#THE JACOBITE POST

[defensivelee]

I realize I have not spoken much about the Jacobite I actually know so I am going to YELL about him here now in a very disorderly fashion bc he has recently left and i am actually kinda sad :((

ok so he's a catholic priest and he is mexican. if you know anything about us you will know that we are not the target audience for jacobite propaganda (whatever that may entail), so obv i was never suspecting any jacobite shenanigans from this guy nor from any other guy where i live

but THEN one night after mass i was hoppin back outside and on my way out i hear this man say one (1) thing that made me STOP IN MY TRACKS. he says "ustedes conocen los jacobitas, seguidores de jaime el segundo..." ("you all know of the jacobites, followers of james ii...")

idk what he was talking about and i didn't stay to listen. but that was all i needed. HE KNEW ABOUT JAMES THE GODDAMN SECOND AND HE KNEW ABOUT THE JACOBITES

so i go and tell @acrossthewavesoftime and we decide that i should talk to this guy and see what he knows. originally i was legit not gonna talk to him but i'll admit i was curious too. from there i talked to him many times, i would say like about 7-8 times, and he said plenty of stuffs that i told Radegonde (which was always hilarious). here are the highlights, all the spicy opinions!!

-the first time i spoke to him, i asked him his thoughts on James (under the guise that i needed the knowledge for school). he went on a bit of a rant that i dont remember much of, but i do remember he said that what James did was honorable (something like that i think??) and that giving up his kingdom for catholicism isn't something anybody would do. said he would be fine with making James a saint but that he isn't a jacobite (implying he knows that there are some still around)

-also in that first time, he called William an enemy of the bible (which Radegonde referenced on her blog once and it made me choke)

-for some reason i thought it was a brilliant idea to tell him of the green stockings kink. he made a face at it and said he would look into it. idk if he ever did bc he never mentioned it again............

-i asked him if he thought it was weird that spanish wikipedia has James as "Jacobo" rather than "Jaime" (which is more correct honestly) and he said it was very strange, implying that he has been on wikipedia

-on that note, he called James "Jaime" but didn't call William "Guillermo." understandably so bc it is very funny

-apparently he has been to France (and speaks French!!! wow!!) and that's how he learned of James. i can only imagine what he saw there

-i asked him his thoughts on Mary and it was really interesting bc it seems that he thinks of her as a victim! specifically he said that he couldn't blame her bc she was obeying what her husband wanted and claimed that even if she hadn't wanted to go depose James, William would have done it anyway

verdict: a jacobite even if he denies being one. i get the vibe that he does NOT like William......

so i think this guy's really interesting bc he's actually. not that bad of a priest?? like one time this dickhole at church was ranting things against trans people yknow the usual insults and my jacobite priest was sort of...side-eyeing him. he did not look too happy. an ally? something else? i have no idea. idk how openly trans i look but he was at least very much willing to talk to me.

and thats the thing that i'm actually sorta sad about, bc i feel like i got to know more about him than just the jacobite part of him. like this post is about his Very Fascinating Opinions but also sometimes i had a rough time at church and listening to him talk was funny so it made me feel better. he also genuinely said hello to me sometimes and would listen to MY opinions very attentively

he recently switched over to another church, which means i won't get to see him as much anymore if at all, but last sunday i saw him he said he hopes he gets to see me again

in conclusion. very strange thoughts but not a terrible priest by my standards! oddly i miss him now but it is what it is :(

[the--highlanders]

obviously there's a lot to be said for the way that jamie holds onto his culture and beliefs and specifically his jacobitism throughout his travels. he defines himself as scottish and values scottishness in a way which might be anachronistically nationalistic for someone from his time but which isn't entirely out of line with the sort of pseudo-nationalism that crops up in gaelic jacobitism. in the ice warriors, he immediately identifies with storr's description of himself as a 'loyalist', whatever he took that to mean. in the dominators, he likens himself and cully fighting the quarks to his family fighting redcoats, and in the war games him working together with a redcoat is a massive point of character development. he never stops being incredibly informed by his life experience, by the conflict he's seen and by the ways it has affected his people

but at the same time, he's very much cut adrift from the movement he was apart of. he's two years younger than prince charles, born into a family with close social ties to a landowner who's committed enough to the jacobite cause that both he and his son are fighting for them - colin maclaren is hedging no bets and not even bothering to play both sides. jamie must have lived and breathed this whole belief system from the day he was born. he's never known a world without the expectation that there'll be a war - as soon as the prince is old enough, as soon as they're ready - or without the knowledge that he'll risk his life for it. at the point of the highlanders, he's spent twenty-two years immersed in one side of an incredibly polarised belief system that's dictated his views on religion, transfer of power, social hierarchies, the role his country and his culture should play in the world. it's all-pervasive and inescapable.

and yet basically the first thing we hear from him is that prince charles was first to abandon them, when the tides turned. it's not the truth of the matter, whether or not he knows it, and he's far from the only one to think this, at the time. but he believes it enough that he's willing to fight with alexander - his social superior, the son of his landlord and employer - rather than back down or stay quiet. he never fully, openly turns away from the cause, and he's certainly still loyal to his laird and to the men he's fought with - but you get the sense that something's broken in his belief system. the supposedly predestined jacobite victory hasn't come about, and that's shaken him. when he gets out of that environment entirely and is travelling with the doctor, he'll reference his people, his culture, the conflict he was a part of - but he never mentions who he was fighting for. the moment when he works with the redcoat is a moment of character development not because he's working with someone who fought for a different monarch, but because he's working with someone who has done harm to his people. the direct, personal implications of that conflict are there, but all the broader beliefs and context aren't.

which is interesting to line up against the doctor, at this point. because they're in the same place here, in a way. fresh off his first regeneration, the doctor has the time machine, and the knowledge, and the gallifreyan belief that he knows best. he's carried that with him. but he's growing closer to his human companions than maybe ever before, letting them trust him and know him and become like family. he listens to and respects jamie's beliefs in the moonbase, even knowing that the phantom piper isn't real, because the fact that it's important to jamie is more valuable than him being objectively right. he takes an open, blatant moral stance against evil and injustice, and does it again, and again, until ultimately it costs him his life and his companions. the doctor at this point is more adrift than he ever has been - one step further removed from the beliefs and systems of gallifrey, but still crystallising his own beliefs and the values that will carry him through the rest of his regenerations.

so he picks up jamie, more by accident than anything, and finds in him - a kindred spirit? someone who's certain in all the ways he's not, and faltering in all the places he isn't? someone who needs a cause to fight for, certainly, and who can give him the moral and emotional direction he's seeking. someone who gets what it's like to look at the world you've been raised in and see it shatter, until you can't believe in it the way you once did. someone who's been through all that, and who can answer the question of /what's next/ beside him.

