#Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon

[fernvehx]

on your feet soldier, take me home to Lallybroch

[sweetroll-smuggler]

outlander book fans I require your conversation on a topic (minor spoilers)

1. (tw jack randall) okay so we all know what jack randall did to jamie, but only people who have read the books, specifically lord john's series, know that john was sa'd by one of his higher-ups at culloden. I mean randall was there and we know that he's a p3do so are we supposed to suspect that jamie and john share that experience? *edit: I don't think it matches randall's mo, but it definitely is an interesting parallel to jamie's story

2. this is just another tangential thing, but in the episode "providence" in s4 when john tells brianna he knows what she is going through and she interjects "no you don't" it makes me want to scream. bc anyone who has read john's books knows that he sincerely does and anyone who hasn't prolly saw that and was like "yeah tell him girly"

3. anyone who hasn't read lord john's books doesn't know *why* he's at ardsmuir in the first place and that blows my mind bc jamie's comment about "whatever you did to get sent here I hope you deserved it" hits so different

4. percy. I won't say anything more than that before S7-2 wraps but just...percy

so yeah idk I think lord john is by far the most in-depth character in the series and starz did him dirty by not making the spinoff about him

[inlovewithquotes]

"Claire," he whispered. " Please. Let me give ye comfort."

"Comfort?" I said. "And how will you do that? Can you give me back my child?"

He sank to his knees before me, but I kept my head down, staring into my upturned hands, laid empty on my lap. I felt his movement as he reached to touch me, hesitated, drew back, reached again.

"No," he said, his voice scarcely audible. "No, I canna do that. But....with the grace of God....I might give ye another?"

-Dragonfly In Amber

[starkoftheshire]

Lord John is Jamie’s sugar daddy. There. I said it.

[ros64]

OK, here's the excerpt I mentioned yesterday. (For those who may not have read GO TELL THE BEES or don't remember, "Wounded Lady" is the name of a blue spring, high in the mountain above the Frasers' New House. We left everyone at the wedding festivities for Bobby Higgins and Silvia Hardman at the end of BEES, and this is the morning after.

[EXCERPT from BOOK TEN (Untitled), Copyright 2025 Diana Gabaldon]

[Spoiler Alert - well, frankly, any excerpts you read from this book will contain spoilers, but there are always a few people who don't realize that and become disgruntled (isn't that a neat word? <g>) - anyway, at the end of GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, William arrives suddenly at Fraser's Ridge, and tells Jamie, "Sir, I need your help." Indeed he does...]

Jamie made it as far as Wounded Lady, where he called to the dog and sat down on the big stone, more abruptly than he’d intended.

“_A Màthair Dhè_.” He sat still and breathed for a bit, his knee throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He’d escaped the house before Claire discovered that he was walking about unencumbered by splints or bandages—and without a stick, forbye. He should have brought a stick, and wished he had, but he’d been feeling feisty, impatient with infirmity.

“Aye, well, I admit it’s no as bad as bein’ crucified,” he said apologetically, addressing the Mother of God whom he’d just invoked. “Besides, it’ll be horseback for the most part, it’ll be fine,” he muttered unconvincingly to himself, and grasping the paper-white trunk of the big aspen, hauled himself to his feet, whistled to the dog, clenched his teeth, and set off up the mountain, wondering why the devil he hadn’t given Young Ian land closer to the Big House.

Occupied with the pain in his knee, he hadn’t been looking out for the lad, and was surprised to come in hail of the cabin and find Rachel alone. She _had_ been looking out for Young Ian, and for some time; that much was clear from the anxious look of her, which increased when she saw Jamie and Skennen.

“Down, beast,” she said to the puppy, who paid no attention. “Has thee met Ian on the trail?” she asked.

Jamie shook his head, slightly disquieted.

“I didna see hide nor hair of him, anywhere between New House and here, lass. Nor yet the lads,” he added, forestalling her next question. “_Sàmhchair, a cù_,” he added to Skennen, who considered whether to heed this command for half a second, and then subsided meekly, lying down at Rachel’s feet.

“Why does he not do that when I tell him to?” she demanded of Jamie. “I speak to him in what I am sure is the Gaelic, and he merely laughs at me.” Skennen widened his doggy grin, tongue lolling out as though in appreciation of the joke.

“He doesna think ye mean it,” Jamie said, giving the dog a firm look. “And he kens I do. Don’t ye, _a cù_? ” He toed the dog gently in the ribs, whereupon Skennen rolled onto his back, barked and pawed the air, tail madly wagging.

Rachel cleared her throat.

“Will thee have some buttermilk, Jamie? Or perhaps some garlic pickles?”

He was beginning to be hungry from the climb, but declined the kind offer in favor of a cup of cold water, and likewise declined Rachel’s offer of her rocking chair, lowering himself carefully onto the edge of the porch.

“Sit, lass,” he said, noticing the rush basket. “I’ll finish the peas for ye.”

She laughed, sat down, and pushed the yellow bowl toward him with her bare foot.

“How does one say, ‘like father, like son’ in the Gaelic?”

