#ladygoutlanderfic

[ladygloucester]

'Here of all places' updated!

Hi there!

Hope you're still around. I just got Here of all places updated on AO3. I know it's been soooo long and I apologize. I just hope that some of you still remember me and enjoy this new chapter ;)

[ladygloucester]

Cast away - Chapter 4

Previously…

She was burning. Claire touched her daughter’s forehead once again and pursed her lips. Her skin was damp and hot as a furnace, even for her. Bree was lying on her bed, tucked under every available quilt they had and still, she was shivering like a newborn kitten. Her big blue eyes, droopy and tired, were having trouble focusing on her mother, who had been sitting by her bed since last night.

The fever was spiking, despite Claire’s best efforts to keep it at bay. Her provision of herbs was running low. She had already administered a warm chamomile tea with a few drops of peppermint oil, but the trembling had only gotten worse in the early morning hours. With the sun barely peaking on the horizon, she realized that what Bree needed was willow bark and elderberry, both missing from her medicine chest since two weeks before, when she had used all her supplies trying to contain an influenza epidemic in a nearby village.

As carefully as if she was tending to a little bird with a broken wing, Claire helped Bree sat up to drink some more tea and set aside the locks of russet hair that had stuck to her wet temples. She coughed a bit at first, but after it passed, the child dutifully finished the concoction and lay back under the blankets. Her mother stared at her, clearly troubled by the course of action that was setting out in front of her. Leaving Bree was something she tried to avoid whenever she could. Of course some time it was inevitable, but she was an intelligent kid and knew how to behave when Claire was away, which usually didn’t take more than a couple of hours. But going to the village with her daughter sick and barely able to move… That was something entirely different. She felt trapped between a rock and a hard place.

She knew what needed to be done, she was only postponing it because of doubt and fear. Both feelings that had never accompanied her as frequently as she felt them now. Fear of anyone assaulting the island, of hurting her child, of stealing her away. Doubt about the way she had chosen to raise her, the life she was procuring for her, the isolation she had summited them both to. But, she reminded herself, all of her decisions had been made with one and only one premise in her heart and mind: to keep Brianna safe and under her care. Had she stayed in a village under the constant scrutiny of the English army, it was only a matter of time before someone denounced her as the wife of Red Jamie and her daughter as the spawn of a traitor. No, living amongst other people would have ensured her detention, a slow walk up to the gallows and leaving her daughter at the mercy of those who had already murdered her father was incentive enough to chose a different type of living arrangements.

Claire patted Bree’s cheek lovingly until she opened her eyes.

“Darling, I have to go to the village. You need some medicines I don’t have here, but it’ll pass so quickly I’ll be right here by the time you wake up from a short nap. Is it alright?”

Brianna blinked slowly and nodded, trying to smile. Her voice left her lips, sore, barely a whisper.

“Alright, momma. I’ll be right here.”

Claire couldn’t help but smile, recognizing Jamie’s sense of humor underlying her words. She kissed her forehead, tucked her once again and checked she had everything at hand.

“Get some sleep, my love.”

The door closed behind her, silently thanks to its well oiled hinges. She barely wasted a minute in taking her cloak, her basket and a small pouch with a few coins. There was no time for bartering her services or the fresh produce of her garden for the ingredients she needed. No, this time she’d have to resort to spending the little money she always saved for this kind of occasions.

The modest boat she used to travel to the coast was hidden away in a cave under the abbey, its entrance covered by rich vegetation and completely invisible for the untrained eye. The trip wasn’t long, but Claire knew her arms would be burning by the time the shore was within reach.

And she wasn’t wrong. With her biceps hurting while she pulled her vessel on the ground, trying to keep it as concealed as she could, she hiked through the cliffs and slopes that finally opened themselves into a easier and passable road. The closest village was less than twenty minutes away from the inlet where she usually arrived, and being as she was in quite a hurry, she covered the distance in almost half the time.

The apothecary’s door clinked as she entered, sweat making her temples bright and sticking her curls to her neck. The old man arched his eyebrows instead of his generally welcoming smile and filled a small cup with fresh water, offering it to Claire.

“There, lass. Ye look like you just escaped from the devil runnin’ with yer ankles tied up.” She smiled sheepishly and emptied the cup.

“Almost. Thank you, Mr. MacBean. Is it possible that you have some willow bark and elderberry?” He frowned and turned around to check the vases in the shelves behind him.

“Takin’ care of some influenza, is it? I dinna have any here, but I’d be damned if I dinna have a bit of each in the back. Juist let me see, Elizabeth.”

Being as she was extremely careful of who and how she was known, Claire had turned to using her middle name in order to be as low profile as she could. Before Culloden, a healer named Claire was too far known in the area and she had no desire of being associated with her past self. Nervously, she tapped her foot against the wood of the floor, listening intently to the sounds of the back of the shop.

Then, the door clinked again behind her.

[ladygloucester]

A Common Enemy - The struggle

Previously…

When happiness extends its tendrils around a life, the smallest details are filled with joy, and a sense of infallibility accompanies every little action, every breath of air. Food tastes better, the feathers of the mattress suddenly become fluffier, the morning sun carries a newborn day filled with expectation and secret smiles. A feeling of belonging settles in the soul, translating awkwardness into acknowledgment, misplacement into acceptance.

A soul takes longer to heal than a body, and its subtleties are far more difficult to reach for a caring touch or a preoccupied gaze. Claire’s body had been healed, and her soul had been gradually carried along in the process. For weeks, her back had improved until wounds turned to scars and her strength was regained, enough to start helping Jenny with the farm chores, even more as her due day approached and her belly stood in the way of most physical tasks. Her English guest proved herself to be rather useful and obliging, always around her whenever she needed assistance and even before she had the time to ask for it. Her presence was a silent companionship and it gave Jenny the chance to examine her and obtain her own conclusions, instead of guiding herself by her clearly biased brother’s.

Under her watch, Claire drew herself as a thoughtful woman. Whenever they tended to the animals, she always made sure she had everything they were going to need nearby. She didn’t mind getting her hands dirty, but she had them back to perfect cleanness the minute they returned to the house. When one of the goats gave birth, she looked after the kid, made sure the mother was unharmed and didn’t seemed squeamish around the sight of blood and fluids. She even prepared a warm herbal bath to keep the animal safe from diseases, washing her while tenderly caressing her wool. Cooking was clearly not her strong suit, but when meal time was close, she’d always be around the kitchen, trying not to hinder Mrs. Crook’s and Jenny’s work, but providing them with all the cooperation she could. Several recipes were improved by her recommendations regarding the use of herbs, and Ian’s leg hadn’t been less sore since they could remember, thanks to her infusions and poultices.

Jenny felt protective of her younger brother. She had almost lost Jamie more times that she wanted to acknowledge, and having him back home was something she wasn’t ready to give up. Rescuing Claire hadn’t brought consequences yet, but whenever she’d leave the house, she stared at the road for a second, almost waiting for the redcoats to storm in and take him away. For her, it was a matter of time before that Randall captain would come to reclaim Claire, and probably kill Jamie in the meantime. He was a Scot, and without his laird’s permission, it would be hard for the English to arrest him without proof. But Claire wasn’t, and as comfortably as she had fallen into routine in the past weeks, she would always be an outlander. A sassenach, as she had heard her brother called her, at the mercy of the British authorities.

It didn’t took long for Jamie to realize how much he had missed being home. Helping Ian with the farm chores, cutting wood for the fireplaces, bringing water from the well for the baths and the kitchen, tending to the horses and looking into the ledgers hadn’t been his tasks for quite some time, and getting back into the pace of the manor felt like stepping into an old, worn leather boot. Some of the tenants got word of his arrival, and timidly began to visit him, carrying small presents and a welcoming smile. The young laird hadn’t been to Lallybroch for too long, and his presence was appreciated by all his people.

Jamie received them with worry for the first days, but one evening, while they were accommodating the horses for the night, his brother-in-law reassured him when he vocalized his fears.

“Not a single man in the estate wad dare to sell ye, Jamie,” he patted his back before scattering some hay for the horses. “Ye’re safe here. Both of ye,” Ian pointed when his words were met by a sideways look.

“Mmmphm.”

“Oniewey, Jamie… Dinna ye think ’tis time ye settle th—”

“Ach, Claire! Good to see ye…” Jamie interrupted him sharply, his eyes piercing Ian’s for a second before driving them back to her.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Claire smiled a bit bewildered at the scene. “Jenny sent me for you, Ian. She says the water pump is stuck again and something about you not having really fixed it the last time… And then a lot of, well… curse”, she mouthed.

Ian grimaced and left the hayfork against the wooden wall of the stables before grabbing the handle of the cane attached to his wood leg.

“Please, if I dinna make it, tell my bairn ‘bout me,” he joked before limping out of their sight.

Claire couldn’t help but chuckle. Jamie took the chance to stare at her, soaking in her sight. Her cheeks were pinker, always brushed by some curl that had escaped her bun. Vigor had returned to her body and the weakness that had pestered her during the first days seemed to be long forgotten. Her eyes darted back to him and it was his time to blush, caught in the act of admiring her silently. She hesitated for a second, before walking up to him, her hands inside of her apron looking for something. Jamie’s stance tensed, sensitive to her proximity, fighting the urge to hold her in his arms and kiss her to oblivion. Something he hadn’t done since the night she recognized him again and something he had been craving since the second their lips parted that very night.

In the sweet, cold air fed by the animals, Claire sighed and produce a small piece of bread, offering it to Jamie. He furrowed his brow and looked at her questioningly.

“This… Well, Mrs. Crook has been helping me this afternoon with my cooking. I made my first bannocks, thought you might want to try them,” she explained, unconfident.

Jamie smiled slowly and took the bannock, biting into it wolfishly.

“Good, I’m star—”

“Wait!”

She tried to warn him, but it was already too late. Jamie’s smile faltered when he tried to champ it, only to find his mouth filled by a monstrous mass of bland raw flour, too hard to swallow without chewing it and too rubbery to try to unstick it of his teeth. Her face drop, seeing him struggling to deal with her culinary creation.

