#anti diana gabaldon

[cookie-de-baunilha]

Most people agree that John should move on with his life, let go of Jamie and find happiness in a real relationship. But there are some takes on this subject that really piss me off.

I’m sorry but “oh I know John will never love someone like/more than he loves Jamie, but I really wish he could find a great guy and have a nice relationship with him!!” is not the good argument that you think it is.

That’s not getting over Jamie, that’s settling for second best. Well, he can’t have Jamie, poor thing! So he will have to take someone else who he won’t love as much as he loves Jamie but at least he will have someone to cuddle with at night 🥺

Why can’t John actually get over Jamie?? Why should he settle for the second best? Worse, why should his partner accept being the second choice??

I damn well don’t want John loving someone else like he loves Jamie because that shit is completely unhealthy imo, but I know that’s not what people mean.

Jamie being the superior god-like man that everyone is in love with/is attracted to/wants to fuck is kinda ridiculous imho, but I understand the appeal that a character like that has for the audience of a romance book/show. But to put Jamie so high up in a pedestal and to think that John should be forever in love with him and not ever get over him because oh lord nothing is comparable to King-of-Men-Jamie is… a choice.

Listen. I know that’s on Diana. She is the one who wrote John like this. But I wish people would be more critical of Diana’s writing of him instead of swallowing that shit up like it’s chocolate. Everyone knows how problematic the books can be regarding certain topics, this is just another one of these things.

Instead of accepting that John won’t ever get over Jamie/won’t ever love someone as much as he loves Jamie, you should be asking yourself: why is that Diana writes him like this? Why does she insist in the stereotypical cliché of the gay man having unrequited feelings for his straight best friend? Why can’t John truly move on and stop having romantic feelings for Jamie? Why should Jamie be John’s greatest love?

Outlander is essentially a romance (idgaf about what DG says). Love of all types is a running theme: not only romantic love, but the love that exists within family and friendship. And yes, there’s a lot of platonic/friendship kind of love between J/J.

But romantic love specifically has a huge role in this story. We have straight couples left and right in this series: Claire and Jamie, Bree and Roger, Fergus and Marsali, Ian and Rachel, Dottie and Denzell, Hal and Minnie, Jenny and Ian, hell, even Brian and Ellen are getting a spin-off.

So I’m sorry but it’s really freaking weird that, in the middle of all this, people say that John (the character with his own book series and one of the main POV characters in the main series, mind you) won’t ever be able to love someone like he loves Jamie, or more than he loves Jamie. It’s really freaking weird that people say that John has to settle with second best — because that’s essentially what’s being said every time someone says that John won’t ever love someone like he loves Jamie but he should find someone else to be in a relationship with anyway.

All of that for what? Keep the cliché of the gay dude in love with his straight best friend and who never moves on? C’mon now. Don’t piss me off.

[britishguyslover]

Lord John fans before Brotherhood of the Blade: it's heartbreaking that John never had a real relationship after Hector died, and he had been hopelessly in love with his straight friend.

Diana when BotB was published: well, actually, John had a serious and honest relationship with Percy, but realized too late that he fell in love with him.

LJG fans: oh :'(

Diana, 5 years later (18 years in the books' timeline): Soooo, Percy is back... And maybe John still loves him...and perhaps Percy still loves him too.

LJG fans: oh my, HOPE

Diana 10 years later: bitches, hahaha, gay men in the 18th century absolutely cannot be happy, what did you think? That's so not realistic (unlike, time travel, and being with someone who lives 200 years in the past, that is absolutely believable). It's not like I'm homophobic, just...

LJG fans: ...

[thisweekinfandomhistory]

Outlander, no! This week, Emily has another Big Topic as she and V try to understand the fundamentally twisted mind of Outlander author Diana Gabaldon and her spurious-yet-vicious hatred of fanfiction (and her own fans). Despite what Gabaldon -- and a weird number of writers -- believe, fictional characters do not actually have their own lives and writing fic, even badfic, about them cannot harm them. Discussion turns to the nature of fanfiction as art -- even bad fanfiction as art -- and the line where a creator's control over their art ends. Do you feel like characters "act without your permission" when you write? Do you think only "good" art has the right to exist?

