Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

May 1744

He wriggles his toes, feeling his environment. He quickly realises how much his surroundings are constricted; his legs are tightly bound, and he is being cradled in someone’s arms.

He tries to remember where he was, what he'd been doing, but the answers slip away too quickly, and he doesn't have the focus or energy to reel them back in. Giving it up as a lost cause for now, his mind stumbles to provide him with information for what is immediately happening to him instead. He is… being held in a weird way and he feels… smaller?

He grunts, frustrated, because he has enough brain power left to know that this doesn't make any sense. Yet, as he attempts to move, wiggling only slightly, he finds that he is indeed being held in the arms of somebody else. He tries opening his eyes, a task he's never found so hard before, only able to manage squinting in the end. The light, though dim, blinds him and he can only see the vaguest of shapes and colours.

He can only see a woman leaning over him as a blur of brown, white, and brown near the top. He blinks, hoping it will help clear things up, but his eyelids feel so heavy that he finds himself fighting to get them open again. He suddenly feels very tired, but stubbornly refuses, too confused to let himself fall asleep without knowing what is going on.

He eventually opens his eyes and sees the woman more clearly and realises she must be the one holding him. She’s humming softly with a warm and happy smile. He can see that her skin is clammy and there are bruises under her eyes, the eyes that are amber, golden-brown as well as smoky topaz, but that doesn’t dim her smile as she gazes upon the person in her arms. She’s white and her brown hair surrounds her face in messy curls.

He tries to sit up, but his arms, no matter how much he wills them, remain stuck under the blanket. He quickly realises that he must be a baby from his size and the fact that whenever he tries to speak, it’s whimpering that comes out causing the woman to shush him. The newly reborn person knows that this must be their birth mother and has obviously just given birth to them after an exhausting labour. So, to make her feel better and to show her his gratitude, he reaches out with his hand from the blankets he is wrapped in and grips a finger of the hand at the end of the arm that cradles him. He is rewarded with a beaming smile from his new birth mother.

“Claire?” A female voice calls. “How are you? When they had told me the circumstances, I feared the worst, Mon Cherie.” He feels the ground shift beneath him and knows this other person had sat next to his birth mother – Claire.

Was that French? The reborn baby had detected what sounds like a French accent.

“Oh, Louise. He’s perfect.” His birth mother replies. He. He’s pleased that he’s still identifiable as male. Wait, still? Who was he…

He tries to raise his head and makes a frustrated noise as he can barely move. Claire readjusts him though, setting him in the crick of her arm and tilting him upwards slightly.

A face appears above him. It's another white brunette woman, beaming. “Oh, he’s lovely. He’s got his father’s eyes and his hair.” The woman’s, Louise’s, face then disappears from view, but he doesn’t mind. He is happy to gaze at his mother instead.

“That’s not a surprise,” Claire replies.

“What are you to call him?”

“Brian. After Jamie’s father.”

Brian. Suppose that’ll do…

“They told me he got arrested. In the Bastille for duelling.” Louise says.

His mother frowns at this causing him to let out a cry of frustration and upset as he can’t vocalise himself to make that frown disappears. His mother’s frown goes however and turns into her smiling and shushing him.

“Why did you come here?” Claire asks then.

“Mother Hilegarde brought me here, to make sure you go home to recover after the birth.” Louise says.

“Yes…” Claire murmurs, still gazing at the baby in her arms. “Fergus will be waiting…”

——

Brian drifted off soon after that conversation and wakes to a gentle rocking that abruptly stops. The surprise of it all causes him to let out a cry. How embarrassing.

“Is he alright?” A young boy’s voice asks. Brian strains his head, trying to find where this voice comes from but all he can see is his mother from before and that they are in an enclosed space.

“He’s fine Fergus. Just startled.” Claire (mother?) reassures the boy. So, this is Fergus.

What sounds like a door being opened happens and his mother steps out with Brian in her arms and emerges into a brighter surrounding.

