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phoenixflames12 · 6 years ago

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Dancing by Moonlight

A/N: This takes place in my WW2 AU that began with An Endless Night and takes place on the evening of A Bouquet of Pink Roses

Catch up on all of Vergangenheit on AO3 here

It’s here. Vergangennheit’s final chapter is here at last! Just the epilogue to go now...

This chapter and this AU would not have been possible without the help and support of some very special people- namely @momwendy (my beta queen extraordinaire), @thatsoccercoach (my supporter in all things regarding Faith) @whiskynottea, @abbydebeaupreposts, @gotham-ruaidh, @missclairebelle, @sassy-sassenach (for her wonderful mood boards and face casts) and @sassenachwaffles. This story would not be where it is today without you wonderful people. I love you and thank you so much for the love that you’ve shown me and my writing over the last few months!

On the evening of her wedding, Faith receives an unexpected visitor

20th May 1947

Evening

The edges of the world blur before Faith’s eyes as she is spun through the hall, the wicks of the oil lamps trimmed low so that the world is bathed in a comforting orange glow. The faded Union Jack bunting from the King’s coronation in 1937 when she was nine that had been unearthed in one of the attics has been strung up along the bannisters, interwoven with the dark green and white glow of wood anemones.

The weight of Albert’s hands encase her own, the simple gold band on her ring finger winking as it catches the light. His eyes are shining as they hold hers, laughing crinkles catching at their corners as he stumbles over the steps to the Duke of Perth, feather dark head thrown back in delight.

His hands are solid under her arms as they reach the end of the set, the glimmer of Aonghas Lindsay’s fiddle bow darting back into the shadows as he winks at Albert who has paused, head bent, hands on his knees, to catch his breath and tugs his forelock at her; his broad, cragged face flushed with heat and whisky.

‘Are you all right?’

She has to shout to make herself heard over the noise and Albert nods, drawing himself upright and bringing her close to tuck an escaped curl back behind her ear. Somehow in the course of the dance, he has removed his jacket and loosened his tie, the tang of sweat sharp to her nostrils as she buries close, fingers toying with the buttons, relishing in the weight of him.

‘Never better, meine Geliebte,’ he murmurs back, voice husky against his throat, eyes shining out of a nut brown face that is gleaming with sweat. Around them, the world seems to fall away, the laughter and noise and stamp of feet fading into a comforting blur until it is just the two of them.

From the top of the set, she can see her Mam and Da setting off, the swing of her Da’s kilt slicing through the dancers, his feet quick and light against the floor. The crown of his curls burns against the glimmer of the lamplight, her Mam’s face upturned and glowing as she is spun through to meet Hector Fraser.

‘Good,’ she whispers, reaching to clasp his hands, so that their wedding bands glow against each other, the promises that they had made just hours previously echoing in the silence.

Slowly, she turns his arm upright so that the pale, soft under flesh of his wrist is visible, the weight of his eyes soft and questioning as she traces the line of the dirk’s scar.

Her husband’s hands.

The word still sends a thrill rippling down her spine, a ball of warmth igniting in her heart, even though she has heard it spoken at least two dozen times since the reception began.

‘Blood of my blood,’ he murmurs, following her gaze.

‘And bone of my bone,’ she replies slowly, remembering the way that his hand had trembled in hers, his body threatening to break apart as the tip of the blade had scored itself against his skin, eyes full of questions that she had promised herself that she would answer, in time.

‘I mean it, mo chiride,’ he murmurs now, eyes softening as he surveys her, glowing in the dusky light, the Gaelic slipping off his tongue as though he has been born speaking it.

‘I never doubted ye,’ she whispers back, holding his gaze and reaching up to place a soft, chaste kiss against his forehead, lips tasting the sharp tang of sweat that clings to him.

‘Ever.’

They remain there for what feels like an eternity before the chaos of the world returns and the combined notes of the fiddle and the melodeon sing with the start of the next dance.

Before she knows what’s happening, Faith finds her hand held fast in Hector Fraser’s, the broad, good looking face of her cousin with the wide, grey eyes that he’d inherited from Kirsty, glowing in the dusky light.

The dance, a fast paced Strip the Willow, gives her no time to think as she is spun in and out of the set, caught by her Da and out again, his eyes laughing with love. Together, they spin round as he draws her close, pressing a soft, unseen kiss in the depths of her curls.