“I knew it… I thought I had the proportions wrong, but—”

“Dinna fash, Sassenach, this—“ Jamie smiled again and with all the strength he had and a silent prayer not to choke, he swallowed hardly part of it. “’Tis the best bannock I’ve ever had.“ He swallowed the rest of it. “Truly.”

Jamie nodded reassuringly and looked around. There was a small bucket with water, placed there to calm the thirst after working at the stables. He hollowed his hands and grabbed some water to drink, passing the last traces of dough and sighing when his mouth felt clean again.

“Long day, ye ken.“

They stared at each other for a moment before laughter erupted from both of them.

“Oh my… Jamie, I’m so sorry,” she apologized with tears of joy in her eyes, unable to stop guffawing.

“’Tis fine, Sassenach, I’ll juist stay away from bannocks during dinner…”

The distance between them had been gradually disappearing until they were facing each other. Hearty laughs faded, and they stared again into each other’s eyes. Amber brown meeting pale turquoise, losing in the depths that peered into them. His hand dabbled into her hair, placing a lost lock behind her ear and caressing the side of her cheek in the meantime. She sighed at the touch, and her eyes dropped to his lips for a brief moment, before turning them back. This almost imperceptible invitation didn’t pass unnoticed to Jamie, whose other hand tentative looked for Claire’s. When they fingers met with the last light of the dying day, they intertwined in silence, as if they were so used to it that there was no other possible movement. Taking one step closer, their bodies almost met completely, she tilting her head upwards to be able to hold his gaze. His fingers traveled to her nape, fingertips caressing the gap between the muscles, causing her spine to shiver in pleasure.

Their breaths mixed in the closeness, a space slowly erased when Jamie’s forehead rested against hers, his nose caressing hers tenderly. He closed his eyes, fearful of what they could show. The depth of the desire he felt for Claire, the need she woke in his body, the utter craving he felt whenever she was close to him, it all lived and throbbed in his sight. Depriving himself of it only increased his other senses. The smell of her skin, a mix of primrose and the scents of the kitchen. The touch of her palm, soft, welcoming, warm. Knowing her lips were only an inch away from his made his heart flutter in his chest, but still, a fight between what he wanted and what he was afraid she would feel took place in his mind. What if his touch reminded her of Randall's? What if she felt dishonored? What if…

That trail of thought got lost the moment her other hand reached up to his curls, warily at first, then more certain. Her fingers weaved and caressed his hair, mirroring what he had just done a minute earlier. A sigh of content abandoned his lips at the contact, and he made his decision. The slight separation between their mouths began to close, her hand tightening her grip on his curls, his setting calmly on the back of her neck.

“'Tis dinner time!!”

Jenny’s thundering voice broke the spell and startled them. Their eyes snapped open and Claire took one step backwards, breaking the connection between their hands and longingly staring at him before turning away and hurry out of the stables.

Ifrinn an Diabhuil…

When Jamie entered the house, Jenny’s voice welcomed him from the kitchen, her tone lecturing as usual.

“Ye better no’ get that horse aidle on my carpets if ye dinna want to clean it yersel, brither.”

He looked at his boots and recoiled to the entrance, scrubbing their soles against doormat, before resuming his way. The house smelled of stew and herbs, and he followed the aromatic trail to the kitchen where Mrs. Crook and his sister were busy finishing the meal. Jamie surveyed the place and grabbed a piece of cheese from the pantry, stuffing his mouth with it before making room for some bread to accompany it. Jenny looked at him sideways without stopping her tasks and arched an eyebrow.

“Ye look as hungry as ye used to be when ye were thirteen. I remember ye comin’ into the kitchen and eatin’ oniething edible.” Jamie smiled with his mouth full and shrugged.

“I’m still a lad, ye ken… I’ve to grow.”

“What ye’ve to grow is the guts to propose to the lass,” she said nonchalantly while his brother’s face lost all color. “She canna stay wi’ us for the rest o’ her life unwedded—”

Her voice got quieted by Jamie choking on the bread, shooting daggers at his sister while his face turned from pale to red. Mrs. Crook handed him some water while keeping at her business and Jamie chugged it at once, trying to regain his breath while Jenny laughed under hers.

“If I’ve to see ye lookin’ at her wi’ those puppy eyes agin I’ll deliver yer niece on the spot.“

Jamie left the kitchen still trying not to choke and leaned against the banister. From there, his eyes wandered into the dining room, where Claire was alone getting the table ready. Watching her unaware of his gaze brought memories from that first morning she had adventured into the woods, looking for some herbs to help him heal his wounded leg. The fluency of her movements, the care she used to settle every dish, every glass, the attention to detail she exhibited that paid out in the beautifully arranged table. Of course he could see himself married to that woman. He’d be lying to his very soul if he denied it. But he was aware of what a poor choice of a husband he was. Who would marry a man with the executioner’s noose hanging over his head? He had been accustomed to the idea over time, but he resisted the thought of bringing a loved one into a such a life. His days in Lallybroch were counted, and then what? Sleeping out in the open? Living of what the land could provide? Jamie clenched his jaw. No, as much as he wanted her, he wouldn’t condemn her into an exiled life.

His brother-in-law passed by him on his way to the dining room and stopped when he saw his grim expression. Following the direction of his gaze before Jamie looked at him, Ian discovered his trail of thought without much effort.

“Jenny talked to ye, aye?” He whispered confidentially and leaned against the banister himself. Jamie nodded curtly and lowered his eyes. “She’s a Fraser, that’s for sure. I tald her to leave ye be, but ye ken her.”

Jamie snorted and both of them went silent when Claire left the dining room on her way to the kitchen, looking at them puzzled for a second.

“Aye, I ken her.“

Ian sighed and patted his own thigh, massaging the tired muscle.

“Ye Frasers are stubborn like mules, but that disna make ye less right. I dinna ken what’s stoppin’ ye from talkin’ to the lass. But she’s still here.”

“That disna—”

“She’s. Still. Here,” Ian pointed staring directly into Jamie’s eyes, not letting him finish the sentence. He grabbed his shoulders and shook them gently, trying to instill some reasoning into him. “Clearly there’s something makin’ her stay.”

But when Jamie’s blue sight focused back on him, the expression of his face talked more than the words he couldn’t say. Ian’s hands dropped slowly back into his lap.

“Ye think ye winna be a braw guidman for her, is it?” His eyes watered suddenly and the tension of his jaw became more visible. “Ach, brither… Ye’re daft if ye dinna see how different she thinks.” Ian smiled, patted his shoulder and walked wearily into the dinning room, followed by Jenny and Claire carrying the trays and tureens.

Jamie stood there, shocked by Ian’s words. Was he really that blind? Of course he knew Claire was partial to him. That much he had fathomed. But one thing was stealing a kiss in the middle of the night and a very different one wanting to get married to that person. He stood from the banister as Claire was placing the tray on the table, and she looked over her shoulder straight into him, smiling so radiantly he felt his heart skipping a beat.

Ye bawheid... She must think ye’re slow.

With a new resolution in mind, he squared his shoulders and strode in the room, sitting at the head of the table. They served the food, the smells impregnating the air and making their stomachs groan after a long day working. In peaceful silence, the four of them started to eat. Unaware of the kick fight that was taking place under the table between the two siblings, Claire nipped her soup wondering about the dull thuds that sprinkled the otherwise quiet evening. Jenny and Jamie looked askance at each other, and suddenly, Jenny dropped the spoon on her plate.

“Tell me Claire, noo that yer enga—”

“Claire, would ye mind if we spoke later?” Jamie cut his sister on her tracks. “In private?”

She looked at both of them, bewildered by the sudden exchange and the strange looks they were exchanging. Actually, Jamie’s words seemed to be more directed to his sister than to her, and if he hadn’t specified her name out loud, she would’ve thought he was talking to Jenny. Who, by then, looked like the cat that ate the cream.

“Of course, Jamie. Is it your leg? Is it bothering you?“ Claire asked with worry clouding her brow.

“No, dinna fash, Sassenach. I’m juist fine.”

When they finished dinner, in the tensest atmosphere Claire remembered since she had arrived to Lallybroch, Jenny took care of clearing the table and excused Claire with a nod and a knowing smile.

Jamie was already waiting for her outside. When Claire stepped beside him, he took his wool cape and wrapped it around her carefully. It had the Fraser colors, and that particular Fraser’s smell. She thanked silently for the warmth it provided, when Jamie unexpectedly grabbed her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers before starting to walk.

The moon was almost full, and even though the night was complete, its silver light was enough for them to see where the surroundings. The walls of Lallybroch were covered in an ethereal glow, and the green pastures that spread as far as the sight reached had turned to an argent hue. The only noise that reverberated in the silence was the clump of their feet against the grass and the tuneful crickets that sang like a choir of tiny percussionists.

After a few minutes walking, they seemed to reach their destination. An ancient, wide oak that spread its branches over the stream nearby the estate crowned over them. Sighing deeply, like the warrior who faces his hardest battle, the one before the sweetest victory, he turned to face Claire, grabbing her other hand in the process. She was used to his tenderness, to him cherishing her in the most minuscule things. But his hold then was firm, steady, resolute.

“When we were juist bairns, my older brother Willie died. He was supposed to become laird of Lallybroch when he came o’ age. Instead, he died of smallpox and my parents grieved, deeply. I always looked up to him. Sawney, he used to call me,” his mouth crooked a smile. “One day we were here fishing. I wisna older than six and he was eleven, but I remember his words as if he had juist said them. Listen to yer heart, he said. It’s smarter than that thick heid ye’ve.”

Claire controlled the urge to laugh at the second part of the sentence, but a whimsical smile crept up to her lips.

“I think I’ve listened to my heid longer than I should've. Because my heart knows the truth. And it’s screaming it out loud.” His grip tightened, his thumbs caressing the back of her hands. “I love ye, Claire. And I’d be honored to call you my wife, every day, for the rest of my life.”

[ladygloucester]

Cast away - Chapter 1

Prologue

Claire tucked her daughter tightly under the blankets and set aside a rebel auburn lock from her forehead. The small bedroom had taken some work to become habitable. Together they had knitted thick quilts that now covered the cold, dampen stone walls in a colorful disarray of wool patches, and the atmosphere was pleasantly warm thanks to the hearth they had managed to revive after a much needed clean up. It wasn’t the best place to raise a seven year old girl, but it was the safest. 