This Week In Fandom History is a fandom-centric podcast that tells you… what happened this week in fandom history!

P.S. Apologies for the late upload this week. Outside commitments reared their ugly heads.

[cookie-de-baunilha]

Tbh the more I think about how Diana handled Percy in Bees, the more I wonder why she decided to write him into the main series in the first place. What was the point, really?

Everything he did could be achieved through a brand new character. Let’s say, Claude Beauchamp himself. Claude could be the one looking for Fergus. He could be the French spy that was once John’s opposite in the Black Chamber. John wouldn’t trust him anyway.

It just makes no sense to me, from a narrative standpoint, to bring a character from the LJG series, who shares a complicated history with John, and not have their relationship further developed/dealt with in any meaningful way to the characters.

Percy is connected to the main series through John, mostly, but they never had a single conversation about them that actually did something to further develop their dynamic (no, that brief conversation they had in the end of Bees added nothing new to their dynamic).

And this is not me saying that they necessarily had to get back together, mind you (even though I’d like that very much), just that they needed… to talk. About them. About what happened 20 years before. Unresolved things. And from there Diana could’ve gone anywhere really, writing them getting back together or not.

The thing is, the ending of BOTB — sad and tragic as it is — could pass as a satisfying closure to their relationship. So one could assume that bringing Percy back meant dealing with unfinished business between them, right? But Diana doesn’t even make an effort to do that.

So what was the point of Percy specifically? If we could easily have a different character doing the exact same things (with some adjustments)? It just screams bad writing to me, and, if I had to bet, that’s also part of the reason why so many readers struggle to care about Percy’s storyline in the main series.

Because, yeah, most of them haven’t read the spin-off series, so they get pretty confused when they hit the first chapters of Echo. And what Percy brings to the table is essentially a political side plot with some mystery surrounding Fergus — so, unless you get really interested in Fergus’ parentage storyline, Percy’s plot and overall presence becomes a big “ok… so what?” (add that to the fact that 2 huge books later and the Fergus storyline still hasn’t gone anywhere, so even if you like that plot, which I do btw, you are gonna be frustrated by the lack of development).

What about Percy’s relationship with John? Well, that is not dealt with in any way, shape or form besides “something happened between them in the past, John doesn’t trust him”. So much so that the readers who haven’t read the LJG series have to either accept the vague informations that are given to them or search more about it online. There’s no emotional investment by the readers whatsoever because Diana doesn’t make them care at all.

Actually, that’s a problem that also exists within John’s plot as a whole in the main series and the reason why so many readers struggle with his storyline in the later books (something something *John not having a character development in the main series* something something)… but I’m gonna leave that conversation for another post because this one is already too long.

[britishguyslover]

I'll forever be bitter about John and Percy.

How much of a coward Diana actually has been for decades now.

She chose the easiest and most comfortable way to write them, and it really ruined their characters, esp. John.

[thisweekinfandomhistory]

Hey Scottish person here who also hates outlander and gabaldon. This probably won't hit too deeply for you guys but the way she treats Scottishness is kinda weird. Like. Not to equate it with weird exotifying racism but it's very much playing on tropes of Savage Men in a way that's uncomfortable, especially as along with the irish, scottish people were sort of treated as non white white people for a long time. She's also weird about kilts, and it's just never fun to have clueless idiots sexualise your culture. Just giving you more stuff to hate about her.

Listen in our heart of hearts, we are little haters. So yes, please give us alllllll the things to hate about Diana Gabaldon.

I (Emily) will gobble that up like a little feast.

Personally, learning how Scottish people are giving no quarter and taking her to school for all the things she so confidently gets wrong about their history, culture, geography, etc. was just absolutely delicious.

Nothing like basing your life's work on one single place and seemingly doing nothing at all to research or understand it.