“Ye don’t, usually, but ye might say, “_coltach ri dà phòna ann am pod_”. ‘Like as twa peas in a pod.’ Have ye seen William, then?” He didn’t look up at her, but pressed the seam of the pod with his thumbnail, and scooped the peas out with a practiced flick.

“I have. He told me something of his situation—and that of...John Grey...” He caught the momentary hesitation in her voice and looked at her sharply. She raised one dark brow. “I suppose thee has come to tell me more?”

Jamie told her. Everything, after a moment’s hesitation. Rachel was well aware of William’s paternity already, and as the rest of the Ridge would shortly be similarly informed, there was nothing to hide. As to the shape of Lord John Grey’s personal circumstances…

“D’ye ken that his lordship is—” he began hesitantly.

“What is commonly known as a sodomite?” she interrupted. She’d brought out a stool and sat down upon it, by him. “Yes, or at least I supposed so. Denny told me he thought it was the case.”

“And how would your brother ken a thing like that?” Jamie asked, surprised. Granted, Denzell Hunter was a physician, but…

Rachel lifted a shoulder.

“For a time when we lived in Philadelphia, Denny had a…it sounds quite wrong to call it a friendship, because it was…well, it wasn’t.” She smiled at him. “He had an acquaintance, though, who was in the habit of visiting a nearby molly house; I imagine thee knows what that is? Of course thee does. Well, on one such occasion, the man was involved in a fight and was seriously injured—he was drunk, and lost his balance while attempting to strike another man, and fell face-first into a marble mantelpiece, breaking his nose, three toes—he’d attempted to kick his opponent, but missed and kicked a rather solid oak table, which accident is what propelled him toward the mantelpiece—and his left arm, which was broken and also rather singed and blistered, as there happened to be a fire going when he knocked himself insensible on the mantelpiece and fell into the hearth.”

“Oh. Aye?”

“Aye, indeed,” she assured him. “His…I suppose you would call them friends?”

“Aye, well, common interests…” Jamie muttered. His face felt warm.

“Indeed. His friends, then, sent for Denny, who came and re-assembled his acquaintance’s nose, set his arm and taped his toes. This so impressed all the onlookers—which included the house’s proprietor—that Denny became the _de facto_ physician for them all.”

Jamie was—against his will—fascinated.

“Did…you…?” He began, then broke off.

“I never accompanied Denny to the house,” she assured him. “But a number of the…patrons?...would call upon us, in time of need. I have met several slightly damaged sodomites. They are, on the whole, much like other men.”

“Aside from—”

“Well, yes. Hence, I gather, the danger to his lordship. I take it thee means that the man holding him is not merely physically restraining him, but also threatens his…”

“His life,” Jamie finished. His voice was gruff and he cleared his throat. “In all respects.”

She nodded, her face troubled.

“What will thee do?”

Jamie sat up and stretched his back, cautiously straightening his legs as he did so.

“Aye, that’s the question we’ve been wrestling wi’, as soon as we heard what William had to say. The first thing, o’course, is to find John Grey and get him free.”

“I fear that getting him free may be the easier part.”

“So do I, lass.”

His knee had stopped feeling as though it was being repeatedly stabbed with a pen-knife, but it was still throbbing, in time with his heartbeat. He didn’t touch it, but gave it a surreptitious glance, along with its fellow. The bad one had turned a sort of purplish-red, like a ripe plum None so bad.

“We’ve the two things, to start with,” he said. “Shipping ports and a man named Denys Randall.”

Rachel’s dark brows lifted.

“I—we, that is—know a man named Denys Randall,” she said. “Does thee think there could be two of them?”

“I don’t, ” Jamie said, startled. “but just to be sure—is the one you and Denny ken a soldier? And is he known sometimes as Denys Randall-Isaacs?"

She stared at him for a moment, her hand resting gently on her belly.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “and yes. He is and he is.”

She might have said more, but a shout from the path brought her at once to her feet.

“_Mama! Mama!_”

Jamie stood up at once, gesturing her back.

“Sit, lass, I’ll see to it.”

She gave him a quick glance and a raised brow that suggested he surely knew better.

“That’s Totis,” she said, her foot already on the top step. “Something’s wrong.

[BRANO tratto da LIBRO DIECI (Senza Titolo), Copyright 2025 Diana Gabaldon]

[Spoiler Alert - beh, francamente, ogni estratto di questo libro conterrà spoiler, ma ci sono sempre alcune persone che non se ne rendono conto e si lamentano (non è una parola interessante? ) - comunque, alla fine di GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, William arriva improvvisamente a Fraser’s Ridge e dice a Jamie: “Signore, ho bisogno del suo aiuto.” E in effetti ne ha bisogno…]

Jamie arrivò fino a Wounded Lady, dove chiamò il cane e si sedette sulla grande pietra, più bruscamente di quanto avesse inteso.

“A Màthair Dhè.” Rimase seduto immobile e respirò un po’, il ginocchio che pulsava al ritmo del suo battito cardiaco. Era uscito di casa prima che Claire si accorgesse che stava camminando senza stecche, fasciature o anche solo un bastone. Avrebbe dovuto portare un bastone, e avrebbe voluto averlo, ma si sentiva combattivo, impaziente di guarire.