‘Ye’re doing brawly, mo nighean ruaidh,’ the words are a whisper, his breath fiery with whisky fumes and she cannot help but smile as she gazes up into his weather-worn face, trying to tell him without words how much she is thankful for his presence.

Thankful that he had been the one to raise his glass to her first to begin the wedding toasts.

The drink had already been flowing freely by then, but her Da’s voice had carried clear and true across the dining room and into the hall.

Her hand had been held fast in Albert’s as a hush had fallen like a cloak over the room, only the scrape of her Da’s chair audible as he stood and raised his glass, eyes wide and gleaming in the dusky light.

He had wished them long and lovely days, caught in the seed-time of their love with the rest of the summer to wait for the flowering which had made her bury her head in the crook of Albert’s shoulder to hide her flaming cheeks. His large, comforting hands had come round her shoulder, drawing her close, a deep, soft laugh rumbling in the pit of his throat as his lips pressed a hidden kiss to her brow.

And then her Da’s voice had grown serious, soft and low, ghosts that she had thought, had hoped had left him, whispering in the depths of his eyes- thanking Albert for all that he had brought to Lallybroch and Broch Mordha.

Thanking him that in this tenuous world where the lines of peace and war were still so blurred and broken, where the memories of the dead still walked freely amongst the living, he had been able to give his family some hope for the future.

And Faith had felt her heart swell in her chest, bursting with love for all of them, love that she is utterly unable to articulate into words, burying close into her husband’s embrace as the whole hall stood in unison with a scraping of chairs and a clink of glasses, the cries of ��gu math fortanadh dhaibh!’ ringing across the room.

The whisky had burnt at her throat as she had sipped her dram, the vision of faces that she loved and trusted with her whole heart blurring before suddenly sightless eyes smarting with unwanted tears.

Tears for a life lived and left behind and…

‘Here, meine Schatz. Dry your tears. That’s it.’

The weight of Albert’s handkerchief being pressed into her palm, the warmth and security of his touch telling her that she need not be afraid, his eyes shining as he had nodded in silent recognition.

A tremulous smile had caught at her lips as she had dabbed at her stinging eyes, turning back to the table just in time to see Jamie Murray stand, a little unsteadily, and raise his glass, his dark, Murray eyes gleaming with pride as he watched the pair of them.

She had hardly heard his words.

Hardly heard the smash of his glass against the table, the raucaous cheer that follows his speech or Albert’s hand tightening in hers.

‘Thank ye, Da,’ she murmurs, slowly shaking the memories away as she is twirled back out to meet Hector, his face shining in the dusky light.

‘Ye look fair braw tonight, cousin.’ His voice is a murmur as they set to each other, feet lightly tapping against the parquet floor, a smile that does not quite meet his eyes tight on his lips.

‘What is it?’

He shakes his head, his eyes shuttered with ghosts that she has no knowledge of and spins her out again with a twist of his arm, to be caught by her brother.

‘Enjoying yourself, are ye?’

He grins toothily at her, the soft pull of puppy fat transformed into the sharp lines and bends of boyhood that glint in the dusky light.

‘Ye’d best watch yourself, brathair beag,’ she murmurs, the pull of his arm tight through the thick velvet of his jacket.

‘Aye? An’ why’s that, Faith?’

The tawny eyes that are so like their Mam’s are glowing with mischief, a small smile quirking at the corner of his lips as she grips his elbow to stop him from spinning too fast.

‘The lasses will be all over ye if ye carry on like that,’ she replies quietly, eyes flicking pointedly to Mhairi Fraser, swallowing back the lump in her throat that has continued to make its’ presence felt whenever she’s looked at him.

‘So?’

She is about to reply when she finds herself in Hector’s arms again and is pulled away into the end of the dance.

He quirks a small, pained smile for her, but his eyes are still hooded, seeing but not truly taking in the noise of the celebration.

She slows, drawing him out of the set and away, turning back for a moment to find Albert and breathing a sigh of relief when she sees him deep in conversation with Uncle Ian and Auld Jock Kirby at the top table.

‘What is it?’

They find themselves sat in a secluded part of the hall, tucked away within the dark, soft greenery of the wood anemones.

‘It’s…’

He sighs, a deep, explosive thing that rumbles deep from the pit of his throat, swallowing thickly before answering her.

