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let-the-dream-begin · 4 years ago

Text

Someday

In MOBY, Claire warns John about one Ezekial Richardson, who knows John's biggest secret. In this alternate ending story, Richardson reports John, and he is arrested.

Jamie plans a rescue and visits John in jail to give him the details, and Jamie must face his own demons and confront how John truly feels about him before it's too late.

All canon prior to the end of MOBY is still in place.

Read on AO3

Contains very vague references to BJR trauma and mild internalized homophobia.

February 1779

Jamie was living in a space between reality and memory. He’d seen the insides of quite enough prisons for one lifetime, prisons of all kinds, even since liberation from his longest stay to date. Yet something about this prison…maybe it was the stench, hitting him square in the face like a snapping branch on a tree, or maybe it was who it contained. Maybe it was the role reversal.

His former jailer in chains.

He’d become far more than that, and to think of him as such was beyond an insult. He was a friend, a very dear one. The sting of knowing he’d bedded Jamie’s wife had not left him; it festered under the surface like a wound bubbling just below the skin, waiting to burst.

And yet.

The keys in the jailer’s hand jangled, then clanked, and then the door was open. There were ten men in that particular cell, a significant distance between them and the man in question.

He looked like hell.

He was crumpled in the corner of the cell, hidden by shadow, but Jamie could still see the swelling in his face, dried blood. They’d beaten him senseless in there, and nobody had seen fit to stop it. He’d expected it, but the sight still made him sick to his stomach.

Men like John did not fare well in prison.

The jailer roughly seized John’s upper arm, and Jamie fought the instinct to finch when John winced in pain. He stumbled on his feet at first, and then he was walking forward, shoved every few feet. Jamie battled with his body once more, stifling the urge to seize John’s other arm and wrench him away from the jailer, drag him away himself, as gently as he could without raising suspicion. Instead, he followed the jailer into the small interrogation room.

“General Fraser of the Continental Army. I have strict orders from General Washington himself to interrogate one Lord John William Grey of His Majesty’s Army.”

The jailer did not see fit to let John sit in a chair; he shoved him into the hard ground with a sneer, and Jamie winced.

“The utmost discretion is necessary. He carries sensitive information that canna be overheard. Ye understand.”

“He’s all yours, General,” said the smarmy man. “Rest assured you can use any means necessary. He’s a dead man come sunup.”

“Aye. I thank ye.”

When the door was shut Jamie stepped forward and helped John to his feet.

“Christ, man,” he hissed under his breath, almost involuntary. Claire had wanted to come, had practically demanded it, but Jamie had firmly turned her down. In that very moment, Jamie regretted that. She could have helped him. He had another bloody eye, what looked to be a broken nose, and from the way he stood, several cracked ribs.

“Ye need Claire,” Jamie said, again entirely against his will. “I’ll have them fetch her.”

“No, Jamie. Don’t.”

Jamie led the man to one of the chairs.

“Ye’re in pain, John.”

John grimaced, and Jamie thought perhaps he was trying to smile. “That would be correct.”

“Then let me — ”

“It’s no worse than anything I’ve been dealt before,” he looked very pointedly at Jamie, and he almost — almost felt a rush of shame.

“At the very least, I’ll ask fer water. Clean yerself up.”

“If I go back there in better shape than I left,” John said, shifting in his chair and holding his side, “then they’ll just see to it that I’m bloodied again. And likely worse than they last left me.”

Heat colored Jamie’s cheeks, flaming rage. “I can have ye moved. I’ll fetch Claire, she’ll heal ye, then we’ll move ye to yer own cell. I’ll tell them that Washington wants ye unharmed until — ”

“How many times do you think you can use Washington to make orders before they ask for his written word?” John shook his head. “Don’t bother, Jamie. It isn’t worth it.”

“Those wounds, ye could…they could get infected,” he said with a curt nod. “Claire wouldna like that. Ye’ll get fevered and — ”

“And die?” John exhaled a short laugh. “I’m a dead man anyway.”

“No.” Jamie took three large strides to John’s chair, slapping a hand on the table. “Ye’re not. No’ if I have anything to say about it.”

John’s eyes glistened in a way that Jamie could see even through the swelling and the redness. “What’ll you do? Enact a daring rescue and abscond with me in the night?”

Jamie nodded. “Aye. I’ve already got the men willing.”

John was already shaking his head before Jamie finished. “You can’t do that.”

“Like hell I can’t.”

John gaped at him. “Do you know what I’m charged with?”

“Aye, of course I do.”

“Then you know what they’ll do to you if they know you’re behind this.”

Jamie only hesitated for a moment. “No. They’ve no proof.”

“They don’t need any, Jamie. Don't you see? It took one man’s word to sentence me to death. All they need is the slightest suspicion of something between us.”

“There’s nothing between us,” he growled.

“I am quite aware.”

Jamie blinked, his nostrils twitching. John’s tone was nowhere near accusatory, or self-pitying. He was stating a fact, a truth. Plain as anything.

“But that doesn’t matter,” he continued. “Men that break other men…men like me, out of jail…that doesn’t look good.”

Jamie remained frozen, hovering over John like a threat, his grip on the table tightening. He had nothing to say in rebuttal, nothing to undermine his argument. Because he was right. Jamie wanted to throw it back in his face, tell him he didn’t give a damn what anybody thought.

But he did.

The thought of anyone, anyone looking at him and thinking that…bile was already rising to his throat. His fingers itched to rub that spot on his torso, that shadow of a brand from all those years ago. If somebody looked at him thinking he was that way, it would be as if Claire had never removed that brand, and he ripped his shirt off and showed the world.

Showed the world that his manhood, his very self, was owned and wielded by another man.

Exhausted, Jamie finally moved, sitting down in the chair across the table from John with a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I canna let ye die.”

John looked like he wanted to laugh, and Jamie wanted to hit him for it. “Why not?”

“What the devil d’ye mean by that?”

This time he did laugh, a short, barking sound, followed by a wince and a clutch at his side. “You mean to tell me you haven’t wanted to kill me since the very moment you found out?”

Jamie swallowed. “Aye, I wanted to kill ye. At times I still do.” He took off his tricorn and set it on the table, then smoothed back the hair atop his head with a sigh. “But I didna want ye dead.”

John blinked at him dumbly.

“The thought of it fills me wi’ rage. Ye ken that well enough.” Jamie’s voice was low and rough. “I’ve enough in me to kill ye wi’ my bare hands. But why should I want ye dead? Ye’re no threat to my marriage.”

It was the God’s honest truth. Jamie knew Claire better than he knew himself, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was his and only his. And truthfully, if Jamie really dug into the depths of his heart, if Claire truly found happiness with another man, Jamie could never bring himself to kill him. He’d sooner cut out his own heart than cause her pain. If Claire left him, he’d rather kill himself than kill his rival. That would make it easier for both of them.

But it was not like that with John either.

And maybe that was why it enraged him so. There was no solution. There was no parting with Claire for her own happiness, no ending of his own suffering upon losing her. It had just happened, and he could not make sense of it.

We were both fucking you.

“No,” John said softly, interrupting Jamie’s train of thought. “I suppose I am not.”

“I canna say it more plainly. I’ll no’ let ye die. So,” Jamie said, sitting up straighter, “tonight, this is — ”

“Stop.”

“Shut up, man. Ye’re gonna — ”

“No, I am not.” His eyes flashed defiantly, enough to silence Jamie. “I won’t let you do this.”

“Why?” Jamie spat, his fists shaking the table. “Why is it that ye can just stand by and let them kill ye?”

“Because I would rather die than cause you any more pain.”

That froze Jamie.

Had he not just reasoned with himself that he would rather die than cause his wife pain? That was love. Making the ultimate sacrifice was for love.

What John…felt toward Jamie…

What Randall felt toward Jamie.

That was not love.

Vile, unnatural, inhuman, unbearable.

Not love.

And yet.

John wasn’t vile, inhuman, or unbearable. Even if his inclinations were unnatural…he was not a vile creature. In his blind rage in beating him senseless, Jamie had not been able to see that. But it was clear now.

But still, it could not be love. It didn’t make sense.

“Why?” Jamie found himself saying it before he could stop it.

This time, Jamie couldn’t tell if John was about to laugh or cry. His wrecked face combined with the stunned expression on his face would have been comical in any other situation.

“You…you know why.”

Jamie swallowed. “Do I?”

John shifted in his seat with a wince, clutching at another rib. “I refuse to have this conversation with you. I’m bloody enough as it is.”

“John.”

Jamie’s tone surprised even himself. John flicked his eyes to Jamie’s face, and Jamie wanted to wince at how bloody awful the man looked. Remembering that he’d left him in a similar state not too long ago was fully nauseating him now.

“Look, Jamie. I know you wouldn’t sentence me to death, but you don’t exactly…approve of me. I know it.”

Jamie’s jaw hardened. He wanted to correct him, wanted to be able to.

“As long as I’ve known you, you’ve thoroughly detested any reminders of…any of this. So please. Just…let it be.”

Jamie could have let it be. Perhaps he should have.

“If ye’re to let yourself die, I have to know.”

“Know what…?”

“Why me?”