The island was only a few miles from the coast, and they were able to visit the nearby villages when they needed to trade their vegetables and herbs for other commodities. But keeping to themselves was the best way to stay away from trouble. The purges had just begun to weaken, and there had been a couple of close calls in the past few years where she had almost been discovered as the wife of Red Jamie, a traitor to the Crown and a witch. With Cranesmuir always fresh in the back of her mind, Claire wasn’t willing to let them catch her. That pyre wasn’t going to burn under her feet.

Brianna smiled yawning and snuggled comfortably. Her piercing blue eyes were still awake, nevertheless, and she stared playfully back at her mother.

“Now,” she said after kissing her brow, “sleep well, my love.”

“Wait!” Claire stopped by the bed and looked at her, arching an eyebrow. “Won’t you tell me a story tonight?” She sat back on the bed an Brianna’s smile became wider.

“Which one you want?“

“The one about Seamus the knight and his white lady!“

“Again?”

“Please?”

Claire swallowed the knot in her throat. The same that always appeared whenever her daughter asked her to tell her that story. Wrapping Brianna up in the snug quilt, her eyes wondered around the room.

Once upon a time, there was a White Lady that roamed the forests surrounding Castle Leoch, far away in the North. The Castle was home to the finest and bravest knights in the realm, the most fierce and noble. The White Lady had pledged herself to protect them whenever she could. When they parted to battle, she followed them and tended to their wounds while they were asleep. When they were too hurt and their pain escaped her skills, she would soothe their suffering and help them remember their homes, their wives, their childhoods to send their minds into a more peaceful place where they could finally erase their anguish. The White Lady always worked under the cover of the night, as she knew villagers could be mean and ignorant, and not able to understand her powers.

But one night, as she was fixing a young soldier’s shoulder, he opened his eyes and stared back at hers. Not knowing what to do, she run away as fast as she could, but his eyes had spoken to her in a way nobody had ever done. She couldn’t forget them. And the same happened to the young knight. The nights passed and he stood awake, waiting for her to return. But the White Lady was too afraid of what could happen if she did, and she stayed away for weeks, until one night, she heard the call of his wounds again. He had been hit and the soft lines of his face were swollen and bloody. She took care of them with her potions and herbs, but as she was about to leave, he opened his eyes again and grabbed her hand.

“Ye need not be scairt of me. Nor anyone else here, so long as I’m with ye.”

And she decided to stay. Every night, she would visit him and they would walk together. He’d tell her about his life and adventures, and she’d listen with careful joy in her heart, for the White Lady never thought she could be in love, and that warm feeling in her chest resonated in a way she had never felt before. He asked her to marry her, and she said yes, even though human laws meant little to her, as she belonged to a different time, a different era. There weren’t enough words to describe how they felt for each other.

But one night, when she went to the Castle to meet him, he wasn’t there. She looked around, trying to find him, only to encounter an angry mob of villagers, with torches and forks, wanting to capture her. She tried to escape, but they were too many and she fell prisoner of their ignorance and disgrace.

Days and nights went by without a word from the young Seamus. That midnight, the villagers pulled her out of the dungeon they kept her in, and took her to a pyre. The White Lady tried to resist and invoked all her powers to vanish in the thin air and disappear, but ultimately to no avail. Because when people can’t understand something, they feel threatened by it. And instead of thanking her for her help, they called her a witch, and a Devil’s lover.

They tied her to the post, and just as she was about to be burned, Seamus marched in with his horse, a splendid white stallion that almost trampled every single villager in the town.

“I swore an oath before the altar of God to protect this woman. And if you’re tellin’ me that ye consider your own authority to be greater than that of the Almighty, then I must inform ye that I’m not of that opinion, myself.”

The villagers were terrified of that powerful image, as they knew of the bravery of that knight. Seamus untied his White Lady and helped her on the horse, and they rode into the horizon together.

“Momma.”

“Now, off with you already.”

“Wait!”

“Brianna—”

“What happened after?” Claire stared into her deep blue eyes, the very same she had inherited from her father, and another tiny crack was added to her already broken heart.

“What do you mean?” She whispered, emotions barely kept in place.

“I mean, what happened after they rode into the horizon? Were they happy?”

Claire’s eyes welled up and she stood up, turning around to hide her face from her daughter as her soul was shattered by her words. After almost eight years, she knew some wounds were still tender, but she had no idea how painful they could bleed again.

“Yes my love, they were happy. They were very happy together.”

“Why are you sad then?” Brianna sat up on her bed and leaned forward to grab her mother’s hand, making her face her again. Claire complied after wiping away her tears, and smiled with all she had in her.

“Because it’s a beautiful story, Brianna. And when you tell a beautiful story, you like to think they have a happy ending, even beyond its last word.”

“I like young Seamus very much. He’s very noble,” she pointed as she let her mother tucked her back in.

“He was indeed.“

“I hope I’ll be able to meet him one day, do you think I will?”

Claire’s eyes held her limpid gaze as she caressed her soft coppery curls.

“He’s not from this time, my love. He’s long gone.”

Next…

[ladygloucester]

Scáthach - Chapter 1

Well guys, I think this is probably my most personal work ever. I know it will sound quite outlandish (ha.) and even feel Claire and Jamie out of character. One thing I love about fanfic writing is that I feel so comfortable with these characters that I feel like I can bend them in ways I wouldn’t be able to do with others I created from scratch. So apologies if this is too far from what you like to see.

Watch out for language, triggers and all that stuff.

Prologue

I won’t go all David Copperfield on you. I consider you smart enough to recognize that if I’m here, talking to you, I might as well have been born in order to do so. What a presumptuous prick, that David. Anyway. Even though I’ve gone through basically the same stages of life as any other human being, I can’t say that I consider myself so. Not fully, at least. I’m what we call a Scáthach. Yeah, pretty much as the celtic deity, we’re that very original. Calling myself a warrior woman in the middle of the XXI century will sound… well, probably as presumptuous as our friend David. But it’s the truth. I am a warrior indeed, one that fights shit you wouldn’t even imagine before I told you so.

I won’t bother you with the same boring pest I had to deal with when they first approached me. You’ll thank me for that later. But the thing is, a Scáthach is pretty much what whoever that has ever played a video game, read a fantasy novel or watched a tv show would call a demon hunter. Well, demon falls actually a bit short. There are all kinds of disgusting beings, if you may call them so, in the Dubnos, but for anyone that’s not familiar with the hierarchies and classifications of the The Deep, we can stick with that. Demon.

I can hear you rolling your eyes so hard at me. I understand it. I used to think this was all bullshit. But well, I’ve had enough of my share of experiences  —and whisky— to quiet my skepticism. But I’ll help you swallow this rather thick pill. Have you ever realized your friend, your coworker, even your neighbor is suddenly behaving completely out of character? Have you heard of those people that change their lives in the blink of an eye, turning it upside down and destroying themselves in the process? Have you even felt it? That unforeseen sting of desperation in the bottom of your heart when everything seems to be going perfectly well. That fit of lust that drives you into the arms of another person while your partner is happily waiting for you at home. That outburst of anger that pushes your feet on the gas pedal, terrorizing every other driver in the highway.

I thought so.

Science tries to give it an explanation. A man suddenly murders his entire family while his friends can’t understand how the loveliest of fathers would stab the love of his life to death. Psychiatrists say he had an underlying disorder. One nobody ever noticed. Not a single action in his behavior ever betrayed it. And yet, we all swallow it down, nod and thank God and pray that science will save us all. Put a tag on our diseases and magically cure them.

If only it was possible. I wouldn’t be here.

That is the doing of a demon, clever enough to make us believe that our brains would do that to ourselves, defying millions of years of evolution and self-preserving instincts. They find a way to sneak up on us and infect us. Of course there are people depressed. Angry people. People obsessed with others. Demons are not the cause of every single evil in the world, illogical as it may sound. But those unexpected explosions that ultimately breaks the person that feels them, of those they are responsible. Don’t fool yourself.

So I take care of them. That’s what I do for a living. Well, not out in the open, that’s for sure. In “real life” I volunteer at The Royal London Hospital. It’s most convenient to have access to quick meds and professionals when you work in a field like mine. But not for me, I… well, my body behaves slightly differently. Which is an advantage, you’ll see. Whenever I’m free and I have the time, I drop by the hospital and take a quick look to see if they need a hand. They once tried to put me on a schedule. It took them a couple of days to realize it wasn’t going to work, so since I’m nice and useful, they usually let me do my thing without making much of a fuss.

So far, I’ve told you about (a bit of) my job, my other job and what I am. But I haven’t told you my name yet.

I’m Claire. 

And I’m alone.

Not that I care. I mean, it would be nice to have someone to have a Sunday lunch with, but it won’t keep me awake at night. Not most of the nights, at least. I’ve never been one to have many friends. Mainly because my line of work is an unpredictable one. People use to get tired of you when you cancel dates and plans more often than you make it.

Ok, now wait a second… I’m painting a fairly sociopathic image of myself. I may not win Miss Congeniality this year, but I’m not a bad person. Well, I wouldn’t say that I qualify as a person either, but you get what I mean. I do this to help others that can’t help themselves. So I think that should give me a few points.

Are we clear then? I slay demons, people live to see another day and I go home all by myself. Again, most of the nights.

The day it all changed I was about to leave the hospital after a short shift helping around, wheeling some elderly patients around and trying to crack them up with my stupid jokes. I loved to hear them laugh with their shot voices, always reprimanding me for being too crude. I know it’s a weird hobby, getting a chuckle out of those old crocks, but I guess it’s one of the quirks of being an orphan, unable to joke around with your own folks. Yay me. When my cellphone beeped, I snuck it out of my black jeans and checked it.

Frank. Shit.

“Tell me.”

“Hi Claire, how’s your—”

“Cut the crap. What is it?“ I demanded as I walked into a nearby alley. The sun was already setting and I knew I’d be in need of a dark, secluded place to open the Membrane sooner rather than later. Oh, wait. The Membrane, haven’t told you about that yet, have I? Well, just let me get through with this asshole.