[brotherhoodoftheblade]

Me with Jamie Fraser, but instead it's the author's obsession with him and insistence on shoehorning him in everywhere that initially put me off him. 🤪

It's pretty bad when I've reached the point of just wanting him to die already, not because I hate him but because the writing's just made me sick of him. Like, enough of the nine lives song and dance already, just DIE already, and stay dead dammit!! 😬😂

It's maddening, my well of patience has long run dry. 😅

category of blorbo called "technically i like them but fanons obsession with them to the exclusion of other characters pavloved me into having a negative reaction whenever i see them"

[brotherhoodoftheblade]

A character named Perseverance being doomed by the narrative is just extra inherently tragic, so I'll just be officially stanning him forever and a day now.❤️

[cookie-de-baunilha]

Diana forgetting what she wrote in BOTB is not even a joke actually, it’s a fact:

A YEAR OR TWO LATER?? Is she talking about the Lavender House meeting? Because they talked for like 2 seconds in that scene, it makes 0 sense to consider that as the starting point of their relationship.

But pushing that aside, DECLARED HIS LOVE??? Excuse me, ma’am, I think I’ve read a completely different book.

It wasn’t until after the Doorknob Incident™ that John realized he was in love with Percy, tf is she talking about? And Percy never knew John was in love with him because John never told him, so wdym DECLARED his love?? That thought never left his head.

Let’s take a look at the definition of the verb “declare”, shall we?

Some interesting words: solemn, emphatic, firmly, clearly, publicly, officially… literally the polar opposite of what John did ijbol

Not to mention “someone who turns out to be unworthy of their love”, well I guess they could call it even then bc how the f*ck is Mr. I-will-tell-you-I-can’t-love-you-because-I’m-already-in-love-with-someone-else-but-I’ll-conveniently-2nd-place-you-and-take-your-love-and-all-the-benefits-that-come-with-it-so-that-I-can-enjoy-your-body-and-your-company-whilst-refusing-to-acknowledge-my-own-feelings anywhere near “worthy”.

This is so ridiculous 🙄

[britishguyslover]

Oh, your favourite character doesn't believe he deserves love because of how his trauma shaped him... I assure you he never will, because I'm a lazy writer.

[brotherhoodoftheblade]

This was, I think, her explanation for why there are no lesbians in Outlander.

And I may be far too bisexual to properly judge the sentiment behind this statement, but I feel like DG's talking out of the other side of her mouth again.

(I mean, even when I'm not personally attracted to someone because they're not my type or whatever, I can usually still identify the traits they possess that might make them attractive to someone else. For a mentally flexible writer, it's really not that hard to put yourself in someone else shoes and look at the world through their eyes rather than your own - at least, it isn't to me. *shrug* It's a paramount skill for any writer to develop imo.)

Thoughts anyone? lol

[cevansbrat0007]

You’re writing is so amazing, literally love everything you put out!! Do you have any romance book recommendations?!? Literally anything, I fully trust your judgement lol😌

Omigosh! First, thank you so much for the compliment. Second, I got you.

*whips out Kindle*

I've broken it down into categories. Here we go:

Contemporary Line of Duty Series, Tessa Bailey - If I want something quick, down, and dirty I reach for her. I recommend starting with her Line of Duty Series, which features the most delicious rough and tumble cops finding love.

The Coppersmith Farmhouse, Devney Perry - I adore this small town, enemy-to-lovers romance featuring a single mother and the local sheriff. Sheriff Jess can be an ass, but he grovels well. The Game Maker Series, Kresley Cole - Centers around three Russian brothers who have ties to the mafia. While each man is different and beautifully broken in his own way, they all believe in taking what they want. And once one of the Sevastyan's have set their sights on you, they will not take no for an answer. They're also not opposed to kidnapping either. The Italian, T.L. Swan - What happens when a summer fling ends up being so much more than that? This romance tells the story of an Italian mafia boss and his forbidden love with an Australian tourist. There's sex, angst, danger and so much more.

Historical *Outlander Series, Diana Gabaldon - Claire and Jamie's love literally transcends both time and space. This series contains an amazing romance, well researched historical descriptions, elements of magic, and so much more.