[duchessofyorksstuff]

[thebaffledcaptain]

Keith Windham’s Uniform: A Long and Highly Speculative Deep Dive into the Royal Scots’ Uniform in 1745

This is something I’ve wanted to research for a while—uniformology tends to be my favorite aspect of military life, so naturally, provided with a redcoat officer protagonist who quickly stole my heart as a character, I wanted to be able to do his uniform justice in my depictions of him. Let me first start by saying that there is no shortage of excellent art in this fandom, and furthermore, most of the uniforms I have seen depicted in said art actually seem quite well-researched and accurate, especially given the limited information available. I by no means pretend to be an expert on this matter—I am much more familiar with late 18th century AWI era uniforms, and even then I am no scholar—but this time period in uniform history is surprisingly elusive, and I felt inclined to find out more by doing a bit of a (admittedly self-indulgent) deep dive. This will be a long post, intended to be something of a reference, largely for myself, detailing the specific appearance of our Major Windham’s uniform as best I can.

It must first be established, however, that information on this specific period of uniform is scant. My first “launching point” was this excellent post by Bantarleton discussing British uniforms during the Jacobite Rising (which I highly recommend checking out for more qualified Speculation), which also served to corroborate what I was already beginning to see in my research: between the years of 1742 and 1751, we lack any solid evidence as to what British uniforms may have looked like. The hypothetical image I am assembling here is based, therefore, largely on educated speculation, as are most of the modern depictions of uniforms during this time period. Take all of this with a grain of salt, as you would any other historical post by a user on Tumblr, and bear in mind once again that I am not a scholar. But with that being said, we can begin in the closest place that we do have visual evidence: in 1742.

It was during this year that the Cloathing Book was commissioned by the Duke of Cumberland for King George II, which depicts the regular soldier’s regimental uniform across the military. Here we take a look at the 1st Royal Regiment (Royal Scots, though they would not be officially called that until the 19th century) uniform, which our Keith presumably would have worn some three years prior to canon, though assumedly not as a regular, which this soldier is.

Our second concrete visual of the same regimental uniform comes from 1751, portrayed by David Morier, who was commissioned probably by the Duke of Cumberland to paint a grenadier from each regiment. Why grenadiers, we can’t know—maybe for their fancy caps—but the uniform is essentially the same as would be the regular’s, with the exception of the cap (interestingly, I discovered the flanking company “wings” would be introduced only in 1752). The officers and the battalion men would all have been wearing cocked hats similar to the one portrayed in the previous photo.

Comparing the two, we see some changes in the silhouette and the smallclothes (in 1751 the breeches change to be blue instead of red), but nothing too drastic. I for one hadn’t realized that the Royal Scots would have been wearing red smallclothes during the mid century, as opposed to the white or buff. The one thing which does confuse me is the lack of lacing on the cuffs in 1742. Take this example, from the same collection, of a soldier from the 34th Regiment—notice the split cuffs and their elaborate lacing.

The artist seems to have been very deliberate in his depiction of the 1st’s uniform to include full cuffs without that extra lacing. Unfortunately I can’t seem to corroborate whether this was intentional or not, but my best guess is that it might have been a deliberate sign of the 1st Royals’ seniority: most regiments (like the 34th seen here) wore their own specific patterned lace, but the Royal Scots (at least during the mid 18th century) specifically wore plain white lace as a nod to the fact that they were the first and oldest regiment established in the British Army. It seems not impossible that this simpler cuff design might have been intended to convey the same sentiment. However, I can‘t say for sure whether this was the cuff in use during 1745, unfortunately. I would lean more toward the 1742 uniform for Keith’s just because it’s closer time-wise, but given that new uniforms were issued every year, it’s impossible to truly know how similar it would have been.

All that being said, it is important to acknowledge that we have been discussing regular soldiers up until this point: our Major Windham’s uniform would have borne some distinctions. This is a modern (so once again, speculative) illustration of an officer of the 7th Dragoon Guards in 1745, who, while not being an infantry soldier, would still have had a comparable uniform at the officers’ level, and provides a pretty good example of what some of these officers' distinctions might have looked like.

With regard to lace, officers’ uniforms of the 1st Royals were faced with gold lace as opposed to white, including on the hat. As mentioned before, as an officer, Keith would have been wearing a cocked hat with a black cockade on the left side, unlike the grenadier in the previous painting. While on duty, it seems likely that he would have worn a gilt gorget, though in a broader kind of half-moon shape than would be seen at the end of the century, and a sash, over his shoulder and the rest of his uniform rather than around his waist. He also would not have worn the crossbelts we see the regular soldiers wearing, and instead probably only a waist belt to hold his sword. Another important distinction would have been the gold aiguillette, a decorative knot to denote rank, rather than an epaulette like we see in the later century, on his right soldier, like the one on the dragoon officer’s shoulder here. An interesting but subtle detail would have been the fact that officers’ coats generally did not have the turned-back skirts associated with regular soldiers; the idea was that those soldiers would be moving around a lot more than the officers and therefore would need the extra room.