“Beh, ammetto che non è grave come essere crocifisso,” disse con tono di scusa, rivolgendosi alla Madre di Dio che aveva appena invocato. “E poi, starò a cavallo per la maggior parte del tempo, andrà bene,” borbottò poco convinto tra sé, e afferrando il tronco bianco dell’aspen, si tirò in piedi, fischiò al cane, serrò i denti e si avviò su per la montagna, chiedendosi perché mai non avesse dato a Young Ian un appezzamento di terra più vicino alla Casa Grande.

Concentrato sul dolore al ginocchio, non aveva notato il ragazzo, e rimase sorpreso di arrivare in vista della capanna e trovare Rachel da sola. Lei stava aspettando da un po’ l’arrivo di Ian; era chiaro dall’espressione preoccupata che si fece più intensa quando vide Jamie e Skennen.

“Giù, bestia,” disse al cucciolo, che non le diede ascolto. “Hai incontrato Ian lungo il sentiero?” gli chiese.

Jamie scosse la testa, leggermente inquieto.

“Non l’ho visto, né lui né i ragazzi, tra la casa nuova e qui, ragazza.” Fece una pausa per anticipare la sua prossima domanda. “Sàmhchair, a cù,” aggiunse rivolto a Skennen, che valutò per un istante se obbedire, poi si sdraiò docilmente ai piedi di Rachel.

“Perché non fa lo stesso con me quando glielo dico?” chiese a Jamie. “Gli parlo in quella che sono sicura sia la lingua gaelica, e lui ride di me.”

Skennen allargò il suo sorriso da cane, la lingua che sporgeva come per apprezzare la battuta.

“Non pensa che tu faccia sul serio,” rispose Jamie, dando al cane uno sguardo fermo. “E sa che io lo faccio. Vero, a cù?” Lo toccò delicatamente con il piede nei fianchi, e Skennen si rotolò sulla schiena, abbaiando e scalciando l’aria con entusiasmo, la coda che batteva furiosamente.

Rachel schiarì la voce.

“Vuoi un po’ di latticello, Jamie? O forse dei cetrioli sottaceto?”

Jamie rifiutò gentilmente, preferendo un bicchiere d’acqua fresca, e declinò anche l’offerta della sedia a dondolo, sedendosi invece con cautela sul bordo del portico.

“Sediti, ragazza,” disse, notando il cesto di vimini. “Finirò io i piselli per te.”

Rachel rise, si sedette e spinse la ciotola gialla verso di lui con il piede nudo.

“Come si dice ‘tale padre, tale figlio’ in gaelico?”

“Non lo si dice spesso, ma potresti dire coltach ri dà phòna ann am pod, ‘simili a due piselli in un baccello.’ Hai visto William, allora?” Non la guardò, ma premette la cucitura del baccello con l’unghia del pollice, facendo uscire i piselli con un movimento abile.

“L’ho visto. Mi ha raccontato qualcosa della sua situazione—e di quella di…John Grey…” Colse l’esitazione momentanea nella sua voce e la guardò con attenzione. Lei sollevò un sopracciglio scuro. “Suppongo che tu sia venuto a dirmi di più?”

Jamie le raccontò tutto. Dopo un momento di esitazione. Rachel era già consapevole della paternità di William, e dato che presto tutto il resto di Fraser’s Ridge lo avrebbe saputo, non c’era nulla da nascondere. Quanto alla situazione personale di Lord John Grey…

“Sai che sua signoria è—” iniziò esitante.

“Quello che comunemente si definisce un sodomita?” lo interruppe. Aveva tirato fuori uno sgabello e vi si era seduta accanto a lui. “Sì, o almeno lo supponevo. Denny mi aveva detto che lo pensava.”

“E come farebbe tuo fratello a sapere una cosa del genere?” chiese Jamie, sorpreso. Certo, Denzell Hunter era un medico, ma…

Rachel sollevò una spalla.

“Per un periodo, quando vivevamo a Filadelfia, Denny aveva una…sembra sbagliato chiamarla un’amicizia, perché era…beh, non lo era.” Gli sorrise. “Aveva una conoscenza, però, che era solita frequentare una casa di molly; immagino che tu sappia cos’è? Certo che lo sai. Beh, in una di queste occasioni, l’uomo fu coinvolto in una rissa e rimase gravemente ferito—era ubriaco e perse l’equilibrio mentre tentava di colpire un altro uomo, cadendo con la faccia contro un camino di marmo, rompendosi il naso, tre dita dei piedi—aveva cercato di scalciare il suo avversario, ma aveva mancato il bersaglio e colpito un robusto tavolo di quercia, e quell’incidente lo aveva spinto verso il camino—e il braccio sinistro, che si era rotto ed era anche piuttosto bruciato e pieno di vesciche, dato che c’era un fuoco acceso quando perse i sensi e cadde nel focolare.”

“Oh. Aye?”

“Aye, davvero,” gli assicurò. “I suoi…suppongo li chiameresti amici?”

“Beh, interessi comuni…” Jamie mormorò. Sentiva il viso caldo.