‘It’s just… This…Seeing all of… All of this joy an’ knowing… Knowing that my Da… He canna… He didna… An’ then when your Da came up tae discuss the deeds tae the house an’ the farm… I just… I canna…’

A sob strangles his final words and he cuts his gaze from her, spreading his hands out to encompass the whole hall; the bunting, the blur of the dances moving through the Gay Gordans, the greenery and the song of the fiddle all falling away as he drops his gaze, fixing it resolutely on the dark ground of his kilt.

A shiver ripples down Faith’s spine; a sudden, inexplicable chill flooding her completely.

‘Hector…’

Tentatively, she reaches to lay a hand on his shoulder, the weight of his shoulder blades rising up through the velvet of his jacket, her heart moved to tenderness. He flinches slightly at the chill of her touch, but then relaxes, shoulders sagging slightly.

She knows very little about Joe Fraser’s death. Can only remember the keening cry that had been ripped from Kirsty Fraser’s throat as she had sat at Lallybroch’s kitchen table with Claire on that fateful May morning in 1941, the scrap of crumpled, yellow telegram paper sat like an unexploded bomb on the scrubbed wood between them.

Can remember hovering by the kitchen door, on the verge of going in and asking her Mam a question that had burnt at her throat, only to be obliterated into nothingness at the sight of her Mam and her mother-in-law crumpled in a wave of relentless, unified grief.

‘He would have wanted it, Hector,’ she murmurs quietly, her heart aching at the unfairness of it all.

Aching at the fact that her Da has returned to them, that a wedding can be celebrated whilst the spirits of the dead cried out from their distant shores, yearning to be returned home.

‘Aye,’ Hector murmurs, his voice thick and heavy, eyes distant, bringing her spiralling out of her imaginings and back into the present with a thud.

‘Aye, I suppose…’

A new dance has been called in the hall, the sing of the fiddle slowing and then racing forward, couples breaking off to find their next partner or to step out for a breath of air, the hum of conversation and the chink of glasses thick in the air. Out of the corner of her eye, Faith can just make out her parents in conversation with Kirsty Fraser and Sister Gregory, their figures softly distorted in the guttering lamplight, the sparks from the flames setting her Da’s crown of curls ablaze.

Her free hand is heavy against her skirts, the weight of Albert’s rings grounding her.

‘He would be. Ye ken that he would. He would want ye and Mhairi tae be happy, not chasing a ghost for the rest of your days.’

Without knowing why, she has tightened her grip on his hand until he looks up at her; deep, clear eyes soft and sharp with pain.

A beat of silence passes between them and in that moment, she sees not the handsome, tortured young man who sits beside her, but the slightly chubby boy with a perpetual slick of toffee slime catching at his mouth that she remembers from their childhood who had always been two steps behind his cousins, always wanting to please his Da and never quite being able to.

‘Ye think so? Truly, Faith?’

‘Aye,’ she breathes, nodding quickly, to hide the prick of her tears.

They stay there for a long while, not speaking, until she hears the familiar tread of Albert’s footsteps before them.

His eyes are dark and shining, his face flushed with heat and drink; the smile that she will never tire of crinkling at his lips.

‘Will ye come out wi’ me tae get some air, Faith?’

His voice is a murmur as he holds out a hand to her, nodding to Hector who smiles a little stiffly and makes to stand, groping for a handkerchief in his sporran as he does so.

‘Aye, mo chuisle,’ Faith replies softly, accepting his hand, relishing in the weight of it as he pulls her to her feet. His heart is strong and steady under her palm as she bunches her hand in his jacket, the fabric crinkling under her touch.

‘Are you alright, my love?’

Albert’s voice is soft and low, dark eyes wide with concern as he takes her in, one hand reaching to cup her cheek.

‘Aye,’ she nods, exhaling slowly, willing the tears- tears for Hector, for Joe and Kirsty, for Ebren Krause, for her parents and all those who did not make it home- away.

‘Aye,’ she says again, more firmly now, biting her lip and nodding as she meets his raised brows.

‘It’s just… Can we talk about this outside, Albert?’

He nods, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and she smiles a little shakily, turning back to Hector, an unasked question blooming on her lips, that is silenced by his nod.

‘I’ll be alright, Faith,’ he says slowly. ‘Thank ye, though. Both of ye. Truly.’

They leave him making his way to Maggie Murray who is hovering by the sword chest at the foot of the stairs, missing a partner for Speed the Plough.

‘Willhe be alright?’ Albert’s arm is steady against Faith’s, the chill of the night making them gasp as they step out into the courtyard.