Another thing not specific to being an officer, but simply which differs from the paintings here, is that while on duty all soldiers (officers included) would have been wearing black gaiters, and not white. While, in my opinion, they do look fantastic (especially the full length mid century ones, unlike the late century half-gaiters…), white gaiters were reserved for parade because of how easily they could get dirty. While I’m here I suppose it’s worth listing off a couple general period details I often tend to forget about the mid-18th century, as someone who mentally lives in the 1770s: for one thing, military cocked hats were almost always worn slightly off to the side with the “point” angled over the left eye (you can kind of see it in the 1742 depiction). This was so that men could shoulder their firelocks without knocking their hats right off their head, and it became so much of a fashion that not only were officers (who were not bearing muskets) doing it, too, but also some civilians (and this lasted for a long time, pretty much until the army stopped wearing cocked hats). Also, it didn’t occur to me until recently that cravats were much more in fashion than stocks were during this period, and would have been tucked into a waistcoat that might have been even nearly half unbuttoned from the top, as was the fashion at the time.

But now I’m just rambling. I had fun learning about this and if someone else learns from it too, that’s just a bonus to me. Again, I'm not an expert; this is in no way meant to “correct” any of the depictions of Keith I’ve seen, or come off at all as being in bad faith. Almost everything I’ve said in this post is stuff I wasn't sure of myself until looking into, because this kind of thing is hard to know! As I said, most of the Keiths I see actually seem very well-researched and faithfully depicted. I just happen to love uniforms, and this man happens to have one (and a very good one at that). I would lean most heavily toward the 1742 version for Keith’s canon uniform if only because it’s closer in time to anything else we have, but who can really say what it looked like in real life? Some part of me is saddened to know we’ll likely never know, but thus is history. Hopefully knowing all this I’ll be able to do it some justice.

[werewolfetone]

Mad that the outbreaks of Whiteboyism in the late 18th century in Ireland were blamed by the Ascendancy class and the British on the Jacobites rather than on the very very obvious fact that the wealthy were starving the peasants and the peasants had had enough--something that the Whiteboys themselves made clear as their motivation. they really said "is it possible we've fucked up and that's why our tenants are torturing us to death while screaming at us that we've fucked up? no, it must be the catholics who are wrong"

[youruncleolaf]

think every show set in a historical setting should have one minor background character who has a few items of clothing that are from a wildly different period that no one ever really seems to pay attention to. it does not affect the plot at all but they’re probably a time traveler

[duchessofyorksstuff]

YOU THINK I'M GONNA FORGET IT???

HOW COULD I?! YOU'RE JUST A SWEET CATHOLIC DORK WHO GETS A BAD REP FOR LITERALLY JUST BEING A CATHOLIC OH MY GOD.

AND ALSO A WOMANISING MESS WHO NOW HATES HIS ELDEST DAUGHTER AND A TERRIBLE PERSON WITH DECISION MAKING. GREAT IDEAS FOR TOLERATION, JUST TERRIBLE EXECUTION OF THESE IDEAS AND YOU'RE ALSO A STUBBORN RETARD.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAMIE YOU MAKE ME WANNA CRY THINKING ABOUT YOU (affectionate kind of)

my birthday is october 14 1633 you better not forget it

[niccolites]

green cliffs: - lessons in mortality. chapter one

highlander!soap x fem!reader. cw attempted sexual assault. read on ao3 here

On the same patch of land that you once took your first step, you are dragged out of your home by your hair.

There are things of little consequence: the blinding beam of the sun, how its heat doesn't reach you, snatched up by the snapping wind. The peeling paint of your broken fence, the pitchfork that has been abandoned in a bale of hay instead of with the rest of the tools in the barn.

You focus on this, the bite of the cold on your cheeks instead of the nails that are digging into your scalp. Easier to try and distance yourself from the fear that is gaping in your stomach, instead wondering if it was you or your brother who left that pitchfork out like that. You decide that it must have been your brother, he had been the one in the rush to get to the river to catch the ‘better’ fish this morning.

There are three strange men around you. You don’t know any of their names. You had seen them in the distance, the stark red of their coats along a distant hill, barely even a day prior. Your village had seemed to suck in a breath, air stilling with their approach. Now, the wind howls, the noisy exhale after that tense beat.

Trouble, your brother had warned you. Told you to stay in the house as much as you could. Tend the crops, feed the animals and keep your eyes down. He would go out, speak with your neighbours to get information on who these men were and what they wanted.

And you had done what you were told, had darted across to the barn, to the coop. Like a horse jumping at the sight of a snake before it even coils to snap.

It didn’t matter anyway. A spooked horse gathers more attention than a calm one. Your brother is sitting by still waters somewhere else, and you are here, gritting your teeth at the sting of your hair being ripped out by clumsy fingers.

Seemingly bored of dragging you, you are shoved to the ground, collapsing in a pile of skirts in the dirt. The men guffaw at you. They’ve clearly been drinking, the stench of whiskey is foul, and one of them still holds a bottle of it. Swings it around and you feel some of it catch the end of your dress. The laughs have a bitter edge to it. They’re angry, you realise, a new spike of fear shooting up your spine. You have just met these men, but they are treating you like you have wronged them in the past. Here to exact their revenge.

Soldiers, likely. One of them is still holding their bayonet, the other with a pistol slung around their waist. You don’t know how high-ranking these soldiers are, you don’t know if that would make a difference in how they are going to treat you. Worse, likely. Not even a month past and one of your neighbours had been strung up to the post, back bloodied with a whip until he collapsed. The punishment for not welcoming God’s own into your home, apparently.

Usually the English presence in your village is more official. A battalion, passing through and making sure that everyone is minding their own. There had been another Jacobite uprising, somewhere to the west of your village. Scottish men gathering to try and overthrow King George, reinstate the Catholic Stuarts. It had failed, but English law recently had become a lot more permanent, tangible in light of this rebellion.

These may be soldiers on your land, but they were operating as men. English law placed to the side, it’s overseeing eye shut for just long enough for what they were planning for you.

You are pulled up, arms yanked behind your back. Held in place by the first soldier while the other two prowl around your home.