“Esattamente. I suoi amici, dunque, mandarono a chiamare Denny, che venne e gli rimise a posto il naso, gli sistemò il braccio e gli fasciò le dita dei piedi. Questo impressionò così tanto tutti i presenti—incluso il proprietario della casa—che Denny divenne il medico de facto per tutti loro.”

Jamie era—suo malgrado—affascinato.

“E…tu…?” Cominciò, poi si fermò.

“Non ho mai accompagnato Denny nella casa,” lo rassicurò. “Ma diversi…clienti?…venivano da noi, in caso di bisogno. Ho conosciuto diversi sodomiti leggermente danneggiati. Sono, nel complesso, molto simili agli altri uomini.”

“A parte—”

“Beh, sì. Da qui, immagino, il pericolo per sua signoria. Suppongo che tu intenda dire che l’uomo che lo tiene prigioniero non si limita a trattenerlo fisicamente, ma minaccia anche…”

“La sua vita,” completò Jamie. La sua voce era roca e si schiarì la gola. “In ogni senso.”

Lei annuì, con il viso turbato.

“Che cosa pensi di fare?”

Jamie si raddrizzò e si stirò la schiena, raddrizzando cautamente le gambe.

“Già, è questa la domanda con cui ci stiamo battendo da quando abbiamo sentito quello che William aveva da dire. La prima cosa, ovviamente, è trovare John Grey e liberarlo.”

“Temo che liberarlo possa essere la parte più semplice.”

“Anche io, ragazza.”

Il ginocchio aveva smesso di sembrargli pugnalato ripetutamente con un coltellino, ma pulsava ancora, seguendo il ritmo del suo battito cardiaco. Non lo toccò, ma gli diede uno sguardo furtivo, insieme all’altro ginocchio. Quello malandato era diventato una sorta di rosso violaceo, come una prugna matura. Niente di grave.

“Abbiamo due cose, per cominciare,” disse. “I porti di mare e un uomo chiamato Denys Randall.”

Le sopracciglia scure di Rachel si alzarono.

“Io—noi, cioè—conosciamo un uomo chiamato Denys Randall,” disse. “Pensi che possano essercene due?”

“Non lo penso,” rispose Jamie, sorpreso. “Ma, giusto per essere sicuri—quello che conosci tu e Denny è un soldato? Ed è noto a volte come Denys Randall-Isaacs?”

Lo fissò per un momento, con una mano posata delicatamente sul ventre.

“Sì,” disse lentamente, “e sì. È lui.”

Avrebbe forse detto di più, ma un grido proveniente dal sentiero la fece alzare in piedi di scatto.

“Mama! Mama!”

Jamie si alzò immediatamente, facendole cenno di fermarsi.

“Resta seduta, ragazza, ci penso io.”

Lei gli lanciò uno sguardo rapido e un sopracciglio alzato che suggerivano che lui sicuramente sapeva meglio.

“È Totis,” disse, già con un piede sul gradino più alto. “Qualcosa non va.”

[sassenach77yle]

Happy World Bee Day - 20 May

World Bee Day is observed on 20 May each year to draw attention to the essential role bees and other pollinators play in keeping people and the planet healthy.

🐝🐝Chapter 81~ Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone🐝🐝

"I found two of them, curled up together in the cup of a hollyhock, covered in pollen and holding each other’s feet.” “Were they dead?” “No.” He’d moved off me but was still imminent. His hair was loose, soft and tumbled, sparking red and silver in the firelight, and I brushed it behind his ear. “I thought they were, the first time I saw it, but I’ve seen it several times since, and they’re just sleeping in the flowers. They wake up when the sun warms them and fly off. “I don’t know whether it’s something like camping out for them, or whether they just get too tired to make their way back to the hive or are caught out by the dark and lie down where they can,” I added. “You mostly see single bees doing it, though. Seeing two of them together like that … it was very sweet.” “Sweet,” he echoed, and threading his fingers through mine kissed me gently, tasting of smoke and beer and bread with honey. “Do you know why they’re called hollyhocks?” “No, but I suppose ye’re going to tell me.” One big hand ran down the side of my neck and delicately grasped my nipple. I returned the favor, enjoying the rough feel of the hairs around his. “The Crusaders brought it back to England, because you can make a salve of its root that’s particularly good for an injury to a horse’s hocks. Apparently crusading is hard on the hocks.” “Mmm … I wouldna doubt it.” “So,” I whispered, flicking my thumbnail lightly, “‘Holly’ is an old spelling of ‘Holy’—for the ‘Holy Land’?” “Mmphm …” “And ‘hock’—well, for ‘hocks.’ What do you think of that?” A subterranean quiver rippled through his body, and he lay down on top of me and eased both hands under my hips. His breath tickled warmly in my ear. “I think I should like to sleep in a flower wi’ you, Sassenach, holding your feet.”

[tumbledorians]

Keep it for you...

[bookishfreedom]

so, i went to scotland. yes, it was life changing

the entire trip felt straight out of a fairytale. we swam in the fairy pools. we frolicked with sheep. we spent hours wandering castles, museums, and bookshops. we ate many scottish breakfasts. and yes, merry of soul, we sailed on a day, over the sea to skye

and during the hours we spent driving through the gorgeous scottish highlands, we also played that song ad infinitum.

although originally inspired by outlander, this trip was about so much more. it was about stories and magic and history and falling a little bit in love with the world at every turn.

until next time, Scotland 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 Sláinte

[hacked-wtsdz]

penelope odysseus

Jamie and Claire + twenty years apart (part 3)

Based off of the poem: twenty years across the sea

Part 1

Part 2

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

The Countdown to Happiness - Day 14

Picture: Panorama Helsinki / Finland - Dom und Parlamentsplatz (by   tap5a)

From November 24th on, I will post one chapter of

“We only do this for Fergus!”

[From @outlanderpromptexchange - Prompt 3: Fake Relationship AU: Jamie Fraser wants to formally adopt his foster son Fergus, but his application will probably not be approved… unless he is married and/or in a committed relationship. Enter one Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp (Randall?) to this story]

every day until it’s “Happy End”. Yes, you might not believe it but there is a Happy End coming around New Year’s Eve / New Year :) I hope you enjoy reading this little story (again).

[cookie-de-baunilha]

Diana on a new background story for John, his storyline in book 10 and future Lord John novels/novellas. She also mentions The Haunted Soldier (apparently there’s something that happens in that novella that is going to be important for John in book 10?) and how his storyline in s8 will be a bit different from what she plans to do in book 10.

Not a lot to go on, but…

[fernvehx]

“You are my courage, as I am your conscience. You are my heart—and I your compassion. We are neither of us whole, alone. Do ye not know that, Sassenach?”

[inlovewithquotes]

Damn him! How dare he? If he had married again, thinking me dead, that was one thing. I had half-expected, half-feared it. But to marry that woman--that spiteful, sneaking little bitch who had tried to murder me at Castle Leoch.....but he likely didn't know that, a small voice of reason in my head pointed out.

"Well, he should have known!"

-Claire Fraser

[heronpoxed]

Day 573927382 of manifesting that the Outlander showrunners get rid of that one particular Claire and Lord John storyline from the books and spare me the massive cringe and the second hand embarrassment 💀🤡

[ros64]

Written in My Own Heart's Blood

Chapter 66

“None shall sleep.” It was a piece—a melody, as Brianna had called it—from an opera he knew; she had performed in a university production of it, dressed in Chinese clothing. Ian smiled, imagining his tall cousin, towering over so many men, gliding across a stage with silk garments swishing around her; he would have loved to see her. He had begun thinking of her the moment he opened the small deerskin pouch containing his face pigments. Bree was a painter, and a talented one at that. She ground her own pigments, had made him the red ochre, as well as the black and white from charcoal and dried clay. She had even crafted a deep green from crushed malachite and a bright yellow from the bile of a buffalo she’d killed with her mother. No one else had colors so vivid, and for a moment, he wished Turtle Eater and others from his Mohawk tribe were there to admire them.

The camp noises in the distance reminded him of the cicadas’ song by riverside trees: a buzz too loud to think, yet fading once you adjusted to it. None shall sleep… Women and children might sleep… but certainly not the whores. Not tonight. That thought brought a twitch he quickly dismissed. He thought of Rachel, and dismissed her, too, though reluctantly.

He opened the willow-bark box where he kept the deer fat and smeared it on his face, chest, and shoulders, slowly, focusing. Normally, during this ritual, he would call upon the spirits of the earth and then his saints, Michael and Brigid. But tonight, neither was present; Brianna lingered in his mind instead, though her image was beginning to fade. Most of all, he felt his father’s presence, which unsettled him. It didn’t seem respectful to dismiss his father. He stopped what he was doing and closed his eyes instead, trying to discern whether Papa had something to tell him.

“I hope you haven’t come to speak to me about my death, aye?” he said aloud. “Because I don’t intend to die—not before I’ve lain with Rachel, at least.”

“Well, a noble goal, to be sure.”

The dry voice belonged to Uncle Jamie. Ian’s eyes shot open. His uncle stood amid the branches of a willow drooping into the water, wearing nothing but his shirt.

“Out of uniform, eh, Uncle?” Ian said, though his heart jumped like a startled deer mouse. “General Washington won’t be pleased.”

Washington was meticulous about his men’s uniforms. Officers were to be properly dressed at all times; he said the Continentals would never be taken as a proper army if they appeared on the battlefield like a disordered mob with weapons.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Ian,” Jamie said, stepping out from the willow. The moon was nearly set; he looked like a specter, bare-legged with his shirt billowing. “But who were you talking to?”

“Oh. To Papa. He was… here, in my mind, aye? I mean, I think of him often, but it’s rare to feel him with me. So, I wondered if he’d come to tell me I’m going to die today.”

Jamie nodded; the idea didn’t seem to disturb him.

“I doubt it,” he said. “You’re painting your face with war colors, aye? You’re preparing.”

“Aye, I was about to. Want some, too?”

He said it half-jokingly, but Jamie took it as humor.

“I would, Ian. But I think General Washington would have me strung up by my thumbs and flogged if I showed up to the lines with my face painted like a Mohawk.”

