hellowonderland: (claire // drink up)
Title: Through
Author: Trixen
Disclaimer: DG = owns. Trixen = owns red wine and not much else
Summary: Just a little ditty. Based on the TV show. What if Claire had found her way through the stones before the Red Coats got her?


Beat, beat.

It rushed within her then, like drums or a cat’s paw, swiping. Her old cat from childhood, Barney. Sand on his whiskers and the little scritch scratch of his tongue against her cheek on sunlit mornings. Beat, beat.

Wake up, Claire. Wake up, you dumb bunny.

She rolls her head to the side just as she vomits clear and pale liquid over the wet grass. She tastes it in her mouth, like oats or other bland things, whatever Jamie fed her for breakfast. He said she ate so little, and that by comparison he ate enough for an ox and she had laughed, her heart thrumming against her breast, her heart. Oh.


The shock of it, it pummels her belly and she throws up again, his semen, his kisses, the blood in the back of the rapist. Blood blush of a popped kidney and Jamie whispering to her afterward, palming her hands, calling her his brown haired lass, his love. Was that what it meant? Was that all there was?

What had she done?

Someone is clutching at her shoulder and for a moment she feels blessed relief, oh such sweet and pure relief. It will be Willie, or even Jamie, returned early, and she wonders, was Horrocks really what Hugh had said he would be and what would Christmas be at Leoch and what bed would they share, dark and hot in the night – she had promised him, after all, promised him she would be there here here when he got back – promised, Claire, oh why did you do that

“Claire, are you all right, oh Claire…”

She can feel the weight of pearls, heavy and cool against her collarbones. She sees his eyes.

She closes hers.


The moment he runs up to the stones, he knows.

He doesn’t ken how he knows, but he does. Jamie Fraser is many things, but he is not foolish or fanciful.

Is she gone she is gone

At the base of the tallest rock, there is a length of plaid, its folds seared by dirt and grass, the sweet stink of rain clinging to his nose as he touches it, wonders.

“Lady Lallybroch,” he says, whispers really, and his voice cracks just once, his hand reaching out for the stone, his hand reaching to her, to nothing, to a memory of brown curls

in the light of the fire.


December 2015

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