“You know, I'm sick of you stuck-up cunts,” the first soldier hisses in your ear. There’s a twist in the muscle of your shoulder which makes you whimper. “You'd bend over for your sheep before you would us. I bet you have as well.” You can see his dark hair in the corner of your eye, smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Oh, come on, Grahams,” the second interjects, reaching over to catch your chin in his clammy hand. “She looks like a good girl. I bet you haven’t even been touched. Am I right?” His thumb pushes on your lower lip, his own mouth parting beneath the heavy curl of his pale moustache. Salivating, the way a rabid dog does before you put it down.

You stay silent. Feel his skin on yours, how he pulls your lip down. The parting of where you were and where he drags you down. Feel that ugly gap of space, an inch but it feels like a mile.

“Alone in that house?” the third asks, not even sparing you a glance. He’s pouring his drink over the edge of your field, just outside the second fence. The border between your yard and the crop you and your brother had laid down, scarcely a few weeks before. The third soldier has small eyes, and a pig nose, turns to give you a horrible, hating look. “Bet she’s had the entire village between her legs,” he sneers.

The first soldier distracts you, breath polluting you as he huffs a laugh. Tightens his arms around the lock of yours and ignores you as you grunt in pain. "Well, I’m sure that she wouldn’t mind the King’s own men from taking what they are owed, yes?”

The third man, apparently done with talking, throws the rest of his bottle over your fence and strikes a match. The catch of fire always surprises you. The match is suspended in the air for a flicker of a moment before it connects to the pool of liquor. A blink, and the fire roars, summoned into life and it eats all of the crop that you and your brother had laid on that once tilled field.

The memory of you and your brother, on your hands and knees as you planted that crop. The acceptance of exhaustion that comes with physical activity when you know it must be done and so you do it. Body connected to mind, an idea and then the yield.

Impossible to reconcile what had taken hours to do, lit up within a second. The fire branches across everything, almost licking the third soldier himself. Everything swallowed up, a horrible demon, brought by these men, a senseless cruelty that you can barely comprehend.

You howl, a wounded animal sound, lunging forward and then yanked back immediately. Everything is separate, suffocated by sensation. There is only the connection between the fire and your eyes, the conclusion that your brother is going to have to bow in that dirt again.

You shriek again, when you are stopped from preventing this, arms protesting in the twist that the first soldier forces them into. Told to stop your squealing. The second soldier steps back into your eye-line and grins down at you. Yellow teeth, dark eyes. Another demon on your land, seeking retribution in something that you have not even committed.

His mouth moves, but you barely hear it, blood rushing in your ears. Your face is hot, molten with tears. Brain and body disconnected. The socket of your shoulder is boiling, every yank pulling a tense groan from between your clenched teeth. You know that you are going to hurt yourself if you keep struggling, or maybe one of these men are going to hurt you. But you keep pulling, huffing with fruitless effort.

The second soldier reaches down, fingers digging into the collar of your dress. His fingers cold against the hot flush that has spread across your chest. A tear in the cotton cloth that covers most of your clavicle. Another shriek, ripping up your throat and into his face. He barely flinches. You are a cat with its tail caught, it doesn’t matter how sharp your teeth are anymore.

The first soldier with your hair in his teeth. The second with his hands groping down your chest. The third man, kicking your fence to get it to buckle and catch in the flames as well. Paralysis like a fist around the base of your spine. A yell that starts in the bottom of your lungs, builds until you are almost sick with the force of it.

Another yell, one that does not fully register until the soldiers take notice of it.

"What on -" the first soldier starts to say, before the rest is lost in a strangled noise. The second soldier steps out of your vision and you see what is stopping him.

Your father was no soldier, although he had been when he had to be, god rest his soul. He used to tell you about the true highlanders, the real soldiers and the swords that were as broad as they were, and how they would swing them as if they were an extension of their own arm.

It sounded like folklore. Mythology, until you see the swing of that broadsword, splitting the third soldier at the waist like the crack of an egg.

You barely have time to catch sight of the fourth man before you are thrown to the ground again, dirt catching on your palms and digging in.

It feels generous to call it a fight. There is a brief tussle between the new man and the two soldiers that had been holding you prone, before they are brought to heel. Blood seeping into the dirt. Half of the second soldier’s face thuds to the ground, his moustache halved. He stares sightlessly up at the sky, half an expression stuck and immortalised.

You lie in the dirt, watch as your tormentors are silenced, lives ended and left to pool in the soil that you used to dance across when you were younger. It is entirely unfair, the three men that were able to drag you around like a ragdoll, cut into like slabs of cheese.

It’s breathtaking, watching this man save you like it is the easiest thing in the world. He finally stills, the first soldier lying limp on his knees before he is kicked aside. You hysterically wonder if that is what would have been done to you, if these three Englishmen had gotten their way. A passage of time interrupted, snipped like the threads of fate. Time redirected.

You stare up at him, barely able to connect that your arms are your own now, even though you had been wrestling for them to be this entire time.

Your saviour, a bloody mess on his kilt and three dead men around him.

"Thank you," you manage. Voice crackling as you form full words now. The stench of gore is another presence in the yard with you. Thick, you resist the urge to gag as it seems to catch in your teeth as you inhale noisily through your mouth.

The man who saves you is silent, breath heaving out of him. He is massive, with dark hair that is pushed back out of his face. A light beard and red in his kilt. Red everywhere, actually. Staining the white of his cotton shirt beneath the crossover of his kilt, staining his skin. His broadsword is almost the same height as him, almost as wide. Metal catching the sun, glowing red as it drips blood.

It takes the man to stumble back to force you into action. You force yourself up, staggering towards him. You reach the centre of his chest, his breadth suffocating you, encompassing. You catch his bicep to right him, the equivalent of smacking your hand against stone. Now that you are standing chest to chest with him, you realise if he were to fall, you would not be able to catch him.