Paranormal The Psy Changeling Series, Nalini Singh - If you love stories about shifters and people with psychic abilities then I totally recommend checking out this series. Slave to Sensation is the first book, and premise goes something like: the ruling Psy prefer to exist in a world devoid of feelings and emotions, but what happens when one of their own finds herself craving something only Lucas Hunter, the alpha of the Dark River Shifters, can provide? *The Guild Hunter Series, Nalini Singh - Think Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but with Angels. This series is amazing and the love story between Raphael (the Archangel of New York) and his precious mortal, Elena (who is a badass in her own right). The world building is fantastic, the romance is hot, and each book only gets better. And believe me when I say, these are not your grandmother's angels. I also love the fact that you get to watch their relationship grow and evolve across multiple books. *The Night Huntress Series, Jeaniene Frost - Also has a Buffy the Vampire Slayer vibe, except the heroine is actually half-vampire herself. Bones, her eventual love interest, reminds me of Spike. Just a little bit. And just like the previous series, their romance spans multiple books. Also the love scenes are fabulous. *The Fever Series, Karen Marie Moning - If you love reading about heroines trying to solve mysterious disappearances, the Seelie and Unseelie Fae, and a delicious Alpha Male that could just easily rip you apart as well as fuck you - I'm looking at you, Jericho Barrons - then check this out. This series requires a little commitment because the romance, while hinted at, doesn't start until you're a couple of books in. But it's so worth it because you're rewarded with a territorial, possessive, darkly handsome anti-hero. *The Highlander Series, Karen Marie Moning - If you're a sucker for men in kilts, ancient curses, time travel, and drop-dead-sexy highlanders who fall hard for their modern day mates then please read. Also, some of these heroes go on to appear in the Fever Series as well. Immortals After Dark Series, Kresley Cole - Another great one This one features characters from every corner of the lore. I'm talking vampires, witches, valkyries, berserkers, demons, werewolves, succubi, and more. The men are swoon worthy and the women are badass. But what I especially love is the creativity and humor she manages to weave throughout her stories. She uses the fated mates trope quite a bit, which I love. However, what makes it great is that a lot of times the men show up like: "You belong to me now. I'm ready to take you to home" and their brides-to-be are like "Fuck off. Come any closer and I will stab you/shoot you/light you on fire". And what's more...they absolutely follow-thru. Those heroes have to earn their women. Oh, and the sexy times are good and spicy.

Hope this helps! If you or anyone else decides to read a book from this list, please let me know what you think!

*Indicates Book Boyfriend

[olderthannetfic]

Is it just me, or is a lot of the negativity about AI regurgitating Robin Hobb, Diana Gabaldon, Anne Rice, and Jo Walton's anti-fanfic rants wholesale (that is, when not spreading technical misinformation instead)? I can't muster that much empathy for writers feeling all nauseous and stuff about "their babies" getting appropriated when, uh, they gleefully did the same to the IP holders already! “TV show Friends with guest star, Sephiroth” is textbook transformative, not plagiarism or theft.

--

The future of corporate misuse of AI is daunting, but yeah, people ~stealing my babies~ is not why.

[fandom-hoarder]

I'm still working on that Diana Gabaldon anti-fic manifesto and I've rolled my eyes so much they've rolled across the floor. How are there still authors that are this ridiculous and out of touch. (I realize it was 2010, but the problem persists.) Carrying on Anne Rice's legacy, no doubt.🙄 Fanfiction isn't FOR YOU, MA'AM. Don't look for it if it disgusts you, omfg.🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

[ros64]

Dal profilo FB di Diana Gabaldon

Excerpt from BOOK TEN (Untitled), Copyright 2025 Diana Gabaldon

(yes, there are small spoilers in this, though nothing major)

I considered the three jars on the counter: ginger root, blackberry leaves, and chamomile (flowers and leaves). All three were reasonably effective anti-diarrhetics, and ginger tea was also good—theoretically—for nausea. The only problem with ginger tea was that Jamie wouldn’t drink it, it being forever associated in his mind with debilitating sea-sickness—to the point that the tea itself made him sick. Or at least he was convinced that it did, which was essentially the same thing.

“Dear Lord,” I muttered, casting (well, rolling) my eyes up to heaven, “_please_ keep him off boats!” It was a sincere prayer, but I doubted it would have much effect, if John Grey was still being held prisoner on a ship.