John actually recoiled a bit in shock. His mouth gaped a bit, and then he wet his lips. “Let me ask you this, then. Why Claire?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you love Claire?”

There it was again. Love.

“That’s no’ what I — ”

“Answer me, Jamie. Why do you love Claire?”

Jamie hunched over the table again, clasping his hands on the surface. He could write novels detailing every single reason why she was perfect, every single thing he adored about her, every single time she had saved him, body and soul. He’d dictated all of this and more to Claire. But those things were for her. He would not betray that. And either way, it went beyond the physical reasons he loved and adored her. She fit with him like a limb, an organ, a heart. That he could not explain.

“It’s...bigger than me,” Jamie settled on. “The...the reason I get to love her is...not to be discerned on Earth. I just…do. The first time I saw her I just knew. I knew that she was made fer me. And every day since, the Lord has seen fit to prove me right.”

John nodded, his eyes gleaming. “Then you see? There’s no rhyme or reason to it.”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “To what?”

“To why.”

Jamie’s tongue flicked out thoughtfully, then disappeared just as quickly. “I dinna understand.”

“God…” John pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “You foolish, infuriating brute…” He took a deep breath, then put his hands on the table, looking at Jamie. “Please, don’t make me say it. I beg you. I can’t…” His voice caught in his throat. “I can’t bear it,” he finished weakly.

Jamie felt like he may be sick, and his heart was beating far too quickly.

“Did you think all this time that I just…” John shook his head, his eyes watering. “Did you think that was all you were to me?”

“I…I dinna ken…”

“If that’s all you were to me I’d have taken you up on that…that offer at Helwater without a second thought.”

Jamie’s heart skipped a beat. He had hoped John had forgotten about that particularly humiliating moment.

“But I couldn’t…do that to you. Because you…” His voice caught again, and he swallowed thickly. “I couldn’t do it.”

Because he loved you.

Jamie tried to shove the thought away, to kick it to death inside of him and burn it and stamp on the ashes. But it would not go away.

“I…I ken ye’re a good man, John.”

John nodded, not meeting Jamie’s eye.

I ken ye’re not Randall, was what he left unsaid.

He did know; he’d known it for a while before, but it was solidified when John had refused the offer. He was some sort of exception to the rule in Jamie’s head, the rule that Randall had set in stone for him.

Then they’d parted, and Jamie didn’t have to go mad with questioning it anymore. What Jamie had before him were facts: Jamie had a son, Jamie could not care for that son, John loved Jamie, and so John would move Heaven and Earth to care for that son. There was nothing more to it than a cause and effect, problem and solution. Nothing to question, nothing demanding answers.

But then he was back, in Jamaica, and answers were demanded again.

He was back in the Carolina wilderness, and that obligation had grown into a beautiful love between father and son that Jamie marveled to see.

He was back, and back, and back…

And now this.

And the thought of fate never bringing them together again was terrifying.

Jamie did not want to lose him.

And that realization was equally as terrifying.

Jamie remembered something he’d tried to force himself to forget for years upon years, repressed so thoroughly that he’d never even told Claire.

Jamie had kissed him.

After John had said no, he would not covet his body, Jamie had still, freely and willingly, kissed him.

Why?

And then, very suddenly, that didn’t matter, because John was weeping. Jamie sat stone-still, something unnamable dropping into his gut.

“Do you know that…” he said through his tears. “That they could remove the capital punishment, reduce my sentence to life in jail, if I…confess?”

“Confess? I thought they didna need proof?”

“No, I mean…before a jury…if I tell them that…that I did wrong, that I will change, if I beg for God’s forgiveness…” He took a stuttering breath that sounded painful. “If I tell them that they’re right.”

Jamie gaped. “What’re ye waiting for, man? Tell them!”

John looked thoroughly horrified.

“Look, John, I…I bear no judgement on how ye choose to live yer life. But if this can save ye…”

“You think I chose this?”

And for the first time, Jamie realized no, he had not.

“Why on Earth would I choose to be such an abomination?” It was clear to Jamie that John did not agree with the words he was saying; he was mocking those that labeled him as such, spitting it back in their faces. “Such a…a stain on society?”

Jamie swallowed. He had no answer.

“And I…I won’t ask for forgiveness. I refuse to ask forgiveness for something that is not wrong.”

“John…”

“If someone held a gun to your head and told you to swear before God that you did not love your wife with all your heart and soul, or else they would pull the trigger, could you do it? Could you stomach going on living having lied so thoroughly and terribly?”

Jamie’s wame twisted. He imagined, for just a moment, looking into Claire’s eyes and forsaking her, telling her he did not love her just to save his own hide, and he wanted to vomit. He couldn’t live with himself. He’d die of shame shortly after. He couldn’t look at her ever again.

And then, just as briefly, Jamie saw himself in the same situation, only looking in John’s eyes, and swearing that he never imagined kissing him again, that he hadn’t felt even the smallest twinge of disappointment when he’d turned him down.

“No,” Jamie said simply, quietly. “I couldna do it.”

And all of a sudden, he understood. He understood John so deeply, so painfully deeply, that he almost broke down and wept with him.

Instead, Jamie did something that he had threatened John’s life for doing many years ago.

He reached across the space between them, and he took John’s hand.

John stared at their joined hands, blinking several times, his mouth hanging open. Then he looked up at Jamie, his brow furrowed.

“Please, John,” Jamie begged, more fervently than he’d meant to. “Please let me help ye. Ye need not forsake who ye are in a court of law. But let me get ye out of here.” He blinked several times, feeling his eyes burning. “Please.”

John wet his lips, looked down at their hands again, then back up at Jamie. “Don’t do this.” Jamie felt him try to pull his hand away, but he faltered. “Don’t…don’t use…this…to try and get me to agree. That’s…that’s cruel, Jamie…”

“I’m not.” Jamie insisted, squeezing his hand. “I wouldna do that.”

“Then what…are you doing?”

“I’m trying to save the life of a friend that has saved mine and that of my family more times than I can count,” Jamie said. “Ye have to let me help ye, man. I canna live wi’ myself if I just let ye walk to the gallows.”

“And I cannot live with myself if we’re hung side by side because you tried to stop it.”

Jamie felt his face getting hot, flush with dread, terror, and horrible, piercing sadness.

Jamie knew John, and he also knew himself. If John wanted to die to spare Jamie, then he would. And Jamie could not betray that. It was not in his moral code to go against the wishes of a dying man.

But damn him if it didn’t hurt to his very core.

John covered Jamie’s hand with his other hand, squeezing. “Please, Jamie. Don’t force me to put you in danger. Please.”

Like a compass drawn to true north, Jamie found his other hand drawn to the rest of their three hands.

“I will promise ye.” Jamie’s voice was hoarse. “If ye truly wish it, then I willna interfere.”

“I truly wish it.”

Whatever final dash of hope remained left Jamie’s body like the removal of a knife. “Aye. Then I promise.”

John lifted their joined hands and fervently pressed his lips there, and Jamie expected the urge to pull away, to run, to curse…but it didn’t come.

All he felt was…aching. Such deep, utter, painful aching.

“Thank you,” John whispered into their hands, his eyes locked on Jamie’s. “Thank you.”

A long silence passed between them, and all that time, it never once occurred to Jamie to let go of John. John wept quietly all the while, trembling ever-so-slightly, and Jamie’s eyes burned with the need to cry. But he did not.

“Tell Willie for me…” John began, and he might as well have cut Jamie open and gutted him there. The lad would never forgive him. Either of them.

“Tell him I’m sorry.” John sniffled, blinking away more tears. “Tell him that I ordered you to say this; tell him to look to you for any guidance he needs. Tell him I trust you.” Jamie nodded solemnly, painfully aware of the blessing that John was bestowing upon him.

All those years ago, Jamie blessed John with his blood. And now, John was blessing Jamie with a piece of his heart to keep safe.

Their son.

“And tell him I love him,” John finished, his voice breaking on the last word. “That I’ll...I’ll always be his Papa.”

If Jamie had been in pain before, he was in agony now. How...how could he tell Willie?

Before Jamie could find the words to express this, to beg John to reconsider for Willie’s sake, John spoke again.

“You know, I…” John bit his lip, as if he wanted to take back even saying anything, but unable to stop the flood now that it had started. “When I had Hector…”

The lad he’d lost at Culloden. His “particular friend.”

“We thought we could change everything.” He laughed ruefully, sadly. “We thought we were the exception to everything. I was lucky I wasn’t executed then for openly weeping on his body. It must have been so terribly obvious and I…I didn’t care. I just…I just wanted to…live and…be happy…”

Jamie tried to imagine it, and then realized he didn’t have to. His heart had died that day, too. But the difference was Jamie had had his returned to him. John had not.

“I wasn’t fool enough to think I could have that a second time, no matter how much I…” He stopped himself, “cared for you.” He swallowed. “I’d grown up by then. Learned…the ways of the world.”

“Do you think…” John went on as if he wished he wouldn’t. “Can you…imagine a world where it’s different…?”

Jamie’s mind immediately went to Claire’s world, Brianna’s world. The future.

“I don’t…I can’t bear to die thinking that people will forever be executed for…loving.”

That word, that small but painfully significant word, die, landed like a blow to Jamie’s stomach, as if he’d forgotten.

