time is a cold wind: ii
@bonnie-wee-swordsman asked: Prompt: what if Jamie was the one that grew up in the 20th century, and he met Claire after he travels to the 18th?
sorry for the wait, guys! i’ve been super busy at work recently so i didn’t get around to writing this for a good while. i hope it’s worth the wait!
- kait
chapter title inspiration
PART TWO: Shelter As We Go
Jamie woke to the sound of stone grinding stone, accompanied with the soft hums of a vaguely familiar tune. Though his eyes were still clouded over from sleep, as well as the darkness of the cabin, he could still see her silhouetted in front of the roaring flames of the fireplace, pestle in hand as she ground indiscernible herbs in a granite mortar. He attempted to sit upright and further his view of her face, glowing golden in the firelight, but he instead put too much weight on his injured leg. A low hiss passed between his teeth as his face contorted with discomfort.
She had appeared by his side in seconds, hands positioned at his back to help him sit comfortably; their eyes had met for just a moment before she turned to his bandages.
“Morning,” Jamie murmured snidely as she rolled up the blanket and prodded at the bandage, checking for inflammation. She looked up at him for a brief moment and smiled, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Instead of replying to the greeting, she instead inquired, “How are you feeling?”
“As good as I can be, I suppose. Although I canna complain, since I was the one who slept in a bed.” He remembered when he had first laid down in it, wrapping himself in the soft cotton blankets, the sweet aromas of honey, lavender, and pine filling his nostrils.
Another smile pressed her lips upward, this time causing the corner of her eyes to crinkle slightly. “The floor is a lot more comfortable than you’d like to believe.”
“Och,” he chuckled dismissively. “I’ve slept on the floor many a time, Sassenach.” A small grunt cut him off as she deftly pulled the brittle dressings off of his skin. “And if I can help it, I’d rather ‘void it.”
A moment later, as he watched her finish her ministrations, he murmured, “Ye’re a kind woman, Miss Beauchamp. Wi’ a good touch.”
Her cheeks flushed at his compliment, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly upwards once more. There was something on her mind, and Jamie knew it.
“I’m just thinking of my uncle,” Claire said a few minutes later, after he voiced his concerns. “I miss him… so much.”
A pause. “How long ago, then?”
“It’s been four years, now. There are some times that are harder than others, but… he was the only family I had left. My parents died when I was young, about eight or so, and no matter how hard I try to find them in my mind’s eye, I just can’t. They’ve vanished, almost–like they’ve walked into some vast, misted forest and no matter how hard I try to find them, I just end up with… nothing.” She hadn’t moved her eyes from his leg, but she had stopped messing with the bandages. He saw a lone tear fall from her cheek; it plopped soundlessly onto the blanket. “He’s starting to fade, too.”
Without thinking, he reached for her hand–similarly to the motion he had retracted earlier the previous day–but this time he stuck to it, interlacing their fingers and giving it a gentle squeeze. Her head shook to and fro slowly, as if she was to seize control of her emotions again. Standing abruptly, she picked up her mortar and resumed her work, back turned toward him. He didn’t press her for more information but instead sat patiently, waiting.
Turning her head slightly, she murmured over her shoulder, “Go back to sleep. You’ve had a tiresome few days.”
Later in the day, Jamie had a taste of what Claire’s daily life consisted of: being a travelling healer, she only went to where the need was highest and, given the remoteness of this part of the Highlands, people from all across the MacKenzie and Fraser lands would turn to her for medical assistance. From what she had told him, she had already been settled at the base of Craigh Na Dun for only a week, but had seen well over a hundred patients. A bit slow, at first, but after the speculation of witchcraft died down a bit, more patients began to flock at Claire Beauchamp’s door.
Although she had told him to sleep, he hadn’t; instead, he laid with eyes wide open, watching her as she tended to each patient. How wonderful this woman was, he had realized as he took note of how she treated them. She was respectful, kind, and understanding. If someone was in pain, she would reassure them that everything would be better soon, and within moments, the patient was on their way. The last patient of the day, in particular, had caught Jamie’s eye.
He was a small boy, not much older than eight or nine, with honey-blonde hair and red-rimmed bright green eyes. The boy had lifted his arm to reveal a large gash on his forearm, about half an inch deep. Instead of asking him how he got the injury, or chastising him for not being more careful around sharp objects, Claire took him by the hand and sat him down on a stool. She’d given him sweet rolls to snack on and even slipped in a sip or two of whiskey as she sewed him up, murmuring encouraging words as she did so. Within the hour, the boy was on his way home with instructions from Claire on how his parents need to remove the stitches.