"Are you alright?" You ask, staring up at him. The blood on his face doesn't seem to be his, for the most part. There is a cut across his brow, leaking a lazy trail of blood down his temple and you almost reach up to touch it without thinking, before you catch yourself.

His eyes are blue. The sky brought down to you.

You almost laugh, delirious. Self-conscious under his rapt gaze. You tilt your head and catch sight of the fire again. As if other sensations had been halted under this man’s gaze, you are brought back to the present with the crackle of fire. You curse under your breath, stepping out of the pull surrounding this man, darting away to get a bucket to extinguish the flames.

You feel the ghost of a hand across your back before you are gone, furiously pumping the handle of the well and tossing the water across to the fire. It takes a few journeys, something that has your hands fumbling as you try to work faster.

The man is there, pulling the bucket away from you even as you try to stop him. He is able to swing the water further, catching more of the flames. His gait is longer than yours, but you notice that he seems to be stumbling as he is putting weight on his right leg.

After you pass him two more full buckets of water, the fire is finally put out. You take stock of the blackened field. All of it razed, deader than the men who are still sinking into the dirt a few feet away from you. You swallow harshly, angry tears pricking at your eyes. It will take a month, longer even, to fix this. You can imagine the devastation on your brother’s face when he sees this. Resist the urge to turn to the corpses and give them a few good kicks.

You want to give into the lump in your throat and cry over this, but the man fills you with purpose. You roughly swipe at your face before you face him, catching him already watching you. “Your leg - is it alright?” You ask, trying to keep the burned field out of sight. Better to focus on what can immediately be fixed.

The man stares at you for a beat too long. Almost as if waiting for you to speak again before he does. "One of the bastards caught me in the leg," he says. His accent is thick, deep in a way that has you flushing. He tilts his leg, lifting his kilt enough for you to see the gash on the back of his calf. The flesh looks torn open, which makes you wince.

"I can patch that up," you offer, grateful at the opportunity to take your mind off of the events of the past hour. You step closer, hands hovering, unsure if he should be walking. "My brother cut his arm on a scythe once, wrist to elbow, and I managed to stitch that up,” you add, even though the man doesn’t seem to care about your past experience with wound tending.

"You the village nurse then?" the man asks, reaching over to drape his arm over your shoulder. There is a moment of his weight pressed into you that almost makes your knees buckle before it is lifted. His hand stays though, warm on your opposite shoulder. He seems to be guiding you into your home more than you are. He is a hot line along your side, hip to hip. The sway as you acclimate to his walk, sturdier on your right leg as if to compensate for his.

“Hardly,” you manage to respond, kicking the door open for him to get inside. “My brother is just clumsy.”

You set him on the chair in your kitchen, bustling around for some cloth and a needle and thread. Your kitchen is like a picture in a book, just how it was when you woke up this morning. Time has not moved here, your mug is still by the sink. Your brother’s boots by the door where he had forgotten them this morning. Life before the fallout, perfectly preserved.

“It’ll look ugly, but it’ll do the job,” you warn, tossing a cushion on the floor to kneel on, gesturing for him to elevate his foot on the other chair.

“I trust you to make my leg as handsome as it was before,” he says, a smile that slips from his mouth when you come back to his side. You kneel down, a wet flannel in your hand that you cover the wound with, wanting to the extent of the damage beneath the aftermath that covers it.

You glance up at him, finding him watching you. Eyes dark now, water before a storm. You give him your name, suddenly realising that you haven't yet. Admonish yourself for being rude.

He breathes it back, like he wants to hold it in his mouth for a moment. “John,” he replies after another pause. “I get called Johnny.”

“Am I allowed to call you Johnny?” You ask, turning back to his leg. You catch sight of his chest stuttering over a breath. You tuck your hair behind your ear, frowning to yourself. You know if your brother were here, then you would not be speaking to this man so casually. That knowledge makes you feel like you are doing something inappropriate. Something to be ‘caught’ doing. Extra dash of sugar before the whip of the belt across your backside.

“Absolutely, angel. Well, dependent on the work you make of my leg,” he adds, tone musing. He seems amused by you, mouth smiling even as his eyes stay that dark colour. Trouble, your brother had described the soldiers. You aren’t so certain he wouldn’t describe Johnny in the same way.

You resolve yourself to your work. It’s not a bad gash, when most of the blood is wiped away. One of the soldiers must’ve stabbed it in, and then pulled it to the side, splitting the flesh. You wonder how he was able to stand on it, nevermind help you with the fire. You murmur a warning before you stab the needle in, threading the wound closed. A thin layer of poultice along the loose white cloth you have, an attempt to prevent any swelling before you wrap this around the wound. Tie the ends. The beginning of a thank you for what Johnny has done for you. His blood stains your hands, sticky into the crevices of your palms.

You squeeze the red out of the flannel and stand, roles reversed. He looks up at you, gaze reverent in a way that makes you faintly embarrassed. “The cut on your brow doesn't seem as bad,” you murmur, half-excusing yourself. You’re not doing anything untoward, but you feel the need to pre-emptively explain yourself. 

You wipe the blood on his face away, other hand hovering uncertainly, before you cup his chin. Hold him in place as you clean him up. It's something that you think would be normal, but feels outrageously intimate with how hot his gaze is on your face. Swallow and watch as his eyes drop to observe your throat move.

You avoid his eye, difficult when you can see that flash of blue darting around. You feel swallowed up by it. His attention feels like the sun has finally reached you, reaching through the wind to land on your skin. Scalding where his eyes land. You’re suddenly aware of the rip in your bodice, how it looks like you are bending over to show him the view down your chest. You snap up straight when you realise that he is looking.

You’re being ridiculous, you decide. This is the man who saved you from those horrible soldiers. A fate worse than death, most likely. Raped, murdered and burned most likely.

The cut on Johnny’s brow as stopped bleeding. “I think you’ll live,” you pronounce, voice falling flat at the end.

Another gap of quiet. Standing over a man who saved you, his blood on your hands. Three dead men in your yard. The burned crops, that smell wafting in, ruin and death.