He looked into John’s eyes, hardly recognizable through the swelling from hateful fists and tears of grief. Jamie could ease that burden for him. He could tell him what he knew of Claire’s world. He could tell him that someday, it would be different.

“Ye dinna have to,” Jamie whispered, leaning forward. “Because the world willna always be so.”

John’s brow furrowed. “You know this for a fact?” His voice was full of doubtful sarcasm.

“I do.” He leaned forward even further. “There isna time to explain the how, or the why, but Claire, she…she knows things. She…she can…see. She can see beyond our lifetimes, beyond our daughter’s lifetime, beyond our grandchildren’s lifetimes, beyond their grandchildren’s lifetimes.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Your daughter has tried this on me before...as has your wife...”

Jamie shook his head, not having realized John had perhaps already heard the term time-traveler. “Listen to me, man. It’s true, all of it, everything they told ye. Claire, and Brianna, they have seen a world where…where women sit in university wi’ men, learning alongside them. A world where colored men and women havena been in chains fer generations, where they work and learn alongside anyone else, as equals. A world where…where people like you, men and women, will…stand at a great Stone Wall, and…and begin a revolution, much like our revolution here, a revolution to be…to be free to…live, and be happy, as you say.”

Jamie had recalled all his wife and daughter had said with as much clarity as he could.

“I don’t…” John shook his head. “I don’t understand…”

“Ye dinna have to,” Jamie said urgently. “Ye just…ye must ken the truth of what I tell ye. I wouldna lie to ye now, man. Everything I’ve told ye is true, all of it. When the world is…older, and wiser…life will be fairer.” He squeezed harder on John’s hands until he was sure they’d go numb. “I swear it.”

“Someday…” John said, his stare blank, his eyes glassy.

“Aye, John. Someday.”

——

By the time I had finished seeing to the abdominal pain of one of the other boarders at the inn, administered the proper treatment, and logged it all into my medical journal, only two hours had passed. With nothing else to do with myself while Jamie was gone, I tried reading, but my mind could not focus on the words in front of me. I could think of nothing but the state John must be in right now, whether or not Jamie’s plan would work. My thoughts raced over and over in my fevered brain until I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I took to pacing the room. When the door opened, with no warning of Jamie’s arrival, being that his feet never made any bloody noise, I had no conception of how much time had passed, how long I had spent pacing.

I stopped, and I watched with bated breath as Jamie shut the door behind him. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to stop my trembling.

“Everything went well, then? You were able to see him? Tell him everything?”

And then Jamie turned around, and I felt something tear through my chest.

“What happened?” I rushed forward, my eyes raking over every inch of his face, my hands squeezing his shoulders. “Oh, God, is he already…? Did they…? Jamie, look at me! Talk to me!”

I resisted the urge to slap him across the face just before he sank to his knees at my feet, myself alone entirely unable to hold him up. I felt bile rise in my throat as I threw myself to the floor to meet him.

“Jamie…Jamie, what…?”

He was weeping, sobbing.

Completely bewildered, I said nothing more; I pulled him into my arms, pressing his head to my breast, and he threw his arms around my waist so forcefully it knocked the wind out of me. I rocked him wordlessly, without even thinking to do so, stroking his hair, kissing the crown of his head. I hadn’t seen him cry like this since he’d broken down at the sight of Brianna’s photograph, so to see him like this was incredibly jarring. It made me want to cry, even not knowing the reason why.

He carried on, and I comforted him, pushing down everything in me that screamed to demand answers. When I found myself in such a state, Jamie never demanded anything more than I was ready to give, and I would return this, no matter how difficult it was for me.

Just when I thought I might suffocate from his hold around my middle, Jamie finally spoke, garbled and muffled into my dress.

“He’s going tae hang.”

My throat would not produce sound for a moment. “But you…the plan…you told him…?”

“He doesna want to be saved.”

“What? Is he mad?”

“He willna put us in danger. He doesna want to be saved. He’s going tae hang…”

Jamie, my Jamie, my Highland warrior, my mighty general, sounded like a broken, shattered little boy. And before I could think to process why he was so shattered, I felt my own heart breaking. How could this be? How could John just resign himself to die?

He was going to die!

I thoroughly fell apart myself, the thought of John being torn from me just as I'd found myself a fond and true friend in him enough to break my heart.

The thought didn't occur to me until later, much later, around three in the morning, Jamie and I both wide awake in our bed at the inn, unable to sleep, knowing what awaited us at dawn. I was too distraught for my own loss, busied with crying and mourning preemptively, to entertain the thought that something had happened.

It did not make sense for Jamie to grieve John as deeply as he was. Not unless something had changed. When I asked, gentle as I could, while running my fingers through Jamie's curls, our foreheads pressed together, I watched more tears leak out of his eyes and onto the pillows beneath our heads.

“He loves me.”

I bit my tongue to stop myself from saying of course he does, looking at every inch of Jamie’s face to discern any other hint of where this was going. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

“Oh, Jamie...you never understood, did you…?”

He fell apart again, clinging to me for dear life, and I cried silently into his hair.

Jamie couldn’t bear the insinuation that John and I had had sex because John wanted to have sex with Jamie. Jamie couldn’t bear any insinuation about John’s desire for Jamie. His knee-jerk reaction to such things was similar to the shell-shock I’d seen during and right after the war in my own time, similar to Jamie’s own shell-shock after Wentworth.

So somehow, John’s love, the depth and purity of it, its enduring power, its sacredness, had entirely eluded Jamie, because he’d been too busy looking at it all completely wrong.

A million questions swirled in my mind and made their way to my tongue, but I swallowed them down. It would do no good. It would only serve to bring Jamie more pain. What had transpired belonged to John and Jamie alone, the same way what had transpired months ago belong to John and I alone.

“I told him,” Jamie began, and my stomach lurched, my mind jumping to a conclusion it had no right to reach.

“About yer future.”

Oh.

Why would he do that…?

“About the Stone Wall.”

My mind swam with confusion, and then when it clicked, my whole chest ached like it was on fire from within.

“I had to tell him…promise him that…someday…”

He couldn’t go on.

“I understand,” I whispered hoarsely. I fervently kissed his head, pressing him deeper into the crook of my neck.

Brianna had mentioned the Stonewall riots in passing one singular time in Jamie’s presence, and Jamie had looked between her and I skeptically, listening, but not contributing to the conversation. I hadn’t expected him to. He’d hummed thoughtfully once, and it was dropped, the topic of conversation shifting elsewhere. I hadn’t realized he’d retained enough to detail it to someone else.

I hadn’t realized…that he’d cared. Cared enough to remember.

I swallowed more tears, stifling a sob bubbling in my throbbing chest.

“I’m so sorry, Jamie.” He clung to me, still weeping. “I…I don’t…I don’t know what to say…”

It was true. I had no idea what John was to Jamie anymore, and perhaps I never would. And that didn’t bother me as much as I’d once thought it would.

“Just…” he said, inhaling slowly with a great shudder. “Tell me…tell me more…about someday.”

After pressing another kiss to his head, I did.

——

I used to believe

In the days I was naive

That I'd live to see

A day of justice dawn

And though I will die

Long before that morning comes

I'll die while believing still

It will come when I am gone

Someday

When we are wiser

When the world's older

When we have learned

I pray

Someday we may yet live

To live and let let live

Someday

Life will be fairer

Need will be rarer

Greed will not pay

Godspeed

This bright millennium

On it's way

Let it come someday

When the world's older

When things have changed

Someday

These dreams will all be real

Till then, we'll

Wish upon the moon

Change will come

One day

Someday

Soon

#outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #lord john grey #jamie fraser #john x jamie #MOBY #Written in My Own Heart's Blood #PLI completed fic masterposts

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let-the-dream-begin · 4 years ago

Text

“To Be Slowly Born”

Part 3 of the “Ships in the Night” universe

Read the rest on AO3

Murtagh had been right about her eyes.

Jamie, great, large man that he was, collapsed to his knees with a thud, never for a moment tearing his eyes away from her.

My child.

A baby girl with copper hair meets her father for the first time.

——

A baby girl with copper hair meets her father for the first time.

Murtagh stood in the quiet stillness of the L’Hopital graveyard, his teeth clenched painfully, his knuckles white at his sides, his eyes locked on the simple stone.

Claire Fraser

1715 - 1744

“She was…alone, then?”

“Not entirely, Monsieur,” the soothing tones of the one called Mother Hildegarde filled his ears. “We prayed over her daily, nightly. I myself hardly ever left her side.”

Murtagh nodded, his throat constricting any words he attempted.

“And she would not let go of the child,” she continued. “She held her in her arms until she could not any longer. She was…we were all worried the child would be lost.

“The boy was with her as well,” she said softly. “The one called Fergus. He brought her flowers.”

Christ.

Murtagh hadn’t thought it could sting any more, but then the thought of that wee lad holding her hand as she wasted away in front of him nearly had him gasping for air. He was a pesky wee thing, always finding some way to get under Murtagh’s skin. But the thought of him experiencing such horrors…

“Was he…there? When she…?”

“Non, Monsieur.”

Murtagh wasn’t sure if that was a comfort or another dagger to his chest.

“He was here, but he was asleep. It was the middle of the night,” Mother Hildegarde explained. “I was praying over her, she’d already been given her last rites, she and the child. She was growing weaker by the second. I knew she would be gone soon. But something strange happened…just before.”

“What’s that?”

“She was looking at the child, always, of course, but something…changed, suddenly. She seemed to come alive again…for the briefest moment I thought we had been granted a miracle.”

Murtagh looked up from the delicate lettering of her name for the first time since laying eyes on it, bushy brows furrowed together as he looked upon the old nun.

“How d’ye mean…?”

“The color returned to her cheeks, her eyes opened up and sparkled, and she smiled.” The woman’s eyes seemed to sparkle themselves, in quiet amazement at the brief miracle she’d witnessed. “She looked at the child as if it were her first time laying eyes on her, and said: ‘My God…it was her.’”

Murtagh felt all the more confused.

“Who was who…? What does it mean…?”

“I do not know, Monsieur, I wish I had the chance to ask her. Before I could, her eyes slid shut, and she leaned back, all her strength leaving her again. I heard the softest whisper, the last thing she ever said: ‘She’ll be alright.’” Her eyes held calm seas of sadness as she went on: “And then…she was gone.”

Murtagh sighed heavily, running a hand over his face, taking with it several lingering tears.

“She…is alright? The bairn?”

“Oui, Monsieur. That is a miracle that did last,” she confirmed. “Madame de La Tour came for her. She helped with the burial as well. She brought us the dress she is buried in.”

As if he’d forgotten, the reminder that she was indeed buried beneath his feet nearly had him crumbling to the ground.

“As far as I know, she is still in her care,” she went on. “As is the boy.”

“I…I thank ye, Mother. Ye’ve been…most kind.”

She nodded solemnly. “I will leave you now. My deepest sympathies. She was…a remarkable woman.”

“Aye,” Murtagh breathed hoarsely. “She was.”

He lowered himself to one knee in front of the short headstone, crossing himself and kissing his fingertips.

“Oh, lass…” he muttered, his shoulders trembling. “I ken I never said it, and I’ve no reason other than my being a damned fool…but I loved ye, Claire. Ye were my own lass, sure as Jamie is my own lad.”

Christ…Jamie…

How am I gonnae tell him…?

——

He didn’t believe him.

Rather, he refused to.

Murtagh told him in the carriage that was taking them directly from the Bastille to L’Hopital. All he said, or rather growled, was a terrifying:

“No.”

It wasn’t until Murtagh dragged him through the graveyard and practically shoved him in front of the stone that something finally registered. He fell to his knees at the sight of her name carved in stone, his eyes unblinking. His hands fisted the grass, his fingers drilling holes into the dirt, as if he could rip the ground apart and drag her back to him.

“Her last…” Jamie stuttered, his beard trembling fiercely. “Her last…moments. Tell me.”

Murtagh stood behind him, not touching him, calmly relaying everything the sisters had told him: Claire had spent every last conscious moment breathing life into their child, singing to her, feeding her. She didn’t let go of her until life was gone from her arms, and she passed with a smile on her face.

Jamie didn’t seem to be listening. He was dragging himself on all fours closer to the headstone until his knees touched it, and he began running his fingers over the lettering of her name.

“There’s something ye’re no’ saying.”

It made Murtagh jump.

“Tell me. Now.”

Murtagh swallowed thickly, knowing full well that what he’d deliberately left out should have stayed left out.

“The sisters said that she…she cried out to ye. In her fits and fevers.”

Murtagh may as well have plunged a dirk through his stomach; Jamie doubled over as if he had.

The great man trembled violently, bringing his forehead to rest on the cool marble of her headstone. He gripped the edges with white knuckles, the way he’d seen him grip the lass’s shoulders.

Oh, Jamie, lad…

And then he screamed.

——

After Murtagh had pulled some strings and granted some favors, the King had been quite gracious in allowing them a few weeks to get themselves together before the banishment from France was put into full effect. Time was running out, however, and there were several issues left unaddressed.

Murtagh had assumed that Fergus would be coming with them regardless; even before this whole ordeal he’d fully expected to find the lad bounding about Lallybroch when he returned from his now abandoned wine venture in Portugal.

None of that mattered now anyway.

Murtagh had already thought ahead of perhaps signing oaths of loyalty to the king of England, lest Prince Charles try anything foolish that would endanger Lallybroch or take Jamie away from his child.

To Hell with that blathering fool now.

But it would appear Jamie didn’t need to be given a reason to be away from his child.

The lad was a ghost, a shadow moving from room to room through Jared’s house. No one could blame him, of course. The Bastille had left him thin as a corpse, and it seemed to be getting worse since he’d gotten out, much to Suzette’s dismay.

Murtagh had fully expected the lad to demand to see his child much in the same way he’d demanded to see Claire’s body, her grave. He expected him to sleep on the floor of the nursery, or even never put her down at all.

But he didn’t even acknowledge that she existed.

Murtagh made it a point to spend time with the wee thing every day, which Suzette found endlessly endearing (not that either of them had the heart to pick up where they’d left off after everything, but there was still a tender fondness there). The more time he spent with the bairn, the more it gnawed at him that Jamie would not. Murtagh was already in love with the lass, had been since he’d laid eyes on her and seen the son and the daughter of his heart in her every feature. She was precious to him.

And every day that passed where Jamie would not appreciate the gift he’d been given, Murtagh saw more and more red.

Jamie was wallowing alone in his bedroom, pointedly not the same bedroom he’d once shared with his wife. The bairn was crying, and had Murtagh not heard the wet-nurse already scuttling to tend to her, he would’ve been up to the third floor two steps at a time himself.

And yet Jamie remained in his chair by the window, staring unblinking at specks of dust on the curtains.

“D’ye no’ hear her, lad?” Murtagh suddenly burst, unable to keep it in any longer. “Is that it?”

Jamie didn’t move, didn’t make a sound.

“Does it no’ bother ye even a bit to hear yer child cry and no’ even ken what she looks like?”

“Leave me be.”

“No, Jamie. I willna any longer. Enough is enough.”

Jamie abruptly stood up, every vein in his neck protruding, freshly shaved face red as a beet. “I said, leave me be.” His voice was gravelly, low and dangerous.

“Have ye gone daft?” Murtagh went on, regardless of the fact that Jamie was more than capable of killing him with his bare hands. “Have ye plain forgotten that ye’ve a daughter sleeping above yer head?”

Murtagh jabbed a finger upward at the ceiling to emphasize his point.

Jamie braced himself on the wall with one hand.

“What d’ye want, Jamie?” Murtagh said bluntly. “Ye’ve been home fer two weeks now and ye’ve avoided the nursery like the bloody plague.”

Jamie’s jaw was hard, his eyes unfocused, unblinking, staring at the floor.

“D’ye no’ wish to keep her?” Murtagh continued, his voice harsh and accusing. “D’ye wish tae leave her wi’ strangers, never to ken her father?”

Jamie’s face softened a bit at that, but he didn’t move. “Perhaps that’s best.”

“Ye canna be serious!” Murtagh shouted, his face redder than it had been in a long time. “Ye’d truly abandon yer flesh and blood? Claire’s flesh and blood?”

“Don’t.” Jamie finally turned, throwing his arm down from the wall, the vein under his eye straining against red skin. “Do not say her name.”

“What would she say, Jamie? To ken that ye’ve rejected the last thing she ever gave ye?”

“No! Enough!” Jamie roared, his hands clenching into tight fists.

“What is it? Can ye no’ bear that she’s the thing that killed her?” Murtagh dared a step closer, despite knowing it could end with his face bloodied. “D’ye curse the bairn fer taking yer wife away?”

Jamie’s face grew impossibly redder, one fist loosening to run his fingers through his hair, trembling like mad.

“Answer me, lad! D’ye accuse yer child of killing her?”

“No…God, no…”

Rather than the anger, the boiling, shouting rage Murtagh had expected, Jamie’s voice was cracked and small, as if the anger was swelling up in his throat and then dying on his lips.

“Then what, Jamie?” Murtagh pleaded, taking more steps toward him. “What is stopping ye from holding yer child?”

“I canna face her!” he suddenly exploded, fist slamming into the table at his side, knocking over the vase, landing in shattered pieces at his feet. “I canna look at her wee face and ken that I…I…”

“That you what, Jamie?”

“D’ye no’ see…? The bairn didna kill her…I did.”

Murtagh was taken aback, stunned into silence.

“I dinna deserve to hold her in my arms after I’ve taken her mother away!” Hot tears were streaming down his face. He was holding his hands uselessly in front of him in little cups, as if picturing what it would be like to hold her, and yet trembling, as if the thought horrified him.

“These hands…dinna deserve to touch that sweet wee thing…it’s my fault that she started bleeding in that field…”

“Jamie…”

“And then I wasna there!” He brought his shaking hands to claw at his face, as if to cover his tears, and yet unable to cease punishing himself. “She screamed…God…she screamed my name…and I couldna go to her…and they took me away…and she was all alone…” A sob tore through him, and he took a deep, shuddering, sputtering breath. “She brought my child into the world, and she died wi’out a comfort in the world…”

“She wasna alone, lad.”

