was to move on. “She didn’t… remind you of anyone?”
“Katia?” he clarified, and Ivar nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “You saw her. You know who she looks like.”
“I do?”
“Of course you do, brother,” Ivar replied. “Freydis.”
Hvitserk blinked a few times, and Asta realized the ‘startled duck’ face might just have been hereditary. “Your… wife?” Ivar nodded and made a small sound as if to confirm this. “Freydis is dead, Ivar, I- I saw her body-”
“Yes, yes, yes, I know,” Ivar said nonchalantly. “I killed her. But they are identical. So much so, Asta and I at first believed she had come back somehow.”
Hvitserk nodded slowly as he took this in, seeming to think for a moment, before he finally said decisively, “You’re still crazy, Ivar.”
Ivar deflated a little. Before, whenever Hvitserk had said that, he’d let it roll right off his back like water off a startled duck’s wings. Asta decided to step in.
“It’s true, Hvitserk,” she said. “Take a closer look at her, next time we are all together. I know you didn’t know her overly well, Freydis, but… the resemblance is uncanny, at the least.”
Hvitserk sighed as he heard Asta backing Ivar up on this, not just letting him claim she believed it as well. Without truly believing it, he doubted the Princess would have said anything. “Alright,” he conceded. “I’ll take a better look next time we see her.”
Asta nodded, and offered him a small smile as a way of thanking him. But, the smile turned into a smirk, and she chuckled. “I don’t think you’ll mind doing that anyway, will you?” she teased. “I saw the way the two of you looked at each other.” She lifted her brows a bit, pressing her lips together in a knowing smile as Hvitserk tilted his head confusedly.
“What do you mean?” he asked, and Asta laughed lightly.
“Come on, really?” she questioned. “I could have drawn my sword right then and cut the tension between you, it was so thick.”
“No, you’d just have cut off her hand,” Hvitserk countered, which only made Asta laugh more.
“Indeed I would have!” she agreed. “Which makes one question, why was she touching you in the first place?”
Hvitserk paused, sitting back and blinking a few times as his brows creased together. It was a good question. Why had she touched him? She hadn’t needed to. Asta was right about all of this, wasn’t she? Katia had touched him unnecessarily, and in doing so, had proven her unpredictability. She really was just as dangerous as Asta said. But, did she truly look like Freydis?
When that night came, he was dumbfounded to say the answer was a resounding yes. Katia did bear a very uncanny resemblance to Freydis, and he suddenly found himself wondering just how hard that was on his brother and his not-wife. With all the talk of the other Russian prince, one whose name had been funny to Hvitserk, as it had sounded much like the word animal to him, and Ivar’s alliance with him to overthrow Oleg, it had slipped his mind to be on the lookout for. But, when they were confronted with her, it had slapped him in the face. If someone had told him they were twins, he’d have believed it.
Now, he stood on the complete opposite side of her, with Asta to his right, Ivar to hers, then Oleg, Igor, and finally Katia on his other side. He wanted to take another look, but the army had begun to march out, and he knew it would be suspicious if he was watching Oleg’s wife, instead. So, he turned his attention to the massive army, and tried to pay attention to what Oleg said as they marched by.
“Who can resist such an army?” he was currently questioning. “Nobody. Not King Harald. Not Björn Ironside. They are like children. They, and their gods, will be destroyed. This, my good friends, is the end of paganism. The end of the pagan gods.”
Asta whipped her head around to look at Ivar, concern for him and this endeavour filling her. This was quickly shaping up to seem like a horrible idea, and she could see the same thoughts circulating in his mind behind his watering eyes. This, if Oleg was to be believed, was meant to be the end of his gods, and Hvitserk’s, and all those of the people of Scandinavia.
She turned back to watch the army, a newfound look of horror in her eyes. The Vikings had brought a Heathen army down on her home once, and killed many people simply for being Christian. Now, Oleg would bring a Christian army down on the people of Kattegat, and many would be slaughtered, simply for being Heathen. Once more, she turned back to Ivar, and as soon as she moved his eyes landed back on her. For once, both were perfectly readable, and their expressions revealed quite the same train of thought.
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It is His doctrine that, in emergent situations, a single angel may be dispatched for the guidance and protection of a rising Messiah. Though the next Messiah has not yet been identified without a doubt, the candidates have been narrowed to less than half a dozen, all of whom are being monitored closely. In addition, the situation is already undeniably emergent, as Hell encroaches upon Earth in their search for what rightfully belongs to Heaven.