“Bienvenue, Madame.”

“Merci, Claude,” Claire replies. Brian lets out a disgruntled noise as he tries to see this other person but he can’t move much being wrapped up in a blanket and his mother’s arms.

Despite more squirming, his new mother clings to him more and wraps the blanket he lies in even more tightly around him. Brian realises it’s no use getting free and resigns to grumbling to himself as he’s brought inside a building.

Chapter Text

Brian lives in this house for a few months along with Claire, Fergus, and Murtagh, who Claire refers to as being Brian’s father’s godfather, and servants before meeting his father.

Brian happily engages with his new, strange family. He greatly enjoys pulling on Murtagh’s beard whenever it’s in range causing the man to grumble and call him a “Diabhal beag”, whatever that means. Despite his annoyance, Murtagh is happy with Brian as the new addition and, to his glee, enjoys lifting Brian high in the air much to his mother’s displeasure.

Fergus is a lot of fun too. Not only does he play with Brian despite him being much smaller, but he also reads to him and talks to him in French. He says he’s trying to teach Brian though Claire keeps telling him that Brian can’t speak yet and doesn’t know what any of them are saying. Oh, honey…

Brian is constantly trying to make his mother smile. He can see she seems saddened and distressed, particularly after she had returned from visiting the King (probably the French one considering how much the language is spoken around them along with English and that’s another thing, it didn’t take Brian long to work out that this is back in the past at some point, before the revolution based on people’s dress and they way they talk though there’s something different about their mother) and Brian has been doing his level best to make her smile and cheer her up. He can’t do much as a baby but he can try his best and is pleased to say he’s been quite successful.

——

August 1744

Things change when Brian meets his father. He can’t tell much from where he lies in his cradle as the man leans over but Brian can see his father is tall, large and broad. His hair is more of a red ginger and his eyes are dark blue and slanted. Brian takes in these features seriously as he had headed his mother say he had gained those features from his father.

“Ah, there’s the wee lad.” He says softly. His Scottish accent is different from his mother’s English one. The man that must be Brian’s father, reaches down and picks him up in his arms. He frowns in concern. “He’s a wee small. Dinna ken tha’ he would be.”

“He was early.” Claire says. Brian is in his father’s arms in a tilted position making it easy for him to see Claire. “But he’s been strong and healthy, eating and moving well.”

“Brian Ian Fraser.” His father murmurs.

Brian can see that while there’s a warmth between them, there’s an awkward and tense air around them.

Jamie sighs. “I'm sorry I weren’t there. Fer the birth. I almost lost ye and I weren’t there.”

Claire’s face softens. “It’s alright. I’m just thankful that the two of you are well.”

“Will he be fine fer the trip back te Scotland?” His father questions, gazing at Brian, who stares back at him.

“I’m sure he will be. He still sleeps mostly and is the calmest baby I have ever seen.” Claire reassures. “Nothing like the horrors I have witnessed with Jenny’s brood.”

“Let us hope he dinna inherit my sea sickness.”

Brian ignores his parents as they talk and instead stares at his father’s beard that he’d noticed. It’s a different colour from Murtagh’s brown one obviously but looks just as pullable. So he leans forward and… tugs.

Jamie lets out a cry of pain, muttering, “Diabhal beag,” while Claire laughs at his face.

“Yes, I should’ve warned you,” she says through her laughter, “he has a fascination with beards.”

“Aye.” Jamie grumbles. He pouts at his son but Brian simply smiles back, happy to have made his parents smile.

Chapter Text

Once in Scotland, Claire, Brian, Fergus and Jamie settle into farm life at Lallybroch with Jenny, Ian and their family. Jamie’s sister, Brian’s Aunt Jenny, is a strong authority figure despite her being barely five feet tall. Brian can see his aunt has the same deep blue eyes that are slanted like his father’s, but her hair is dark. Brian’s Uncle Ian is an unassuming character but he has an undeniable authority. He’s taller than his wife and has brown hair and brown eyes and walks with a wooden peg leg that sits below his right knee. Both are happy to meet Brian and, in a way, he becomes part of the brood.