“No one was even there to name the bairn!” He exploded again, fists colliding with the wood with a force so great that Murtagh thought the table itself would shatter. “Her own mother didna have the strength to do it, because of what I did to her, and her own father wasna there because…” His voice was getting thinner and thinner, as if he was running out of air in his lungs, until it finally only came out as a hiss.

“Jamie…ye couldnae known that they were in danger.” Murtagh chanced another step closer. He could reach out and touch him if he wanted, but he didn’t.

“Don’t ye see…?” Jamie hissed, his face itself trembling now like his hands. “I canna…I canna look at her, a goistidh…I failed her. I failed her all the months her mother carried her, I failed her the moment she came into the world, and I will keep failing her fer the rest of her puir life.” He ran out of air again, and Murtagh genuinely thought the lad would collapse.

“Claire is dead,” he said woodenly, as if to convince himself more than anything else. “She is gone, and she is never coming back. My child is motherless because I was a selfish, worthless fool.” More tears spilled out of his eyes as he closed them for a moment, breathing. “She deserves to be brought up by people that havena hurt her as I have. By people that…that didna kill her mother.”

Murtagh’s chest ached more fiercely than it had in years, perhaps for the first time since poor Ellen left this Earth. He’d never known such pain as losing her, until seeing the pain of her son losing the love of his life.

He had no words, nothing to say that would convince Jamie to let go of his guilt. There was no denying that perhaps if the lass had gotten help sooner instead of rushing to the duel, things may have been different. No matter how he worded any rebuttal he tried, it would not ease the lad. She was gone, and he would feel that loss for the rest of his life.

But the child was not gone. And Murtagh would be damned if he let her be lost to him as well.

Only one thing came to mind to say:

“She has her eyes, Jamie.”

The lad staggered back like he’d been delivered a blow to the gut, his eyes shutting in pain.

“The color is exactly the same. Couldna tell the difference if ye looked at just her wee eyes.”

Jamie exhaled sharply, bracing himself on the table.

“What…what else…?” he stammered, eyes still closed.

“She’s started smiling.” Despite his sorrow, Murtagh’s chest warmed at the thought of her sweet wee smile. “Sweetest thing ye’ve ever seen. Does it in her sleep, as well.”

Jamie’s face screwed up, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

“She has ears that poke out just the smallest bit. Tiny wee things.”

Jamie finally opened his eyes, swimming with turmoil and hurt.

“She’s beautiful, lad.” Murtagh didn’t expect the tightness in his own voice, but he couldn't say he was surprised. “Fergus, the wee gomeril, is quite attached.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, thinking. “If ye leave her behind, ye’d have to leave the lad, as well. He willna be parted from her.”

Jamie remained unchanged, lost in thought.

“Will ye leave wi’out saying goodbye to the lad? He’s grown quite fond of ye.”

Still silent.

“And the bairn,” he proceeded with caution. “Ye ought to bid her farewell as well. If no’ fer yer own sake, then fer Claire’s.” He waited for a reaction, for the anger he’d been met with the first time he said her name, but it didn’t come.

“I dinna begrudge ye wanting to leave her after what’s happened,” Murtagh said, despite how the very marrow of his bone argued against it. “But ye ought to respect yer wife’s memory. Just the same as ye bid farewell to her grave, ye ought to bid farewell to the only living piece of her left. That’s all.”

Jamie remained silent for a long time.

“Aye,” he said finally. “I’ll say goodbye. Fer…” His voice failed him for a moment, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Fer Claire.”

He hadn’t said no, nor had he acknowledged that once he’d seen her, he’d never be able to leave her. Which Murtagh knew to be true.

Apparently the lad’s resolve was not as strong as he’d like to think.

Murtagh hesitantly closed the rest of the space between them and put his arm around Jamie’s shoulders. “Come on, a bhalaich.”

——

Jamie had listened when Murtagh spoke of the bairn. He’d heard well enough about her eyes, her smile.

But, God, words could never compare.

He’d opened the door to see Fergus sitting on the rug in the center of the room, waving a rattle over the squirmy little thing laying there.

Fergus looked up, freezing immediately in shock. His blue eyes got impossibly wider.

“Milord?”

Jamie could not speak.

Christ, look at that hair…

The squirmy little thing made a grunt of disapproval, apparently missing the rattle that Fergus had let fall limp at his side.

“Go on, Jamie,” Murtagh whispered.

Jamie could not move.

“It is alright, Milord,” Fergus said softly, sitting back on his heels. “She is healthy now.” He scooped her up and cradled her like it was the most natural thing in the world. “See?”

Oh…My God…

Murtagh had been right about her eyes.

Jamie, great, large man that he was, collapsed to his knees with a thud, never for a moment tearing his eyes away from her.

My child.

“Bernadette taught me how to hold her,” Fergus said proudly. Bernadette was the wet-nurse Suzette had sent for when she’d learned that Claire was not coming home with the baby.

“Do you want me to show you?”

The wee thing shoved a little fist in her mouth, and Fergus laughed, bouncing her a little.

Still unable to speak, Jamie just nodded.

Fergus stood up carefully, holding her close as he got to his feet. He slowly crossed the room to where Jamie knelt, nearly as tall on his knees as the lad’s full height.

“You must mind her head, Bernadette says,” Fergus recited as he transferred her weight into Jamie’s arms. “In the…the creux de ton coude.”

As the weight of her downy soft head settled into the crook of his elbow, Jamie’s entire world shifted.

Lord…Oh, Christ…

She was staring up at him with those eyes, her eyes, wide and curious. Her wee fist wasn’t in her mouth anymore; instead, her lips were parted in a sweet ‘o’ shape, as if she were gaping at him.

He stared back at her, hardly breathing, unblinking. Christ, she was so tiny. He had never held a living thing so tiny in his life. So tiny, so beautiful, and so his.

And hers.

Unprompted, her lips curved into a gummy smile.

Jamie fell apart.

His entire body wracked with guttural sobs, his mighty frame trembling as he fought to keep his arms steady, to keep her steady. He found himself rocking back and forth, as if by instinct.

He could easily cradle her with one arm, so he did, and he used his free hand to sculpt the lines of her squishy face, to wrap her beautiful red curls around his fingers, to stroke soothing patterns on her impossibly tiny cheeks.

“Oh…mo chridhe…” he croaked, stroking her hair. “My bonny wee lass…” He sniffled pathetically. “I’m…I’m sorry, m’annsachd…Christ, I’m so, verra sorry…” He took great, shuddering, heaving breaths as he lifted her closer to his face. “Ye’re sae beautiful, a leannan…A Dhiah…” He pressed his trembling lips to her little forehead. She was so warm, her skin so soft, and she smelled like Heaven.

He hadn’t realized until just then, but Murtagh and the lad had long since gone, and he was alone with his daughter.

“I’ll never let ye go again, mo chridhe. Never, ever again.” He buried his nose in her curls, inhaling her sweet scent. “You are blood of my blood and bone of my bone. I’ll no’ be parted from ye. My sweet little lass…”

She cooed, reaching up to attach her little hands to his wild curls, curls that matched her own. Somehow, despite the jagged, sharp pain cutting through his chest, he laughed. It sounded more like a snuffling grunt, but the giddiness he felt was unmistakable.

“D’ye like yer Da’s hair, then?” he said softly, pressing his head down further so she could reach better. God, she could pull each strand out from the root, and he’d let her if it would bring her joy. She gurgled and tugged gently, not strong enough yet to hurt him.

“Ye hear that, lass? I’m…I’m yer Da.” His voice choked up again. “Aye, that’s right. I’m yer Da, and I will protect ye, always. I will never, never let anything happen to ye. I swear it on my life.”

She grew tired of his hair and moved on to grabbing at his cheeks, which made his eyes water fiercely.

“Aye…I’m here, m’annsachd. I’m no’ going anywhere, ever again. I’m…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed. “I’m sorry I didna protect yer Ma. I swore an oath before God to protect her…and I failed. But I will not fail you. Aye, I already have by no’ protecting yer mother…but, by God, I’ll spend the rest of my life making up fer it.” He stroked the back of one of her hands with his pinky, overwhelmed by just how tiny her wee fingers were.

“I’ll no’ fail ye again,” he said solemnly, looking into her honey eyes.

“Oh, Claire…” He started weeping again, pressing the wee thing into his chest. “Oh, mo ghraidh…Angel that ye are…you are my gift that keeps giving.” He could feel the little weight getting heavier with sleep, so he leaned against the wall and laid her on his chest, watching in complete amazement as she nuzzled into his sark.

“Thank ye…fer her.” He laid his head into the wall, craning his neck and looking upward. “Forgive me, Claire, I’m…I’m a coward. I’m sae weak wi’out ye,” he said helplessly, tasting his own tears. “I will be strong fer her, I swear it. She’ll no doubt have yer strength, mo ghraidh. Maybe she can make me strong again, as you did.” He silenced himself for a moment, hearing for the first time the sound of his daughter’s snores, her deep, sleepy breaths.

“I dinna deserve her, I ken that. Like I didna deserve you. And she deserves better than me. But she deserves to know you, her mother.” He swallowed thickly again. “So she will. She will know ye, and she will love ye. And she’ll know how ye loved her. How ye still do.”

He sighed, feeling his tears leak down his temples and into his hair. “I will never stop trying to be worthy of yer daughter, Claire.”

The wee girl in question whimpered and smushed her face into his chest, turning her head to lay the other cheek on him in her sleep. His heart felt like it would either burst out of his chest or break into a million jagged fragments. He pressed a fervent kiss to the crown of her head.

“Our wee Faith.”

#outlander #outlander au #jamie fraser #claire fraser #claire beauchamp #faith fraser #murtagh fitzgibbons fraser #outlander fanfiction #outlander fanfic #PLI completed fic masterposts

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let-the-dream-begin · 4 years ago

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Hogmanay Hauntings: Fic Masterpost

●

Chapter 1 – Past: Creideamh

Chapter 2 – Present: Sorcha

Chapter 3 – Future: M'annsachd

#PLI completed fic masterposts #christmas carol crossover #outlander christmas #canon compliant #jamie fraser #claire fraser #fergus fraser #faith fraser #brianna fraser #brianna randall #12 Days OL Ficmas

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let-the-dream-begin · 4 years ago

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“Better to Have Loved and Lost”

Part 2 of the “Ships in the Night” universe

Read on AO3

Claire straightened her jacket and followed Mrs. Graham out of the kitchen and through the hallway.

Standing near the front door was a tall, beautiful girl with a wild mane of bright copper hair. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen. Her ears stuck out through her curls just a little. Her eyes were slanted like a cat, but it was their color that truly caught her off guard.

They're exactly the same as mine.

——

A young woman with copper hair visits the Reverend Wakefield's home to speak to a Claire Randall.

——

Claire self-consciously rubbed the back of her neck, as if to hide her palms from Mrs. Graham’s pondering gaze. Something about what she’d said, the way she said it…it had her feeling quite uneasy. She’d never put any stock in superstition, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Mrs. Graham’s words had a ring of prophecy.

Frank and the Reverend were going on about some Duke of Sandringham and his possible connections to Frank’s ancestor and the Jacobite cause. Claire could hardly hear them over the ringing in her ears.

The Reverend made a loud clattering noise at the china cabinet, and just as Mrs. Graham opened her mouth to scold him, there was a faint knocking.

“Is that the front door?” the Reverend said.

“Aye, must be. I’ll go see about that.” She paused in the doorway to add: “Stand away before ye do some permanent damage.”

Claire chuckled as the woman shuffled off. Frank took a few steps toward the table, grinning ear to ear. “I think we’re getting somewhere at last.”

“I’m really glad to hear it.” She smiled sweetly, pushing herself up out of her chair. “But I think I shall take my leave.

“Oh, so soon?” the Reverend said.

“Yes, I feel a bath is in order.”

“Aye, of course. Well, I hope you’ll join us for Samhain tomorrow night,” the Reverend said warmly.

“What, the pagan festival?” Claire, teased, leaning on the back of her chair with a hand on her hip. “Reverend Wakefield, you do astonish me.”

He chuckled at himself. “I love a good ghost story as much as the next fellow.”

Claire laughed softly, crossing around the table to kiss Frank goodbye. “Take your time darling, but do try to get home before the storm breaks.” She cupped his neck and leaned in, but was stopped.

“Mrs. Randall?”

Claire peered around Frank toward the doorway, seeing Mrs. Graham had returned.

“What is it?”

“There’s someone here to see you,” Mrs. Graham said.

“To see me?” Claire took her hands off of Frank and stepped around him toward Mrs. Graham, her brow furrowing.

“Aye, a young woman. Didna say what she wanted.”

Frank gave her a pensive look, and she shrugged lightly. “I suppose I should see what she wants, then.” Claire straightened her jacket and followed Mrs. Graham out of the kitchen and through the hallway.

They're exactly the same as mine.

“Um…hello,” Claire said uneasily. “Can I help you with something?”

Despite her size, the girl seemed to shrink right before her eyes. “Ye’re Claire Randall, then?” Her voice was small and timid, not at all matching her queenly elegance.

“Yes. Do I know you?” Claire peered at her through narrowed eyes.

The girl swallowed and started wringing her hands. “Nae, ye don’t. And I dinna ken you either, though I feel as if I do.”

“What do you mean…?” Claire took a few steps closer.

“Could we…is there somewhere we could sit?” the girl stammered.

“Um, yes…follow me.”

Claire led her into the parlor, unsure why she was leading this stranger further inside without a second thought. There was something familiar about her, and she supposed she should at least allow her to explain herself. They entered the parlor, and Claire gestured for the girl to sit. They both sat on opposite couches, facing each other.

“I’m…I’m sorry if this is a bit strange, Mistress,” the girl began. “I ken yer name and such because…my father,” she cleared her throat again, always fidgeting. “Ye saved him. In the war.”

Oh.

“He told me that he was at death’s door when a healer — a-a nurse fought tooth and nail to save him.” She peered up at her with those unsettlingly familiar eyes and wet her lips. “Claire Randall.”

“Oh…well…I’m glad that he’s alright.” Claire was touched beyond description that this girl seemingly traveled far and wide to find the nurse who saved her father. “I saved a lot of men…what is his name?”

“James,” she said sweetly, smiling crookedly. “James Malcolm.”

Claire’s brow furrowed, and she wracked her brain to try to remember.

“I’m sorry, I don’t seem to remember.”

“That’s alright, I didna expect ye to,” she said quickly. “Ye’ve saved…hundreds of lives, I’m sure. Ye’re a braw woman I’ve been told.” She self consciously pushed a stray curl out of her face, taking care to keep her ears covered even as she did. “I just…I had to tell ye I’m grateful. He’s all I have left in the world, my father. We lost my mam when I was born.”

“I’m so sorry,” Claire said, her heart aching for this stranger, sensitive young thing that she was.

“We mean…a lot to each other. My Da and me. So when I heard how much ye did fer him, I had to find ye. Ye’ve made a great deal possible fer him. Fer me. Fer us. Ye…ye saved both of us, really.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Claire said. “This is…overwhelming.”

“Ye dinna have to say anything. Just…just seeing ye, how kind ye are, that’s enough.”

Claire felt her heart constrict. The girl had tears in her eyes, and the tip of her nose was turning red.

“Are you…are you alright…” Claire said, leaning forward where she sat.

“Aye, I’m sorry.” She sniffled, swiping at her tears in embarrassment. “I dinna mean to trouble ye. I…I can go.”

“No,” Claire said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “No, you don’t have to. Especially not like that.” Claire produced a handkerchief and crossed the room to hand it to her, sitting on the couch beside her.

“Thank ye, Mistress.” She took the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“Are you…are you sure we haven’t met?” Claire said, studying her carefully. “You seem so familiar to me.”

“I’m sure. I’ve only ever heard about ye.”

Claire bit her lip in thought. “You must resemble your father, then. That must be it.”

Fresh tears trickled out of her whisky colored eyes, and she dabbed at them with the handkerchief. “Aye. I do.”

Claire smiled. “I must have his face in my memory even if I can’t remember the specifics about his case.”

The girl gave a tiny nod. “I’m his spitting image. All aside from my eyes.”

Her eyes.

Claire’s pulse quickened for reasons unknown to her.

The girl adjusted her hair again to hide one of the ears that broke free of the curls.

“Why do you do that?” Claire said suddenly. “Hide your ears with your hair like that?”

“Oh.” She smiled sheepishly. “They’re…funny, is all.” She fidgeted with the handkerchief. “The way they stick out.”

Without thinking, Claire reached out and took a thick, copper curl between her fingers and pushed it behind her ear. She had no idea what compelled her to do it, nor what compelled her to say the next thing that came out of her mouth:

“I think they’re beautiful.”

The girl’s chin trembled fiercely, and she rapidly dabbed at her eyes again. “D’ye…d’ye really think so…?”

Claire was taken aback by her response, so she just nodded, letting her hands fall limply into her lap.

The girl let out a shuddery laugh, more tears leaking out as she did. “Th-thank ye, M…Mistress.”

For a moment, Claire was certain she was going to say something else, not “Mistress.” What, she did not know.

Her mind was racing; there was something strange happening here, something beyond her comprehension.

And then she scolded herself.

She’s just a lonely young girl, an insecure one, at that. She just wants to show you gratitude.

“Are you…alone? Or is your father with you?” Claire asked gently.

“Nae, he couldna make the journey,” she said sniffling. “But he’s alright. Thanks to you.”

Claire smiled. “You’ve told me your father’s name, but you haven’t told me yours.”

Her amber eyes swam with something that Claire could only describe as turmoil.

God…those eyes…

“My name is Faith, Mistress.” She straightened a bit as she said it, that regal manner Claire had first picked up on returning. “Faith Malcolm.”

——

My eyes fluttered open, and the first thing I was aware of was the churning of my stomach. I clutched my head and sat up, taking in my surroundings.

The black-rock road was gone, as were the cars.

Breathing deeply, I gathered my skirts and stood up, making my way down the hill, away from the stones.

It didn’t take long before I came upon Da’s camp. The plan had been that he would send me off and camp right near the stones to await my return, so that he could take me to Lallybroch in the safety of his protection. He heard a twig snap beneath my feet and whirled around, his eyes immediately softening as they landed on me.