Ian let out a small amused sound and dipped two fingers into the red ochre, smearing it across his chest.

“And what are you doing here in just a shirt?”

“I was washing,” Jamie replied, though his tone suggested there was more to the story. “And… speaking with my dead.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“My uncle Dougal and Murtagh, my godfather. They’re the two I’d most want beside me in battle.” He shifted slightly, uneasy. “If I can, I take a moment to be alone before a battle. To wash, you know… and to pray. And… to ask them to stand with me.”

Ian found this interesting; he hadn’t known either man, both having died at Culloden, though he’d heard many stories about them.

“Two fine warriors,” he said. “Did you ask my father to join you, too? Maybe that’s why he’s here.”

Jamie turned sharply to his nephew, surprised. Then he relaxed, shaking his head.

“I’ve never had to ask Ian Mòr,” he said quietly. “He was… always with me.” He made a brief gesture toward the darkness on his right.

Ian felt his eyes sting and a lump rise in his throat. But it was dark; it didn’t matter. He cleared his throat and handed Jamie one of his pigment dishes.

“Give me a hand, Uncle Jamie?”

“Oh? Aye, of course. How do you want the marks?”

“Red on the forehead… but I can do that myself. Black from the dots to the chin.” He traced a finger along the line of dotted tattoos curving beneath his cheekbones. “Black is for strength, aye? It says you’re a warrior. And yellow means you’re not afraid to die.”

“Oh, aye. Want the yellow today?”

“No.” His tone revealed a faint smile, and Jamie laughed.

Jamie spread some color with a brush made from a rabbit’s paw, then smoothed it evenly with his thumb. Ian closed his eyes, feeling a new strength surge under that touch.

“You usually do this yourself, Ian? Seems hard without a mirror.”

“Mostly. Or we do it in a group, and a brother from the tribe paints you. If it’s something significant—like a large raid or a war—it’s the medicine man who paints us while singing.”

“Tell me you don’t want me to sing, Ian,” Jamie muttered. “I mean, I could try, but…”

“I’ll manage without, thanks.”

Black for the lower face, red for the forehead, and a stripe of malachite green across the tattoo line from ear to ear, over the nose. Ian studied the pigment dishes and quickly spotted the white, which he pointed to.

“Maybe you could draw a small arrow for me, Uncle? On the forehead.” He traced a finger across his brow to show where.

“Aye.”

Jamie bent over the dishes, hand poised. “But didn’t you tell me once that white is for peace?”

“Aye; if you’re going to confer or negotiate, you use plenty of white. But it’s also for mourning: so, you’d probably use it for vengeance, too.”

At those words, Jamie raised his head and looked at him intently.

“The arrow’s not for revenge,” Ian explained. “It’s for Flying Arrow. The dead man whose place I took when I was adopted.”

He tried to keep his tone casual but felt Jamie tense and look down. Neither would ever forget the day of the separation, when Ian had gone to the Kahnyen’kehaka, and they had thought it was forever.

Now Jamie bent and placed a hand on Ian’s arm.

“That day, Uncle Jamie, you told me: ‘Cuimhnich.’ And I have. Remember.”

“I have, too, Ian,” Jamie said softly, drawing the arrow on his forehead like a priest making the sign of the cross on Ash Wednesday. “We all have. It’s right.”

Ian cautiously touched the green stripe to ensure it was dry enough.

“Aye, I think it’s fine. You know Bree made these pigments for me? I was thinking of her, but then I thought maybe I shouldn’t bring her into this.”

He felt Jamie’s breath on his skin as his uncle huffed and leaned against the willow.

“A man always brings his women into battle, Ian Òg. They’re the root of your strength.”

“Oh, aye?” It made sense, and Ian felt relieved. Yet… “I was thinking it might not be right to think of Rachel in a place like this. Considering she’s a Quaker.”

Jamie dipped his middle finger into deer fat, then into the white clay powder, and delicately painted a large, deep “V” near the crest of Ian’s right shoulder. Even in the dark, it stood out vividly.

“A white dove,” Jamie said, nodding. He seemed satisfied. “This will be Rachel, for you.”

He wiped his fingers on a rock, then stood and stretched his muscles. Ian saw him turn eastward. It was still night, but the air had changed in the brief time they’d sat together. Uncle Jamie’s tall figure stood out sharply against the sky, where before it had seemed part of the darkness.

“An hour, no more,” Jamie said. “Eat something first, aye?”

With that, he turned back to the stream, and to his interrupted prayers.