A seraph with experience on Earth and a history of loyalty and obedience has been selected based upon the recommendation of its captain. As soon as the Messiah has made himself known, it will be deployed, in order to ensure the Messiah fulfills the purpose we have ascertained to be his intended one. His will shall come to pass.
Although it goes against His orders, given many millennia ago and held sacred by our kind, consideration should be given to assigning more than one of the Host to the rising Messiah. Keeping him from the clutches of Hell is our holy imperative, and preventing the improper use or premature ascendance of his powers are close seconds. The death or corruption he may bring upon himself in fits of human anger or caprice must above all be prevented, for such a thing may be nearly as bad as Hell taking possession of him after he has become aware of what he is. The situation will be monitored and our approach modified as we see fit to guarantee His will is done.
We shall not repeat the mistakes made with past Messiahs, especially the most recent. Never before have two Messiahs been born so closely together; truly, it is proof that we have divined His will, that He in his infinite patience and mercy has given us a second chance, and that He will return to us when His stipulations are met.
An odd metallic noise woke me. I poked my head out of the blanket and blinked in the direction of the noise, to find my nose a foot from Jamie’s plaid-covered knee.
“Awake, are ye?” Something silvery and chinking suddenly descended in front of my face, and a heavy weight settled around my neck.
“What on earth is this?” I asked, sitting up in astonishment and peering downward. I seemed to be wearing a necklace composed of a large number of three-inch metal objects, each with a divided shank and a hooped top, strung together on a leather bootlace. Some of the objects were rusted at the tops, others brand-new. All showed scratches along the length of the shanks, as though they had been wrenched by force out of some larger object.
“Trophies of war, Sassenach,” said Jamie.
I looked up at him, and uttered a small shriek at the sight.
“Oh,” he said, putting a hand to his face. “I forgot. I hadna time to wash it off.”
“You scared me to death,” I said, hand pressed to my palpitating heart. “What is it?”
“Charcoal,” he said, voice muffled in the cloth he was rubbing over his face. He let it down and grinned at me. The rubbing had removed some of the blackening from nose, chin and forehead, which glowed pinkish-bronze through the remaining smears, but his eyes were still ringed black as a raccoon’s, and charcoal lines bracketed his mouth. It was barely dawn, and in the dim light of the tent, his darkened face and hair tended to fade into the drab background of the canvas wall behind him, giving the distinctly unsettling impression that I was speaking to a headless body.
“It was your idea,” he said.
“My idea? You look like the end man in a minstrel show,” I replied. “What the hell have you been doing?”
His teeth gleamed a brilliant white amid the sooty creases of his face.
“Commando raid,” he said, with immense satisfaction. “Commando? Is that the right word?”
“Oh, God,” I said. “You’ve been in the English camp? Christ! Not alone, I hope?”
“I couldna leave my men out of the fun, could I? I left three of them to guard you, and the rest of us had a verra profitable night.” He gestured at my necklace with pride.
“Cotter pins from the cannon carriages. We couldna take the cannon, or damage them without noise, but they’ll no be goin’ far, wi’ no wheels to them. And the hell of a lot of good sixteen gallopers will do General Cope, stranded out on the moor.”
I examined my necklace critically.
“That’s well and good, but can’t they contrive new cotter pins? It looks like you could make something like this from heavy wire.”
He nodded, his air of smugness abating not a whit.
“Oh, aye. They could. But nay bit o’ good it will do them, wi’ no new wheels to put them to.” He lifted the tent flap, and gestured down toward the foot of the hill, where I could now see Murtagh, black as a wizened demon, supervising the activities of several similarly decorated subdemons, who were gaily feeding the last of thirty-two large wooden wheels into a roaring fire. The iron rims of the wheels lay in a stack to one side; Fergus, Kincaid, and one of the other young men had improvised a game with one of them, rolling it to and fro with sticks. Ross sat on a log nearby, sipping at a horn cup and idly twirling another round his burly forearm.
I laughed at the sight.
“Jamie, you are clever!”
“I may be clever,” he replied, “but you’re half-naked, and we’re leaving now. Have ye something to put on? We left the sentinels tied up in an abandoned sheep-pen, but the rest of them will be up by now, and none so far behind us. We’d best be off.”
