||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 7 EPISODE 08 || TURNING POINTS||
#83daysofoutlander☆
“A bargain’s a bargain,” I said, with a nod at the cup in his hand. “Drink it.”He lifted the cup and poked a long nose reluctantly over the rim, nostrils twitching at the sickly-sweet scent. He let the dark liquid touch the end of his tongue and made a face.“It will make me sick.”“It will make you sleep.”“It gives me terrible dreams.”“As long as you don’t chase rabbits in your sleep, it won’t matter,” I assured him. He laughed despite himself, but had one final try.“It tastes like the stuff ye scrape out of horses’ hooves.”“And when was the last time you licked a horse’s hoof?” I demanded, hands on my hips. I gave him a medium-intensity glare, suitable for the intimidation of petty bureaucrats and low-level army officials.He sighed.“Ye mean it, aye?”“I do.”“All right, then.” With a reproachful look of long-suffering resignation, he threw back his head and tossed the contents of the cup down in one gulp.A convulsive shudder racked him, and he made small choking noises.“I did say to sip it,” I observed mildly. “Vomit, and I’ll make you lick it up off the floor.”Given the scuffled dirt and trampled grass underfoot, this was plainly an idle threat, but he pressed his lips and eyes tight shut and lay back on the pillow, breathing heavily and swallowing convulsively every few seconds. I brought up a low stool and sat down by the camp bed to wait.“How do you feel?” I asked, a few minutes later.“Dizzy,” he replied. He cracked one eye open and viewed me through the narrow blue slit, then groaned and closed it. “As if I’m falling off a cliff. It’s a verra unpleasant sensation, Sassenach.”“Try to think of something else for a minute,” I suggested. “Something pleasant, to take your mind off it.”His brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed.
“Stand up a moment, will ye?” he said. I obligingly stood, wondering what he wanted. He opened his eyes, reached out with his good hand, and took a firm grip of my buttock.“There,” he said. “That’s the best thing I can think of. Having a good hold on your arse always makes me feel steady.”I laughed and moved a few inches closer to him, so his forehead pressed against my thighs.“Well, it’s a portable remedy, at least.”He closed his eyes then and held on tight, breathing slowly and deeply. The harsh lines of pain and exhaustion in his face began to soften as the drug took effect.“Jamie,” I said softly, after a minute. “I’m sorry about it.”He opened his eyes, looked upward, and smiled, giving me a slight squeeze.“Aye, well,” he said. His pupils had begun to shrink; his eyes were sea-deep and fathomless, as though he looked into a great distance.“Tell me, Sassenach,” he said, a moment later. “If someone stood a man before ye and told ye that if ye were to cut off your finger, the man would live, and if ye did not, he would die—would ye do it?”“I don’t know,” I said, slightly startled. “If that was the choice, and no doubt about it, and he was a good man … yes, I suppose I would. I wouldn’t like it a bit, though,” I added practically, and his mouth curved in a smile.“No,” he said. His expression was growing soft and dreamy. “Did ye know,” he said after a moment, “a colonel came to see me, whilst ye were at work wi’ the wounded? Colonel Johnson; Micah Johnson, his name was.”“No; what did he say?”His grip on my bottom was beginning to slacken; I put my own hand over his, to hold it in place.“It was his company—in the fight. Part of Morgan’s, and the rest of the regiment just over the hill, in the path of the British. If the charge had gone through, they’d ha’ lost the company surely, he said, and God knows what might have become o’ the rest.” His soft Highland burr was growing broader, his eyes fixed on my skirt.“So you saved them,” I said gently. “How many men are there in a company?”“Fifty,” he said. “Though they wouldna all have been killed, I dinna suppose.” His hand slipped; he caught it and took a fresh grip, chuckling slightly. I could feel his breath through my skirt, warm on my thighs.“I was thinking it was like the Bible, aye?”“Yes?” I pressed his hand against the curve of my hip, keeping it in place.“That bit where Abraham is bargaining wi’ the Lord for the Cities of the Plain. ‘Wilt thou not destroy the city,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘for the sake of fifty just men?’ And then Abraham does Him down, a bit at a time, from fifty to forty, and then to thirty, and twenty and ten.”His eyes were half closed, and his voice peaceful and unconcerned.“I didna have time to inquire into the moral state of any o’ the men in that company. But ye’d think there might be ten just men among them—good men?”“I’m sure there are.” His hand was heavy, his arm gone nearly limp.“Or five. Or even one. One would be enough.”“I’m sure there’s one.”“The apple-faced laddie that helped ye wi’ the wounded—he’s one?”“Yes, he’s one.”He sighed deeply, his eyes nearly shut.“Tell him I dinna grudge him the finger, then,” he said.I held his good hand tightly for a minute. He was breathing slowly and deeply, his mouth gone slack in utter relaxation. I rolled him gently onto his back and laid the hand across his chest.
“Bloody man,” I whispered. “I knew you’d make me cry.”
62 ONE JUST MAN ~an echo in the bone