“Ok,” the voice came through the speaker colder and snarky. “There’s a situation. You need to cross and take care of a deamhan that has found an weak spot in the Membrane. There’s a human involve, but don’t care about it. We’re already counting him as a hero.”

A hero. Yeah, they were hypocritical enough to give that name to the humans that died as a result of an unexpected encounter with a deamhan. Sometimes we were late and there was nothing we could do. Other times, fewer, I got orders to leave them be. Very ethical.

“Ok, show me.”

I hung up and closed my eyes. The image began to solidify in the back of my mind, slowly adding detail, color, texture, even smell. Well, stink. Even a foul taste flooded my mouth. I got it. Let me tell you about the Membrane, quick and dirty. In order to cross to the Dubnos, The Deep, if you prefer, you don’t have to pay the boatman to sail through the Styx lagoon. Though it would be pretty cool. No, between our two worlds there is a separation, a physical barrier that only a few of us can cross. The Membrane, that’s it. It works like an osmosis process. There’s part of you that stays back in the world of the living, and another that’s able to pass through. The Dubnos is restricted to the demons. So… yeah, you guessed right. I’m part demon myself. That’s why I can cross the Membrane back and forth, and live in both sides of it. Hope I didn’t freak you out. I don’t have scales or a pointy tale or bug eyes. Well, those I only have them in the Dubnos. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to see shit there. But they usually fade after a while once I’ve come back. Don’t look at me that way, I’m sure you’ve ended a few nights out looking far worse.

With the deamhan crystal clear in my mind, I opened the Membrane. I usually can open it anywhere. I just need it to be a dark place, without sunlight directly on it, and without prying eyes around, if only not to scare them to death. So I did it once again. I extended my hand with my fingers firmly aligned, acting like a blade able to cut the viscid film. It slowly pried open, parting like a primeval womb not giving pass to life, but rather absorbing it into its depths. I was already accustomed to the transition, but it always felt like losing a part of you that you were never positive you’d be able to gain back.

The first thing that hits you when you enter the Dubnos is the smell. There’s nothing that can compare to it. Like a mixture of ammonia and really, really rotten eggs. Only stinkier. I could only perceive it in the back of my nose. Once I cross the Membrane, most of my human senses are left behind and… well, demons aren’t particularly squeamish about stenches. Their sense of smell works differently, like a hound’s, but only sensitive to selective traces. I had the odor of that deamhan Frank had sent me still vivid in my nostrils. I sniffed around, trying to pick a scent. The path became distinct in a few seconds, my eyes able to discern it as if it was marked with bread crumbs. An eerie synesthesia, but definitely a useful one.

Even though it works as some sort of shadow of the reality, a muffled copy of the real world,  time and space work a little differently in The Deep. Demons don’t have a natural sense of any of them, since they’re maleable, bendable. The same rules we have don’t apply there. So reaching the coast took me less than getting to the tube from the hospital. I’m a bit faster here as well, so by the time I could feel the power of the waves crashing against the jagged cliffs, I slowed down and crouched. There it was.

A thread, thinner than the thousandth part of a hair, came out of an amorphous blob of flesh, almost transparent, like muddy water. I frowned. If I recalled correctly, the human was already far gone. But the the opposite end of that thread was attached to a man. I could distinguish his form, a nebulous, barely distinctive shape on top of precipice. The deamhan was having a rough time pulling form its end. Usually once they were able to tie it to a person, the effect was instant. Most of the times there wasn’t even a struggle. But this wasn’t one of those. He was fighting. Even with his bare foot sticking out of the rock into the void of an indomitable sea, he was still holding on for dear life.

I could wait. You see, I could let the deamhan do its thing and let that poor bastard fall to his death. But remember when I told you that sometimes I get orders to leave them to their own devices? Well. I’m a shitty minion.

The fight was over before it began. By the time the demon became aware of my presence, I had already inserted my left arm all the way into its body, while I was tangling the thread around my right in order to withdraw it. The beast started to convulse, I clenched my teeth and looked away. It was stronger than I had foreseen. Painfully slowly, it initiated the process of swallowing my arm. I could feel its juices pouring on my skin, burning it. I pulled back but it was too far stuck. The thread broke. It was a shit show. I was there, a human about to kill himself and I, to be eaten and digested.

I closed my eyes. If I wanted it to work, I had to work quickly. With my right arm free, at least I was able to use it. The thread was surrounding it, hurting like acid on an open wound. I placed my palm against the slimy surface of the deamhan while I grabbed its insides with my other hand, and pulled. I pulled so hard I felt the muscles of my back strain and break. The energy started to condensate on the tips of my fingers. I hadn’t had to use it in quite sometime, so it took me longer than I expected. But by the time the bastard realized what was happening, it was a smoking spot on the floor.

I fell backwards, out of breath. Or I’d be if only I breathed there. Took me a second to remember the human. I looked at where he had been a second before, but he wasn’t there. He was already falling.

Fuck.

There was no time to think. I could see his shape plunging through the air, near the hair-raisingly sharp rocks of the cliff. Time slowed down to a tortuously lethargic cadence, enough for me to leap forward as fast as I could —which is, to be honest, faster than your eye could see—, as I opened the Membrane and pushed myself through. It slowed me down, but I had got enough momentum, more than enough to counter gravity. With the agonic rush I completely miscalculated the strength I was going to impact on his body with. I felt his shoulder pop out of the socket and his mouth crash against my (rather thick) head as I catapulted us over the cliff. I managed to protect him from further damage as we landed by, well, basically using my own body as an airbed. Not the best sensation, it crossed my mind, as I became aware of the size of the man. He lay on top of me, a dead weight that almost kept me from breathing properly, a few seconds before I crawled from underneath and turned him over on his back. My arms were still burned. In the Dubnos I was able to heal rather quickly, but once I crossed the Membrane back, my human body would became a burden. I still healed at an abnormal pace, but it was much more painful.

I could feel the ligaments of my jaw tightening with the pain, but I had no more time to waste. I straddled his waist, tore his shirt open and he, opportunistic as hell, decided it was the best time to come back from the dead. Or the unconscious. Whatever. So picture this: luckily, last thing he’ll probably remember is jumping off a cliff. Now he regains consciousness and a woman with black scleras and burnt arms is ripping his clothes off. If I’m the slightest bit less lucky, he’ll remember me, emerging from thin air, looking like I’m flying —and damn, I wish I could but that’s actually something I’m completely unable to do— and tackling him into safety. And ripping his clothes off, no, there’s no way to elude that.

“A Dhia…”

He tried to squirm out of my grasp with the arm he was still able to move, but I pushed him hard against the soft grass.

“Quiet,” I hissed while I gave him my most terrifying look. Which then was, well, actually the only look I had. He froze, trying to puzzle his memories, to instill some kind of reasoning into them, fighting the unlikeliness of it all. I arched an eyebrow, staring at him, waiting till he finally made up his mind provisionally. He had felt my strength. He knew, somewhere deep inside, he was at my mercy. Then, his eyes left mine for a second only to discover the wounded skin of my arms.

“Mary, Michael and Bride, your arms are burnt!”

“I. Said. Quiet.”

The fight behind his eyes began again for a few seconds, but he finally stopped wriggling and I was able to inspect his chest. Remember what I told you about the demons? About how they corrupt human beings? Well. that was precisely what that this human had been subjected to. Good thing I still had my bug eyes. I wouldn’t win a beauty contest, but it made it easier for me to find the corruption inside a body. I already suspected where it was. Despair was usually inserted near the heart. I placed my hand on his left pectoral and focused. This one was deep. I began pulling and his face became shadowed by the pain. It’s not the most pleasant process, but I’ve always found humans to be quite receptive to it. As if they knew, somehow, that the pain they feeling is a curative one. Gradually, a conical shape, with a dirty forest green shade, emerged from the flesh.

I let myself sat on the soft grass and sighed, looking at it. My human side felt the call of it, the words in the back of my mind, the pain that would conquer me if I let it. The waving surface was almost mesmerizing. I fell on my back and indulged in the cool feeling of the pasture and the first drops of rain. I heard him move, sitting up and closing his shirt. I could smell the blood from his broken lip. That could be a problem and staying there would only make it worse.

“Who are you?” He whispered, probably not sure if he had dreamt the whole thing, lost his mind or was having the worst trip in history.

I stood up as the rain began to pour down, appreciative of the coolness it impressed on my burns.

“You’ll be just fine. Don’t ever come back here. If you go south you’ll find a small train station if you want to go to the City. There won’t be enough light to go anywhere else.”

I rubbed my hands against my jeans and shrugged, not knowing what else to say. He wasn’t moving and kept staring at me like he was seeing a ghost. Which wasn’t too far from the truth, so who could blame him.

“Well, I—”

“Wait.” He grabbed my wrist and raised my arm, inspecting my clearly healing wounds.

“Do you really want to freak yourself out any more?”

He looked me with those slanted, incredibly blue eyes, as I realized for the first time, and let go of my wrist.

“What’s that… thing you pulled from my body?”

It was my time to freak out.

“You can see this?” I showed him the green cone and raised my eyebrows in absolute astonishment. He nodded, frowning.

“Why?”

“You aren’t supposed to be able to see a Fang. Nobody can.”

“Well, not nobody,” he pointed with indisputable common sense.

I was gaping like a fish out of water. I’ve seen plenty of terrifying, upsetting, disgusting, crippling stuff. Enough to make me almost immune to surprise. But this caught me perfectly out of balance. My eyes travelled from the Fang to his eyes, and I could tell he was waiting for an explanation. Probably more than one. Then, my gaze felt unavoidably attracted to the cut on his lip. My heart was already racing, and I didn’t know how much I could restrain myself.

“This— Remember what you felt when you jumped off?” A semblance of shame covered his features and nodded. “This is it. It wasn’t you. This made you jump.“

“But…”

“I have to go.“

“Wait!” He grabbed my wrist again but I pulled violently as soon as our skins made contact.