I hadn’t realized that there were tears welling up in my eyes until the sight of him brought a tiny sob from my mouth, and we ran the rest of the way to each other, crashing together.

“Thank Christ…” he muttered into my hair, rocking me back and forth. “Mo nighean ruaidh…” He kissed my head fervently, whispering more Gaelic into my curls.

I relished his warm embrace for a moment, allowing both of our broken hearts to mend one another.

“Well…?” He broke the silence first, pulling me away so he could look into my eyes. “Did ye find her?”

“Aye, Da. I did.” I swallowed thickly, and Da brushed the tears off my cheeks with his gentle thumbs. “She…she is everything ye ever said she was.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, tears spilling down his cheeks now as well. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she…?”

“Aye.” I nodded. “And she…she smelled like herbs, like ye always said, and she’s sae kind, and…her eyes, Da. They really are just like mine.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, resting his hands on my shoulders. His face was contorted with pain, the veins popping out. My heart felt like it was being cut open. I stroked his stubbled cheeks, and his forehead, as if I could rub those creases, years of grief, out of his face.

“I’m…I’m sorry, a leannan…” he stammered, his voice tight and pained. “To hear ye speak of her so true…to ken that ye’ve…that ye truly met her…” His eyes opened, and the world of pain that I saw made me want to shrivel up. “It’s…almost too much to bear.”

“I ken,” I whispered. “I almost…called her Ma…so many times…” I sniffled, and Da’s grip on me tightened again. “It was so strange…I never knew what she looked like, no’ really, and I never called somebody Ma in my whole life…but being wi’ her I just…I knew. It felt right to call her that. Ye ken?”

“Aye, I ken, mo ghraidh.” He kissed my forehead with trembling lips, cradling my head in his hands.

“I was burning inside wi’ the need to tell her the truth.” I shook my head. “She believed me, I think. She was none the wiser that I wasna telling the whole truth. But then when I…I watched her at the stones…I…”

“What is it, Faith?” He tucked a curl behind my ear, just like she had.

It almost made me burst into tears again.

“I…I almost stopped her,” I admitted. “I ken ye told me I couldna change anything, that she had to go through or bad things would happen, but…It hurt sae much to just let her go…knowing that she…that I would…”

“Hush now, mo chridhe.” He pressed my head into his chest and held me close. “D’ye no’ ken how much she wanted ye, Faith? Have I never told ye that she thought she was barren before we were wed?”

“No…you never told me that…” I muttered into his jacket.

“Aye. She wept in my arms, grieving fer the children we wouldna have. And then when she found out about you, our wee miracle, Christ…she was sae happy, Faith. Ye couldna imagine.” His hand rubbed soothing circles into my back, and I felt myself relaxing into him. “If ye told her at the stone that she’d bring a child into the world if she touched it, even if it meant it’d kill her, I believe she’d still do it.”

“How…how can you say that…?” I pulled my head off of him to look in his eyes. “How could she want to…to die…? Just so I’d be born…?”

“Ah, m'annsachd. Someday when ye’re a mother, ye’ll understand. She gave her life for ye then, and I ken she’d do it again if given the choice. Because that’s yer Ma. Selfless, wi’ too much love in her heart.” He wiped my tears away again.

“And as fer me, Faith.” His face grew stern, and he held my head firmly in his hands, fingers resting on the back of my neck. “Those two years I had wi’ yer mother is something I wouldna trade fer anything. I’d rather my own life be cut short than live to a ripe old age wi’out ever having known her. And you, my beautiful, precious girl. I would be nothing wi’out ye. Nothing,” he whispered fiercely, his voice tightening again. “If I had to choose between meeting and losing yer mother so I could have ye, or never knowing her at all, and you never being brought into the world…the choice is easy, mo chridhe.”

I fiercely bit down on my lip, willing my eyes to stop watering, my hands to stop trembling. I exhaled with something resembling a laugh.

“She…she called me beautiful,” I said, the words tasting sacred in my mouth, as if speaking them into the world would erase their existence of truth.

“Of course she did.” He gently stroked my wet cheek, offering the tiniest of smiles.

“My ears…” I let myself laugh again. “She thinks they’re beautiful, too.”

“Aye, she’s right.” He chuckled softly.

“And she…oh, Da…” My voice tightened again. “She…she held me. Only once because I was a stranger to her, of course, but…” I bit my lip again, losing the battle with my tears. “I felt sae safe wi’ her, in her arms like that…like I…belonged there…”

“Because ye do, a leannan.” He pressed me into him again, squeezing me fiercely. “God made ye to fit in her arms, whether she kent it at the time or no’.”

“It’s no’ fair…” I blubbered, something I hadn’t let myself say aloud in my entire life. “It’s just…no’ fair…”

“I ken, mo chridhe…”

“I…I love her, Da…” I sobbed, clinging to him for dear life. “Part of me always did, before this, but it wasna something strong enough to truly hurt until I really felt what it was like to…to have my mother hold me…”

“Oh, my poor lass…”

“I love her, and I couldna even say it…”

“She loves you, she loves ye so much, Faith…And she kens how much ye love her. She kens. She’s known yer whole life.”

I couldn’t breathe for a long time. Da was patient; he held me close and he rocked me, even though I knew he was in as much pain as I was, if not more.

“Did ye…” he broke the silence after a while. “Did ye tell her…?”

I sniffled, and I looked up at him with watery eyes. Eyes that she gave me.

“Aye, Da. I said just as ye told me to.”

“Mistress?”

“Yes?”

“Before I go, would you mind if I…well my father, he wanted me to…”

She looked at my arms, hovering over my thighs, then back up at my face.

“Since he couldna,” I finished shakily.

“You want…to hug me?”

“Aye. If that’s alright.”

Confusion only clouded her eyes for a few seconds before she nodded without hesitation. She was the one that closed the space between us, that opened her arms, that pulled me in. I bit down so hard on my lip to stop myself from sobbing, I was sure I drew blood. I uneasily returned the embrace, wrapping my arms around her slim waist as her hands came to rest on my curls.

“He told me to tell ye…that he’ll never forget ye,” I whispered into her shoulder. “As long as he lives, and after.”

Da shuddered against me, and it made me shiver from head to toe.

“Thank ye…Faith…” He was really struggling to speak now, and I held on tighter. “Thank ye fer…fer telling her what I couldna.”

My tears soaked into his shirt.

“It means more than…I could ever say.”

After another long silence, I pulled away to look at him again.

“Ye ken how ye told me ye dinna have any portraits of her?” I said nervously. He nodded, his face still wet.

“I found this.” I reached into the satchel I was carrying, producing the folded piece of paper. “After she disappeared through the stones, they were everywhere. Her husband put them up, I think.”

I handed him the paper and watched with bated breath as he unfolded it.

Without warning, my tall, strong father collapsed to his knees like he could no longer hold himself up.

Eyes wide with panic, I dropped to the floor beside him, holding onto his shoulders. I raked my eyes over his face; he was unreadable. He was staring, unblinking, at Ma’s exact likeness.

“Da…?” I said, worried.

He ran trembling fingers down the length of her face. “A Dhia…” he breathed, hardly audible. “She’s even more beautiful than my dreams can remember.”

I bit my lip again, nodding in agreement. “She is, Da.” I rubbed his back, resting my cheek on his shoulder, staring at her with him for longer than we cared to remember.

——

A new portrait hangs in the halls of Lallybroch.

Da and I pulled out the trunk of Ma’s clothing from Paris, something Da hadn’t touched as long as I lived. He knew the one he wanted before we even opened it. Yellow, to bring out her eyes.

It fit me just fine, aside from being a bit too short and a bit too narrow in the shoulders. But it would do.

I posed for Auntie Jenny, but I stopped her before she finished.

I wanted to be the one to recreate her face.

I spent hours and days going back and forth between the paper and the canvas, and I wouldn’t let Da see until it was finished. Auntie Jenny had painted her hair a color that we decided on together, using my own hair only for shape. But she hadn’t put any stray curls in her face. Da always talked about her stray curls, and I’d seen them myself.

The eyes were the easiest part. I just had to use a mirror.

Da fell to his knees again when I finally let him see it.

Now Ma has finally taken her rightful place on the wall, beside the portrait of me that Auntie Jenny did when I was fifteen. She’s holding flowers in a green field, and she’s smiling.

And she’s beautiful.

The paper-portrait from the future sits in a little frame now, and it lives beside Da’s bed. I was used to hearing him talk to her sometimes, at night when I walked by his door, but now when I peer in, he’s cupping the little frame in his large hands, really talking to her.

It makes me as happy as it does sad.

Sometimes, I find myself talking to her, too, holding a candle to the oil pastels of her face in the dead of night.

I never really did it before, but now that I’d seen her, smelled her, touched her, I felt like I had to.

Like I finally knew how Da felt all these years: to have loved her and lost her.

