#correspondences.

[oftheridge-a]

♗

send me a  ♗ and I’ll use my icon style to make an icon of your muse!

[oftheridge-a]

what differs the most from show!jamie to book!jamie?

a lot. and i’m probably going to miss stuff, so if anyone reading this has something that i miss, feel free to post it in the replies of this ask. i also don’t know if this is exactly what you’re looking for but i’m kind of going stream of conscious here so know that i did try, anon.

now, don’t get me wrong, i /love/ sam h.eughan and how he portrays jamie. i love the nuances he adds to the character, and i even love some of the things he’s added (like the glasses, i fucking love jamie fraser in glasses). but since it’s a tv show and they only have 12 hours at most to tell us their story, and (especially this season) certain plot points have to get pushed to the wayside... we miss so much.

a lot of the stuff that’s left out is about jamie - we see him, obviously, as he’s a main character... but the story is from claire’s point of view. diana has specifically said that outlander is jamie’s story from claire’s point of view. so we miss his internal dialogue. we get a bit of it in season one, for the one episode where claire is at fort william with randall, but other than that we don’t see too much of jamie’s point of view.

in the books, especially the later ones... we get a LOT of jamie’s point of view. we get a lot of every main character’s point of view, which is freaking awesome, but as someone who writes jamie, i’m a bit biased as to which are my favorite chapters.

also, another thing i’ve noticed is that since we’re so limited with the show, they only pick and choose to show us the most important bits -- at least, what they think is the most important. we’re stuck in the ‘matt and mari/l and ton/i show’ now, and they get to pick and choose what is important to the main storyline to keep a wide audience. you can argue that they suck at their jobs or that they’re amazing, but the point is that their job is to take a very large amount of source material and condense it down to what they feel is most important to drive the narrative of the story that they’re trying to tell. which is their job, and i can’t fault them for that because that’s how one adapts a massive book for a television audience that may not have background knowledge on the outlander books.

with the books, we get this information overload that i’m so thankful for, that helps develop the characters. speaking of drums of autumn specifically, since season four makes me so angry still, we get so much. we get to see jamie building a life on the ridge, we get to see him creating a community, we get to see him getting to know his daughter, we get to see him fixing his mistakes... but we also get to see his point of view on all of that. in the show, we see him beat up roger and then we see brianna react to it... but we don’t get to hear his inner monologue of it. we don’t get to understand why he did it other than what he says. 

we don’t get to hear what he feels.

the reason why i write a ‘book based with show influences’ portrayal is because the books have so much depth to them. they give so much more characterization to jamie than what i would have been able to glean from the show (ooh buzzword, haven’t used that one since college) and it helps me feel like i have broader knowledge of jamie than i would if i only based my portrayal on the show. i still like to use aspects from the show because like i said, sam has done a phenomenal job of bringing jamie to life... but i hate that the show has left out so much of this character. 

i hope this answers the question LOL

[oftheridge-a]

☯ + jamie meeting bree for the first time. (look okay; diana didn't give his POV and i need it.)

He may just kill Fergus, son or not. As much as Jamie loves his son, the fact remains that Fergus has always had a penchant for getting into trouble. As a lad it was easier to deal with, being that Jamie could normally scoop him up and hold him, limbs flailing, away from whatever obstacle it was that Fergus had planned to take down using blunt force or his sharp tongue. But as Fergus has grown, it’s become impossible to do so. As an adult, Fergus has to mind himself, though Jamie finds himself more often than not minding it for him.

Which is why he’s in a tavern in Cross Creek, drinking beer. For the millionth time he wishes it was a glass of whisky, but any good alcohol is few and far between in America. He has his distillery up on the Ridge, but that’s much too far for him to obtain a glass now, so he’s got to settle for what the landlord has to offer here.

There’s some casual conversation, but not much — Jamie’s much too tired for that — and once he finishes his tankard, he asks for another and heads out the back to relieve himself. His mind is set on the trial, thinking about just what he’s going to say, about his plans that he’d hatched earlier, on his ride to Cross Creek, and so when he drops the kilt to fall back around his legs and turns, he is very much not expecting to see someone standing in front of him.

A lad, a young lad — younger than Fergus. What they want of him he doesn’t know, and is about to open his mouth to speak when he realizes that he’d been mistaken. Not a lad. A lass, wearing breeks and a tight shirt and Christ he thought that Claire with her modern thinking would be the only woman he’d see in the getup. Apparently not.