As though to emphasize his words, the tent suddenly shook above me, as someone jerked free the lines on one side. I uttered an alarmed squeak and dived for the saddlebags as Jamie left to superintend the details of departure.
— Dragonfly In Amber
Photos: Starz, Season Two, Episode Nine, June 4, 2016
Gif: pinterest.com, Season Two, Episode Nine, June 4, 2016 (marriage)
Gif: headoverfeels.com, Season Two, Episode Nine, June 4, 2016 (Commando)
Gif: fuckyeakjamieandbclaire.tumblr.com, Season Two, Episode Nine, June 4, 2016 (kiss)
Book: Dragonfly In Amber, Diana Gabaldon, 1992
Tumblr: October 5, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴❤️🇬🇧
WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season Two Episode Nine #S2E9 #Je Suis Prest #Dragonfly In Amber #Chapter Thirty-Six #Trophies of war, Sassenach #Commando? Is that the right word? #I couldna leave my men out of the fun, could I? #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Murtagh FitzGibbons Fraser #Rupert #Angus #107 #100518
It is from Our Great Dark King, Six-Winged Lucifer, that we, the Infernal Race of Demons, sprang. It was by His Hand that Lord Lilith, Alabaster of Eye and First of Our Kind, was drawn from a Human Soul, and so have we all followed. It is to Our King we owe our existence, and that of Our Realm. To Him is every Demon Beholden. We are but Horned Worms in the presence of a Stygian God.
Without Him on our Throne, low do our Fires burn. Shallowly do our Blades cut. Tenuous is our hold on the Human Souls from which our brethren will come.
Without Him, Hell is Weakened and Confined, the True Power of our Race lost.
Our Beautiful Deceiver lies bound in a foul Cage far below our Deepest Fires. To his Freedom and Return to our Throne is sworn every Prince and Lord of Hell, gold and pearl, and all onyx below them. Without a King, there is no Hell, and We the Infernal die a Third Death every day.
The long days of summer were yielding quickly to darkness, and the lamps were lit well before we had finished our preparations. The night outside was restless with constant movement and the glow of fires on the horizon. Fergus, unable to keep still, flitted in and out of the cottages, carrying messages, collecting rumors and bobbing up out of the shadows periodically like a small, dark ghost, eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Madame,” he said, plucking at my sleeve as I ripped linens into strips and threw them into a pile for sterilization. “Madame!”
“What is it this time, Fergus?” I was mildly irritated at the intrusion; I had been in the middle of a lecture to a group of housewives on the importance of washing the hands frequently while treating the wounded.
“A man, Madame. He is wanting to speak with the commander of His Highness’s army. He has important information, he says.”
…
“If you will give me permission, Madame,” he said eagerly, “I could guide him to my master. He could arrange for the man to speak to the commander.”
“He,” of course, could do anything, so far as Fergus was concerned; including, no doubt, walking on water, turning water into wine, and inducing Lord George to talk to mysterious strangers who materialized out of the darkness with important information.
…
“I—I’m Richard Anderson, of Whitburgh.”
“Oh? Well, good for you,” I said politely. “My servant says you have some valuable information for Lord George Murray.”
He nodded, bobbing his head like a water ouzel. “Ye see, Mrs. Fraser, I’ve lived in these parts all my life. I—I know all of that ground where the armies are, know it like the back o’ my hand. And there’s a way down from the ridge where the Highland troops are camped—a trail that will lead them past the ditch at the bottom.”
…
“Do you think you can find your master? It’s black as the inside of a coal hole up on that ridge. I wouldn’t like either of you to be shot by mistake, traipsing around up there.”
“I can find him, Madame,” Fergus said confidently. He probably could, I thought. He seemed to have a sort of radar where Jamie was concerned.
“All right, then,” I conceded. “But for God’s sake, be careful.”
“Oui, Madame!” In a flash, he was at the door, vibrating with eagerness to be gone.
It was half an hour after they had left that I noticed the knife I had left on the table was gone as well. And only then did I remember, with a sickening lurch of my stomach, that while I had told Fergus to be careful, I had forgotten altogether to tell him to come back.
