Knife with a Core of steel

the who­le Sce­ne:

I picked up his right hand and trans­fer­red it to my own knee. He let it lie the­re, warm, hea­vy and inert, and didn’t object as I felt each fin­ger, pul­ling gent­ly to stretch the ten­dons and twis­ting to see the ran­ge of moti­on in the joints.
“My first ortho­pe­dic sur­ge­ry, that was,” I said wry­ly.
“Have ye done a gre­at many things like that sin­ce?” he asked curious­ly, loo­king down at me.
“Yes, a few. I’m a sur­ge­on — but it doesn’t mean then what it means now,” I added has­ti­ly. “Sur­ge­ons in my time don’t pull teeth and let blood. They’re more like what’s meant now by the word ‘phy­si­ci­an’ — a doc­tor with trai­ning in all the fiel­ds of medi­ci­ne, but with a spe­cial­ty.”
“Spe­cial, are ye? Well, ye’ve always been that,” he said, grin­ning. The cripp­led fin­gers slid into my palm and his thumb stro­ked my knuck­les. “What is it a sur­ge­on does that’s spe­cial, then?”
I frow­ned, try­ing to think of the right phra­sing. “Well, as best I can put it — a sur­ge­on tri­es to effect healing…by means of a kni­fe.”
His long mouth cur­led upward at the noti­on.
“A nice con­tra­dic­tion, that; but it suits ye, Sas­se­nach.”
“It does?” I said, start­led.
He nod­ded, never taking his eyes off my face. I could see him stu­dy­ing me clo­se­ly, and won­de­red self-con­scious­ly what I must look like, flus­hed from love­ma­king, with my hair in wild dis­or­der.
“Ye have­na been love­lier, Sas­se­nach,” he said, smi­le gro­wing wider as I reached up to smooth my hair. He caught my hand, and kis­sed it gent­ly. “Lea­ve your curls be.
“No,” he said, hol­ding my hands trap­ped while he loo­ked me over, “no, a kni­fe is ver­ra much what you are, now I think of it. A cle­ver-worked scabbard, and most gor­ge­ous to see, Sas­se­nach” — he traced the line of my lips with a fin­ger, pro­vo­king a smi­le — “but tem­pe­red steel for a core…and a wicked sharp edge, I do think.”
“Wicked?” I said, surprised.“Not heart­less, I don’t mean,” he assu­red me. His eyes rested on my face, intent and curious. A smi­le touched his lips. “No, never that. But you can be ruth­less strong, Sas­se­nach, when the need is on ye.”

I smi­led, a litt­le wry­ly. “I can,” I said.
“I have seen that in ye befo­re, aye?” His voice grew sof­ter and his grasp on my hand tigh­te­ned. “But now I think ye have it much more than when ye were youn­ger. You’ll have nee­ded it often sin­ce, no?”
I rea­li­zed qui­te sud­den­ly why he saw so clear­ly what Frank had never seen at all.
“You have it too,” I said. “And you’ve nee­ded it. Often.” Uncon­scious­ly, my fin­gers touched the jag­ged scar that crossed his midd­le fin­ger, twis­ting the distal joints.
He nod­ded.
“I have won­de­red,” he said, so low I could scar­ce­ly hear him. “Won­de­red often, if I could call that edge to my ser­vice, and she­a­the it safe again. For I have seen a gre­at many men grow hard in that cal­ling, and their steel decay to dull iron. And I have won­de­red often, was I mas­ter in my soul, or did I beco­me the slave of my own bla­de?
“I have thought again and again,” he went on, loo­king down at our lin­ked hands…“that I had drawn my bla­de too often, and spent so long in the ser­vice of stri­fe that I was­na fit any lon­ger for human inter­cour­se.”
My lips twit­ched with the urge to make a remark, but I bit them ins­te­ad. He saw it, and smi­led, a litt­le wry­ly.
“I did­na think I should ever laugh again in a woman’s bed, Sas­se­nach,” he said. “Or even come to a woman, save as a bru­te, blind with need.” A note of bit­ter­ness came into his voice.I lifted his hand, and kis­sed the small scar on the back of it.
“I can’t see you as a bru­te,” I said. I meant it light­ly, but his face sof­te­ned as he loo­ked at me, and he ans­we­red serious­ly.
“I know that, Sas­se­nach. And it is that ye can­na see me so that gives me hope. For I am — and know it — and yet perhaps…” He trai­led off, watching me intent­ly.
“You have that — the strength. Ye have it, and your soul as well. So perhaps my own may be saved.”


All rights for the Pic­ture from Outlander go to the right­ful owner Starz/​Sony
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. Johanne Abonader
    October 23

    And your editing is a thing of beau­ty!!

    • Heike Ginger Ba
      October 23

      Hi Johan­ne,

      nice to read you again..and thank you very much..often for me the litt­le Pas­sa­ges are very this one…LG Hei­ke

  2. June Knight
    October 23

    Once in a blue moon you see a coup­le with a “love con­nec­tion” like Dia­na descri­bes here. I think may­be she has found this kind of love to be able to wri­te about it so beau­ti­ful­ly ❤️

    • Heike Ginger Ba
      October 23

      Hi June..

      i am sure she found it becau­se you cant descri­be such deep fee­lings without knew the true love… LG Hei­ke

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