Fergus easily integrates into family life. From what he has heard about his adoptive older brother, Brian believes he deserves it, to experience a family. Fergus and Young Jamie, the eldest of Brian’s cousins, become fast friends and partners in crime. More than once, Father has had to scold Fergus for his foolhardy plans which often involved Young Jamie, who’s only a few years old compared to Fergus’ almost 10 years. But that doesn’t matter to Young Jamie who runs after him with his black curly hair like Jenny’s bouncing away and with wide brown eyes inherited from his father. Margaret, Maggie, his younger sister would pout and grumble as she tries to follow them on her nearly two year old legs, her mother smiles at her when she stares at her with wide blue eyes and pets her strawberry blonde hair.

The first of the potatoes were harvested a few short weeks after their return and preparations were underway for storing them with Da overseeing them. There are plenty of tenants in need of physicking from Mama but not many who could easily make their way to her. She tried leaving Brian behind with Jenny at first, determined to keep Brian from being exposed to illnesses unnecessarily, but her patients' demands on her time and Brian's dietary demands quickly forced her to abandon that habit.

With Jenny's and Mrs. Crook's help, a carrying sling was constructed to make it easier for Brian to ride or be carried by his Mother about the estate - visiting the tenants, gathering herbs, Brian spent his days close at hand. Compared to his cousins, Brian is a quiet and calm child, taken with observing the people and world around her. Mama would pass Brian off to whomever is on hand in a house where she is needed, though concerned relatives rarely strayed far from a loved one's sickbed. Brian is good with being handled by strangers and generally sat in a lap with as much of her attention on his Mama and her ministrations as the person who held her. It was either that or spending days in the garden, spread a blanket to roll about and play (trying to catch many a dragonfly - unsuccessfully as he kept flopping on his belly - the efforts leaving Brian exhausted so that he frequently lay on his belly and went to sleep right there) while Mama gathered the necessary plants for her medical stores.

Brian flops over on his blanket from where he’d been watching his mother and aunt work to look at his companion that lies next to him. Katherine, more commonly known as Kitty, grins and gurgles at him from the basket she lies in, staring at him with her mother’s and uncle’s blue eyes. His youngest cousin had been born a short while after the France trio arrived. Brian smiles back at her, petting her hand in greeting.

Jamie is an attentive father. At meal times, when all gathered round the table, Young Jamie and Maggie hitting the table legs in impatience, Kitty babbling away, his father would be occupied with entertaining Brian, who is always determined to lock his tiny fingers onto Jamie’s curls. Curls that he has no doubt inherited himself. While everyone around them is engrossed in dinner or conversation, his father always remains fully attentive to him, grinning tightly and speaking softly in Gaelic as he bounces him on his knee.

——

April 1745

The first year of Brian’s life is almost complete. He’s not quite walking at this point but he can pull himself to stand and can take a few steps while holding onto furniture much to the delight of his parents.

But things soon change. News arrives that alters everything. Brian can’t gather much as he’s put down for naps in another room often or the adults don’t talk about it fully when he’s around. All he knows is that his father has received a letter, an urgent one and they must depart immediately. What Brian knows for certain is that he’s coming with them as his mother refuses Jenny’s offer to leave him with her.

Chapter Text

No one explains things to Brian or talks about anything around him. He doesn’t understand where Angus disappears to or why Fergus returns one day, shaken with red on his face. He assumes there’s fighting due to the number of men his mother treats as the next year rolls around.

His parents are very serious these days. Brian is able to lift smiles from them when he takes his first proper steps and creates laughter when he points at a man everyone is calling a Prince and saying cat (his first word).

——

Brian is almost two when he begins to say his goodbyes. 

He doesn’t understand when Fergus says his goodbyes as he heads off to deliver a message for their parents. Surely he’ll come back?

Murtagh ruffles his hair and calls him a Diabhal beag again by now, Brian knows what this means but he has never heard it uttered by Murtagh in such a sombre tone.

——

April 16^th 1746

Brian stares at his parents with tears in his eyes as they argue. 

“Ye... yer promised me tha’ if it came te this, ye'd go back through the stones, back home.” His father says.

Go back? Go back where?

“But you are my home.” His mother argues.

“And yer are mine, but this home is lost. And now ye, Brian and the bairn... yer must go te a safe place. Te a man... a man tha’ could care for yer all.”

Brian stares at them both questioningly. But neither of them turns to him to provide answers.

“No. No, I...”

“Claire. Claire, there's no time.” Da argues.

“How will I explain all this? How can I go back?”

“To Frank. All tha' I leave te ye. Tell 'im wha' ye will about me... about us. 'Tis likely he'll no want te hear, but if he does... tell 'im I'm grateful. And tell 'im I trust 'im, and tell 'im I hate 'im te the verra marrow o' his bones.”

Brian winces and whimpers as he begins to hear a buzzing sound getting louder and louder. He rugs on his mother’s skirts. “Mama, it buzzing.”

Brian doesn’t know how to explain the looks he receives from his parents. Relief? Devastation?

“He can hear it…” His mother murmurs as she stares at Brian before snapping to his father with renewed desperation. “Jamie please tell me, please tell me that you can hear it.”

But his father shakes his head and denies it. Brian doesn’t understand, it’s so loud! Then Mama and Brian are being pushed towards the stones, encouraged to touch them. Brian glances over his shoulder, just before he touches it, and sees his father watching them, tears falling down his cheeks.

“Da?”

His father crouches down and strokes Brian’s hair. Hair that matches his own. “Goodbye wee laddie. Yer look after yer mother fer me.”

Brian frowns at his father, confused, but then he and his mother touch the stone and they’re gone.

——

Mid-April 1948

Brian experienced a lot of pain going through the stones. His mother was a bit disoriented too but also distressed. When others found them, in clothing that Brian almost feels is familiar in some sort of way but struggles to recall where. His mother is weeping and crying. Brian wants to stay, to comfort her but they tear him away from her. Thankfully, he’s soon returned to her and, as she sits in this bed, she cradles him, singing softly. The radio plays in the background.

♪ Oh, milkman, keep those bottles quiet ♪

♪ Been jumpin' on the swing shift ♪

♪ All night ♪

♪ Turnin' out my quota all right ♪

♪ Now I'm b*at right down to the sod ♪

♪ Gotta catch myself some righteous nod ♪

♪ Oh, milkman, keep those bottles quiet ♪

♪ Milkman, stop that grade A riot ♪

The song is interrupted by a door opening. His mother doesn’t look at the person and Brian can’t see them as she blocks his view.

“Can you turn that bloody thing off, please?” She demands.

♪ If you can't lullaby it ♪

♪ Oh, milkman, keep those bottles... ♪

There’s a click and the noise stops. Brian is thankful, not used to the noise, but then he can now more clearly hear all the loud noises from outside.

“So noisy here.” His mother murmurs. There are footsteps and suddenly she tenses, clinging to Brian tightly causing Brian to let out a small cry. His mother lets out an apologetic noise, stroking his red hair soothingly. “I-I’m sorry.” She apologises to the man that Brian now realises is standing next to the bed. “Y-you’re not…”

The man has dark hair, with wide hazel eyes that flicker over Brian’s mother questioningly and curiously looks at Brian. “Claire?”

“Frank. Hello. I'm back.” Brian glances up at his mother curiously, still not understanding what’s going on. It’s like there are memories locked away somewhere that would explain this new world around him but he can’t unlock them.

“And I am so grateful.” The man, Frank, says tearfully. Brian stares at him, he must know his mother quite well from his reaction but how come Brian has never seen him and where’s Da?

“Are you?”

“Of course. With all my heart.” He walks towards them but his mother lets out a gasp, pulling Brian towards her. Frank looks at them apologetically but also looks hurt. “I'm sorry... wh...”

“No. It's not you.”

“Mrs. Randall?” A different voice calls then there’s a blinding white light.

More voices appear out of Brian’s eye line.

“Hey! What are you doing? Get out of here!” 

“Easy now, I'm just doing my job. Now watch the camera!”

The door slams shut.

Brian flinches at the noise causing his mother to hold him closer. He looks up and sees that the man, Frank, is staring at him with a frown on his face.

“Claire… who’s this?”

Chapter Text

“Children without a father, and, and a man without children have been given this chance to find one another.  

And yes, I would call that part of God's eternal plan.

What you choose to call it, Frank, well, that's up to you.”

The Reverend’s words echo in Frank’s mind as he walks down the corridor of the man’s home. After hearing from Claire that the small boy she was found with is her son, fathered by another man, and she’s expecting another, Frank had thought that was the end. But after speaking to the Reverend, Frank realised there might be a chance here. He could be a father even after thinking he couldn’t be. First, though, he needs to be sure.

He steps inside one of the rooms to find the boy, Brian, playing with some toys while Mrs Graham watches over him. The woman looks up and smiles in greeting but it’s cautious. Frank understands why. His explosion earlier would cause that kind of reaction.

The noise of his entrance causes Brian to look. Frank tries not to shift uncomfortably under the boy’s inquisitive stare. For a moment he’s struck by the fact that other than the odd little features, Brian doesn't have many of his mother's features except his nose, which means his looks probably come from—

He turns to the other adult. “Mrs Graham.”

“Mr Randall.” There’s a pause before she turns to Brian with a smile. “Well, I better see if Roger has kept his breaks out the dirt.” She glances at Frank before making her leave.

Frank watches her leave. He takes a breath and turns back to Brian to find the boy still staring at him.

He can do this.

“Hello, my name’s Frank.” He says with a smile, sitting on a chair next to where the boy plays on the floor. “And you’re Brian.”

Brian stares before smiling and nodding. “I’m Brian!”

There’s a lull in conversation as Frank thinks of what to say. “What have you got there?” He gestures to the toys Brian has in front of him.

Brian picks up one of the building blocks and holds it in Frank’s face. “Wood!”

“We call this a block, it’s made of wood.” Frank corrects though realises it’s a bit silly arguing with a two-year-old.

Brian hands him one, smiling. Frank can’t help but smile back. Maybe he can do this, be a father to this boy and his unborn sibling. First, he needs to get them away from Scotland, from the tabloids, and from Claire’s memories of this Jamie. He’s going to accept that position at Harvard.

——

Brian had been frightened the whole time they flew over the clouds. He had clung to his mother’s side despite the man, Frank, constantly trying to get his mother to let him go and not coddle him. Thankfully Mama had refused and had clung back.

The plane lands and the doors open. Frank steps out first with Mama and Brian emerging after him. Brian stares in confusion at the world in front of him. The world seems so grey. He wants to go back. Go back to the green world where he’d play with his cousins as his parents work the land along with his aunt and uncle. He looks back into the plane, feeling the urge to go back. 

His thoughts are interrupted by his mother pulling on his hand, encouraging him to walk down the stairs. He stares at his mother with wide fearful eyes. Mama smiles at him and picks him up and walks down the stairs with him in her arms. Brian presses his face to her hair and wraps his arms around her neck.

“He doesn’t need to be held all the time.” Comes Frank’s irate voice.

“He’s two and frightened, Frank.” Mama retorts snippily.

Frank sighs before walking on with Mama and Brian following after him into this new world.

Chapter Text

Brian has always felt like an outsider in Boston. Some would argue it’s his English roots that make him feel alien despite arriving in the US at a young age. Brian knows that isn’t what it is as he squirms in the school uniform he’s been told to dress in. There’s something about the modern world around him that doesn’t feel right, which means Brian can’t connect with his fellow students. He doesn’t feel like he belongs.

“You look lovely, darling.” His mother says, walking over and giving him a brief look over before smiling at him.

“It doesn’t feel right, Mama.” Brian says. “Nothing feels right here.”

Mama’s smile dims. “I know, darling. I know.” She strokes his face softly.

——

1958

Brian watches from afar as he takes in the awkwardness between his parents, Claire and Frank, as Ellen asks for them to pose together for their photograph after their mother had posed with fellow new Doctor, Joe Abernathy.

Brian knows his sister hasn’t noticed the disintegration between the two adults. Brian, since he’s always been more aware than a child his age usually is, has known that their relationship hasn’t been right for as long as he can remember. He remembers that whenever Dad would touch her, Mama would flinch and how at night, when they think Ellen and Brian are asleep, they would argue. Brian would sit at the top of the stairs, listening to the rows with tears in his eyes.

His parents' marriage is one where both of them seem to be leading largely separate lives; Mama had focused on completing medical school to become a surgeon, and Dad has been out of the house, spending time elsewhere. Brian has heard his mother suggest that they file for divorce, but Dad had refused, for fear that he would never see Brian and Ellen again. 

Brian can’t remember everything of his life but there’s something always at the back of his mind that makes him feel like he’s been here before, which would explain the whole being more mature than his own age but it’s also as if this life he’s currently living is a lie, something more, as if there’s been more to this life than he remembers. His mother is also seemingly living a lie. 

Just like him, Mama hasn’t been comfortable with the 20^th century and hasn’t moved through it with the ease Dad and Ellen do. Brian recalls when Mama would cook over the fire instead of the stove, saying she prefers it and Brian hadn’t complained. It all came to an end when Dad had come home early and caught them. He immediately pulled Brian away from the fire and berated Mama for letting Brian get so close to the fire. Mama had argued back, saying she’d done nothing wrong. Brian had been confused about what was going on but he’d immediately noticed how upset his mother id and knew that wasn’t right. He had immediately fought against Dad’s hold and then ran over to comfort his mother once he’d been let down.

Brian frowns as he watches Frank talk to a woman who’d suddenly appeared at the party with Mama ushering everyone out of the house. He and his Dad have always got along fine but there’s always been a lack of proper connection between the two of them, the opposite to each of their relationships with Ellen, but it’s okay because Brian has always had Mama. Dad is never pleased with how close they are, saying a man shouldn’t be this attached to his mother but Brian ignores him as he does with most things his Dad complains about.

Chapter Text

1957

One day when Brian is eleven and Ellen is nine, Mama is late coming home to relieve the babysitter. The babysitter, having not wanted to sit around any longer, leaves Brian and Ellen alone. Ellen leaves the house before Brian realises. He immediately runs after her, sees her walk into the road and sees a slow-moving car coming towards her.

It isn’t happening quickly so Brian easily has the chance to stop his sister, to pull her out of the way but instead, he freezes in place. Instead, he feels hot all over. His breath comes out heavy and fast. His vision blurs as he feels himself shaking and feels dizzy. His mouth dries and his heart is pounding.

He remembers— he remembers—

The pain. The sudden sharp pain from the impact. Lying on the floor as people shouted above him. It’s happening again, i-its—

Suddenly, there’s someone in front of him asking if he’s alright, bringing him out of his panic. His vision clears and he sees people checking over and looking after his sister though he can see she’s only got some surface-level wounds. Not like—

He shakes his head, dismissing the thought. He feels an overwhelming sense of guilt. He should have been keeping an eye on Ellen better. He should’ve saved his sister.

——

Mama had decided to quit her programme because of the incident so she could care for Brian and Ellen full-time but Dad had persuaded her not to, and offered to have them come to his university office after school. It hadn’t been bad, the three of them being together but one day, Ellen has joined a new after-school club leaving Brian and Dad on their own.

