Chapter Text
April, 1748
Jamie kicked Juniper hard in the flanks, though it produced only a fraction of the desired effect. She was a tired old thing, thin and hungry as the rest of the residents of Lallybroch these days, and was accustomed to plodding through potato fields, not galloping across hills and glens. She was, therefore, making her displeasure with the current state of things abundantly clear.
“Courage, Nip,” he said, at her latest snort, as he reached down to pat her neck soothingly. “It isna far now.” Not far at all, he thought, catching sight of his destination in the distance. Still, he didn’t make any move to slow their pace. It would be morning in just a few hours, and he didn’t know how far behind the soldiers would be, now. It had been afternoon when he’d last spotted them far behind on the road through the winding glens.
It wasn’t as though he were trying to outrun them indefinitely. He’d laid the plans for this himself, in fact. Jenny and Ian had fought him vehemently for weeks on the matter, but after the close brush with the patrol three weeks back—that had earned Ian a deep gash over the eye from the butt of an interrogator’s musket—they had finally relented. Between them, they had arranged for one of the tenants to report the whereabouts of Red Jamie to the Redcoats; that is, to report that the known traitor had been seen galloping east.
No, he wouldn’t run for much longer. He wasn’t even running from them at all. He knew his fate lay in an English prison or with a hangman’s noose, and he’d come to peace with it. At least Lallybroch wouldn’t starve for a long time yet, by consequence.
There was just one thing he needed to do. Only one place he wanted to spend his last night of freedom…or last night on earth, as the case might be.
The cottage door opened at his touch, creaking and groaning on its hinges. It was all the same.
The holes in the roof…He remembered each one, shining like stars above Claire’s head, her curls falling down around him.
The fallen-down rear wall, open to the elements…The last place he’d laid eyes on her; last place he’d joined with her.
The bare, filthy boards of the floor…The spot where he’d last held her, felt her breathing against his chest as she slept.
He laid there now, spread himself right on the floor and curled himself against her again. She was warm in his arms, her body wedged tight against him. He could feel the tiny swell of her belly round and firm in his hand.
He’d be over a year old, by now, the bairn. Starting to take his first steps, perhaps. Beginning to speak. Jamie smiled and let tears fall freely at the image of a tiny red-headed lad toddling happily into Claire’s waiting arms, her sweet face beaming with joy and love as she swept him up and held him against her shoulder. They’ll have one another, at least, he thought, seeing Claire kiss the boy’s cheek. God, how frightening it was to feel both so full and so empty at such a sight.
“Take care of your mam, for me,” he whispered, “….wee Brian.”
The shaft of morning light brought him back to his senses. He lay still for a moment longer. Ought he just to lay here? Savor these moments, these memories up until the very end? Part of him wanted very much to do so; but another part, a previously unknown part of him, compelled him to his feet and began walking as if he’d always planned it.
He hadn’t had the heart at the time, to venture up the hill after Claire had disappeared. He’d known she was gone. The knowing of it was enough…more than enough, both to comfort him and to slay him with grief. The seeing with his own eyes hadn’t seemed important, or even something he could have borne, at the time. But he trudged up the hill now, something in him needing to lay eyes on it.
God, how he hated the sight of them: these damned stones. The last time he’d seen them, been on this hill, he’d been trying to send her back. He’d prayed to God for the courage not to beg her to stay. What wouldn’t he give, now, for the chance to tear her through the veils of time back through to him? To grasp her tight against him, scream that she was his, damn it, and that he wouldn’t be parted from her, no matter the consequences!
But no, he chastened himself, as he walked trance-like toward the cleft stone. He would make the same choice again, were it given to him. To see her and the child safe was worth every second, every hour, every year of grief and agony. Even now, it was all that mattered.
And she was his, forever. She knew it, too, wherever she might be.
He reached out for the stone, the thing that held the memory of Claire’s last touch in this lifetime, and felt his breath hot on his lips as he whispered. “‘Til our life shall be done, Claire.”
He remembered that the stone felt surprisingly warm under his palm.
And that the blackness screamed.
He awoke, groaning, blinking up at a roof of white canvas. He felt as though he’d been struck in the head and drunk a gallon of whiskey after. The former came as no surprise; but why should the soldiers have given him drink after bludgeoning him? Come to that, why should they have laid him on a cot under a tent, rather than just shackling him to a tree?
He made to sit up, but a gentle hand laid itself on his chest, pushing him gently back down. To his utter shock, an equally gentle—and female—voice accompanied it. “Now, sir, dinna sit up just yet, if ye please. Doctor Chisholm will be over to speak wi’ ye very shortly. He tended to ye while ye were sleeping. Nothing wrong that we could find, but he’ll want to take another look just to be certain.”
Stunned, Jamie obeyed the lady’s request—clearly she meant him no harm—but darted his eyes around madly. It was a large tent, with a certain amount of hubbub going on outside of it, but whether from the relative dimness or the unfocused state of his vision, he could make out very little other than a few cots, some tables, and figures moving about dressed in white. Through the open flap of the tent, though, he caught the unmistakable flash of red coats and muskets. He stiffened, and turned his eyes to the woman, clad in white. “Is this an army camp then?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
She laughed and smiled sweetly. “Tis only the medical tent. Some of the revelers were up at Craigh na Dun this morning and found ye passed out cold by the big stones. They couldna revive ye, so they brought ye here. Quicker than driving ye all the way back to Inverness. They supposed ye must have come from here anyway, with your clothes and all. What were ye doing up there so far from the reenactments, if I might ask?”
Before Jamie could begin to make sense of this, a short, bespectacled man in a thin white coat appeared against the canvas overhead. “Feeling better now, are we?” The man didn’t wait for an answer, and looked down at a small board in his hands, tapping it. “Well, other than dehydration and what appears to be a shocking degree of malnutrition, I couldna find anything the matter with ye. It’s a hot day for April, so it isna terribly worrying that ye should have been overheated by the climb up to the fairy hill, even someone as big as yourself, sir.”
“Aye, erm, aye, must have just forgotten to—to mind my canteen,” Jamie muttered. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and sat up.
“Before we discharge ye,” said the white-coated man, putting out a staying arm, “I just wish to check a few more things. Rule out the possibility of brain damage, ken. Won’t take but a moment or two.”
Discharge him? Was that a euphemism for the noose? Why bother declaring him sound, then? Nonetheless Jamie sat like stone as the man examined his eyes and hands. For what, precisely, he couldn’t have said.
“Aye, good, all seems to be normal there,” the man said, approvingly. “For good measure, though, just a few questions for determining disorientation. What is your name?”
Jamie hesitated, before saying warily, “Alexander Malcolm.“
“Excellent. Aaaand,” the man said, holding up a hand, “how many fingers am I holding up?”
Was this a game? Did he think him a simpleton? “Three,” Jamie grunted.
“Splendid, quite right. And, what is the year?”
“1748,” he said, impatiently. Lord almighty, be done with this, and tell me what is to be my fate.
To his surprise, both man and woman laughed. The woman beamed fondly at him. “It’s most admirable of ye to stay in character, sir, but ye’ve got to get yer facts right! Its ‘46, not ‘48! Ye’ve the accent of a highlander, to be sure—I canna believe ye wouldna know the proper date for Culloden!”
The doctor chuckled. “What I meant was, Mr. Malcolm, what year is it now? Today?”
Jamie’s mouth tried to form words (Seventeen…) but there was no air to bring them forth. He could only make small choked noises and look wide-eyed from one to the other, his brain a frenzied stew of panic as the screaming of the stones filled his ears and memory.
“It’s…1950, lad…” The doctor was tilting his head and surveying Jamie as though he were a deranged animal about to spring. “Do ye…really no’ ken that?”
Before even stopping to think, Jamie lurched off the table, ignoring their protests, and stumbled out of the tent. He ran, unseeing, blinking hard in the blinding sunlight. There were people about, a lot of them. He dodged figure after figure, jumping at flashes of red and the sounds of distant pipes. Pipes…in a British camp?
A voice—loud and shrill as demon’s—suddenly roared overhead. He clutched his ears and fell to his knees, cursing and praying in true and desperate terror. The words seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere and once, a hellish barrage that shuddered through his very bones.
“Musicians and actors, please report to your stations! The memorial ceremony for the two hundred and fourth anniversary of the Battle of Culloden will begin momentarily.”