“You live here alone?” He asks, accent catching on the ‘o’ sounds.

“No, my brother…he's away, fishing,” you explain.

Johnny barely seems to hear you, hand on your wrist. Thumb on your pulse, like he's listening to more than your words. “There may be more soldiers,” he says, gaze dragging away from you to the window. Darting back again as if he can barely stand to not be looking at you. “We have to go.”

You stammer, something in your spine locking at the idea of leaving your home. “I can't, no, this is my home - my brother - Ian - he’ll be -”

Johnny stands, a wall of muscle in front of you. The size of him silencing you. “There are English men dead on your land,” Johnny tells you, fierce suddenly. The snap of teeth. “Now, they may not believe that a sweet thing like you could do this, but they’ll make an example of you anyway.” His words blow the air out of your lungs, a shudder in the shape of a breath. You think about what he’s saying. You, on that post with your back whipped until everyone can see beneath your skin. Saved from the lawless and delivered to the law, the punishment eerily similar.

You shiver, fear worming through you. The scowl on his face smooths out, and he reaches up and cups your face. Sticky with gore, you can feel the print of hands left on your cheeks. “We have to go,” he repeats, firm. The full force of his will is something to bow to.

Your shoulder twinges, familiar with that sensation of being caught and forced into position. You twist your mouth, that ignored lump in your throat making itself known again. You blink up at Johnny, blood in the light beard across his face. The blood of the men who hurt you. Offering to save you. Again.

Your saviour is a stranger in your kitchen, and when you murmur your assent, he smiles like a wolf.

[scotianostra]

Robert Burns was born on January 25th 1759 at Alloway,Ayrshire.

Let's start the day off with the biggie!

Scotland's national poet is renowned around the world, other than Queen Victoria and religious figures there are more statues around the world to oor Rabbie than anyone else.

With people celebrating today at Burns Suppers today's post will look back at this celebration, it's history and traditions.

Remember every Burns Supper is individual and may not follow the same order or include them all.

This first supper was organised on July 21st 1801, the fifth anniversary of his passing, by the Reverend Hamilton Paul for a gathering of nine ‘honest men of Ayr’. For some years there was a question over whether a woman had been in attendance, as one of those noted had the Christian name Primrose, an uncommon name for a man. The venue was his cottage in Alloway.

The first "formal" Burns supper away from home I recall was on a weekend school trip to Innerwick in 1979, at Innerwick,it was the first timeI was called a chauvinist, and probably not the last!

It introduced all the key ingredients of the Burns Suppers we see today, namely good food, plenty of drink and friends who toasted the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns as well as reciting some of his works.

Guests at this first supper were served sheep’s head; this rarely features on modern menus! While it used to be the case that a Burns Supper was a male-only affair, this is definitely not still true.

Large Burns Suppers may have a top table for the Chairman, speakers and their partners, any special guests and the organising committee (if there is one), but you can also run a smaller and less formal affair.

The menu or Bill o’ Fare will detail what the party will be eating and usually includes a list of the speeches, speakers and entertainers. You may also find the words to ‘Auld Lang Syne’, which will be sung at the end of the evening before guests depart.

Most suppers start with a grace, most commonly ‘The Selkirk Grace’ attributed to Burns.

Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it,

But we hae meat and we can eat,

Sae let the Lord be Thankit!

As a celebration night, dress can be quite formal. There’s no rule obliging a kilt to be worn but this has become common evening dress for many Scots. A dinner suit or trews (tartan dress trousers) are equally acceptable.

It should be noted that it’s very unlikely that Burns himself would have worn a kilt. He was a Lowlander and the kilt is traditionally Highland dress. It was also illegal to wear a kilt between 1747–82, in the aftermath of the Jacobite Risings.

At a more traditional Burns Night, ladies might wear a black or white dress with a hint of tartan, perhaps a tartan sash pinned to the right shoulder (only a Clan Chief’s wife should wear her sash pinned to the left).

Many suppers are ‘come as you are’. If you’re the organiser, just let your guests know how formal you intend the evening to be.

The first course is traditionally soup, either Scotch broth, cock-a-leekie or Cullen skink – all good Scottish recipes using fine Scottish ingredients.

Haggis is then served either as the main course or an intermediate course, depending on how posh your do is!

The haggis is accompanied by champit tatties (mashed potato) and neeps (mashed turnip).Sometimes carrot is mixed with the neeps, although this is not traditional. Many suppers now include a whisky sauce to accompany the haggis.

If it's a big "do" yer at the Haggis will of course be delivered on a silver platter by a procession comprising the chef, the piper and the person who will address the Haggis. A whisky-bearer should also arrive to ensure the toasts are well lubricated during "The Address to the Haggis "

There is no set tune for the piper to play, I have heard of many over the years, even the Star Wars theme during a supper with the films theme! A particular favourite of mine is A Man's A Man for A' That.

Address to a Haggis.

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,

Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!

Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang ‘s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o’ need,

While thro’ your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,

An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:

Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

Bethankit hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi’ perfect sconner,

Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither’d rash,

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit;

Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He’ll make it whissle;

An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,

Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them out their bill o’ fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,

Gie her a Haggis!

Once the Address is complete, the Addresser gives a glass of whisky to the chef and the piper, and invites the whole company to ‘toast the haggis’.

The chef will then recover the haggis and leave the room to plate this part of the meal. Sometimes the haggis is passed around the table for guests to help themselves, adding tatties and neeps from large bowls placed on the table.

After the meal, the speeches and entertainment begin in earnest, starting with a toast to the monarch, known as The Loyal Toast.

This is followed by the main toast of the night, to The Immortal Memory of Robert Burns.

The Immortal Memory should be a heartfelt toast to the genius, life and works of our National Bard. At more formal dinners this speech focuses on a theme of Burns’s works, ending with a formal toast where all guests are invited to raise their glass.

The next speech will be The Toast to the Lassies, a reflection of Burns’s ‘appreciation’ of women. Traditionally, this takes the form of a witty reflection on the relationships between men and women, ending with the men rising to toast ‘the Lassies’.