#outlander #outlander fanfiction #outlander au #outlander fanfic #claire randall #claire fraser #claire beauchamp #faith fraser #jamie fraser #PLI completed fic masterposts

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let-the-dream-begin · 4 years ago

Text

"Ships in the Night”

Read on AO3

Not for the first time, I got sad thinking about my Angel-Mother. Sometimes, when Da cried, I was too scared to ask him what was wrong, and Auntie Jenny would say:

“He’s just missing yer Ma.”

I didn’t understand for a while. But now I was seven, so I did, and I wondered if it was possible to miss somebody I never met.

——

A little girl with copper hair takes a walk on the beach with her Da.

Featuring lyrics to "Ships" by Barry Manilow woven through the narrative.

——

We walked to the sea, just my father and me.

There was a spray coming in from the water, making a great whooshing sound as it crashed into the sand.

And the dogs played around on the sand.

Bran and Jehu were tumbling in the sand and nipping at each other. They kept slipping when they tried to run. It made me laugh.

Winter cold cut the air, hangin' still everywhere.

It really was cold. The little droplets dancing onto my cheeks felt like they could freeze when they touched my skin. It tickled and made me giggle. Jehu started barking, calling me toward him, and I hiked up my skirts to scamper toward him, but Da stopped me.

Dressed in gray, did he say, "Hold my hand.”

I stopped walking and turned around. He was smiling, but it was sad-smiling. I was used to seeing the sad-smile. He did it a lot. Not as much as he used to, but still a lot.

I smiled up at him, a happy-smile. He was reaching for me, and I took his hand. Da’s hands were big, and always warm. I didn’t realize how cold my small hands were until he covered one of them in one of his.

“Mo ghraidh, ye’re like ice.” The sad-smile changed a bit, his eyebrows crinkling together like little caterpillars. “Gi’ me yer other hand.” He stopped walking and crouched down next to me, and I did as he said. He put down my shoes; he was holding them so I could feel the sand on my toes. He squished both of my little hands between his enormous ones, squeezing and rubbing, blowing on them with his warm breath.

“Canna have ye losin’ any of yer wee fingers, a chiusle.” He smiled a very tiny happy-smile, and his eyes sparkled. “Yer Auntie would box my ears.”

I giggled. I had no doubt that Auntie Jenny would do just that. She didn’t really need an excuse.

Jehu kept barking, and something caught my eye on the horizon.

“What’s that?” I freed one of my hands and pointed into the sea. “A light, Da.”

“I dinna ken, lass.” He sat back, off his knees now, and pulled me into his lap. “Let’s have a look, then.”

I settled between his legs and nuzzled my back into his chest. He put my socks back on my sandy feet, and then he held my hands again.

We sat and watched a distant light.

“Do mermaids glow?” I asked with wonder, watching the sparkling light dance on the water.

“I think they might, aye.” I could hear the happy-smile in his voice.

“So it’s a mermaid,” I said.

“Could be.”

“Or an angel?”

He held me a little tighter when I said that, and his warm lips kissed the top of my head.

“Could be, mo chridhe.”

My eyes widened with wonder, my mouth gaping a little. “Is it Ma?” He didn’t move or talk. “Ma is an angel, aye Da?”

“She is.”

Da’s voice sounded scratchy, like it hurt.

Not for the first time, I got sad thinking about my Angel-Mother. Sometimes, when Da cried, I was too scared to ask him what was wrong, and Auntie Jenny would say:

“He’s just missing yer Ma.”

I didn’t understand for a while. But now I was seven, so I did, and I wondered if it was possible to miss somebody I never met.

“Can ye make the angel come closer, Da?”

“I dinna think so, a nighean. Angels do as they please. We mortals canna influence them, ye ken.”

“Oh.” I didn’t mean for my voice to sound sad.

“What is it, lass?”

“Can Ma no' visit, then? Since we canna…influence?” The new, big word tumbled off my tongue.

“Och, dinna fash. Yer Ma doesna need our influence fer her to visit.”

“Really?”

“Aye. She wants to be wi’ us.”

“Really?”

I heard him clear his throat. “Aye." His voice sounded like it hurt again.

The light went away, and it made me sad. Da didn't talk for a long time.

"D'ye ken why yer name is what it is, a leannan?"

Da's voice rumbled in his chest against my back, and it almost tickled. I scrunched my nose up in thought.

"Nae, Da. I dinna."

"D'ye wish to know?"

"Is it a story, Da?" I shook with excitement.

"Aye, a bit." He turned me around a bit, so I could see his face. Another sad-smile. "When ye were born, I couldna be there."

"Why no'?"

His chin stuck out like it did when he fought with Auntie Jenny. "I did a foolish thing, a nighean. I went and got myself separated from yer Ma."

"What did ye do?"

"I broke a law. The King of France was verra cross wi' me."

"The King?" I gasped, my jaw dropping.

"Aye, lass. I angered the King." He smiled, neither happy or sad, and he chuckled a little, tickling my back again. "He kept me away from ye after ye were born. I sat in a room of stone, and I dreamed of ye, my wee babe wi' a name I didna ken. I dreamed that yer Mam was holding ye close, that I could kiss both of yer beautiful heads."

We're two ships that pass in the night.

"Did ye get out, Da?" I asked eagerly.

"Aye. I did. Grandda Murtagh rescued me."

I smiled proudly. "O' course he did."

He chuckled again.

We both smile and we say, "It's alright."

"He brought me to ye, my beautiful babe, and he told me of how ye came into the world, how ye were christened." He rocked me like I was still the little babe he spoke of, and I didn't mind at all. "My dream was about to come true."

He touched my cheek with his big, warm hand.

"But then Grandda Murtagh told me that yer Mam joined the angels." His voice sounded like it hurt again.

We're still here, it's just that we're out of sight, like those ships that pass in the night.

I felt sad again.

"He told me that yer poor Ma was verra sick, that she couldna give ye a name herself. Mother Hildegaard, a verra good woman, she had ye christened. She gave ye yer name."

"Faith."

"Aye. Faith. Mother Hildegaard knew that we'd need lots o' faith if ye were to live." He brushed one of my curls away. "You were verra sickly too, mo ghraidh."

"But Ma saved me. Aye?"

"That's right, a leannan. She gave ye all her strength. Because she had faith in ye." He gently poked my nose, making me smile. "D'ye see now, lass? D'ye see why yer name is so verra special?"

"Aye, Da." I nodded. "Ma had faith that she could save me, and she did. And you had faith that ye'd get to kiss my head, and ye did."

Da did a sad-laugh, and his eyes looked watery, like the salty spray landed right in them. "Aye, that's it, Faith. Ye've got it." Da's big hand cupped the back of my head, and he put his warm forehead on mine. "Ye're a clever lass, mo chridhe."

I freed my hands from his one-handed grip, and I stroked his scratchy chin and cheeks. It tickled, which I always liked.

"Look, Faith." Da moved so our foreheads weren't touching anymore, nudging his chin to the sea.

There's a boat on the line where the sea meets the sky.

"How far away is that, Da?" I reached out with both hands like I could touch it. "It looks like I could touch it, but it looks like I'll never reach. Ye ken?"

"Aye, I ken." Another rumbly chuckle.

There's another that rides far behind.

"I couldna say how far away they are, lass. The only way to know would be to try and swim to them."

I kept my hands out, reaching and stretching, wiggling my cold little fingers, biting my bottom lip.

"It's like Ma," I said.

"How's that?"

"Sometimes, I think I can reach out and touch her. When ye tell a story about her. And then ye say I have her eyes and her nose, so I think I must ken what she looks like." I let my hands fall back into my lap, feeling sad again. "But that's silly, is it no'? Like it's silly to...to miss her. Even though I never met her."

And it seems you and I are like strangers a wide ways apart as we drift on through time.

"No, a leannan." He held me tight again, rocking me like I was a boat and he was the sea. "That isna silly. No' at all." He kissed my head again. "Ye need no' have met her to ken that she was special. She's my heart, just you are, my Faith. Is, not was. Because it still is so, even though she's left this world."

I thought about that for a bit. "Are you still her heart, too?"

"Aye, I am. I ken it. I feel her love everywhere, every day."

I looked up into the sky, wondering: If I tried hard enough, could I feel it too?

He said, "It's harder now we're far away."

He took a big breath before he kept talking.

"Harder, because I miss being able to kiss her head, as I can yers, or hold her hand, as I do wi' you, or hear her laugh and her voice, like I can hear yers."

We're two ships that pass in the night.

"But dinna fash because it's harder. Because the love is still there. So it's alright." He touched my chin, and I stopped looking at the sky so I could look at Da's eyes instead. "D'ye...d'ye understand, mo chridhe?"

And we smile when we say it's alright.

I smiled, because I knew that Da liked when I smiled, and I knew he was sad. "Aye, Da. I understand."

"Good lass." He kissed my forehead.

We're still here, it's just that we're out of sight.

There was suddenly a big gust of wind, so big it made the dogs bark again. It made me gasp and shiver and hold on tight to Da's coat. He pressed my head into his chest, and I could hear his heart. There hadn't been any wind the whole time we'd been here, and even though it was cold, my heart felt warm.

"I feel her love everywhere, every day."

Another gust came and made my copper hair stick up and tickle Da's face.

Hello, Ma. I love you too.

Like those ships that pass in the night.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #jamie fraser #faith fraser #faith lives #PLI completed fic masterposts

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