“Just wipe that fucking blood of your face!” I snapped, and it was his time to be caught off guard. I started pacing around, nervously. “I can’t stay. I can’t help you anymore. Go on, live your life and all that shit.“

And I vanished.

[ladygloucester]

A Common Enemy - The healing

Previously…

He loved that place. It had been his favorite place since he was a child. Whenever he had a fight with his siblings or was scolded by his parents, he would run to that quiet bank and let the sound of the stream take his worries away, under a centenary oak. But now there was no solace to be found. He stared at the moon, reflected upon the dark current, and threw a pebble over the surface.

All for  naethin'.

Assaulting Fort William was a fool’s errand. Who, in their right mind, would risk their lives to enter a British fortress only to escape with an English woman about to marry an officer. At first he thought only Murtagh and him were crazy enough to attempt such a thing, but when his godfather talked to Angus and Rupert, both of them decided to join. Claire had tended to both of them while she was acting as Castle Leoch’s healer and even before, while traveling their way back from the ambush, and a feeling of debt pushed them to try and save her. That, and knowing she had tried to save them from the gallows.

The gang had left the MacKenzie quarters in the middle of the night. Jamie’s shoulder was still sore and his fever, though lower, kept his head light and dizzy whenever he moved abruptly. Galloping to Fort William had proven not to be the best treatment for a bullet wound, but determination overcame pain and by the time they arrived at the garrison, the only fire he felt was the one caused by his desire to steal Claire from Randall’s claws.

The plan was simple. Rupert and Angus had kept some redcoats uniforms they had stolen in rowdy circumstances and not willing to find anymore about it, Jamie had accepted Murtagh’s idea: they would infiltrate the fortress dressed as English soldiers. When Jamie looked at his kinsmen in uniform, he would have laughed if the situation was the slightest bit lighter. It would have been easier to make a donkey look like a swan than to transform four broad highlanders into soldiers of the Crown. Jamie didn’t look any better. His red curls stuck out in any situation, even though he pulled the tricorn on almost to his eyebrows, trying to hide them. The coat was tight and he felt like the seams would tear the minute he moved his shoulders. If any of the guards took a second look at them, they would be in trouble.

The four highlanders knew Fort William pretty well. All of them had been part of Jamie’s escape from the fortress after the second flogging, and if memory served correctly, there was an opening in the back of the garrison, used mainly to throw away waste and garbage near the river. Armed only with their daggers, since a Scottish broad sword would draw an English eye from a mile away, they descended into the valley. Mud and spoilage stuck to their boots and an awful smell kidnapped their noses.

“It stinks worse than Sweaty Netty’s oxter,” Rupert muttered.

The opening was still there and, by the look of the surroundings, it was still used for the same purpose. Even Jamie, the tallest of the group, couldn’t reach the borders with his hand. Over ten feet separated the men from the access to the fortress. Looking at each other, they silently decided to grab Angus without another word and propel him up. Once he reached the opening, he secured a rope and helped them climb up. Jamie’s wound was burning and by the time he joined the others, he could feel the warmth of blood slipping on his back. He eluded Murtagh’s knowing gaze and lead the group through the corridors.

They didn’t know where Claire was. Clearly Randall wouldn’t have thrown her into the common cells. No, he must have kept her some place where he could access without raising any eyebrows. Even a captain of His Majesty’s Army would have to answer a few questions as to why he was keeping her fiancée locked away in a rotting cell. Jamie grunted at the very thought. Probably some storage room could do it, but again, it could raise suspicions to see him wander around where only maids and simple soldiers would go. That only left a possibility.

The hour was late and the garrison was cloaked with the peace that usually accompanies dreams. They dodged a few couples of drowsy soldiers on their way to the officer’s chambers, trying to look as English as they could. Moving more like shadows than the warriors they were, once they reached the wing that was reserved to the captain and other commanders, it was time to decide which door they should try. They split throughout the corridor in silence, trying to look for a clue that would indicate where Claire could be. Jaime desperately searched around and stuck his ear to the doors. Nothing more than snoring and other breathing sounds. Too masculine to come from her. Murtagh’s hand reached his arm quietly to attract his attention and made a gesture with his head towards one of the doors by the end of the hall.

Followed by his men, Jamie stared at it. It look like the rest of them, but a small padlock hung opened from the knob. He could feel the blood escaping to his limbs, ready for battle. One last look at his godfather, that nodded once curtly, Jamie kicked the door restraining a scream that would draw even more curious eyes than the thud of the wood under his foot.

Jamie swallowed hard when the memory came back to his senses, as if he was living it again, trapped in that nightmare of a night. The sight of Claire strapped to the wall, that scum of a man getting ready to rape her, the blood that covered her back when he turned around to face them… He was unable to control his anger. While Murtagh run to free Claire, Jamie’s fist didn’t take too long before getting acquainted to Randall’s nose. The crack of the bone revolted and comforted him at the same time, and before he had the chance to fall to the floor, Jamie tackled him and crushed him under his weight. There, the English captain had no power at all. He tried to defend himself and Jamie took a couple of punches. At least he thought he must have taken them, when he saw his face in the mirror a couple of days later. In the heat of the moment the pain was nonexistent. Only the feeling of Randall’s face breaking under his fists. That’s all that mattered, even when Rupert and Angus had to use all their strength to restrain him from killing the thug.

That moment he would never forget. Claire, limp in Murtagh’s arms while he untied her wrists, looking at him as if he was a ghost. That was all it took for him to forget about Randall and held her into his arms.

All… for naethin’. He threw another pebble.

They decided to stay in Lallybroch, the home Jamie hadn’t been able to visit since a price was put on his head. The estate was run by his sister and her husband, an old childhood friend of the family and a former brother in arms when both of them went to France being just lads. But since they arrived it had all taken a turn for the worse.

That night the moon was still young in the sky. After a day on the horse, Jamie and the others had taken separated ways in order to avoid prosecution as much as they could. They would gallop all the way back to Castle Leoch while Jamie returned to his clan. The steps of his exhausted mount echoed against the walls of the main stone building. Jenny hadn’t seen him in the past four years. Showing up unannounced, unexpected and with a wounded woman in his arms almost left her without words. While Jamie got an unconscious Claire off the horse, Jenny stood petrified under the threshold, staring at the scene in disbelief, joy and scold.

His brother-in-law, Ian, was even more astonished when he stepped carefully out of the house, trying not to touch her obviously irritated wife, to receive them.

“Ye always likit to make an entrance…” He mustered while Jamie faced his sister in the entrance, plea and determination on his face, an unreadable mixture of feelings in hers.

Jenny left the words that came to her mind in a whirlwind for a better moment and run upstairs, with her eight months pregnancy almost forgotten, to light a fire in one of the spare bedrooms. Jamie climbed the steps twice at a time and left Claire’s body carefully on the blankets of the bed. Jenny walked resolutely to them and rolled her over her side, squirming at the sight of her mistreated back. Her eyes went back to his brother’s, anxiously staring at the woman.

“Lea’. Noo.” Their gazes locked, measuring each other. “D’ye really want to fecht me? Noo?”

Jamie had accepted defeat and leave the room for her sister to tend to Claire. He must have fallen asleep without even noticing, because when he woke up, he was lying on the same floor but tucked under a blanket and with his head resting on a pillow. Jenny was nowhere to be seen.

I shouldna hae…

But he had. Trying to keep the wooden floor from cracking, he had stepped into the bedroom slowly and quietly. A candle by the bed lit Claire’s pale features. She was lying on her side, letting the wounds of her back breath without the pressure of her own body. In her sleep, the creases of pain and fear had relaxed, and her mouth rested slightly opened. Jamie squatted by the bedside and stared at her face, shaken by a wave of emotions. Relief was the most prominent, and even a timid smile reflected on his face. Claire was finally back, safe and no one would ever steal her again from him.

After a few minutes, he finally yielded to the need and allowed his fingertips to reach her face. Delicately, they traced the bones under her cheeks, the softness of her eyebrows, the fullness of her lips.

You bawheid….

Her eyes opened slowly, fighting the drowsiness and trying to focus. Jamie’s hand froze in place before replacing his fingertips with her palm, caressing her cheek.

Claire jolted back and try to scream at the top of her lungs. Her throat was so sore the noise was more a shriek than a yell. She curved into a ball, grabbing her ears and crying inconsolably. Jaime stood up completely at a loss. He hadn’t expected her response and it hurt him dearly to see her rejecting him like that. Still undecided about what to do next, Jenny had marched into the room and pushed him from the bed, before climbing on top of it to hold Claire still.

“Oot. Noo!”

Three days had passed already and whenever he had tried to enter her bedroom and talk to her, Claire would scream and yell, crying and covering her ears in absolute despair. Jenny was always by her side and jumped in to console her when this happened. She hadn’t spoken so far, and only ate when his sister spoon fed her. She’d stay day and night by her side, combing her hair, bathing her with a warm wet cloth and tucking her in bed when night fell. All the things Jamie was dying to do, but couldn’t.

The first tears came down as the last pebble surfed the stream. He could take physical pain with the proverbial Scot stoicism. He wasn’t offended easily and was prone to quick forgiveness. He didn’t hold grudges, nor felt disturbed by words said in a past heated argument. But being unable to do anything, to help her recover from whatever she’d been put through was a new form of suffering he hadn’t experienced yet.

Her steps were light even in her state. Jamie didn’t turn around to meet her, just wiped his tears from his cheeks and clenched his jaw.

“Ye’ve always come here whenever ye’re fash’d.”

Jenny stood by his brother and stared into the stream.

“I hate it. I hate not bein able to do oniething. It juist…“

“It’s tearing your guts out. I ken.”

Her hand settled on his arm and squeezed it tightly once, reassuringly. He felt the tears resuming their path all the way down his face, then jumping on to his shirt.

“I dinna ken what happened to her. But I ken what happened to ye and not bein with ye tore my guts out,” she whispered.

“I juist… I juist want to go wherever she is and take her back wi’ me.”

“Then maybe ye shuid.“

Both stared into each other’s eyes, Jamie from his height and Jenny under her mass of black curls. So different and yet, so similar and understanding of each other feelings. She nodded quietly and interlocked her arm with his, pulling him slowly back home.

Facing that ominous door was one of the hardest things he had ever done. Jamie felt his sister’s presence behind him, and he also noticed when she left him to confront his task on his own. His hand landed on the wood, polished by decades of use, and slid all the way down to the knob to access the bedroom.

The hearth was crackling, throwing a cozy light on the scene. Claire was awake, with her back supported by pillows, staring at the ceiling of the bed. The noise of the door closing into its frame draw her attention. He could feel his heart break for the thousandth time when she covered her ears and curved into a crying ball, so small and vulnerable in the middle of the blankets her sister had placed upon her.

Jamie bit his lip and overcame how rejected he felt. Not knowing what to do, or how to behave, he just closed the distance between them and sat on the bed. Claire turned violently and jumped out of it, a pale vision in her white shift, and tried to reach the door. But weak as she was after all she had been through, Jamie passed by her and got between her and her purpose. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he grabbed her arms while she wept and fought him, falling to their knees.

“Claire, Claire!!”

Not willing to contain, he shook her, trying to force to look at him, but all he managed to get out of her was an unintelligible whisper that grew progressively louder, enough for him to finally understand.

“You’re dead… Don’t torment me… Please, I beg you… You’re dead…”

She kept fighting him off, but Jamie’s grip was even harder after discerning her words.

“Mo chridhe, look at me… Look at me!”

He grabbed her face and made her look into his eyes. Hers wondered around his face, as if staring at something right past it, but Jamie persevered until her gaze finally settled on him. Tears started to flow more heavily and her sobs were heartbreaking.

“You died… He told me, every day. You died, why do you torment me like this?”

“Mo nighean donn, I’m not dead. Can’t you feel me? Can’t you?” His voice trembled at the sight of so much grief and distress. Losing his words, he threw her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest, a boneless body that accepted the embrace as if it didn’t have any other possibility.

Jamie buried his face into her hair, inhaling her scent, allowing all the sorrow to finally flow out of his heart and weeping silently.

Then her hands came back to live.

Light as a dove wing, first one and then the other, they tentatively climbed from her lap to his back, as if recognizing unknown territory. As if holding him for the first time in her life. They went over his back, gaining confidence, tracing the scars through the fabric of his shirt. She pulled back slightly, enough for her to see his face. Hers was a mask of utter disbelief and unexpected astonishment. Her fingertips reached his cheeks, feeling the moistness of his tears against the satin golden beard that had begun to cover them. Slowly, they traveled all the way to his temples, caressing the curls that stuck to his skin, dampened. Then they descended to land on his lips, soft as the touch of a butterfly, tracing them before a way of relief washed over her. She gasped.

“J… Jaime?”

He smiled slowly, a sad smile that contained every emotion that had been latent inside of him, and nodded.

“I’m here, mo chridhe.”

Claire’s brow furrowed, still not willing to fully accept the reality that displayed before her, looking for one final proof. Slowly, painfully slowly, she closed the distance between their faces, and grazed his lips with hers. He felt her jolt in his arms at the touch, staying still for a second, before throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him with a strength he didn’t know she had. Jamie held her even closer while his mouth welcomed her taste, the silkiness of her lips between his, the smell of her skin under his nose. That kiss said all they couldn't put into words. 

He pulled her away carefully to watch her, soaking in that moment of happiness, the first after too many misfortunes.

“Ist m'eudial, cuir stad airdo rànail - cha tig cron sam bit ort”.

Next…

[ladygloucester]

A Common Enemy - Lallybroch

Previously…

Days went by and Claire started to improve evidently under Jenny’s constant supervision and Jamie’s indulgence. The three of them established an unspoken routine. Every morning, Jamie would serve Claire’s breakfast in her bed and stayed with her until she finished it. He proved to be a relentless guardian and didn’t allow her to leave a single spoonful of porridge, claiming that Mrs. Crook knew perfectly well how much food she needed to eat in order to get her strength back. But everyday, the tray he carried to her bedside would always have a small bouquet of wild flowers. Forget-me-nots, bluebells, bell heathers and gorse made her smile and blush, and make Jamie’s ears turn a deep shade of red.

Jenny would take over Jamie, almost kicking him out of the room in a good mood, to help Claire clean herself with warm water and a homemade soap scented with clove oil and marigold petals. She would comb her hair vigorously and leave her curls glossy and lustrous, before proceeding with the most unpleasant part of the day. Lying on her belly, Claire would quietly accept Jenny’s treatment of her back wounds. They looked better thanks to her cares and Claire’s suggestions of using a poultice made of jasmine, magnolia bark and garlic. The smell was dreadful, but she could tell the slashes were scabbing nicely thanks to it.

The rest of the day would go by in relative peace. Ian had placed a good amount of books on her bedside table and she would read them avidly, sitting by the window wrapped in a warm plaited wool blanket. Jenny or Jamie would provide her with the rest of the meals, usually sitting by her side and talking about the common events of the estate, trying to keep her mind busy and away from diving into those painful memories she’d probably have to face in the nearest future. But for then, getting her body back to health was imperative in order to restore her soul later.

That morning started quite similarly as the last ones. The first rays of light leaked through the window. An orange sun emerged behind the hills and mounts, already turning their grass from green to a goldener shade. Even in the first days of November, the sky still kept its blueness, in a more indigo hue. Claire stretched her arms carefully, the new skin on her back healing and tight. She sat up in bed, using the feathery pillows Jenny had placed for her comfort, and sighed contently. Or at least, as contently as she could. Those first minutes of the day were always the same. The joy of waking up in a safe place, the anticipation before Jamie’s morning visit, and the sudden restlessness of unwanted memories crossing her mind, as clouds concealing the sun. Usually by the time her thoughts began to wander in the darkest direction, the door would open slowly and Jamie’s red mass of curls would appear through the crack.

When the creaking of the door announced his presence, Claire smiled and stared eagerly. First his mop of bright hair, then his bright blue eyes to check if she was awake, then the rest of his broad body carrying the usual tray with food. The smell got to her nose and her stomach grunted in return, causing Jamie to raise an eyebrow and crook a smile.

“So yer belly has learnt to appreciate the delicacy parritch is…”

Claire readjusted against the pillows and let out a shy chuckle.

“Apparently my stomach is more of a Scot than I’ll ever be. Must be inheritance from a distant relative,” she said in mocking thoughtfulness.

Jamie placed carefully the tray on her lap and, for the first time, he approached her closer and deposited a soft kiss on top of her head. He lingered there for a second, inhaling the pleasant scent of her locks, before resuming his usual routine and pulling a chair closer to sit by her side. She had held still, almost not breathing, while his lips caressed her hair, before picking the flowers from the tray and smelling them.

“Begonias today? They’re gorgeous, Jamie, thank you.” The red petals spiraled from the yellow center of the flower, silky and velvety.

“Aye… I’ll begin to repeat myself soon, Sassenach, I dinna think there’s a single flower in Lallybroch that hasn’t visited you yet…”

She smiled at the sight of his red ears and the slight blush under the light freckles of her cheekbones. In peaceful company, she began to devour the porridge realizing that maybe her stomach was right. Strength had begun to grow back inside of her and probably the rich diet the Frasers presented her with was to be blamed of it. Her appetite didn’t go unnoticed and Jamie lay back on his chair satisfied.

“Ye care for a walk, Sassenach?”

She looked into his piercing blue eyes and saw the slight impatience behind his usually contained expression. She tilted her head and swallowed.

“I think I’d love to."

Jamie’s face lighted up with a smile that drew another one in Claire’s. They stared quietly into each other’s eyes, savoring the moment, a minute where the outside world posed no threat to any of them, where they were just a man and a woman enjoying each other’s company without a second intention, without having to fill up the silence with polite talk about things none of them really cared about. Slowly, Jamie’s hand crept on the blankets, as close to the border of the mattress as it could. Instinctively, her hand began a similar path with an opposite end: to meet his halfway. When her fingertips timidly reached his, the touch was almost feathery, before advancing to explore the planes and creases of each other’s hand. Claire sighed, the same sigh she’d make sitting in the tall fluffy grass after a day long walk. She blushed again under his gaze, attached to her amber eyes as if there was nothing else in the world worthy of a second look, but not wanting to steal them away. Her lips parted slightly, his glance betraying him when they attracted it inexorably. The new path of his attention made her cheeks turn a deeper shade of red and her chest raise and fall rapidly, her heart pounding inside of it.

“Ye can lea’ noo, lovebird.” Jenny’s voice acted as a bucket of ice cold water thrown at them, moving their hands away and lowering their eyes. “I’m gaun to help Claire with her dressings and ye hae no business being here. Off with ye.”

Her redheaded, over six feet tall brother blushed to the hairline and left tripping over the chair he had been sitting on just a second before. Claire and Jenny couldn’t help a chuckle when the door finally closed behind Jamie.

“You shouldn’t tease him like that,” Claire said while pulling her shift up and sitting on the bed with her back to Jenny. She started to take the bandages off and softly feel the scabs. “How are they?”

“This marigold ointment ye told me to make is working ferlies. Scabs are already falling. In no time ye’ll be good as new.” Jenny applied the ointment and a herbal scent flowed around the room. “Ye’ll manage to busk on yer own. Let me ken if ye need any help.” She rubbed her hands together and stood up. “I left ye clean dress.“

Claire looked over the chair near the window and saw a beautiful light blue dress, with white lace in the neckline and the hem of the sleeves. She turned around to thank Jenny, but the door had already closed behind her.

Jenny almost tripped into her brother, pacing in the corridor like a man waiting for his wife to give birth. She tried to bypass him, but he was quicker and grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop.

“Dinna call me thae things in front of Claire!” He hissed between his teeth, facing her closely.

“Why? Are ye telling me ye’re not heid over heels for her?” She stated seriously. His ears went back to red once again, and he released her arm. “That’s better.”

“It’s not yer place to tell.”

“No, it isna.” She said pointedly. They stared at each other defiantly before she arched an eyebrow, nodded curtly and went downstairs.

Jamie snorted, annoyed at his sister’s words. Not because she was wrong. That was precisely what bothered him the most. But Claire… She had gone through hell and back, and talking to her about his feelings would be an exercise of utter selfishness. No, he couldn’t tell her how his heart raced at the mere thought of her presence, or how he could recognize by her scent if she had been in a room earlier. He couldn’t tell her how eagerly he awoke every morning and how he urged Mrs. Crook to get her breakfast ready, how he always paced around the estate looking for a new flower he hadn’t treated her with yet. There was no way for him to confess how he sleep eluded him at night with the memory of her kisses and her waist between his hands, or how desire pulsated through his entire body when he remembered that morning in her bed, the taste of her lips and the softness of her mouth.

Maybe one day she’d be healed enough for him to tell her, if not all of that, at least part of it. But not that morning.

The storm of thoughts that flashed his mind collapsed when he turned around, compelled by the sound of her door closing. It took a second for him to snap out of it and close the distance between them, offering his arm for her to support herself. Her sight was a dream of blue contrasting against the pale skin of her neck and arms. Her chest was discreetly covered up but enough skin showed for his appreciation. The soft, round mounts of her breasts were tightly compressed agains the fabric, and he had to restrain himself from sliding his fingertips to feel their smoothness.

When her hand entwined with his arm and lightly settled there, a wave of happiness caught him off-balance. He was astonished by how small things had become milestones in his days. Bringing her flowers, telling her about the farm or his favorite horse, feeling her hand relying on him in every sense possible… It downed on him then and there: he could spend the rest of his life waiting for the smalls things.

Before leaving the warmth of the house, Jamie pulled a wool shawl over and wrapped her tightly in it. She stared at him inquisitively, with a smile hidden in the corner of her mouth.

“We dinna want ye to catch a cold,” he mustered as he finished. He squeezed her arms over the fabric and offered his arm back.

It was one of the last sunny days of the year. Even though the breeze was chill, the sun shined bright in the blue sky without a cloud to be worried about. The fields spread before their eyes, sinuously melting into the horizon, with the tips of the grass stems dancing in the wind. Claire closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, soaking in its glow. Jamie looked at her and smiled.

“There isna gaun to be many more days like this, Sassenach, we might as well enjoy it.”

Their pace was slow, mostly due to her not being completely recovered and having spend the last few days in bed. Jamie was awaiting any sign of discomfort or fatigue, but Claire’s stride was steady and determined.

“He told me about you,” she said with a clear voice. In the light of day, her past suffering had suddenly become more manageable, more bearable and easier to confront. Jamie’s arm tensed under her hand, and she squeezed it in reassurance.

“Ye dinna need to…”

“He came everyday. Every single day, sat in front of me and told me the same story, again and again. I felt as if I had been there, in the crowd, watching him flog you. Sometimes I could even smell your blood. It… He broke me. He never laid a hand on me before you got there, but he didn’t need to. He would only reminisce with exacerbating detail. Then he would ask me about your scars. He called them a masterpiece. His masterpiece. He asked me if I had seen them, or touched them, as if he knew I had. And then… He would jump to the night I escaped Leoch. Ask me if I saw you die, and how I felt when he killed you. How it was for me to picture you in the middle of the forest, rotting away. Those days, whenever I closed my eyes, I would see you lying there, lifeless. Or tied to the post on the gallows. At some point my mind began to wander, to run away from it all. I thought I would end up crazy before he killed me, if that was going to be the end of it. But it wasn’t.”

Claire stopped and faced Jamie. His eyes were eluding her, lost somewhere between the grass under their feet and the horizon. She grabbed his chin tenderly and lifted it until their gazes met. When she saw his eyes filled with unshed tears, her hand sailed up to his cheek and rested there, caressing his high cheekbone with her thumb.

“I haven’t thanked you properly for what you did, Jamie. You saved more than my life that night. You saved my soul.“

“It was my fault, Claire. If I hadn’t followed ye, if I hadn’t... kissed ye…” His voice faltered with guilt and she hushed, holding his face with both hands.

“Don’t say that. First of all, because it isn’t true. Randall didn’t need another excuse to hurt me than me running away from him. You—you don’t know how much you following me meant to me. I was actually about to give up and come back with you, you stubborn Scot,” she smiled and let her hands drop back into her lap. Then, she lowered her tone, flushed. “You don’t know how much that kiss meant to me, and how I held to its memory. I told you, Jamie Fraser. You saved more than my life.”

He stood there as Claire resumed their walk, staring into her back and barely holding the reins of his wild emotions. Realizing he wasn’t following her, she stopped and looked over her shoulder, smiling invitingly, reaching back to him with her hand and waiting, patiently, until he composed himself and offered back his arm.

Lallybroch had a breathtaking beauty. Surrounded by hills and large pastures, the main building towered over the surroundings, but not with a threatening appearance, more like a worried mother looking after her children. It instilled peace and serenity in whoever stared at its robust walls, flecked by narrow windows. It was rustic, for sure, but the charm it possessed was incomparable with the iciness of the rich manor she had stayed in for the past months. It felt more like a home than a temporary shelter.

Claire allowed herself to be carried away by her imagination, boosted by the scents of nature, the sounds of the never still farm and the heat of his skin under her palm. She saw herself helping Jenny with the daily chores, learning how to milk the cows, feeding the hens and the small chickens, chasing around a rebellious lamb.

Waiting for him after a day hunting…

Seeing him cross the gates of Lallybroch with a game over his shoulders, sweat sticking his curls to his forehead, dirt speckling his shirt, a radiant smile on his lips when he saw her waiting by the threshold. A small redheaded boy running and hugging his leg, laughing with dimples on his cheeks and a pair of slanted blue eyes.

But it was, for certain, no more than a dream.

He’s an outlaw, I’m an English woman running away from a captain and there’s no way we could do it. There’s simply no way…

Next…

[ladygloucester]

A Common Enemy - The torture

Previously…

The thick leather soles produced a very distinctive sound. She had learned to discern his steps from the others that wandered near that door. But the moment he entered the corridor, the matt sound of his boots announced his presence even sooner than the lavender scent that impregnated the air around him. The first four or five nights—she had already lost count—he only sat on the small wooden stool that sufficed as the one piece furniture in the room. A cell, more than a room, even though it was in the wing of the garrison that contained the bedchambers for the officers. 

He sat there and looked at her, blank face, relaxed features. Claire had tried to talk to him the first time he visited her. She tried to explain, as much as she could, that she was sorry. Knowing him as she did, she realized submission was the only way to escape, if there was any, from a grimmer fate. But her words were met with silence, and when the second night she tried to initiate a new apologetic diatribe, she realized there was no chance, not a single chance of producing any kind of effect in that man. She was completely at his disposal.

So she yielded. Hours went by every day, pacing around the room, feeling the moistness of the stone under her feet, their rugged kiss. Seeing a little piece of the sky and watching the ever changing moon through the tiny cavity in the upper part of the wall was her only solace, and also the only way to distinguish between day and night. When the sun came down, also did Randall, as a gloomy shade that obscured every inch of hope.

Not that she had any left now. She had see him die.

No…

No. No, she had see him fall, that’s all. He wasn’t dead. He couldn't be. Jamie had flinched at the very last second, launching himself forward, and even a fine shooter as Jack Randall couldn’t hit a moving target with that dexterity. But he aimed well and hit. And Jamie had fallen. She still could hear the dull thud of his body against the blanket of leaves, his cinnamon curls almost black in the darkness. It had also taken a few days to realize that that annoying, penetrating sound that followed his fall was her screams. Agony screams that only receded when Randall’s gloved hand pushed hard against her mouth before throwing her up on his horse.

The only thread of sanity she clung to was the sight of his back. She could still close her eyes and see his back moving up and down, the same way it did when he was sound asleep. He couldn’t be dead, and she held to that thought as a rope in the middle of a tidal wave. Doubt came in the form of sudden images that crossed her mind and the very little sleep she was able to get. 

Jamie, pale faced, blood dripping from the corner of his lips. 

Jamie’s corpse in the middle of the forest, defiled by vermin and scavengers. 

Jamie’s chest pierced by a bullet, and her hands trying to stop the bleeding. 

But she clung to it. To him. To Jamie, alive.

That night started the same way as the others, the same calm steps announcing his entrance, the same noise of the stool legs scratching against the naked stone floor. The same sigh when he finally sat down. Hearing his voice, after he cleared his throat, startled her unexpectedly.

“I wasn’t the man I used to be, once. Before coming to Scotland. When you find yourself surrounded by the weak and the poor, something inside of you is born, something you didn’t know it was there.” Claire’s eyes were fixated on him, as the prey stares into the snake’s eyes. “I had been less than a year in Fort William as captain of dragoons. A dull responsibility. Petty thieves and minor robberies, that’s all I saw during months. But that day was different.”

Randall filled his lungs and let the air slowly leave them, so immersed in the memory Claire thought he was actually talking to himself.

“He had been taken prisoner for theft and received one hundred lashes for it. The corporal administered them less than a week before, in front of a proper audience. It’s an instructive way of showing the fool and the inmoral what lies ahead if they surrender to their lowest instincts, and it’s usually quite effective. But that boy, that redheaded highlander hadn’t screamed. Not one single cry. He had became a symbol of rebellion instead of submission. I realized that he needed further punishment, so I prepared to administer one hundred more. You see, flogging a person is not a pretty thing. Faints are usual among the crowd, and some people tend to look away. But this was different. You should have seen his back. The corporal had been thorough in his duties, and the mere touch of the shirt seemed to cause unfathomable pain. I know it, because when my men were locking his wrists to the scaffold, I sticked a finger inside one of the wounds. And I watched him squirm. His eyes were feverish, and he was warm to the touch, exuding that peculiar metallic smell blood has, almost solid in the mouth.”

He adjusted his position and continued his speech, not a single tremble or sign of sentiment in his voice.

“I wanted to pace myself. You see, one hundred lashes are quite an exercise, and he deserved my whole attention. I couldn’t falter. But seeing that beautiful piece of art made of blood, flesh and sweat spurred me in a way I have never felt before that day or ever again. So I flogged him. Every lash was a connection between us, between my craftsmanship and his canvas. A link that would never be dissolved and we’ll both carry along to our graves. But again— he didn’t cry. He didn’t scream, or beg for mercy. I tried to break him, to own him, but not a single tear was shed. The scaffold was slippery with his blood. He wasn’t even able to stand by himself, and with the final lashes, he just hung there, limp." He licked his lips, flushed by the memory. "I can honestly say, that back is the most beautiful, splendid thing I’ve ever done or seen in my life.”

In the silence that followed his last word, only Claire’s desperate sobs echoed against the stone walls. Her hands had crept to her ears, trying to block his voice out, but still it slithered into them, reaching her heart and her very soul, corrupting it in a way she had never thought she could feel. Utter, complete and irrevocable despair. She lost track of time, only her tears keeping her grounded to an unescapable reality. Even when she thought she could cry no more, her eyes would contradict her. Whenever she closed them, the perfect picture Randall had drawn with his words would appear and shake her very core. But when she thought she couldn’t handle another ounce of pain, his voice came through again.

“Tell me, did you get to see his back before I killed him? Did he tell you how he got the scars? Tell me you were able to touch them. To caress that magnificent work, to feel the roughness of its edges. Tell me how it felt to lay your fingertips on them and follow the pattern, that intricate design. Did you kiss them? Could you feel them with your lips? My dear, dear Claire. Please, tell me how it felt to see him fall. Did you smell it? The blood? Did you hear his rales? His last strength trying to hold to the world of the living and failing miserably? Tell me but, please, picture it first.” 

His voice got an excited edge, as he got closer, moving in circles around her, licking his lips as a malnourished child in front of a banquet. 

“Close your eyes and go back to that forest. To the taste of his mouth, to his musky scent, to the heat of his body. To his desire. And now, imagine all of that, gone. Nonexistent. Rotting in the middle of that forest for all the little scavengers to prey on. That fine body, reduced to a decomposing shadow of a man. Tell me, how does it feel?”

Claire screamed.

His eyes snapped open. Jamie could swear, once again, he had heard her scream. But it was impossible, reason settled back in as he laid his back against the feather mattress. He had tossed his blankets aside, his body temperature still high even for a furnace of a man like him. Closing his eyes back to sleep was a task he was daunted by. Before sleep would finally take him, Claire’s desperate pleas filled his ears and the taste of blood flooded his mouth. It was like falling again, shot, on the floor of that gloomy forest.

What happened after that bastard shot him was still a blur. His godfather Murtagh had found him near Castle Leoch, full of both dried and fresh blood and crawling with the last bit of strength he had. The next few days he had been in and out of consciousness, delirious when awake and trembling asleep. Dreams of Claire overrun his mind, the touch of her curls, the softness of her caress against his back, the firmness of her body under his, the form of her waist in his hands. Some times she appeared by the side of his bed and stroke his head lovingly, pushing aside the locks that had stuck to his forehead in sweat. Those dreams were the worse, because they inevitably ended. And the feel of loss, the utter emptiness in his soul left him breathless.

His fever had peaked two days before, and even Dougal had visited him. He remembered his tall figure and the rich cadence of his voice. Even the cold of his hand while feeling his burning skin. But death had decided to leave him alone, at least for now, and passed by while his fever broke. He was still weak as a kitten, but staying in bed wouldn’t change that. So he wrapped himself in a blanket and barefoot, clinging to the walls, decided to go right into Collum’s study. 

Before he could even reach the door, it got opened slowly and his godfather’s figure emerged from the shadows. Surprise, then scowling welcomed the scene, and Jamie knew his trip had ended before starting. Instead of going back to bed, he decided to sit in one of the chairs next to it, with a strained sigh. The bullet had passed right under his collar bone. His right arm still felt numb from time to time, but whenever he moved, the pain stabbed his shoulder and made him flinch.

Murtagh waited on the threshold until Jamie had accommodated himself before entering the room and closing the door behind him. Jamie was avoiding his gaze, but he sat on the bed and waited until he found the strength to look at him.

“I failed her—”

“Ye did no such thing, lad,” Murtagh said not allowing him to finish his sentence. His voice was soft, but firm. “She made a wale and stuck to it. If ye go and fall in Randall’s hands, her sacrifice will be for naething. She went to save us. To save ye.”

He felt the knot in his throat, and the warmth of the tears flowing in his eyes. Still, rebellion pulsated through his veins and ignited his soul.

“Aye, she did. She delivered herself to the claws of the Devil himself. And I let her. We are letting her. Who kens what she’s gaun through. Only to save a bunch o’ criminals from the fate they brought upon themselves, tell me how's that fair.” Silence fell between us, and Jamie wiped violently his tears away. “She’s promised to him.”

His usually cryptic godfather gave away his constant mask of slight irritation and an even darker look replaced it. Murtagh lowered his head and sighed, staring at his callous hands, resting on top of his thighs. He knew how the lad felt. He had seen him around the sassenach from the first day and recognized instantly the way he looked at her. More than a decade had passed since the last time Murtagh himself had looked a woman that way, and yet he completely understood how impossible it was for him to stay back and do nothing. He knew, right then, that if he didn’t go with Jamie, he would go on his own and get himself killed.

The older highlander inhaled deeply, and let the air out with a soft hiss.

“Aaricht, lad. We’ll go get her. But ready yersel. If she’s still alive, and ye hae to prepare for the warse, she’ll be different. Randall couldn’t break ye, but he only had a go at ye.”

Jamie nodded curtly and stood again, pacing slowly towards the window. The north winds blew against the frail crystal, shaking the wooden frame. The clouds moved fast in the dark skies, uncovering the stars and a full moon behind them before tucking them back to sleep.

Pale, thin and cold, the waning moon stared back at Claire. Her fingers reached out as if they were able to touch it, tracing the borders of the sphere with a trembling hand. The effort left her breathless, and her arm dismayed back on her lap. Randall had spent the last seven nights telling her the same story about Jamie’s flogging and demise. Asking her, once again, what it felt like to see him collapse and die. Forcing that memory down her throat into her inner self, wherever it was now, lost in the darkness and blindly wandering in a venomous swamp created by his words.

She wasn’t herself anymore. Whenever her fiancé left the room, Claire’s mind slipped away from herself, abandoning her as just an empty case of a body. The second night she thought there were no more tears in the world for her to cry, but still, every time Randall resumed his story, her eyes betrayed her again, and again. She tried screaming to cover the tale until her throat was raw and her voice disappeared. She punched her ears, hoping that the pain kept the sound at bay.

That night, after a week of that unbearable torture, when anger, anguish, pain and despair joined forces in the little piece of her heart that was left sane, she felt incapable of taking any more of his cruel depictions. When his steps resonated close enough to her, Claire launched herself against her captor and clawed her fingernails in the skin of his face.

Randall was able to subdue her in just a few seconds, grabbing her wrist with such a strength she thought he might break them. Weak as she was after days of not eating and barely drinking any water, Claire felt as a limp doll in his power. That was the first time he was using any kind of physical violence directly on her. No, his torture had been more subtle and yet more painful than a white iron burn. But then she realized he had been waiting for an excuse, for a response that would allow him to follow whatever sick plan he had conceived for her.

He tied his hands together with his belt, so tightly she felt the blood pulsating under the tie. Letting her slip to the floor, Randall stood up and left the room for what seemed an eternity. Claire’s senses had begun to evade her as they always did, unable to sustain any more pain, when he reappeared, snapping her back to reality. In one hand he carried a long, thin, flexible wood stick. With the other, he grabbed the belt and force her to stand up, hooking the bond that formed her wrists to the wall. With her back exposed to him, Randall paced around the room, delighting in anticipation and her fear.

The first lash elicited a piercing scream from her parched lips. Claire had buried deeply into his memories the feeling of the whip against the skin. Now, it burned, stung and hurt in a mix of sensations that turned her stomach. The second one came sooner than she expected, and she clenched her teeth hoping that she’d manage not to bite her own tongue. After the third, she lost count. For a while, the only sounds in the room was the slashing of the branch through the air, the content panting of her captor, and her cries.

“My dear, dear Claire. Finally, broken. I have to admit it. You’ve proven yourself stronger than many men I know. Damn, I think not even a single one of my soldiers would be able to restrain themselves as much as you have. I know you think you know me. You’d probably instructed yourself to stay submissive, to not respond directly at any of my… attentions. But, you see, you have failed.”

Randall closed the distance between them and stuck his body to her back side, not minding the blood that would stick to his clothes. The tender flesh protested under the touch, but trapped against the wall, there was no room left for her to relieve the pressure. His nose navigated through her hair, nuzzling her neck, before allowing the tip of his tongue to taste the mix of sweat and tears that covered the soft skin below her ear. His left hand explored her thin curves, wandering from her waist to her hip, pushing his crotch against her glutes and thrusting his fingers in her flesh.

“You see, Claire, this was precisely what I wanted to do to Jamie. I offered him a deal: surrendering himself to me, in exchange of eluding the flogging,” he whispered in her ear. “Did he tell you? Did he confessed how he thought about the possibility for a minute? Picturing us together, naked, his glorious body completely under muy power?” Slowly, Randall begun to unbutton the front of his breeks. The rod fell to the floor, as he started to raise her shift. “Can you imagine us? See it. See him laying on his chest, exposed…”

The pressure on her back suddenly disappeared, and a turmoil created where there was once a painful peace. The sound of metal hitting the floor, and then the unpleasant noise of bone breaking under the skin. A repeating thud, constant as the bells calling for the believers. Some words hissed in the middle of the uproar, some of the ininteligible, others more familiar. 

Bastard. Kill. Dead. Hell.

A pair of careful hands unhooking her wrists from the wall and helping her on the floor. A dash of red fabric and blue embroidery. Redcoats. But the faces were familiar, the thick beards, the long manes in disarray, the richness of the gaelic voices. Her eyes wondered from her savior to a mass of red curls that bent over a body, straddling him. Two fists covered in blood, four hands pulling from his arms backwards in order to stop him, succeeding only after much struggle. A pair of dashing blue eyes, light and clean as a summer sky, staring at her in disbelief. The feeling of a familiar body holding her tightly and raising her into the safety of his arms.

Then it all became a blur.

Next…