Still, my prayer was somewhat answered, as my eye caught the large jar of honey on the shelf. Did I have time to make candied ginger? Yes, they wouldn’t leave until the day after tomorrow, as Jamie needed to take Roger and Jemmy to the Spaniard’s cave tomorrow.

I rubbed blackberry leaves and chamomile between my hands, crumbling the dried herbs into a dozen small squares of muslin, which I tied up in tiny bundles that looked absurdly like a row of tiny rabbits with floppy ears. That made me smile, despite the small lead weight that had settled at the bottom of my stomach when William told Jamie why he had come, seeking help.

All right, that was diarrhea taken care of; what about constipation? They’d have a small bag of oatmeal, as well as another of walnuts, but I didn’t trust either of them to refrain from tavern food, the moment they reached civilization. Well, they _would_ eat raisins, and I still had a few left from the winter…aha. I reached for the bottle of caraway seeds and shook it; yes, plenty! A bit of rhubarb and dandelion with caraway, and Bob’s your uncle.

One last thing for the first-aid kit—I’d made a packet of rolled bandages already, but those would be separate—honey. I poured a few ounces into a black bottle, corked it tightly and stuck on a label that said, “For Suppurating Wounds”, in hopes that this would stop them simply eating it on their bread.

I reached for one of the canvas bags I used for transporting medical supplies, and was surprised to see that my fingers were shaking. Ever so slightly, but noticeably.

I clenched my fists, as much to deny as to stop it. A little deep breathing, maybe…perhaps I’d been holding my breath as I made preparations.

“Little bloody wonder,” I muttered, and rubbed my palms briskly together to warm them. I usually did a much better job of not worrying excessively about what Jamie was doing when he left home… _No, you don’t, idiot_, said the objective part of my brain, though tolerantly. _You just keep so busy you haven’t time to think about it. Think of something else, for God’s sake_.

For lack of a better notion, I sat down, closed my eyes, and tried to think of something else.

The first thing that popped into my mind was taking leave of Jamie—if you could describe something so unbearable as “taking leave”—at the stones, on the night before Culloden.

I could smell the cold stone and dirt of the ruined cottage where we’d lain together for what we’d known was the last time. Half-naked, shivering, groping desperately for the warmth of each other’s flesh--and finding it. Touching, frantically, then slowly, trying to memorize everything, the touch of his body, the cold roughness of his hair, the solid muscle of his back, his legs, the brief sense of cold as I spread my legs and he entered me, then the heat of him, inside me, on top of me, surrounding me…knowing this was all, all there’d ever be…

_Well, it wasn’t, was it, ninny? Stop crying, for goodness sake_!

I gulped, sniffed, and stopped, breathing and sniffling alternately as I wiped my eyes on my apron. I glanced covertly at the door; luckily, I’d shut it when I came in. I hoped that no one had heard me; I could hear _them_—voices and pots clanking in the kitchen, a stampede of running footsteps and a lot of giggling overhead, distant voices coming through the open window from outside, too far away to make out words.

I’d stopped crying, but the train of memory was still moving, slow and heavy, laden with remembered grief.

Kings Mountain. He’d thought he would die there (_God damn you, Frank_!) and lived with that fear for months. And on the night before the battle, the both of us shaking with cold and sodden with rain, he’d asked three things of me: to find a priest and have a Mass said for his soul, to go back through the stones with Brianna and her family. And the last: “_Remember me_.”

I stuffed a handful of my apron into my mouth to muffle the sound I was making, remembering our attempt to make love on a bank of wet leaves, freezing and sodden, and failing, clinging together through the rest of that night.

“Bloody hell,” I said. “That was only bloody six months ago! Couldn’t you have waited?!”

I wasn’t sure whom I was addressing: Lord John, William, Jamie or God.

I supposed it had started about five minutes after William got off his horse and said to Jamie, “Sir, I need your help.”

_Well, of course_, was the first thing I thought, and _Oh, he’s wonderful_! was the second, followed by a wordless surge of delight at seeing the two of them each perceive the echo of himself in the other.

