The whole scene from Voyager

This was hell. But James Fra­ser was unfor­tu­n­a­te­ly not dead, after all.
The body of a man lay across his own. Its dead weight crus­hed his left leg, exp­lai­ning the absence of fee­ling. The head, hea­vy as a spent can­non­ball, pres­sed face­down into his abdo­men, the damp-mat­ted hair a dark spill on the wet linen of his shirt. He jer­ked upward in sud­den panic; the head rol­led side­ways into his lap and a half-open eye sta­red sight­less­ly up behind the shel­te­ring strands of hair.
It was Jack Rand­all, his fine red captain’s coat so dark with the wet it loo­ked almost black. Jamie made a fum­bling effort to push the body away, but found him­s­elf ama­zin­gly weak; his hand splay­ed fee­bly against Randall’s shoul­der, and the elbow of his other arm buck­led sud­den­ly as he tried to sup­port him­s­elf. He found him­s­elf lying once more flat on his back, the slee­ting sky pale gray and whir­ling dizzi­ly over­head. Jack Randall’s head moved obs­cenely up and down on his sto­mach with each gas­ping bre­ath.
He pres­sed his hands flat against the bog­gy ground — the water rose up cold through his fin­gers and soa­ked the back of his shirt — and wrigg­led side­ways. Some warmth was trap­ped bet­ween them; as the limp dead weight slid slow­ly free, the fre­e­zing rain struck his new­ly expo­sed flesh with a shock like a blow, and he shi­ve­r­ed vio­lent­ly with sud­den chill.
As he squir­med on the ground, struggling with the crum­pled, mud­stai­ned folds of his plaid, he could hear sounds above the kee­ning of the April wind; far-off shouts and a moaning and wai­ling, like the cal­ling of ghosts in the wind. And over­all, the rau­cous cal­ling of crows. Dozens of crows, from the sound.
That was stran­ge, he thought dim­ly. Birds shouldn’t fly in a storm like this. A final hea­ve freed the plaid from under him, and he fum­bled it over his body. As he reached to cover his legs, he saw that his kilt and left leg were soa­ked with blood. The sight didn’t dis­tress him; it see­med only vague­ly inte­res­ting, the dark red sme­ars a con­trast to the grayish green of the moor plants around him. The echoes of batt­le faded from his ears, and he left Cullo­den Field to the cal­ling of the crows.


He was wake­ned much later by the cal­ling of his name.
“Fra­ser! Jamie Fra­ser! Are ye here?”
No, he thought grog­gi­ly. I’m not. Whe­re­ver he had been while uncon­scious, it was a bet­ter place than this. He lay in a small decli­vi­ty, half-fil­led with water. The slee­ting rain had stop­ped, but the wind hadn’t; it whined over the moor, pier­cing and chil­ling. The sky had dar­ken­ed near­ly to black; it must be near evening, then.
“I saw him go down here, I tell ye. Right near a big clump of gor­se.” The voice was at a distan­ce, fading as it argued with someo­ne.
The­re was a rust­le near his ear, and he tur­ned his head to see the crow. It stood on the grass a foot away, a blotch of wind-ruf­fled black fea­thers, regar­ding him with a bead-bright eye. Deci­ding that he posed no thre­at, it swi­v­eled its neck with casu­al ease and jabbed its thick sharp bill into Jack Randall’s eye.
Jamie jer­ked up with a cry of revul­si­on and a flur­ry of move­ment that sent the crow flap­ping off, squaw­king with alarm.
“Ay! Over the­re!”
The­re was a squel­ching through bog­gy ground, and a face befo­re him, and the wel­co­me feel of a hand on his shoulder.“He’s ali­ve! Come on, Mac­Do­nald! D’ye lend a hand here; he’ll no be wal­kin’ on his own.” The­re were four of them, and with a good deal of effort, they got him up, arms dra­ped hel­pless about the shoul­ders of Ewan Came­ron and Iain MacKin­non.
He wan­ted to tell them to lea­ve him; his pur­po­se had retur­ned to him with the waking, and he remem­be­red that he had meant to die. But the sweet­ness of their com­pa­ny was too much to resist. The rest had res­to­red the fee­ling in his dead leg, and he knew the serious­ness of the wound. He would die soon in any case; thank God that it need not be alo­ne, in the dark.

All rights for the Pic­ture from Outlander go to the right­ful owner Starz/​Sony
Picture from Leanach Cottage by Heike Ballegeer
Quo­te and Excerpt by Diana Gabaldon from “Voyager”
I own not­hing but the editing
Heike Ginger Ba Written by:

|Human|Woman|Mother|Wife|Friend| Photographer| Blogger| |TV-Junkie|Photoshop-Beginner|Art-Lover|Cologne-based|Outlander-addict |Sherlockian |TWD-devoted


  1. Sherry Riley
    August 20

    Love the meme, but I do have one request. Can you chan­ge the font color to some­thing dar­ker? Most of the wor­ds are unread­a­ble against the back­ground.
    Thank you for the beau­ti­ful designs!

    • Heike Ginger Ba
      August 20

      Done :)…i choo­se a ligh­ter font becau­se i didnt want ruin my edit…but saw later its not good to read…so you find now ano­t­her Ver­si­on in the Post..LG Hei­ke

  2. August 21

    I always felt so sor­ry for Jamie and the hor­ri­b­ly sad life he lived without Clai­re. This is a par­ti­cu­lar­ly tou­ching yet dis­gus­ting sce­ne,. Thanks for adding your beau­ti­ful touch
    my favo­ri­te books and TV show! ???

    • Heike Ginger Ba
      August 27

      Hi Nor­ma.. thanks again for your visit..yes same fee­lings here… LG Hei­ke

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