The way that she interacted with the frightened lad made Jamie’s heart flutter in his chest; how exceedingly compassionate and tender she had been as she sewed up the wound, telling the boy stories of witches and wizards and magic. It was clear to him then that she was meant to be not only a healer, but a mother. His thoughts jumped immediately to his own mother, and he could feel the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Too soon.
“Is something wrong?” Claire asked suddenly, turning from her place at the table to face him. She made her way to him in two strides and sat beside him on the cot, tugging the blankets back from his leg–stopping, however, when Jamie laid a hand on hers.
“It isna my leg,” he said softly.
She looked at him, eyes filled with concern as she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Whatever it is, you can tell me, Jamie.”
“My mother…” he paused and took a deep breath. “She’s sick, has been for a few months, now.” A curt nod; eyes, pleading for him to continue. “I was sent away for–ah… for business, ken. And while I was gone, she got worse. Eventually, I made it back to see her, before…”
“Oh, dear.” She reached for his face, then. Her thumb ran across his cheek, wiping away the single tear that had fallen and took him into her arms, allowing him to let himself go. More tears fell from his face and onto the shoulder of her gown, soaking the dark material.
A shudder ran through him, a sob rising in his throat. Her one hand was wrapped around his shoulders, the other on his lower back, tracing circles with her palm. Shushing him, as one would a small child, she reached up and drew some pieces of his hair away from his sticky forehead. “There’s nothing more you could’ve done. Well, besides being there for her.”
“I should ha’ been there with her ev’ry day. Told her that I cared, that I loved her–”
“I’m sure she already knew all of that,” she soothed. He hadn’t realized she was rocking him until then, but he found the movement comforting. The tone of her voice turned from sympathetic to questioning. “Do you not have any other family? Someone that you should be returning to? Someone to care for you?” Despite his unsteadiness, he could hear a slight fall in her voice.
Another sob escaped from between his lips as he realized that Murtagh, Jenny, Ian, wee Jamie–they, too, were gone. No, he thought, not gone. How could something–someone–be gone, when they hadn’t even been born yet? How was he able to still remember them? Wouldn’t all of these memories in his head be, technically, in the future?
“They are gone,” he whimpered, his arms gripping Claire’s shoulders tightly as he sought out the comfort of her warm embrace. “They are truly gone.”
A moment or so later, after he had shed most of his tears into the arm of her gown, she pulled his head from her shoulder. Brushing the curled ends of his hair from his face, she placed both hands on his cheeks and looked straight into his eyes, a golden honey to a bright cerulean, and murmured, “I understand that there are things you don’t want to tell me yet–about where exactly you’re from and how you got to be at my doorstep last night. But I have to ask you to be completely honest with each me from here on out, and I’ll promise you the same.”
He sniffed once, then nodded, hoping she’d proceed.
She did. “What I have to say is rather strange, but…”
A pause. Her hands were still cupping his face; the stark coldness of them, as compared to the warmness he felt just moments before as she held him in her arms, was like the rush of a cold wind on a sweltering hot day. He felt as if he would lean into it as a cat would when being scratched behind the ears. A quirk of the corner of his lips and another nod was his reply, for he felt if he said anything then, it would be completely irrelevant to her statement.
“I can’t help but feel like… we’ve met before.”
“I’ve thought the same thing,” he smiled larger, wrapping his hands around her wrists. “Although I dinna ken the when and where quite yet.”
She shook her head, biting her lip to keep from smiling. “Well, if you do solve the puzzle, be sure to inform me of your results.”
He hadn’t noticed their position until that moment: her thighs on either side of his own, straddling him. Her hands on his face, leaning so close to him that he could feel her breath waft over his face. It smelled like cheese and wine and honey and Claire.
Before he could say anything, however, she had repositioned herself to be standing beside him. She leaned over to redress his wound. When the moment passed, he chastised himself for not kissing her.
Damn you, man, he thought to himself. You’ve known the woman not even a day and you’re already being soppy. You barely know anything about her.
“You’re healing rather nicely,” she sighed, peeling off the last of the bandages. “In a few days time, you can put your weight on the leg.” There was a pause before her next statement, a catch in her throat causing her to cough once uncomfortably. “You should be able to leave in a week’s time.”
The air in the room made it clear: neither of them wanted that.