The third thing I thought was, “Oh, my God…he’s going to leave. To do something dangerous. Again.”

And in the far back of my mind, as I gave myself over to greetings and explanations and general excitement, was a tiny voice, a flat, cold statement that brooked no argument.

_This time he’s not coming back_.

In fact, it was Jamie who came in, clad in shirt and kilt, with his leather tool-bag over his shoulder and a huge stack of what looked like a very plain quilt in his arms.

“What’s that?” I got up and came to look as he set the Thing down on my surgery table and began to unfold it.

“Brianna says it’s a sound-deadening baffle, but surely there’s a better name for it,” he said, flipping back the last fold. It _was_ a small quilt, long and narrow, but very thick, made of canvas dyed with indigo, with very large knots holding the layers together. “It’s stuffed wi’ turkey feathers, rags and bits of deer-hide and bear-skin left over from butchering. Dried,” he added reassuringly, seeing my expression. “It doesna smell much, and ye willna be sleepin’ under it, anyway.”

“Oh.”

“Aye. Here, hold this for me, will ye, Sassenach?” He handed me the heavy tool-bag, which clanked, and picking up the baffle (for lack of a better word), shut the surgery door and held the thing up against it.

“That’s a decent fit,” he said, with satisfaction. “Gie’ me a nail, aye? There’s a packet of sixteen-penny ones on the top there. Aye, thanks—now come and put your hands up here, to hold it in place.”

He plucked a hammer from his belt and set about nailing the baffle firmly to the door. Task completed, he opened and closed the door several times.

“There,” he said, with satisfaction, closing it once more. “That’s no going anywhere.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “Very thoughtful of you.”

There was a swishing noise and a slithering noise and then the soft thud of something hitting the floorboards. I turned and saw Jamie standing there, wearing nothing but his shirt and a wide grin.

“What the…?” I began, but didn’t get any further. He stepped free of his puddled kilt, pulled me to him with one arm and kissed me with considerable enthusiasm.

“I want ye, Sassenach,” he whispered against my mouth. “I want ye bad.”

Judging from the state of things between us, he did. His free hand was gathering up my skirts and before I could make any acknowledgement of his declaration, he whirled me round to face the surgery table.

“Bend over, _a nighean_.”

“You—”

A big hand in the middle of my back gave me no choice and I found myself with my face half-buried in a stack of linen towels and a chilly draft playing on my bare backside. Then there was the warmth of big hands on my back, untying my skirts, the bigger warmth of him against me and a stronger, harder, smooth heat between my legs, searching.

“I’m comin’ back,” he said softly. “And I didna want to leave ye in tears, this time.”

Versione in italiano

Estratto dal LIBRO DIECI (Senza titolo), Copyright 2025 Diana Gabaldon

(sì, ci sono piccoli spoiler, ma nulla di significativo)

Osservai i tre barattoli sul bancone: radice di zenzero, foglie di mora e camomilla (fiori e foglie). Tutti e tre erano rimedi antidiarroici abbastanza efficaci, e il tè allo zenzero era anche buono—teoricamente—per la nausea. L’unico problema era che Jamie non lo beveva, essendo per lui per sempre associato al debilitante mal di mare—al punto che il solo tè lo faceva stare male. O almeno, era convinto che fosse così, il che alla fine era la stessa cosa.

“Santo cielo,” mormorai, alzando (o meglio, roteando) gli occhi al cielo, “ti prego tienilo lontano dalle barche!” Era una preghiera sincera, ma dubitavo avrebbe avuto grande effetto, se John Grey era ancora prigioniero su una nave.

In ogni caso, la mia preghiera fu parzialmente esaudita, perché il mio sguardo cadde sul grande barattolo di miele sulla mensola. Avevo tempo per fare dello zenzero candito? Sì, non sarebbero partiti prima del dopodomani, dato che Jamie doveva portare Roger e Jemmy alla caverna dello Spagnolo il giorno dopo.

Stropicciai tra le mani foglie di mora e camomilla, sbriciolando le erbe essiccate in una dozzina di piccoli quadrati di mussola, che annodai in minuscoli fagottini che sembravano ridicolmente simili a una fila di coniglietti con le orecchie flosce. Questo mi fece sorridere, nonostante il piccolo peso di piombo che mi si era posato nello stomaco quando William aveva detto a Jamie il motivo per cui era venuto a chiedere aiuto.

Bene, la diarrea era sistemata; e per la stitichezza? Avrebbero avuto un piccolo sacco di farina d’avena e un altro di noci, ma non mi fidavo che si sarebbero trattenuti dal mangiare in una taverna non appena raggiunta la civiltà. Be’, almeno avrebbero mangiato l’uva passa, e me n’era rimasta ancora un po’ dall’inverno… aha. Presi la bottiglia di semi di cumino e la scossi; sì, ce n’erano abbastanza! Un po’ di rabarbaro e tarassaco con il cumino, e il gioco era fatto.

Un’ultima cosa per il kit di primo soccorso—avevo già preparato un pacco di bende arrotolate, ma quelle sarebbero state a parte—il miele. Ne versai qualche oncia in una bottiglia nera, la tappai bene e ci incollai un’etichetta con scritto “Per ferite suppuranti”, sperando che questo impedisse loro di mangiarlo semplicemente sul pane.

Presi una delle borse di tela che usavo per trasportare le forniture mediche e mi sorpresi nel vedere che le mie dita tremavano. Appena percettibilmente, ma chiaramente.

Strinsi i pugni, più per negarlo che per fermarlo. Un po’ di respirazione profonda, magari… forse avevo trattenuto il fiato mentre preparavo tutto.

“Niente di strano,” borbottai, strofinandomi energicamente i palmi per scaldarli. Di solito ero molto più brava a non preoccuparmi eccessivamente di ciò che faceva Jamie quando partiva… No, non lo sei, idiota, disse la parte razionale del mio cervello, sebbene con indulgenza. Ti tieni solo così occupata da non avere tempo per pensarci. Pensa a qualcos’altro, per l’amor del cielo.

In assenza di un’idea migliore, mi sedetti, chiusi gli occhi e provai a pensare ad altro.

La prima cosa che mi venne in mente fu l’addio a Jamie—se così si poteva definire qualcosa di così insopportabile—alle pietre, la notte prima di Culloden.

Potevo sentire l’odore della pietra fredda e della terra del cottage in rovina dove avevamo fatto l’amore per quella che sapevamo essere l’ultima volta. Mezzi nudi, tremanti, aggrappandoci disperatamente al calore della pelle dell’altro—e trovandolo. Toccare, freneticamente, poi lentamente, cercando di memorizzare tutto…

Be’, non lo è stato, vero, sciocca? Smettila di piangere, per l’amor del cielo!

Deglutii, tirai su col naso e mi fermai, respirando e singhiozzando a intermittenza mentre mi asciugavo gli occhi sul grembiule.

Avevo smesso di piangere, ma il treno dei ricordi era ancora in movimento, lento e pesante, carico di dolore passato…

Kings Mountain. Jamie aveva pensato che sarebbe morto lì (Maledetto tu, Frank!) e aveva convissuto con quella paura per mesi. E la notte prima della battaglia, mentre entrambi tremavamo per il freddo e la pioggia ci inzuppava, mi aveva chiesto tre cose: trovare un prete e far dire una Messa per la sua anima, tornare indietro attraverso le pietre con Brianna e la sua famiglia. E l’ultima:

“Ricordami.”

Mi infilai un lembo del grembiule in bocca per soffocare il suono che stavo facendo, ricordando il nostro tentativo di fare l’amore su un letto di foglie fradice, congelati e inzuppati, e il nostro fallimento, aggrappandoci l’uno all’altra per il resto della notte.

“Maledizione,” dissi. “Sono passati solo sei mesi, accidenti! Non potevate aspettare?!”

Non ero sicura a chi mi stessi rivolgendo: a Lord John, a William, a Jamie o a Dio.

Suppongo che tutto fosse iniziato cinque minuti dopo che William era sceso da cavallo e aveva detto a Jamie:

“Signore, ho bisogno del vostro aiuto.”

Be’, ovviamente, era stata la mia prima reazione, seguita da Oh, è meraviglioso!, e da un’ondata di gioia nel vedere ognuno dei due riconoscere in sé l’eco dell’altro.

La terza cosa che pensai fu:

“Oh, mio Dio… se ne andrà. A fare qualcosa di pericoloso. Di nuovo.”

E nel profondo della mia mente, mentre mi lasciavo prendere dai saluti, dalle spiegazioni e dall’agitazione generale, c’era una vocina, un’asserzione fredda e impassibile che non ammetteva repliche.

“Questa volta non tornerà.”

Alla fine, fu Jamie a entrare, vestito solo con camicia e kilt, con la borsa degli attrezzi in pelle a tracolla e una grossa pila di quello che sembrava un quilt molto semplice tra le braccia.

“Cos’è quello?” Mi alzai e mi avvicinai mentre lo posava sul tavolo della mia infermeria e iniziava a dispiegarlo.

“Brianna dice che è un pannello fonoassorbente, ma ci sarà sicuramente un nome migliore,” disse, sollevando l’ultimo lembo. Era davvero un piccolo quilt, lungo e stretto, ma molto spesso, fatto di tela tinta con l’indaco, con grandi nodi che tenevano insieme gli strati. “È imbottito con piume di tacchino, stracci e pezzi di pelle di cervo e orso avanzati dalla macellazione. Essiccati,” aggiunse in tono rassicurante, vedendo la mia espressione. “Non puzzano molto, e comunque non ci dormirai sotto.”

“Oh.”

“Già. Tieni questo per me, Sassenach?” Mi porse la pesante borsa degli attrezzi, che tintinnò, poi prese il pannello fonoassorbente (per mancanza di un termine migliore), chiuse la porta dell’infermeria e lo premette contro di essa.

“Calza bene,” disse con soddisfazione. “Passami un chiodo, sì? C’è un pacchetto di chiodi da sedici penny lì sopra. Sì, grazie—ora vieni a tenere qui con le mani, per tenerlo fermo.”

Estrasse un martello dalla cintura e si mise a inchiodare saldamente il pannello alla porta. Terminato il lavoro, aprì e chiuse la porta più volte.

“Ecco,” disse, soddisfatto, richiudendola. “Quello non andrà da nessuna parte.”

“Ne sono sicura,” risposi. “Molto premuroso da parte tua.”

Ci fu un fruscio, poi un suono di qualcosa che scivolava e infine un tonfo morbido sul pavimento. Mi voltai e vidi Jamie lì in piedi, indosso solo la camicia e un ampio sorriso.

“Ma che…?” cominciai, ma non riuscii ad andare oltre. Jamie uscì dal kilt ormai ammucchiato a terra, mi tirò a sé con un braccio e mi baciò con notevole entusiasmo.

“Ti voglio, Sassenach,” sussurrò contro la mia bocca. “Ti voglio da morire.”

A giudicare dallo stato delle cose tra di noi, era vero. La sua mano libera stava già raccogliendo le pieghe della mia gonna e, prima che potessi rispondere in qualche modo alla sua dichiarazione, mi fece girare per affrontare il tavolo dell’infermeria.

“Piegati, a nighean.”

“Tu—”

Una grande mano nel mezzo della mia schiena non mi lasciò scelta, e mi ritrovai con la faccia mezza affondata in una pila di asciugamani di lino e una corrente fredda che mi accarezzava il didietro nudo. Poi sentii il calore delle sue mani grandi sulla mia schiena, mentre scioglieva le mie sottane, il calore ancora più intenso del suo corpo contro di me, e una sensazione più forte, più dura, liscia e calda tra le mie gambe, che cercava.

“Tornerò,” disse piano. “E stavolta non volevo lasciarti in lacrime.”

[brotherhoodoftheblade]

Unless of course the author is deliberately using scorched earth tactics in the name of so-called realism, selectively neglecting to acknowledge that fiction is, above all, a work of art. And good art strives to speak to a greater meaning beyond the confines of an individual work of fiction and its narrative.

Looking at you, G*baldon.💀

― Franz Kafka, Blue Octavo Notebooks