Faith shivers at the chill of it, but nods quickly, not wanting to think about Hector, inwardly cursing herself for not taking her grandfather’s greatcoat as gooseflesh explodes against her bare arms.

The sky is rimmed with a frost of stars; a deep, clear, dark expanse studded with flashes of silver.

A cloud shifts and for a moment, the wink of the moon bathes the courtyard in a shifting, glow of silver. From somewhere out in the grounds, the hunting cry of an owl pierces the night.

Over the courtyard wall, the great Scots Pine that frames the laundry green rustles in the chill and Faiths sighs, caught in the silent, simple beauty of it all, burying herself against Albert’s chest.

‘Here, meine Geliebte. You’ll catch your death,’ the warmth of his jacket being draped over her shoulders takes her by surprise. The fabric still radiates his heat, soft and smoky and delicious all at once.

Turning to him, her fingers find his shirt buttons, her hands reaching up until they rest directly against his chest.

‘And ye would ken all about that, would ye?’

A small smile quirks at her lips as she asks the question, the weight of him a solid comfort to her heart.

‘Aye, I would. I do.’

Though she cannot see his face, she can hear the smile in his voice, the love and laughter set deep in his eyes as he slowly bends his head to kiss her.

They stay there, watching the moon slowly slip in and out of the clouds, until the noise and the heat of the hall is nothing more than a distant memory.

Albert’s arms are secure around Faith’s waist, the weight of his chin nestled deep in the pit of her shoulder blade.

Just then he stiffens, his attention snagged upwards, one hand resting itself on her shoulder, an intake of breath echoing against her back.

‘What is it?’

‘Ursa Major meine Kleine. Look- there… No,’ slowly he takes her hand and guides it to where he wants it be, splaying out her fingers so that they cup at a small, velvety dark expanse, studded with tiny pinpricks of light.

She squints up into the sky, trying to see what he can so plainly make out and then sees it with a sudden inhale of breath, the large comforting shape of the bear slowly coming into focus over the loch.

‘When I was in Zittau I used to look for her,’ his voice is distant, his fingers reaching to card themselves through her hair.

‘On the darkest of nights, when there was a lull in the bombs wailing, I’d sit up against the window and try to find her. Tell myself that if I could just hold onto that one grain of hope that she’d be out, I’d find a way back to Scotland. Back… Back to you, meine Geliebte. ‘

She doesn’t reply.

Cannot seem to find words that are adequate enough to answer him, without revealing that even after he had made her promise that she would forget him, his name had still been a light to her heart, an unseen comfort that had flared against her soul whenever the world and all of its’ worries had felt too much.

Instead, she snuggles closer, losing herself in the warmth and strength of his weight against her back, glad beyond measure that he is here.

‘Faith! Albert! There ye are!’

The moment is broken before it has even begun by the sound of William’s voice floating through the dark, pitched and high with excitement.

‘Aye? What is it, Willie?’

Her little brothers’ face glows out of the glare of the torchlight, pale and flushed all at once, owlish tawny eyes shining with unknown secrets, face split into a grin.

The old front door has been left ajar, a flood of yellow lamplight pooling against the darkness of the gravel. Through the shadows, Faith can hear Bran’s booming bark echoing from the back kitchen, paws scrabbling against the door as he begged to be let out to enjoy the fun.

‘Ye’ll see.’ As if sworn to secrecy, he puts a finger to his lips and winks. ‘An’ anyway, Da’s calling for the last dance. Ye dinna want tae miss that, do ye?’

Out of the shadows, she sees Albert heave a theatrical sigh and slip an arm around her waist, nodding to William who lets out a whoop and charges back inside, feet slapping against the flagstone floor and away.

A flood of noise greets them as they make their way down the passageway and into the hall. Aonghas Lindsay’s fiddle is still singing, joined with the weep of the pipes to play the first, downward spread of chords for the Reel of the 51st Highland Division, echoing through the ruckus.

The room seemed to fall quiet then, the solemn hush making the hairs on the back of Faith’s neck stand on end, her hand instinctively reaching for the comforting weight of Albert’s grip.

He gives it gladly; warm, calloused fingers squeezing against her own.

It is a sobbing, keening wail that seems to go right through her, piercing her heart and letting it cry as she catches her Mam’s eye; the wide, whisky coloured gaze soft and shining in the dim light.

She can just make out her Da standing a little way apart from the crowd, by the window.

His hands are clasped firmly behind his back, shoulders straight in a soldiers’ stand to attention, gazing out into the night. It is as if he is not really there at all, that he cannot hear the deep, marching cry of the fiddle and pipes and Faith’s heart weeps for him, slicing cleanly in two like a broken flower stem.

Only a flicker of movement from the stiff fingers on his right hand, the shifting light casting his face into shadow, tells her that anything is amiss, the beat of their tattoo pale and ghostlike against the dark ground of his kilt.

As she watches, a shorter, younger man whom she hasn’t seen during the course of the evening and whom she doesn’t know, dressed in the dark dress kilt of the 51stHighlanders Division threads his way through the gathering crowd to join her Da, stopping short of him to salute, head held high.

Her Da’s posture stiffens at the gesture, heels clicking automatically together as his gaze rakes up and down the young man, eyes slowly softening in recognition.

Before either of them can speak however, Jamie has pulled the stranger into a tight embrace, shoulders heaving with emotion.

Broken words float through the crowd to Faith as she pushes her way to the window, not knowing who she passes.

‘When I saw in the papers that the lass was engaged, I had tae come, but I… I didna ken… ‘

‘How… I… When ye an’ Fortune an’ the rest were taken, I.. We…. We thought that…’

‘I… I ken what ye thought, mo chariad…’

‘But… But, when so many…. ‘

‘I ken mo chariad… I ken…’

And then her Da is drawing back, holding the stranger at arms’ length, shaking his head in wordless disbelief and Albert is squeezing her hand in a silent prompt as he disappears, urging her to go to him.

The crowd is thinning as people begin to settle with their partners or else drift away to find another drink, or in some cases, somewhere to lay their heads for the night as two long sets of the surviving dancers, headed by her Aunt and Uncle form at the top of the hall.

Deep in the shadows of the first floor landing, the grandfather clock chimes in the hour, sending a shiver down Faith’s spine.

Half past eleven.

She has been a married woman for almost twelve hours now.

The thought doesn’t seem quite real and yet she can feel the weight of Albert’s ring steady and secure against her finger, it feels as if it has never not been there.

‘Da?’

She has to raise her voice in order to be heard over the cry of the pipes and the fiddle and he pauses mid-sentence, eyes wide.

The stranger’s eyes narrow slightly at the sight of her, flicking in silent question to Jamie who nods, closing the space between them in a single stride.

His hands are warm and heavy within her own, squeezing lightly as he searches her face, eyes wide and creased with worry that she wishes he did not have to feel.

‘What is it, mo chiride? Where’s Albert?’

Faith shakes her head at the question, returning the pressure in their joined hands and bites back a smile.

‘It’s… It’s nothing, Da an’ Albert’s dancing… It’s only… Only that I saw ye when the music started standing all alone and… Are ye all right?’

The stranger raises his eyebrows at her Da; a silent beat of understanding passing through them, flashing through the deep, wide eyes as Jamie’s grip tightens against her own.

Tension ripples through the tendons of his hands like the song of a taut wire, his knuckles pulsing white for a moment against her grip.

‘Come outside wi’ me, if ye will, mo nighean ruaidh. I canna breathe in here. Ye too, Lieutenant.’

They walk out onto the laundry green in silence, the chill of the breeze catching at Faith’s skirts. The harsh, white glow of a torch floods the dark grass, the Scots Pine rearing up above their heads like some great, mythical beast.

The young officer’s face is lost in shadows, though she can see that he is broad boned with wide, deep set, grey eyes that hold the same haunted expression that still flickers momentarily across her Da’s face. The same expression that she had seen on countless patients over the years and hopes, prays, that she never will again.

Beside her, she feels rather than hears her Da exhale; a great, rumbling breath that ripples through the night.

From somewhere out in the grounds, an owl’s screech pierces the silence and somewhere far off, an unsuspecting mouse or vole dies for its’ carelessness.

‘Da…’

The rest of her sentence is lost as he cuts across her, his voice low and carrying into the night.

‘Faith, this is Lieutenant Jimmy Atkinson. He was… He was with me at St-Valery when we were captured. He’s the reason that the Division survived.’

The words come out slowly, as if each of them is being dragged up from some deep, dark place in her Father’s soul that he does not wish to expose.

From the hallway, she can hear the faint, crying strings of the reel closing, the hubbub of voices returning as the dancers break out of the hall to find some air.

‘Survived?’ The word is spat out into the night in a bark of desperate laughter.

‘Ye praise me tae highly, Fraser. All I did was try tae find some dance steps tae prevent us all from going mad. Tae help me think o’ Morag and the bairns an’ how we danced during peacetime. Tae try an’ cling tae hope, Captain! That was all I ever wanted from it. D’ye take my meaning?’

The grey eyes catch her Father’s gaze then and hold it steadily, over bright and shining out of the pale, drawn face.

The words sting with bitterness and Faith nods, wanting nothing more than to comfort him as she had done for Hector, but not knowing how. Instead, she tries to smile her gratitude to the young man, who nods silently, casting his eyes away.

In silence, she watches her Da give a slow, half nod, his expression slowly softening into something that could be a smile.

‘Aye, Atkinson,’ he murmurs quietly after a moment.

‘I understand ye.’

He is about to say more, when the sound of the back kitchen door being pulled to cuts him short.

‘Da? Faith? Mam couldna find ye…’

A breath that Faith doesn’t realise that she’s been holding comes flooding through her lungs, her legs suddenly weak beneath her, a breathless laugh bubbling up through her throat.

Her sister’s face which she hasn’t seen for nine months is shining out of the intermittent light, the grin that Faith has missed with her whole heart lighting up the darkness.

She looks older than Faith has ever seen her, dressed in a long, dark green dress of antique velvet that puddles to the floor, accentuating her height and the ivory paleness of her skin, the flaming curls of her hair loose about her shoulders.

A simple silver chain sparkles at her throat, making Faith reach self-consciously for her Mam’s pearls, their weight cool and steady against her skin.

Gone is the tall, scrappy girl with the explosion of freckles splattered across her nose and plaits that were in constant states of unravelling.

Gone is her playmate, whom she would sit for hours by the loch with, making daisy chains and picking the petals off a dandelion in an attempt to foretell the future.

Gone is the little girl who loved Christmas and would beg to be the one to hang up the wreath and stand on a chair to help stir the Christmas pudding with a big, wooden spoon, her toothy smile sticky with pudding mixture on Stir Up Sunday.

Gone is the little sister who would fling herself out of the house, raging and ranting at the injustice of the world and tear up across the moor to the broch with Bran at her heels, eyes wide and wild, coming home with tangles of heather and broon in her hair, her dress torn and splattered with grass stains.

Gone is the little sister who, only a few months ago, knocked on her bedroom door and curled up beside her, laying her heart bare, pouring out all of her fears and worries out into the warm, close comfort of Faith’s bed.

In her place stands a young woman whom Faith doesn’t know.

An elegant young woman who glows with an aura of aloof, urban sophistication that she, despite her grandmother’s wedding dress, despite her Mam’s pearls and the soft, new shoes, the leather dark with moisture from the grass and the glitter of the Mackenzie tiara, can never hope to replicate.

Tearing his eyes away from Faith and Atkinson, Jamie’s eyes go wide, a shock of recognition flashing across his features as a grin to match his younger daughters’ cuts across his mouth.

‘I didna think you could make it, mo leòmhann,’ Faith hears him murmur, his soft with wonder as he crosses the space between them in two strides, drawing Brianna into a tight embrace.

‘I didna think so either, Da,’ she hears Brianna reply, her voice lost in the thick, dark velvet of their Da’s jacket. ‘An’ I… I’m sae sorry for missing the wedding… I… I couldna get away…’

Her gaze finds Faiths’ as she says this, her eyes wide with love and hurt and a good many things that only Faith’s heart can read and reply in kind.

Slowly, he draws her out of the embrace, turning with a grin to Faith.

‘I’m still here, Faithie,’ she hears Brianna whisper as she steps into an embrace that neither of them know who began, the nickname that she hasn’t heard for years closing the gap between them.

Her sisters’ voice is a soft kiss against her ear, loved and lost and longed for and Faith can only nod, all the words that she wants to say caught together in a thick lump in her throat.

She blinks rapidly and nods again, willing the smart of the tears that she is glad her sister cannot see, away.

‘It’s still me. Promise.’

Fin

Gaelic translations

brathair beag = little brother

gu math fortunach dhaibh = good luck to them

#mine #writing #fanfiction #outlander #ww2 au #faith fraser #albert peterson #jamie fraser #brianna randall #william #claire beecham #hector fraser #jimmy atkinson #blood of my blood #thoughts?

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