“What d’ye want here, lassie?” He steps forward, away from the tree, eyes taking her in. Her hair nearly mirrors his own, a shade he hasn’t seen since Scotland — his heart suddenly lurches, yearning hardly for Lallybroch, for his family, for the life he’d used to lead — but it flies back into his chest with a nearly audible snap. No. He’s better here, no longer a wanted man, no longer a criminal, with the love of his life and his family and a place to call his own. He’s happier here.

“You.”

He’s definitely not expecting that, and he blinks, owl-like, before his eyes narrow as he smiles. No, a woman’s body has not tempted him since Claire had come back to him.

“Sorry, lass — I’m a marrit man.”

As he shifts, side-stepping, she reaches out her hand as if to touch him, but her fingers stop just shy of his shirt sleeve. He pauses, looking down at them for a moment, and his lips tighten at the corners.

“No,” he says with a shake of his head, the look in his eyes turning to something halfway between humor and pity— “I meant it. I’ve a wife at home, and home’s not far—“

But then he sees her clothes, tattered at the edges and dirty, and the humor fades from his gaze. Christ, does she have a place to wash? A place to live? The look in her eyes is hungry, the corners of them pinched, as if she hasn’t had much to eat. He moves to dig into his sporran —

“Och— will ye be starved then, lass? I’ve money, if you must eat…”

“Are you… you’re Jamie Fraser, aren’t you?”

She knows him. This throws him, and his gaze sharpens on hers. Christ — is she the daughter of someone he knows? Or… has someone sent her?

“I am…” he says slowly, face wary as he turns to look towards the tavern. He’s not sure what he expected — perhaps there would be someone standing there, watching to see… but the door is empty. “Who asks? Have you a message for me, lass?”

And then the words she speaks nearly shatter him. “My name is Brianna. I’m your daughter. Brianna.”

He feels as if he’s going to faint, mind absurdly flashing to when he’d seen Claire for the first time in twenty years. This is similar to that, though he’d never in his entire life thought he would see his daughter in front of him. And the similarities suddenly click into place as if they’d been like that the entire time. The cat eyes, so much like his sister’s. The long red hair, the same color as his own, the same length as his mother’s… oh Christ.

It’s her.

After what feels like an hour, though it must be only a few moments, he speaks again, voice coming out in a croak as if someone’s got their hand around his throat, gripping tightly. “It is you, Brianna?”

“It’s me. Can’t you tell?”

“Aye. Aye, I can.” He thinks he might cry, his fingers skimming over the skin of her face, running through her hair… things he never thought he’d do, things he’d only dreamed of. “I hadna thought of you as grown. I saw the pictures, but still — I had ye in my mind somehow as a wee bairn always— as my babe. I never expected…”

He never thought he’d see her. Only in his dreams, he’d seen her as a wee lass, in his arms as she sleeps, snuggling close to his chest. As a little girl with long red hair, sitting on his knee as he reads her a story late into the night, in front of the fire. But here she is, standing grown in front of him, and when he takes her into his arms with tears streaming down her cheeks, he can’t help but duck his head and inhale slowly, breathing her in.

His daughter.

She struggles, trying to figure out what to call him, and his lips curl in a small smile. “You can… call me Da. If ye want to, I mean.”

“Da. Is that Gaelic?”

“No. It’s only… simple.”

Her arms around him again, and he shuts his eyes, feeling his heart thud in his chest like someone pounding on a war drum. As they stand there, the pounding slows, til it’s steady and centered.

A piece of him that had been missing for so long falls into place, and the world around them is still.

[oftheridge-a]

" This is not the land of the Cherokee, speak. Leave. Or die now. " // so hi, this is melody the mun of good ol' ghoistidh, but tumblr won't let me log out of akichita's blog so now im gonna send things.

his hands lift, showing that he carries no weapon. he’s been trying to pick up the native languages but he’s not as well versed in them as he would like -- there are so many, and the nuances of them would take years for him to grasp. in what he hopes is the same language, he speaks:

“i am only passing through. i mean you no harm.” 

[oftheridge-a]

Who’re some of your fav outlander rp blogs? For recs :)

OK SO THIS IS A HARD QUESTION because i love them all tbh. we’re a relatively small fandom in the indie rp corner, so i’m gonna give you a list of everyone that i know of and we’ll go from there. i’m not sure how many of these folks are as active anymore, but i’m gonna list them in case they come back! also if anyone reading this writes an outlander character and i’ve missed you, please tell me so i can add you!!!

claire: @logiclaire, @leighiche, @gleamingcrowns (multi), @empireburned (multi)

jamie: @oftheridge (it me), @fearcuirn, @ahopefulbunch (multi) (also, i don’t follow any jamies and tend to avoid their pages so that they don’t influence my portrayal, but these two are the ones i know of off the top of my head!)

jenny: @weescottishrabbit, @empireburned

frank/jack randall: @reticentsouls (come back we miss you bb ;_;), @otruaighe (multi)

brianna: @laidirnighean, @hallowburnt (multi), @immuto (multi)

roger: @asmeoraich (it also me, and this is a sideblog)

faith: @creideas, @xcreideamh, @usualreflections (multi)

geillis: @geillisduncn

other characters: @lairdsandladies (multi outlander muses), @seafaired (multi w/jeremy foster)

and there is a good handful of people out there who have outlander verses!

also while we’re here, i would give my left arm for some more outlander characters like a lord john grey, the mackenzie brothers, bonnie prince charlie (maRK ME), murtagh… the list goes on.

[oftheridge-a]

💌 many regrets bye

this may be perhaps the hardest thing he has to write. he does it by the edge of the cave when the dawn breaks; it allows light to filter in through the trees, giving him enough to write by. he doesn’t trust candlelight, doesn’t trust that his shaking hands won’t it the candle and knock it over, setting his final words to his daughter aflame.

my dear faith, he writes, and then has to stop. 

what is he doing? it had been so easy for him to tell jenny and ian what his plan was, that he’d decided to give himself up to the english in exchange for the reward money, and yet... the thought of telling his daughter makes his heart want to leap up into his throat, makes him want to run the miles to lallybroch, wake her from slumber, and wrap his arms around her tightly, never letting her go. his own flesh and blood... how could he do this to her?

he shakes his head vehemently, dipping the quill in the inkpot again and starting over.

my dear faith,

this is the hardest thing that i have ever had to do. at one point i thought that dealing with the grief of losing your mother would be the hardest, but i had had you with me to keep my heart whole. but this... this is something else entirely.

tomorrow i will be arrested by the english. i have instructed your aunt and uncle to tell them that their traitorous brother has come back, after hiding god-knows-where, and that they’ll turn him in for the reward money. and if all goes well, that money will be able to be used to feed lallybroch and the tenants for a while yet.

i can not even bear the thought of what you will think of me, that you would think me a coward for this, and yet... i know that i must do it. i know that i must put this family, these people, in front of myself, and while i know that you may hate me for this, it is something i must do. 

i hope that you do not resent me for this, though i know you, and you will. please try not to let it last too long, faith, as i will think of you every day in a positive light and i would hope that you would soon think of me in the same. one day, when we see each other again, i would hope that our reunion will be positive and not spent with me trying to convince you to speak to me again. 

because i do love you, more than anyone else in this life. you have been the person to keep me grounded all of these years, to keep me from losing myself. i did not know that it was possible to live with part of your heart outside of your body, in someone else, and yet... here you are. you are the person i am the most proud of, the person who i hope is the most proud of me. 

and if, when we are reunited, it is when you are lowering my body into the ground in the kirkyard -- or perhaps there is no reunion at all... please remember that it is my blood runs through your veins. i am with you, always, no matter where i am -- here, in heaven... i am with you. always.

we will see each other again. i promise.

but that is tomorrow. today, it is just past dawn, and you will come and join me for breakfast, and then we will sit and read together, and then perhaps we will go fishing. and then your aunt will send up some lunch, we will eat, and read some more, and then maybe i will plait your hair (and this time, i think i will let you plait mine). we will catch something for dinner, roast it over a fire, and lay in the mouth of the cave and watch as the stars come out. and then i will take you back to lallybroch, kiss you goodnight, hold you for what may be the last time, and give you this letter.

above all, please remember that i love you, my daughter. my wee one. my red-haired lass.

my faith.

with all of my heart,da.

[oftheridge-a]

seesbright replied to your post: enjoy jamie’s “my daUGHTER IS WEARING WHAT?!” face...

BUT DA, EVERYONE IS WEARIN’ THIS

“nO.”