The who­le Sce­ne:

It was a mir­ror, not a minia­tu­re. My cheeks were flus­hed, and my lips trem­bled as Frank’s fin­ger gent­ly traced the edge of my jaw, the grace­ful line of my neck. The tears wel­led in my eyes and spil­led down my cheeks as I heard his voice, still lec­tu­ring, as he laid down the minia­tu­re, and I sta­red upward at the tim­be­red cei­ling.
“Unda­ted. Unknown. But once… once, she was real.”
I was having trou­ble bre­at­h­ing, and thought at first that I was being smo­the­red by the glass over the minia­tu­re. But the mate­ri­al pres­sing on my nose was soft and damp, and I twisted my head away and came awa­ke, fee­ling the linen pil­low wet with tears bene­ath my cheek. Jamie’s hand was lar­ge and warm on my shoul­der, gent­ly shaking me.He snor­ted brief­ly, not qui­te a laugh.
“Well, I’ll no say I’m not wicked jea­lous of the man,” he said rue­ful­ly, “becau­se I am. But I can hard­ly grudge him your dreams. Or your tears.” His fin­ger gent­ly traced the wet track down one cheek, then blot­ted it with the hand­ker­chief.
“You don’t?”
His smi­le in the dim­ness was lop­s­i­ded.
“No. Ye loved him. I can­na hold it against eit­her of you that ye mourn him. And it gives me some com­fort to know…” He hesi­ta­ted, and I reached up to smooth the rum­pled hair off his face.
“To know what?”
“That should the need come, you might mourn for me that way,” he said soft­ly.

I pres­sed my face fier­ce­ly into his chest, so my wor­ds were muf­fled.
“I won’t mourn you, becau­se I won’t have to. I won’t lose you, I won’t!” A thought struck me, and I loo­ked up at him, the faint rough­ness of his beard stubb­le a shadow on his face.
“You aren’t afraid I would go back, are you? You don’t think that becau­se I… think of Frank… .”
“No.” His voice was quick and soft, a respon­se fast as the pos­ses­si­ve tigh­ten­ing of his arms around me.
“Hush, las­sie. Hush! You’re but drea­ming — I’m here.”
I tur­ned my face into the warmth of his naked shoul­der, fee­ling the tears slick bet­ween cheek and skin. I clung tight­ly to his solid­ness, and the “No,” he said again, more soft­ly. “We are bound, you and I, and not­hing on this earth shall part me from you.” One lar­ge hand rose to stro­ke my hair. “D’ye mind the blood vow that I swo­re ye when we wed?”
“Yes, I think so. ‘Blood of my blood, bone of my bone…’ ”
“I give ye my body, that we may be one,” he finis­hed. “Aye, and I have kept that vow, Sas­se­nach, and so have you.” He tur­ned me slight­ly, and one hand cup­ped its­elf gent­ly over the tiny swell of my sto­mach.
“Blood of my blood,” he whis­pe­red, “and bone of my bone. You car­ry me wit­hin ye, Clai­re, and ye can­na lea­ve me now, no mat­ter what hap­pens. You are mine, always, if ye will it or no, if ye want me or nay. Mine, and I wil­na let ye go.”
I put a hand over his, pres­sing it against me.
“No,” I said soft­ly, “nor can you lea­ve me.”
“No,” he said, half-smi­ling. “For I have kept the last of the vow as well.” He clas­ped both hands about me, and bowed his head on my shoul­der, so I could feel the warm bre­ath of the wor­ds upon my ear, whis­pe­red to the dark.
“For I give ye my spi­rit, ’til our life shall be done.”