«Nessun dorma.» Era un brano – un’aria, così l’aveva chiamata Brianna – di un’opera che conosceva; vi aveva recitato in una rappresentazione universitaria, vestita in abiti cinesi. Ian sorrise, pensando a sua cugina, che superava in altezza tanti uomini, mentre si muoveva su un palcoscenico, facendo frusciare gli indumenti di seta intorno a lei; avrebbe tanto voluto vederla. Aveva cominciato a pensare a lei nell’istante in cui aveva aperto la piccola sacca di pelle di daino in cui teneva i colori per il viso. Era una pittrice, Bree, ed era molto brava. Macinava da sola i pigmenti, e gli aveva fatto l’ocra rossa, e anche il nero e il bianco con il carbone di legna e l’argilla essiccata; e gli aveva preparato anche un bel verde cupo con della malachite tritata, e un giallo brillante con la bile del bisonte che aveva ucciso con sua madre; nessun altro aveva dei colori così intensi, e per un attimo desiderò che Mangia Tartarughe e qualcun altro della sua tribù Mohawk fossero lì con lui per ammirarli. Il rumore dell’accampamento in lontananza gli ricordò il canto delle cicale tra gli alberi vicino a un fiume; un brusio troppo alto, che non ti lasciava pensare, che però svaniva non appena ti ci abituavi. Nessun dorma... Donne e bambini potevano dormire... ma di sicuro le sgualdrine no. Non quella notte. A quel pensiero avvertì uno spasmo, che però liquidò subito. Pensò a Rachel, e liquidò anche lei, anche se controvoglia. Aprì la cassetta di corteccia di salice, in cui teneva il grasso di daino, e si unse faccia, torace e spalle, lentamente, concentrandosi. Normalmente si sarebbe rivolto agli spiriti della terra, durante quell’operazione, e poi ai suoi santi, Michele e Brigida. Ma non stava vedendo né l’uno né l’altra; Brianna era ancora con lui, anche se la sua immagine cominciava a sbiadire, ma stava avvertendo soprattutto la presenza di suo padre, e questo fatto lo sconcertò. Non gli parve rispettoso liquidare il genitore. Smise di fare quello che stava facendo e chiuse gli occhi, invece: voleva capire se Papà avesse qualcosa da dirgli. «Spero tu non sia venuto per parlarmi della mia morte, aye?» disse ad alta voce. «Perché non intendo farlo, non prima di aver giaciuto con Rachel, almeno.» «Be’, un obiettivo nobile, non c’è che dire.» La voce asciutta apparteneva a Zio Jamie; Ian aprì gli occhi di scatto. Suo zio era in mezzo alle fronde di un salice lungo la riva, che scendevano in acqua, con indosso soltanto la camicia. «Senza uniforme, eh, Zio?» disse il giovane, anche se il cuore gli era balzato nel petto come un topo cervo. «Il Generale Washington non ne sarà felice.» Washington era molto pignolo riguardo al fatto che i suoi uomini avessero sempre l’uniforme in ordine. Gli ufficiali dovevano essere vestiti a dovere in ogni situazione; diceva che i Continentali non sarebbero mai stati considerati un vero esercito, se si fossero presentati sul campo di battaglia come una folla disordinata che aveva imbracciato le armi. «Mi dispiace interromperti, Ian», disse Zio Jamie, uscendo dal salice. La luna era quasi tramontata; sembrava uno spettro, con le gambe nude e la camicia fluttuante. «Ma con chi stavi parlando?» «Oh. Con Papà. Lui era... qui, nella mia mente, aye? Voglio dire, penso spesso a lui, ma non mi capita spesso di sentirlo con me. Così mi sono chiesto se fosse venuto a dirmi che morirò oggi.» Jamie annuì, apparentemente quell’idea non sembrò turbarlo. «Ne dubito», disse. «Ti stai dipingendo il viso con i colori di guerra, aye? Ti stai preparando.» «Aye, stavo per farlo. Ne vuoi anche tu?» Lo disse a metà tra il serio e il faceto, ma Jamie lo prese come uno scherzo. «Li metterei, Ian. Ma credo che il Generale Washington mi farebbe appendere per i pollici e fustigare, se dovessi presentarmi con i miei uomini schierati e il viso dipinto come un Mohawk.» Ian emise un piccolo verso divertito, e intinse due dita nel piatto con l’ocra rossa, che poi si strofinò sul petto. «E tu che cosa ci fai qui in camicia?» «Mi stavo lavando», rispose Jamie, ma il suo tono lasciò intendere che non stava dicendo tutta la verità.

«E... stavo parlando con i miei morti.» «Con qualcuno in particolare?» «Mio zio Dougal, e Murtagh, il mio padrino. Sono le due persone che più di tutte vorrei accanto, in battaglia.» Fece un piccolo movimento, inquieto. «Se posso, cerco di ricavarmi un momento in cui rimanere solo, prima di una battaglia. Per lavarmi, sai... e per pregare. E... per chiedere loro di starmi accanto.» Ian lo trovò interessante; non aveva conosciuto nessuno dei due; erano morti entrambi a Culloden, ma aveva sentito tante storie su entrambi. «Due bravi combattenti», disse. «L’hai chiesto anche a mio padre? Di venire con te, intendo. Forse è per questo che è qui.» Jamie si voltò di scatto verso il nipote, sorpreso. Poi si rilassò, e scosse la testa. «Non ho mai dovuto chiederlo a Ian Mòr», disse, sommessamente. «Lui era... sempre con me.» Fece un breve gesto verso l’oscurità, alla sua destra. Ian sentì bruciare gli occhi, un nodo in gola. Ma era buio; non aveva importanza. Si schiarì la gola e gli porse uno dei suoi piattini. «Mi dai una mano, Zio Jamie?» «Oh? Aye, certo. Come li vuoi i segni?» «Rosso sulla fronte... ma posso pensarci io. Nero dai puntini fino al mento.» Si passò un dito sulla linea di puntini tatuati che descriveva una curva sotto gli zigomi. «Il nero sta per la forza, aye? Dice che sei un guerriero. E il giallo significa che non hai paura di morire.» «Oh, aye. Vuoi il giallo, oggi?» «No.» Lasciò trasparire un sorriso, dal suo tono, e Jamie rise. Jamie gli spalmò un po’ di colore con il pennello ricavato da una zampa di coniglio, e poi lo stese uniformemente con il pollice. Ian chiuse gli occhi, e sotto quel tocco si sentì invaso da una nuova forza. «Di solito lo fai da solo, Ian? Sembra difficile, senza uno specchio.» «Quasi sempre. Oppure lo facciamo in gruppo, ed è un fratello della tribù a dipingerti. Se si tratta di una cosa importante – di una scorreria in massa, ad esempio, o di una guerra contro qualcuno – allora è l’uomo di medicina a dipingerci, mentre canta.» «Dimmi che non vuoi che mi metta a cantare, Ian», mormorò Zio Jamie. «Voglio dire, potrei provarci ma...» «Farò senza, grazie.» Nero per la parte inferiore del viso, rosso sulla fronte, e una striscia di verde malachite lungo la linea dei tatuaggi, da un orecchio all’altro, attraverso il naso. Ian guardò i piattini con i pigmenti; non ebbe problemi a individuare il bianco, che indicò. «Magari potresti disegnarmi una piccola freccia, Zio? Sulla fronte.» Si passò un dito da sinistra a destra, per mostrargli dove farla. «Aye.» La testa di Jamie era china sopra i piattini, la mano sospesa. «Ma una volta non mi hai detto che il bianco è per la pace?» «Aye; se devi andare a conferire o a trattare, usi bianco in abbondanza. Ma serve anche per i lutti: quindi, probabilmente lo useresti anche per vendicare qualcuno.» A quelle parole, Jamie alzò la testa e lo guardò fisso. «La freccia non è per vendetta», spiegò Ian. «È per Freccia Volante. L’uomo morto di cui presi il posto, quando fui adottato.» Si sforzò di usare un tono disinvolto, ma sentì lo zio farsi teso e abbassare lo sguardo. Nessuno dei due avrebbe mai dimenticato il giorno della separazione, quando lui era andato dai Kahnyen’kehaka, e avevano creduto che sarebbe stato per sempre. Adesso si chinò e gli mise una mano sul braccio. «Quel giorno, Zio Jamie, tu mi dicesti: ‘Cuimhnich’. E io l’ho fatto. Ricorda.» «L’ho fatto anch’io, Ian», disse Jamie, piano, disegnandogli la freccia sulla fronte, come un sacerdote che, il Mercoledì delle Ceneri, gli faceva il segno della croce. «L’abbiamo fatto tutti. Va bene così?» Ian toccò con cautela la striscia verde, per essere sicuro che fosse abbastanza asciutta. «Aye, penso di sì. Sai che è stata Brianna a prepararmi i colori? Stavo pensando a lei, ma poi ho pensato che forse non dovrei portarla con me, in questa situazione.» Sentì il respiro dello zio sulla sua pelle, quando questi sbuffò e si appoggiò al salice con la schiena. «Un uomo porta sempre le sue donne in battaglia, Ian Òg. Sono la radice della tua forza.» «Oh, aye?»

Era una cosa sensata, e per lui fu un sollievo. Eppure... «Stavo pensando che forse non sarebbe giusto pensare a Rachel in un posto del genere. Considerato che è quacchera.» Jamie intinse il dito medio nel grasso di cervo, e poi lo immerse delicatamente nella polvere d’argilla bianca, con cui disegnò una grossa e profonda «V» vicino alla cresta della spalla destra di Ian. Anche al buio appariva vivida. «Una colomba bianca», disse, annuendo. Sembrava compiaciuto. «Questa sarà Rachel, per te.» Si pulì le dita su una roccia, poi si alzò e allungò i muscoli. Ian lo vide voltarsi e guardare verso est. Era ancora notte, ma l’aria era cambiata nei pochi minuti in cui erano rimasti seduti. La sagoma alta di Zio Jamie si stagliava netta sullo sfondo del cielo, mentre poco prima era sembrata parte della notte. «Un’ora, non di più», disse Jamie. «Prima mangia qualcosa, aye?» Con ciò, si voltò e tornò al torrente, e alle sue preghiere interrotte.

[sassenach77yle]

Outlander is also currently in production on a 10-episode eighth and final season. Newly joined cast includes Kieran Bew (House of the Dragon, Warrior) will be playing “Captain Charles Cunningham,” a retired British soldier, Frances Tomelty (Woman in the Wall, Catastrophe) will play his mother, “Elspeth Cunningham,” and Carla Woodcock (Such Brave Girls, A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder) joins in the role of “Amaranthus Grey,” a new member of the Grey family.