This is followed by the Reply to the Toast to the Lassies. This should also be witty and seek to correct the previous speaker’s assumptions about women. The speech often ends with rousing applause from the women present, who then rise and raise their glasses to the men, toasting ‘the Laddies’.

At larger or more formal Burns Suppers, there may be further speeches that reflect on the guests and absent friends, Scotland and a formal vote of thanks.

The speeches are followed by entertainment – often including recitations and music. The night should end with a rousing rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and three cheers, marking the end of a successful Burns Night.

Among the pics are stamps from around the world, perhaps the most interesting are from Russia, (the two together) from 1956 and Romania, from 1959. The pic with the couple is Sharleen Spiteri and Ewan Mcgregor attending a Burns Night.

[sgiandubh]

JAMMF, 303

James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser is today 303. Born to both strife and greatness, on Beltane Day.

Fictional characters never die for good, their energy keeps on lingering somewhere, in a corner of our heart. So, here's a heartfelt Happy Birthday to a formidable character that one day chose to possess Herself's imagination and brought us all together, in this strange digital limbo of sorts.

Despite his rock-solid appearance, JAMMF is a real chameleon. My favorite JAMMF is perhaps the least talked about one. The Diplomat. Of course.

This guy, playing chess at Versailles (in reality, it's Prague, and a sizably different kind of Baroque, but let's not nitpick, here). A wonderful metaphor for what diplomacy was, is and always will be: a sophisticated game of chess.

While in Paris, JAMMF is acting, in plain sight, as a diplomatic agent of sorts on behalf of Bonnie Prince Charlie's embryo of a government in exile. Desperately hoping and fruitlessly waiting for more. And making a very bad, emotional job of it all, when emotions are least needed, despite all those best laid plans. Still, he does exactly what a diplomat posted abroad would do. He meets all the important honchos, he brilliantly entertains all those people at his open table, he mingles with princes and beggars alike and of course, he dutifully reports in writing about all this, back to Scotland.

It is, therefore, a pity and a shame that Herself did not utter a single word, in Dragonfly in Amber, about the real Jacobite meeting place in Paris: Sorbonne's Collegium Scoticum/Scots College, or Collège des Écossais, founded in 1333, by an edict of the Parliament of Paris (what we would call today the local council) and as a belated, yet important consequence of the Auld Alliance treaty between France, Scotland and Norway:

This is a place with a rich and minutely documented history, so much so that the adjoining street soon came to be known as the rue des Ecossais (Scots' Street), instead of rue des Amandiers (Almond Tree Street).

The building is still there, albeit with a different destination, a private Catholic elementary school. And a plaque inside the main building tells part of the story, in Latin:

Meaning:

In 1325, under the reigns of Charles the Fair, in France and Robert the Bruce, in Scotland, David de Moravia, bishop of Murray founded this college. In 1604, Jacques de Bethun, archbishop of Glasgow made a seminary out of it, given to the perpetual administration of the Carthusian Order's Superior of Paris [later edit, forgot to translate that properly and the French version I eventually took out is incomplete, sorry!]. In 1639, the whole was placed under the authority of the King of France and the Archbishop of Paris, their supreme authority being solemnly ratified by the Parliament of Paris. In memory of the founders, the priests and the alumni, may they rest in peace!

[Later edit]: the eight year difference in records reflects the time it took for the Parliament of Paris to acknowledge the College's existence and offer its due legal protection. So: founded by the bishop of Murray in 1325 and legally authorized by the Parliament of Paris in 1333. Both dates are legit founding landmarks and can be quoted accordingly.

[werewolfetone]

The are the same picture

Discuss.

[the--highlanders]

do you guys KNOW how frustrated this thing makes me. like it's literally from the regiment that jamie would most likely have been in AND the story lines up so well with the plot of the highlanders and I'm just. constantly itching to retcon the episode a little bit in my head and make this the standard

but no!! the serial kind of depends on the standard being prince charles' rather than nust a regimental standard!!!! and it kills me every single day

[twojamie-o-clock]

was talking with @inspectre-abed about how so much of the resistance group was cut from the war games colorized and it always hits first as the obliteration of showing Jamie/Zoe growth but also. Also. Seeing how much Jeremy/Jennifer suffered (not terribly but I do miss all of their few scenes haha) and just. Those are THE two strongest parallels imo. If you know me you know I never stfu about two/jamie x jennifer/jeremy but I don’t think I’ve talked about the resistance group stuff mainly cuz I never thought about it before??? But all of the emphasis on breaking their programming & brainwashing - it’s literally two/jamie/Zoe breaking free from their own environments & maybe I’m stupid and slow to realize this but. Like. Damn. Not to be annoying and drag eu into this but,

(The Menagerie^) and like sure it’s just Jamie playing the role of the Doctor or adding his own input after being with the Doctor for so long or whatever….but yeah. this learning about brainwashing after sorta breaking free from their own??? This acknowledgment from Jamie about the existence of this (and Jamie of course always bristling at it, like the macra terror) With the Doctor it’s obviously running from Gallifrey and while I don’t want to differentiate the Doctors too much…This IS so specific to the second doctor. Ian & Barbara made the first impact of course, and personally I will always be biased towards Steven because of his rather traumatic run with the Doctor. But now that 2 has settled into this, they can really begin to explore life outside of Gallifreyan standards. Adopting more and more human customs, saving lives for the sake of saving lives, and the transformation of the show as a whole after the dark and chaotic streak picking up after the Myth Makers.

While Jamie it feels it could fall on either hand of literally fighting as a Jacobite or just existing as someone different in his society (thinking,,,, “fae-touched” from on a pedestal or “Jamie knew the Doctor was not human: he didn’t know exactly what he was[…]He also knew that humans rarely came away from their adventures with the fairy folk unscathed.” from the Nameless City (p31-2 I believe) like. Literally any of his eu references that discuss his opinion on the Doctor & how he fits into all of that - and so well because of who he is which definitely doesn’t feel like it’s alluding to any other Identities.) it doesn’t change the fact that he has also been in some sort of resistance group & that joining the TARDIS did throw off this fog for him - whether exposing him to sci-fi worlds (like the soldiers being exposed to Their sci-fi world) or just learning about Himself On The TARDIS.