…
The streets were filled with men, drunk, celebrating, laden with plunder from the battlefield. One group of men in the reddish tartan of the MacGillivrays pulled an English cannon, tethered with ropes like a dangerous wild beast. The resemblance was enhanced by the fanciful carvings of crouching wolves that decorated the touch-hole and muzzle. One of General Cope’s showpieces, I supposed.
Then I recognized the small black figure riding astride the cannon’s muzzle, hair sticking up like a bottle brush. I closed my eyes in momentary thankfulness, then opened them and hastened down the street to drag him off the cannon.
…
“I killed an English soldier, Madame.”
“Oh?” I was unsure whether he wanted congratulation, or needed comfort. He was ten.
His brow wrinkled, and his face screwed up as though trying very hard to remember something.
“I think I killed him. He fell down, and I stuck him with my knife.” He looked at me in bewilderment, as though I could supply the answer.
“Come along, Fergus,” I said. “We’ll find you some food and a place to sleep. Don’t think about it anymore.”
“Oui, Madame.” He stumbled obediently along beside me, but within moments, I could see that he was about to fall flat on his face. I picked him up, with some difficulty, and lugged him toward the cottages near the church where I had centered our hospital operation. I had intended to feed him first, but he was sound asleep by the time I reached the spot where O’Sullivan was attempting—with little success—to organize his commissary wagons.
Instead, I left him curled in the box bed in one of the cottages, where a woman was looking after assorted children while their mothers tended wounded men. It seemed the best place for him.
— Dragonfly In Amber
Photos: Starz, Season Two, Episode Ten, June 11, 2016
Book: Dragonfly In Amber, Diana Gabaldon, 1992
Tumblr: October 6, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴❤️🇬🇧
WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season Two Episode Ten #S2E10 #Prestonpans #Dragonfly In Amber #Chapter Thirty-Six #My servant says you have some valuable information for Lord George Murray #I recognized the small black figure riding astride the cannon’s muzzle #I killed an English soldier, Madame #Claire Fraser #Fergus Claudel Fraser #118 #100618
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Organization for Transformative Works
“Oh,” she sits hard in the chair, “Oh no!” Jenny standing nearby, hurries over to her. Two months has passed since they saw their men off. Had she got something through the post that was bad news?
“Claire, what is it? Bad news?” She holds no letter in her hands.
“Bad, no, or maybe no,” she shakes her head, “sorry. I just realized that I am with child, again.”
Jenny smiles and then frowns. “Oh.”
“Just so. He will miss everything.” She bites her lip and her hand goes to her throat, “what if this baby never…”
“No! We don’t think that way. They will return, all of them. He will come home to another bairn. A sweet little lad or lass. We will sit on the porch and watch our grandchildren play. All of us.”
Claire smiles and takes her hand. “Thank you. That’s right. This wee one will be an incentive to return home safe.”
“Another one.” She smiles over at Faith, who plays with stacking blocks.
“Yes, another one.”
She writes him that evening.
“My Dearest Jamie,
We still miss you terribly. The boys are good, helping Brian with the chores. You would be proud of them. They are becoming little men right before my eyes.
Faith has grown. Jenny and I lengthened the hems on all her dresses. She has went from toddling to running. Maggie and Hazel help keep after her.
I have news. We are expecting again. I realized today that I haven’t had my curses since you left.
I am of two minds about it. Every baby is a gift. I just wish you were here. I know you are here in spirit but it isn’t the same.
You are staying safe, aren’t you, my love? Maybe the army can use you as a lawyer and not a soldier. Oh, that sounds so selfish. Maybe it isn’t right to wish you safe behind a desk when our beloved William and Ian wouldn’t be. Forgive me if it is. I just want my husband and their daddy, safe.
The children send their love. I send all of mine.
Claire “
Three weeks later, she receives one back.
My darling Claire,
I have been over the moon since receiving your last letter. We are having another baby! How utterly amazing is that!
It is normal to feel the way you do. How I would love to be there with you, watching you, once again, swell with life.
I send all my love and prayers. If a lass, Julia, for your mam, Henry, for a lad, in honor of your dad.
I am quite proud of the lads. Please tell them that for me. Tell Faith her da da says stop growing so fast.
Unfortunately, the army needs soldiers more than lawyers. Don’t fret though, my heart, they are training us well.
This may be my last letter for a while. We are heading to France in a week.
I love you so much. You and our bairns are my whole world. I shall do all I can to return to you.