Pictures of Outlander

Claires Dream of this Scene

The who­le sce­ne:

In more recent years, with the resump­ti­on of some­thing resem­bling a nor­mal sche­du­le, I had begun to dream again. The usu­al kinds of dreams, whe­ther night­ma­re or good dream — long sequen­ces of images, wan­de­rings in the wood of the mind. And I was fami­li­ar with this kind of dream, too; it was com­mon to what might poli­te­ly be cal­led peri­ods of deprivation.Usually, though, such dreams came floa­ting, soft as the touch of satin she­ets, and if they woke me, I fell at once back into sleep, glo­wing dim­ly with a memo­ry that would not last ’til morning.This was dif­fe­rent. Not that I remem­be­red much about it, but I had a vague impres­si­on of hands that grip­ped me, rough and urgent, not wooing but com­pel­ling. And a voice, near­ly shou­ting, that echoed in the cham­bers of my inner ear, along with the sound of my fading heartbeat.I put my hand on my chest over the lea­ping pul­se, fee­ling the soft full­ness of my bre­ast bene­ath the silk. Brianna’s bre­ath caught in a soft sno­re, then resu­med its even cadence. I remem­be­red lis­ten­ing for that sound when she was small; the slow, ster­to­rous rhythm of reas­suran­ce, soun­ding through the dar­ken­ed nur­s­e­ry, even as a heart​beat​.My own heart­beat was slo­wing under my hand, under the deep rose silk, the color of a baby’s sleep-flus­hed cheek. When you hold a child to your bre­ast to nur­se, the cur­ve of the litt­le head echoes exact­ly the cur­ve of the bre­ast it suck­les, as though this new per­son tru­ly mir­rors the flesh from which it sprang.Babies are soft. Anyo­ne loo­king at them can see the ten­der, fra­gi­le skin and know it for the rose-leaf soft­ness that invi­tes a finger’s touch. But when you live with them and love them, you feel the soft­ness going inward, the round-che­cked flesh wob­b­ly as custard, the bon­eless splay of the tiny hands. Their joints are mel­ted rub­ber, and even when you kiss them hard, in the pas­si­on of loving their exis­tence, your lips sink down and seem never to find bone. Hol­ding them against you, they melt and mold, as though they might at any moment flow back into your body.But from the very start, the­re is that small streak of steel wit­hin each child. That thing that says “I am,” and forms the core of per​so​na​li​ty​.In the second year, the bone har­dens and the child stands upright, skull wide and solid, a hel­met pro­tec­ting the soft­ness wit­hin. And “I am” grows, too. Loo­king at them, you can almost see it, stur­dy as heart­wood, glo­wing through the trans­lucent flesh.The bones of the face emer­ge at six, and the soul wit­hin is fixed at seven. The pro­cess of encap­su­la­ti­on goes on, to reach its peak in the glos­sy shell of ado­le­scence, when all soft­ness then is hid­den under the nacreous lay­ers of the mul­ti­ple new per­so­na­li­ties that teen­agers try on to guard them​sel​ves​.In the next years, the har­de­ning spreads from the cen­ter, as one finds and fixes the facets of the soul, until “I am” is set, deli­ca­te and detail­ed as an insect in amber.I had thought I was well bey­ond that sta­ge, had lost all trace of soft­ness and was well set on my way to a midd­le age of stain­less steel. But now I thought that Frank’s death had cra­cked me in some way. And the cracks were wide­ning, so that I could no lon­ger patch them with deni­al. I had brought my daugh­ter back to Scot­land, she with tho­se bones strong as the ribs of High­land moun­ta­ins, in the hope that her shell was strong enough to hold her toge­ther, while the cen­ter of her “I am” might still be reach­a­ble.

But my own core held no lon­ger in the iso­la­ti­on of “I am,” and I had no pro­tec­tion to shield me from the soft­ness from wit­hin. I no lon­ger knew what I was or what she would be; only what I must do.For I had come back, and I drea­med once more, in the cool air of the High­lands. And the voice of my dream still echoed through ears and heart, repeated with the sound of Brianna’s slee­ping breath.“You are mine,” it had said. “Mine! And I will not let you go.”


All rights for the Pic­tures go to the right­ful owner Starz/​Sony

and EW (for the J&C Pho­to in the last edit )
Quo­te and Excerpt by Dia­na Gabal­don from “Dra­gon­fly in Amber“
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

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