And obviously Zoe quite literally overcomes her programming from her childhood as she learns to love and live with Two & Jamie - “the girl […] from the future” who is not so far off from us now learning how to exist beyond what she has been dehumanized & reduced to (not …. unlike the kidnapped soldiers) by joining up with people from different times & different worlds that have suppressed them in some way. Not to mention her post-war games audio where she works to dismantle said system. (Ty inspectorabed).

This sort of resisting & breaking the rules through willpower & anachronistic friendship….that IS the second doctor. Like. “I tend to get involved with things” I know we all think about that like but watching the colorized version really hit hard because it reminded me, and also because it’s such an important scene now brought to color & attention (aka worthy of the 90 minutes). The Doctor getting involved in a much larger scale than their past life because they’ve established themself as this sort of figure & goal now (again…going back to the I, TARDIS book which describes how 2 shifts their self perception I guess?? Not a hero, I’ll never call the Doctor a hero, but. Certainly someone who chooses to step in more than not, and certainly more than 1 did.) Combined with getting involved with other people when 2 really shouldn’t be - aka, forming a family with Jamie & Zoe - it does feel a lot like the resistance “wrongly” coming together. This breaking away & resisting…like. That is the resistance of humans in the war games. Different people from different times united by their shared resistance from this brainwashing. They came from different places & were most likely given different programming - though not on the level that two/Zoe/Jamie would be given different things ofc - but they still reach similar conclusions towards the end. Not to mention the Doctor sort of pretending to help the scientist reintegrate the rebels in the same way they ,, initiated the Time Lords returning/affecting Jamie/Zoe …

So.

Yeah. That’s it. I don’t know.

I know they had to cut a lot so it’s not really about that just more. Nice to see the resistance as this culmination of Two Era but especially with Jamie & Zoe & how they reflect the Doctor and their own attempt to escape Gallifrey….how the three of them do eventually go home - but unlike the resistance where that’s a good thing it’s a loss to them….how they never end up escaping their Programs but they have still escaped their Programming??? Does this make sense?? Anyway

*

Stuff referenced again: the menagerie novel, the nameless city (prose), on a pedestal (ST: the quality of leadership), echoes of grey/the memory cheats/the uncertainty principle/second chances audio series about Zoe. (CC I think?)

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

The Scottish Highlands 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴��� is the largest region in Scotland and was unsurprisingly named as one of National Geographic's "Best of the World" destinations. Visitors can explore medieval castles, the mysterious Loch Ness, passing through the striking Glencoe National Nature Reserve and Cairngorms National Park, or discover the rugged coastline of Caithness in the Far North of Scotland.

Inverness, Capital of the Highlands!

The city of Inverness has played a key role: throughout Scottish history. It was the capital of the Picts in the Middle Ages, during which time St. Columba visited in 565, converting the King of the Picts to Christianity.

The kingdom of Alba would later be created when the kingdoms of the Scots and Picts were united in 843. This developed into the Scotland we know today. Two hundred years later, Macbeth is said to have murdered King Duncan in his castle in Inverness.

During this era, the town was the site of many battles and skirmishes. One of the most destructive occurred when the Abbot of Arbroath had his men burn down large parts of the town. The town was burnt down a second time in 1411 by Donald, Lord of the Isles.

During the Early Modern Age, was substantial tension between the Highlands and the Scottish crown. This was shown in 1562 when the governor refused Mary, Queen of Scots entry - an act he would go on to be hanged for. In 1746 Inverness Castle was captured by Jacobites. When they were defeated at Culloden in April, the rebels were sacked from the castle. A large fortification was built to prevent such uprisings from occurring again.

The industry of Inverness was largely related to shipbuilding from the Middle Ages, however, other industries grew such as whisky distilling. By the late 20th century, industry in Inverness had been transformed. Although it was still a busy port, tourism had become a major industry in the region, in large part due to the myth of the Loch Ness monster.

The Highland Council is the administrative body for much of the Highlands, with its administrative centre at Inverness. However, the Highlands also includes parts of areas of Aberdeenshire, Angus, Argyll and Bute, Moray, North Ayrshire, Perth and Kinross, Stirling and West Dunbartonshire.

By @castlesofscotland

Posted 28th January 2025

[elancholia]

Well,

(They're pootlingly minor, of course.)

But the difference is that Scotland has strong preexisting fault-lines to cleave across. It has a national identity and a memory of independence, and it's a first-level political entity within the UK.

I feel like there's a whole thing about Scotland being...like subjugated by England and it's not clear to me how real this is? It seems like it's not significantly different between like. The part of France around Paris and the rest of France. As opposed to say the Ireland situation which was like normal colonialization

[dangermousie]

So I started reading The Captive based on your post the other day (I am invested) and now I’m hoping you have other period romance novel recs because I love them when they hit but they don’t always 😭

Oh, I dooooooooooo!

The King's Falcon by Stella Riley

Earlier stuff by Elizabeth Hoyt

Anna Campbell's The Captive of Sin

MJ Putney's One Perfect Rose

Anything by Laura Kinsale but especially Flowers from the Storm

Meredith Duran's At Your Pleasure and The Sins of Lord Lockwood

Stuff in this post: https://dangermousie.tumblr.com/post/164254742936/three-book-series-with-jacobites-named-alex-and this post https://dangermousie.tumblr.com/post/44264765206/janoda-said-omg-you-read-romance-i-really-like and this post

and here https://dangermousie.tumblr.com/post/56327193377/who-are-your-top-5-romance-novel-otps

and here https://dangermousie.tumblr.com/post/45584789003/seeing-that-i-am-currently-stuck-in-santiago-while

Also: