From Vikapediathat

to @wonderavian

I do not own this piece of art/fiction. @vikapediathat  is the original creator and has agreed to this being posted on this blog for Secret Santa 2017.

Prompt 2: Alan and Snow

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Title: The Chill That Can Touch A Warm Heart

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Sometimes, just sometimes, Tracy Island is just too hot and humid to do the most basic of actions as the heavy air made one feel gross.

Other times, deep space is just too cold and boring making one go slightly insane.

So Alan knew, when waking up to another day, he had probably drawn the short straw. Would it be a feeling gross day or a slightly insane day?

However, there are days that no matter how much action he doesn’t see, how much rescuing he doesn’t do, Alan savours every waking moment: The snow missions.

The sun combating the white cold sheet draped over every mountain and rolled across the horizon is a sight he believes is the most beautiful. Well, except for seeing a planet from orbit that is, but snow comes very close! Speaking of space, Alan is primarily the astronaut of International Rescue, he doesn’t get to go on missions to Mount Everest or the Southern Alps; that goes to Scott and Virgil, and Gordon if it’s serious. So it’s the days where the missions are super duper, really, incredibly serious that Alan is needed for a snow mission; his favourite kind of day.

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Days such as Tibet’s December 2058 avalanche that buried a helplessly small village more than 6 feet under snow are those incredibly serious snow missions. All communications and scanners were lost from the earthquake beforehand and it was the boys’ jobs to dig survivors out of the snow. This avalanche was Alan’s first snow mission, probably his brothers’ thousandth time (totally not exaggerating) and he kept his excitement under subtle smiles of joy.

During the trip half way across the world, Alan pictured stepping out of Thunderbird 2 into Tibet. He had a strong belief that the cold was going to hit him like the way Thunderbird 3 experiences the temperature drop during launch breaching atmosphere. After all, space and snow had record temperatures under absolute zero. It would be a refreshing change from island weather, or endless stars light years away, and he was ready.

As Alan stepped out of Thunderbird 2 just outside the subdued village, he was in shock: snow was warm, warmer than space. This was either because he was restless with excitement during Thunderbird 2’s flight, or that his uniform mesh was twice as thick as his brothers to balance his body temperature in deep space, or both! He was calm and unnerved by the paper-like qualities of the snow: thin sheet, loud when tampered with and pure white that it almost hurt the eyes. If Europa didn’t hold alien life, then Jupiter’s coldest moon had nothing to play against Tibet’s picturesque snow.

Even Gordon shivered violently after he fell into a 2 feet deep hole the avalanche had covered, a clever trap Mother Nature laid for hunting these rescuers. They all fell into these frozen pits sometime or another, but Alan’s body felt no need to shiver. This feeling of dropping into the cold matter would become useful to help dig out the men, women and children succumbed to the collective particles of ice. Scott sped the digging process up another way; using Thunderbird 1’s retro-burners to melt the snow. Alan was amazed by the way the snow turned from something so strong and chilling in numbers, to a bubbling warm liquid mess in mere seconds. Ice and snow were stone-cold strong but also fragile like a glass window: astounding, Alan could say the least. Thanks to Thunderbird 1, Alan was able to firmly set his feet on the roofs of the first couple houses; hearing the cries of an alive family underneath.

The rescue was a success, as per usual, no deaths but some medium cases of hypothermia which called for some extra blankets or an hour in the Thunderbird 2’s heat bed. Thunderbird 2 managed to transport the small village into the safety of Tibet’s Capital City, Lhasa, where all 75 villagers would be able to seek refuge. A good rescue Alan would never forget, not only because of the faces of joy the villagers wore when Alan found them, but because he finally experienced snow for himself. It was so close to drawing with the views from orbit, so close.

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Alan loved that first snow mission, that memory. The other few snow missions Alan’s had haven’t exactly embodied that same feeling, that same experience, he had in Tibet. But now, he was stuck with a scorching hot December day on the island. No iced water, swimming or shade could cool him down. All Alan wanted to do was jump out of Thunderbird 1 into Antartica as a counter attack to the equator’s summer. But it was not meant to be, as Thunderbird 1 was busy saving a group of rock climbers in Australia.

The boiling summer days turned into humid summer nights where Alan’s family was too tired to talk because it was the most hectic time of the year, Christmas rescues. Gordon was asleep before he hit the reindeer pillow. Virgil could do was space out to the Christmas tree lights, just in case there was another rescue. Scott groaned from his sore muscles as he tried to fill out remaining paper work at Dad’s desk decorated with red, gold and green tinsel. Even John cut communications for the night because he just wanted some peace and quiet. Alan had been quiet all day, now he was bored of the peace.

But there was always Brains to talk to, he was always upgrading MAX when he had the time. And Alan was right, down the main hangar Brains was upgrading MAX’s coffee machine.

“How about I taste test?” Alan asked, seeing Brains’ hands shake uncontrollably.

“T-t-t-t-that w-would be g-g-great Alan, t-t-t-thanks. F-f-f-four cups i-i-i-i-is enough c-c-caffeine for m-m-m-me.” Brains answered, stuttering way more than usual.

Brains really knew how to code a good coffee and MAX was looking like he needed a double shot himself. Seeing the milk swirl around on top of the liquified coffee beans reminded Alan of melting snow revealing the real ground underneath. Then with a little mix, the snowy white milk blended and disappeared. A sad thought but it gave Alan an idea.

“Hey Brains, any way you could build some machine to make it snow on the island?” He queried.

“A-a-a-alan, are you serious?” Brains replied, “The heat of the sun would make the ice melt in minutes.”

“So… would it be possible at night?” Alan asked again.

“W-Well, the h-h-humidity would m-make it melt much s-slower; So y-yes it would be p-possible.” Brains answered, the caffeine’s effects starting to wear away, back to his normal stuttering self.

“So, you can make a snow machine!” Alan exclaimed.

“Y-yes but w-why would we ever need o-one?” Brains questioned him.

“Well… it’s festive. Christmas always has snow, Grandma Tracy likes to go the extra mile with decorations. Christmas is her favourite holiday after all. And besides, snow is cool; literally.”

“I-I’ll see what I can d-do without creating c-complications to any ships l-launch.”

Alan smiled from ear to ear. “You’re the best Brains! Grandma’s gonna love it,” then he walked off back to his room for a good nights sleep. “And I will too.” He thought.

The next day went like clockwork; Alan failed to stay cool and was only needed once for a mission in orbit (some ship was flying out of orbit and needed to be dragged back, no biggie). The next night, the boys crashed on the couches and were ready to get some shut-eye -until Brains ruined their plans with a remote in hand.

“G-Gentlemen, Grandma Tracy and K-Kayo, Alan gave me a r-request last night for a final t-touch to our Christmas d-decorations that will certainly l-l-lighten your mood.” Brains declared from atop the lounging area. Alan’s eye lit up and focused intently on Brains.

“Brains, if it’s more fancy lights around the island, can it wait until after we get some rest?” Scott cried out.

“N-Not at all Scott, Alan has c-challenged me to do the i-impossible and I s-s-succeeded.” Brains replied. Virgil and Gordon stood up with their groaning joints and walked over to Brains.

“Overcoming the impossible is what you do best, Brains.” Virgil told him.

“So this is going to be very interesting.” Gordon finished.

“So stop stalling and show us the new decoration!” Grandma Tracy passionately ordered. Glancing in Alan’s direction with a smile on his face, Brains pushed the button. A whirring sound was heard high up into the island, but moments later the magic began.

White specks began to fall onto the roof of the villa, the leaves of the palm trees and the balcony of the lounge. All had their own unique design and chilling to the touch. Alan wanted to be the first outside with his close-first favourite particles of ice, but Grandma Tracy bet him to it. He wasn’t mad about it though, this was the happiest he had seen her.

“Oh I’ve missed this! I haven’t seen snow since... since... oh I don’t know when but that doesn’t matter.” She told her family with laughter to follow. The rest of her family joined her as the snowflakes made their hair white and the rest piling into little ant-hill sizes of soft slowly melting snow.

“Congratulations Brains, you’ve done it again.” Grandma Tracy acknowledged.

“D-don’t thank me, t-thank Alan for a-asking me t-to build this f-f-for you.” Brains replied. In a blink of an eye, Grandma Tracy’s arms were lovingly squeezing the life out of Alan. A few seconds later, and a bit of wheezing from the youngest, Grandma Tracy spared him.

“Thank you Alan, I’ve missed snow so much. You don’t know how much this means to me.” Grandma explained, obviously holding back a sob. Alan looked up to the starry sky now speckled with even more shining white stars that covered any trace of his own tears. He wanted to create snow for himself, using his Grandma as an excuse. But now she was overjoyed with the greatest present he incidentally gave to her.

Seeing her smile like a little kid as the snowflakes decorated her body made snow and space tie for second.

“Trust me, I’ve missed snow too. Merry Christmas Grandma.”

A Hundred Lesser Faces: (Seven)

Notes from Mod Bonnie

This story stems from the premise: what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh?

Links to past installments:  (One) (Two) (Three) (Four) (Five) (Six)

Many a red-headed man I’d passed on the long road from Lallybroch. Every single time, my stupid, desperate heart had leapt with joy; and every time, I cursed myself for the fool that I was. For Christ’s SAKE, why the bloody hell should he be on the road from Inverness, Beauchamp? Jamie Fraser is south, in Edinburgh, with his wife. With his daughters. Happy. So, pull yourself together. 

So deep had been my longing, though, that my traitorous eyes had tried over and over to convince me that it might be, it MIGHT be this time! (even when the actual travelers hadn’t looked remotely like Jamie). Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, one had been a very tall boy no more than twelve, and I still had had to see his face from ten feet before I would allow my heart to quiet. Not him. Not him. 

Blind hope, indeed. 

But this time, as I whirled and fell on the hillside, heart exploding, in a single moment, I was certain. Even from a great distance, even two decades later, even not yet able to see his face through the snow-flecked gloom, even had he not been screaming my name, yes, I’d know the shape of that man anywhere. It was Jamie, tearing toward me on horseback, riding like the hounds of hell were at his heels. And the SIGHT of him? A relief and a love smashed through me, so deep and so visceral that I staggered downward; not running, not even making my way down the hill;  just slipping, pulled toward his orbit. 

Alive. I had known for months, believed, had confirmation from Jenny herself, and yet the proof was now there before my eyes. Not under a stone on Culloden Moor; that nightmare was now banished forever. Jamie Fraser was ALIVE.

I saw him kick hard, spurring the horse to an even more astonishing pace—how loudly must he have been screaming that I had been able to hear him from so far away?—and found myself bursting out with joyous laughter at the way his shirt flapped like a sail in the wind. Nothing changed, then, if the ridiculous man had ridden without a coat or a cloak against the wind and the sn—

Wife. 

No.

Daughters.

Please....please, no.

This changes absolutely nothing, Beauchamp. This ends with you going through those stones, sooner or later. Make it sooner. 

But he came for me—Jamie came! He’s HERE.

He’s happy. He may have come, but he’s happy.  Don’t make him suffer by forcing this impossible choice. 

Just let me say goodbye.

Please. 

Let me hold him, just for —

Beauchamp: 

Can you honestly do what needs to be done if you have to look him in the eye and pull yourself out of his arms?

“CLAIRE!—What are ye—? S T O P !”

I was running up the hill, stumbling and tripping, going as fast as I could. I couldn’t stop. If I looked at him—If I touched him...

Everything seemed to slow to single frames, impressions:

The slow shrill cry of my breaths,

the grass suddenly inches from my nose as I staggered low over a boulder.

Hoofbeats, closer, louder.

I’m running for my life through quicksand,

every footfall sinking me deeper, and slower, as the monster gets closer and closer and—

A fierce whinny, a curse.

A voice— my voice—screaming. “STAY AWAY!”

Boots hitting the ground,

“CLAIRE, STOP!”

Running, both of us running,  

and I couldn’t stop.

I must not st—

Time smashed into its normal pace again as I fell, mere yards from the crest of the hill, and cried out in pain.

“CLAIRE!” God, he was so close, pounding up the hill behind me, no more than thirty—

“Don’t!” I shouted as I scrambled to my feet. 

“CLAI—”

“DO—NOT—TOUCH—ME!”  I screamed it over my shoulder with all the violence I possessed, a feral beast, cornered and ready to go for the throat as it went down.

Silence fell on the faerie hill. Stillness, and absolute silence.

When human thought returned, I was on my feet at the very top of the hill, the stones screaming their evil song behind me. My body was slung sideways, both arms raised in defense; my head hung at an improbable angle so as to look nowhere, see nothing: not the stones, not him. It was elemental in my body, in that moment: the absolute imperative not to look at him. If I could keep from looking, keep from getting trapped in those eyes, everything would be alright.

It was a ridiculous logic, I knew; somewhere in the recesses of my consciousness, that was obvious. Jamie Fraser was HERE. He wouldn’t simply let me walk away unacknowledged; but such was the depth of my panic and hysteria that I couldn’t move. I was bare millimeters from completely falling apart, abandoning all my noble resolve, and flinging myself into his arms, begging him to choose me — take me — and damn the fucking consequences.

But it still wouldn’t change a bloody thing, the rational half of my mind whimpered. He would still be married. He would still have his children. We still could not be together, or at least not under any circumstances that honor would permit. I still could not force him to make that choice. 

Hold yourself together, Beauchamp. No tears, remember? You said you could do the same for him; could be calm and sure for him. Now, do it. Stand strong.

“....Mo nighean donn?”

That flower-stem snap.

That voice—Jamie’s sweet, clear voice; my very heart speaking aloud, quietly, but with every ounce of pain and longing that I felt in my own breast. 

“Look at me, mo nighean donn.”

Stand. strong.

My mouth was dry and my entire body was shaking, each word an effort. “— Can't—”

A sudden, vicious snarl. “LOOK at me!”

I half-growled, half screamed, “I—CANT!” 

Desperate. So desperate, that ‘can’t’. I was shaking. Going into shock, in fact. Could feel the darkness and the manic energy and the absolute inability to retrieve words or actions closing—

“Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.” 

He said it like he always said his own name: low and distinct, with honor in every syllable.  

BE STRONG.

“I have ridden,” he said, in a voice so quiet and deep and measured, “night and day for nigh on a week, terrified that—terrified th—*Please,*” His calm vanished and the words were tumbling out of him in a frantic rush. “Please, for the love ye bear me, for the love that brought ye to find me: TURN.”

STAND.

God, but I can’t stand.

“By everything that is holy...” A whispered moan. “Let me see your face, mo ghraidh.”

....and damn my weak, foolish heart, I turned. I looked.

Day and night for a week, he’d said, and I believed it. Even at a distance of twenty feet down the hill, I could see just how bloodshot his eyes were, wide and wild. He was pale, underneath the red of wind and exertion, paler than I remembered. That glorious hair was now worn long. If it had been tied back, the ride and the wind had undone it. It was wild and tangled, whipping about his face, his chin covered in stubble that nearly amounted to a beard. His clothes—nothing but shirt, breeks and boots— were filthy and torn and splattered with mud. He looked, quite simply, dead on his feet.

He was the most beautiful sight I'd ever beheld.

God, you’re so like her, I wanted to moan. I’d known it, had had my heart broken every day to see the proof of him in our daughter, and yet seeing him now before me, I was absolutely run through to find her broad, good-humored face there, the same dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones and wide mouth. 

He’d aged, of course, as had I. The lines around eyes and mouth were deeper, the skin more weathered and coarse, but it was still him. His nose had been broken, at some point. It made him look fiercer, though perhaps that was simply fatigue and the vast waves of emotion obviously rushing through him, through us both. 

Jamie had staggered back a pace or two back as he stared up at me, nearly toppling down the steep incline. “Jesus....Christ...” he whispered. The back of his hand was pressed to his mouth as though to stifle a cry, “You’re....You....” The hand became a fist and he shook his head as a gasping smile broke from him. “Claire—God, Claire, mo chridhe!” He moved, about to sprint up the hill. 

I jumped backward. Raised my arms against him. No.

Hurt. Betrayal. Pain. It was as though I had shot him at point-blank range...And something deeper shone beneath it all: some blazing intensity I couldn’t quite identify. He looked as though he would bleed out there on the spot, from this newest wound. 

So will I, my love. 

But he heeded me, standing completely still. His hands shook, half-raised before him. He simply didn't know what to do with them—I knew because I didn’t know what to do with mine. His mouth worked as he tried to speak, to ask, to say something, but failing. Those eyes held everything, though. Pleading.

Silence on the hill. Silence and screaming. 

“You—survived,” I managed at last, weakly, with something like a laugh.

“Aye—” He exhaled in a huge rush, clearly grateful that I'd broken the stalemate. “It was a verra close thing.” He spoke fast and frantically, babbling, even, as though terrified to let silence fall again. “I should have died in the battle, or from the firing squads after, or of my wounds festering, but— Aye, I—I was—spared.”

“Thank God,” I whispered, and his eyes lit with such hope and relief that I could have cut my bloody tongue out at the root.

STOP this instant, Beauchamp. Nothing has changed.

Jamie was the one to break the silence, this time. “Your letter,” he gasped out.

“You read it, then?” A stupid thing to say. He’d obviously read it, but I clung to conversation just as he had. The stupid words were something, something to keep from falling off the edge of this insanity. “When?”

“By providence, I arrived at Lallybroch the same day you’d left, and....Oh, God, CLAIRE....”

Oh, God, Jamie. 

Each time my name left him, it seemed to tear a piece out of both of us. I could only look down at him, waiting.

“When I saw your hand on that letter,” he said, voice shaking uncontrollably, “the print of your ring in the wax, I ...”

He shook his head, at a loss, mouthing it over and over. I...I....

Through the snow, though darkness was creeping steadily around us, I could see the first tear sliding down his cheek. “....I felt as though I were dying.”

So did I. So do I.

“To know you’d survived—that you’d come back, and—and,” his eyes lit up. “Brianna.”

From his lips, our daughter’s name sounded like strange music from another world, and I wanted to listen to it forever.

“It would have been enough—more than enough—only to ken our bairn had lived, that the both of ye had lived and been cared for, but to....Claire, I simply couldna believe my eyes.” He shook his head, violently. “To see...to SEE the lass...our daughter.” Jamie released his sobbing breath and closed his eyes, holding out his hands before him, tears streamed down his cheeks. “Her entire life, there before me... and she so happy and so braw and bonny and—God, it tore out my beating heart.” He heaved a breath and smiled up at me, beaming with love and joy, though it was difficult for him to get out the words. “She’s—more wonderful than I ever could have imagined, mo ghraidh....Our Brianna.”

I forced a smile and choked down a sob. “I’m so honored,” I whispered, so haltingly, so carefully, so, so carefully, “to have been able—to bring her to you, in some way.”

My love.

My own love.

Nothing has changed.

I know. 

I took a step, two steps, backward toward the stones. This was the part where I was to be strong. 

Jamie’s eyes snapped into laser-focus, a predator’s, and that unknown intensity I’d seen earlier flamed now into life. It was anger. 

“Why would ye just GO?” His voice was still wretched with pain but he was snarling, stammering, growling in mounting fury. “Ye—ye came for me and—Ye came all the way from your time through the stones and then meant to go back and leave forever wi’out even—Damn ye, woman, ye didna even—If I hadna come just in time—Foolish—wretched, FOOLISH—” He hurled the demand toward me with his entire body. “WHY?”

“You *know* why.” It was all but a moan. 

He growled again. “Ye dinna ken —” 

“I know that you’re married,” I got out, moving sideways around the rim of the hill, countering his advance. “I know you have children. Jenny told me everything—how hap—”

“No, Claire, ye dinna understand!” Something had shifted in his eyes — relief? — and he was once again still, though scarcely fifteen feet in front of me down the hill. “Jenny lied. She lied, Claire,” he insisted, the words falling out of him. “She lied and made ye think I was—”

“You're not — ??”

Jenny lied! Thank the bloody stars above, the horrible bitch LIED!!! Jesus H— 

My smile broke through like the dawn, a blaze of glorious, raging happiness as I gasped out, “Then, you’re not married?”

And I watched as that hope shriveled and vanished to dust. His eyes dropped to the ground. “I am marrit.”

I swayed, eyes closed. I couldn’t bear this any longer, couldn’t take this agony raging in my heart, both the emotional and the physical heart. I felt light-headed, felt pain in my limbs. I couldn’t be strong. I couldn’t.

Just a little while longer. Say your farewell, and be gone. It will be alright, Beauchamp. 

“Then she didn’t lie,” I said, simply, my throat burning with the effort not to wail. “You have a wife and two beautiful daughters.” I caught my breath and opened my eyes, managing to smile, though I was so very near the brink. “I meant what I wrote in the letter. Every single word. I want you to be happy—and I’m glad that you are. I’m glad that you have a family and that they have made you happy.”

His brows were drawn up, making him look absolutely crazed. He mouthed the word like he’d never heard it before. Happy?

“But I—” Somehow, I kept up the smile as I whispered through wooden lips and burning throat and the tears. “—but it means—that I have—to go, now— before—”

“NO,” he snarled, springing with sudden force. I staggered still further away around the hill as he bellowed, “You’ll NOT—”

“BE STILL!” I bellowed back.

And once again, he heeded me. 

“For God’s fucking SAKE, you bloody — Scot!” I shouted down at him, suddenly just as furious as he. “Have you NO notion of what — Don’t you understand? I’m giving you up! I’m letting you go!” I gestured wildly behind me to the stones, choking on my tears. “I’m leaving so you don’t have to choose! Do you think I’m so arrogant as to believe I’m worth upending your happy—”

“DAMN YOU, woman, I havena been HAPPY in TWENTY YEARS!”

Silence on the faerie hill. Silence and screaming. 

When he spoke again, it was once more in that quiet, aching whisper.

“Jenny led ye to believe otherwise and may she be damned for it.” He took a step forward, pointing.  “But in that letter, ye renewed a promise to me; and I’ll give ye the same, now.” Another step. 

I stepped back. 

He surrendered, went to his knees, hands clenched in the posture of oath-taking. “No lies, Claire.” His eyes blazed into mine. “Nor secrets. Not ever. Not now. I swear it on Brianna’s life.”

God, my heart...

“Will ye hear what I have to tell?” 

...it simply couldn’t take this.

But I nodded. 

“I left Laoghaire more than a year past.”

“LAOGHAIRE?!?”

The outburst was so violent, so loud and so shrill in the wake of my long silence, that it startled us both. Jamie had to put a hand out to steady himself as he jumped, and the acute panic of a fresh hell showed across his face.  “She—Jenny didna—?”

“No, she BLOODY well DIDN’T!”

“Aye, well—ah ...ehm...Claire?” 

He was peering leerily up at me, and little wonder, for I was laughing—actually, CACKLING with laughter, hands clutched to my belly as I doubled over with it. 

“No, Jenny didn’t tell me who,” I sighed, when I had calmed down (marginally). “The only detail your darling sister deigned to divulge about your wife—” 

Of all people. Of ALL the marriageable women in all the bleeding Highlands. He had married —had had children with—loved—

All levity, all scorn dropped out of me, and my voice cracked, a whispering shell. “—was that you were happier with her than she’d ever seen you....And that you had two little girls that call you Da.”

“But they’re not mine, Claire. They’re not mine,” Jamie said again more urgently as I stared. He gritted his teeth. “And I shall wring my sister’s neck for a wicked liar when next I see her, for she kens fine that I’ve not had ninety-nine happy minutes in that marriage since it began.”

I was so cold. Frozen, in every cell. 

“Two years ago, we wed,” he began carefully. “She was marrit before, twice, and found herself a widow wi’ two bairns to feed just as I was newly come back from England.” 

His words were running together, a bit. There was so much warring within him, so much he clearly wished to say, but cold and fatigue and emotion were taking their devastating toll.  

“I’m fond of her lassies—Marsali and Joan. They're aged fifteen and twelve and have had a cruel, rough way of it, in lives so short. Wi’ all that they’ve endured, I was glad—honored, even— for them to take me into their hearts as a father, but hear me, Claire.” He held my eye. “I've shared scarce more wi’ them than what loving gentleness I could offer, and a scant few months of meals shared ‘round the same table. No more.” He shook his head with a sound of shame and regret. “Christ, I sound an unfeeling wretch. I do care for them, I do.”

But they weren’t born of his love; nor had he had a hand in raising them.

“Their mother...She...”

She. 

“I did have hope, at the beginning; hope that perhaps there could be some — tenderness between us. Nothing like—” He make a vain gesture up at me and closed his eyes, as though he couldn’t bear it. “—like what I kent it could be between a husband and wife, but something good to keep me sane; keep me alive....Can ye see?...Have ye kent that same hope, Claire?.... Only she couldna; or I couldna. I’ll accept the blame in full, but in the end, the ‘why’ and ‘who’ dinna matter. It was a broken thing within months, and I knew that if I’d stayed....” 

He hung his head, and for the first time, I could truly see the twenty years that had gone from his life. 

“I left for Edinburgh; have been there ever since. I provide for them, but I havena called Balriggan home for over a year...nor shared her bed since long before that.”  

The wind whistled between us. What he was saying...

I was numb. I was...It was like I was underwater, with news being shouted to me from dry land as I slowly drowned. 

“I’ve lain wi’ three women, since you’ve been gone,” he blurted suddenly, urgently against my silence, his voice so miserable, his eyes imploring. “Laoghaire, and two single-night encounters, and from one of those—From one of those nights...”

Oh, Jesus...

“William,” he whispered, nodding in confirmation, his eyes absolutely wretched but shining with the need to confess. “He’s a — a bastard, in England, and I shall never see him again. I’ve never told anyone of him, not even Jenny or Ian. His mother, his putative father—they’re both dead. He’s highborn, in the care of a man I trust. John will give him a good life; better than ever a convicted traitor could.” 

He closed his eyes and I could see his mouth working furiously as he tried both to form words and to hold back his weeping. “But he’s my son,” he whispered. “My only son, alive in the world because of me, and he’s bonny and canty and strong, just like Brianna, and there are days when I canna seem to live wi’out seeing him, holding him, or —” And he went silent, hiding his face in his hands until he could manage to speak. “Nor can I regret that he lives, for those years I had near Willie were the closest thing I’ve had to—to — And that only a shell of what....”

He raised a hand up as though he would cup my cheek across the chasm between us; then dropped it. Both hands lay on his thighs, aimless. 

“No. Happiness has not been granted me, Claire.” He stared at his palms, speaking in the barest, broken murmur. “My heart left wi’ you and the bairn; and while it is my duty to go on, to care for those under my protection, as I shall do, I've had little joy save the knowledge that at the end, I'd die and be able to find ye, just as I promised. Two hundred years, I said I’d wait. I’ve been counting.”

The snowflakes danced around us in the near-night, oblivious to desperation or to miraculous sparks catching in dark, deep places. 

“And to then learn in a moment that you’d come back...”

I tried to speak; but I was shaking so hard that I couldn’t open my mouth. I clenched it tight, feeling the tears slipping over my lips. 

“Claire?” he moaned, reaching out a hand. “...Lass?...Love?...I feel as if I shall die if I canna touch ye....Please.”

My knees had locked — everything within me had locked, between Jamie and the cold— and as I tried to adjust my footing, I accidentally stumbled backward a pace.

Despair escaped out of him and he jumped up as though to run to me, but he thought better of it, and came back down to his knees.

“Twice, I brought ye here to send ye away, mo nighean donn, because I knew a better life awaited ye on the other side of those accursed stones. Perhaps it does, this day, as well, but this time, I shall beg. Don't go.” 

He raised both clawed hands to me. The tears were flowing so violently and his face was so deeply contorted so as to be barely recognizable. 

“Don’t go. Stay wi’ me. Stay. I canna...I canna do it...Please....*please*....”  

I was paralyzed, completely immobilized by — by —

“Is it too much to forgive, Claire?” came the cracked moan of my heart through the darkness that had suddenly hidden him from me entirely. “Laoghaire and—and William? Do... do ye not want me?”

“God, Jamie...” I whispered, so softly that surely only the grass and the snow could hear. 

It was the first time I had said his name aloud to him.

“....you're all I want.”

“Then  what   else   matters?”

“....Nothing.”

Nothing else mattered.

And I was flying down to him, and he was flying off his knees to catch me, and the feeling of his arms around me, of Jamie’s arms around me at last was —

Like lightning, striking upon the sand. A flash of light, of power, instantly transforming the hundreds of tiny fragments— the millions of shards weathered to all but nothing by time—into a single, molten one. A whole. 

END OF PART I

Subtextual

1~ With a curious reluctanct endearment I push open the old mossy stone door once more, more so, its creaks razor sharp, its groans prolonged, and even if you might chance upon my being away on furlough, which begs the question... yet, still, I bid you come along enter since I am alone, tonight, and all I think of is you. the interface efficient, see if there's anything...again as it is always; to see if there's anything, again. something electric and vast. something that is from day to night to day... something brilliantly bright Still, I must cover myself from the brightness of day, and I am not ashamed. Those people laughing outside sound like hyenas post modulation. If I were from your earth, hype would arouse and excite me maybe (it is so often manufactured & crafted so irresistibly)... even ciphered anomalous flarfy glitches or black spidery realizations frozen in mid-scream my feet don't feel as though they are touching and treading ground. searingly clear & hyper-real floating Hey! Hey! (waving) I see somebody- (running up to them)— Hey! I see someone walking towards me across the street, but in my dream, the clumps of greyish snow don't allow me to see how they are (((walking)))...hard to record my found footage audio and video.shit!!! movie buzz is chainsaws love human flesh ~ 2~ mysterious more glancing out the car window the burning needle embroidering curtains of cloud-mystifying infinite violet and red radio tableaux, a tactile postmodern nostalgic melancholy.... affixing associatives in rampant aggregate slowness; flashing known images of fields, houses, rusted fixtures, patinaed a bright orange red-brown, horses, & certain deep periwinkle blue wildflowers she really likes... in my private self I lose the center of this piece and plunge, more into the fingerprints fetching a face, myself, I see you. that I am here. a punchyouface tongue-out in the funhouse restrained endless cloistered chasm trauma loop I penetrated through damaged fake tongue warning, our glass galaxy, is after all, suspended awash in opal blue, an oceanic wave of time is sweetly scrawled: because it must do with time. 3~ navigated by the black-cloud rope smoke of inertia & cold slanting rain pummeling under sound pounding studio bootleg basement lichen leavening every square inch of air awestruck with violet reversal, we looked horrified brain crazy. all the while the aroma of desert sage, outdoor coffees and our blue sky is never the same again you know you... frozen still burning quantum dreaminess, inside the black hole, light blue-grey microcosm ruse of identity melting frog candy, causal spinning eyes almost deeper now. no it's a red splatter handprint of smoke darkening room spacestealing nihilistic distorted space erasure gutted black caricature inert everything offends and our blue-grey microcosm ruse of inertia & movie buzzing endless timestamped outtakes; rain pummeling under sound pounding studio bootleg basement rhythm & blues hmmmmmmmmmmmm... harmonica: an imparted sharp musical squeal fell to the glass floor cracking in quickly fissuring musical inches of bubbling silver flash guitar wailing hard...itsa gotsa wail hard chil' (((Twang))) itsa gonsta wail so hard chil' ev'ry night and day (((Twang-a Twang Twang))) I sed, heh (((Atwang-a Twang Twang)))...Wwwelll... 4~ navigated by the black hole, light blue sky is never the same again you know you... frozen still burning inert everything offends and is confusing every square inch of air awestruck with tricky quantum reversal mindbend episode triggers blooming we looked Horrified Brain Crazy. all the while the aroma of ice blue desert sage, outdoor black coffees every square electric inch of raw air grimace— Hardcore Serious Animal Real serial repeated ditching Sequences when I move my hand beyond the light The sky the sharpest expert royal blue, chalk-white-bark. Rose-red threads weave dreams of Blustering Roses under Blue-Black Skies. Fingerprints fetch a face, mystifyingly filed in with the letters X&Z, "I was jus' goin' down tha street...heh, did you jus' mutt'r: "ramshackle derelic', you suppose, inside trash industrial chain link fake funk tongue warning out through damaged electronic faked out tongue "tutti-frutti" baby babeh...sound pounding out the center of this piece's fingerprints really gettin' down tuhnite babeh?! "I sho' enuf did...babeh! "whew! fetched me a face, myself (I lose) (I like) the black-cloud chasm trauma Looked Horrified by the Presence of Air Awestruck Twice in the Frozen Half of yesterday overlapping superimposing quietly with minimal embellishment. The morphing stand-alone Center of Inert-Everything Feral Chasm Trauma dormant looked horrified brain crazy in The Center of a Fresh Gelatinous Engineered Peach...glowing bright, Lime Yellow Lava Projected Blobs melting one into the other in citrus and cinnamon associative scents...synthetic dark patchouli notes~ —in the back: the band's waiting, twitching, rustling around edgily rumbling, banging about; a cymbal clashes and everyone registers the unique sound: their muffled pranks continue to keep themselves cracking up so badly— geeks re-recording the faux equivalent of dated found filler footage super8mm reductive spotlight trash b-roll fantasy knockout...drums pound and roll hard, cymbals clash, band members filmed yawning on silvery scratched up film...looking wildly blank, dressed weird on purpose, sitting in a chair, red and green brocade...sensational auteur angles...superimposed out of frame constant quirky jump cuts in a jerky slow motion— urns of inertia & rain pummeling navigating the serpentine candle-lit old-brick-passages and*time portals*> >>> > >>> >>> >>> >>>] the needle burning the LP deep past midnight baby soft background scratches and easy funk vibes playin' slow... far deep-red basement cloister black and white art deco textiles, stepping inside the trauma loop pattern I penetrated, tossed inside trash industrial cinema churning, suffused in streaming bluecloud fingerprints fetch a face, inside industrial trash cinema churning, the conversation...the recording. In my private self I lose the car window's identity.mystifying, shaping emptily, basement chairs of faked tongue warning spread out vastly, magenta clouds, pink moons, and a green rope smoke of flame and licking fire, makes the whole skylook green chalk white mottled bark beyond the light microcosm grey-blue light quantum ore skips time burning still frozen smoldering deep grey-moss ruse of rubber spider legs identity melting, causal spinning eyes almost deep splatter handprint of smoke darkening room spacestealing nihilistic distorted space erasure gutted black caricature hardcore serious real serial electric implements, repeatedly ditched the trophies, skipped the noir and hard-boil egg-peeled the victims, one by one "momma-momma, this is whin thuh program starts up, showin' yuh all thoze pitchers of thuh serial killahs strikin' ag'in and ag'in in a weirt circl' were thuh camera slowly zooms out tah revill from direc'ly ovahhead one of 'em momma, insahd anothuh large circl' of all kindsa weaponry...lookit fur yerself momma...see? 5~ sequences are stilled when I move my eyes beyond the light of the venetian blinds, and complancies of lilac valances... (the wind outside howls through the slanting rain). it's always been a miasmic isolated place... grey, dank, overgrown with burbling albino moss... and a rare and very deep-violet lichen. 6~ I Sn-nuuuck*- - - through the/hee-hee-hee/house HaLLWays to the LaUnDrysome clothes done...clotheschangecolor .but they chanGeUPchange t he t he...eeeeethecolor clothes of clothes negativo to the "neGative" négatif of the O/riginal ColOr…no bot 2///bot3-x-x-x pod cast install bot 4: synthesizing other annoyed bots and aberrant rogue algorithms. "mamA MAma MAmewww oOoO HURREeEe I think up hurry it's those _S-SErial KillaHS down dowNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNstairs DOWn...thuh...B-B-block :LIVE alien tunnel collapse horror[FILm/ed pure filmic inversion filmed Livestream accessible: entry portals close in 5 earth or increments|..../*/*/* |repeat : audio is still sideways\ again-0-no/…\t00—Trying hardto regain the-camera Again. noise/sounds lik|e plain staticXXX}]}]}]fweepooowha-wheee ---interference c*r*a*c*k*l*in*g/ there unidentifiable. Heavy static, beeps, and clicks...we are proceeding—I REPEAT we are proceeding—Lock it the fuck down NOW and bounce! Radio...banging noises...repeated thuds, garbled audio/an indistinct scream, but a clearly sequenced human scream from next door, listen for it when the tape is run back. Very loud—yikes! I think it's that guy with the hat and flimsy raincoat. 7~ Lightflash pinball machine arcades are an ambient and surprising ethos of cheap hyper bright jewel tone lights, many mirrors re-reflecting low art in other mirrors, projected radiant phases of the resonating stadium roar were pure human-machine. For forgive for interrupt inter attention ACTION cycle breakthrough exchange cycling down. I am the machine, and myself we beg rest...just the pittance of a few nano seconds & infinity are virtually interchangeable...please I need to re-up, to get well: you might complex : compress : comprehend|:| you probably may not even see but I must shut down now:/command.> override to optional personalized AI thought interface access5access4access3access2access 1access- - / |---------------------------------- ----- * Utter Quintessential granted key-trace ///-...enter code signal * ///code: : : crackling smoky synapses trailing electrical eclectic thought, lightning... tv program black-out: energy matrix, excursus scrutinized: Carnival bumper cars trail ceiling sparks gloriously arcing a piercing blue spray of cascading fire & silver smoke sputtering and spraying flashes of bright blue dotted iterations of light rawly all over our heads— that smelt so burnt-up & good. ~ Marcos Oro