Things always seem a bit awkward between them when it’s one on one. There’s almost this gap between them stopping a proper connection. One of them is how much Dad dislikes how close Brian is to his mother and sister.

“You needn’t spend all your time with your mother and sister.” Dad argues from behind his desk as he looks over paperwork. “You need your own friends.”

Brian shifts uncomfortably on the chair on the opposite side of the desk. He has his homework displayed in front of him and had been working on it before Dad had spoken. “Ellen and Mama are my friends. I don’t need anyone else.”

“Yes, you do.” Dad corrects in a know it all tone that Brian has come to greatly dislike. “You need boys your own age. Isn’t there anyone you like?”

Lenny is alright. He doesn’t think Brain is weird or weird enough not to talk to. He supposes they’re sort of friends.

“I like Lenny.” Brian says after a moment.

Dad pulls a face. “Lenny Abernathy? Joe Abernathy’s son?” Brian nods. “I’m not sure you should be associating with those sort of people.”

Brian frowns in confusion. “But Mama says they’re our friends.”

Dad purses his lips. “Your mother isn’t thinking what’s best for you. I do.”

Brian glares at his Dad. “No, you don’t. Mama’s always right! She’s going to be a doctor!”

“A surgeon.” Dad corrects. Brian hates it when he does that, lording his knowledge over him.

“Don’t care.” Brian rebuffs. “Mama, Ellen and Lenny are my friends. I like them.”

Dad clenches his teeth but doesn’t say anything else and returns to his paperwork. They spend the rest of the time until Mama is finished for the day to pick Brian up, in silence.

——

1964

“You’re wasting your future!” Dad shouts.

Brian is nearly 18 and is graduating from high school soon and already there’s a conflict between him and Dad on his chosen course for university. Brian has chosen journalism, but Dad had wanted Brian to take after him and do history.

“Frank, surely—” Mama tries to interrupt.

“Stay out of this, Claire.” Dad snaps. “He can’t always rely on you to defend him.”

Brian glares at him. “Don't talk to Mama like that! Anyway, I'm almost 18. I can decide what I want to do with my future and I want to do Journalism at Boston University!”

“But couldn't you try something more academic, more stable?” Dad tries, no longer shouting. “And why Boston University? What’s wrong with Harvard?”

“He doesn’t have to be like you, Frank!” Mama retorts instead.

“He isn’t going to get anywhere in the world with that profession! It’s fanciful! They’re vultures, remember how they were when—” Dad cuts himself off. Mama’s eyes are wide with shock and horror. Dad clears his throat. “I only have your best interests at heart, Brian.”

Brian shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” He counters. “You just want me to be just like you. I don’t want to be Dad! I’m sorry I’m not the perfect son but I prefer that to being a carbon copy of you!”

He storms off, out of the study and finds Ellen lingering outside.

“I suppose you heard that?” He asks rhetorically as he continues walking after momentarily pausing in surprise at her appearance. “Thought you were at school.”

Ellen nods. “I was, they let us out early. Heard the argument as soon as I walked in. Hard not to.”

They reach Brian’s room where he slumps on top of his bed while Ellen lingers in the doorway, hesitantly.

“I’m sure Daddy wants what’s best for you.”

Brian scoffs. “I’m sure he does, but… I just want to make my own path, not follow after him and do everything he did. Is that wrong?”

Ellen immediately shakes her head, her red hair that matches his swishes about before resting on her shoulders once again. “No, you should make your own choice. I’m sure Daddy will come around.”

“Mmm… he’ll only do that once you go into history yourself after high school.” Brian remarks, starting at the ceiling.

“How did you know?”

Brian looks back at her with a raised eyebrow. “You’re Dad’s perfect child. He’s always favoured you cause you’re more like him.”

“Like you’re mom’s favourite?” Ellen retorts with a smirk.

Brian gives Ellen a look for that but she just simply grins at him, causing him to laugh.

Chapter Text

May 1971

Brian stands in front of the stone that stands in the middle of the circle of many others. He can feel the stone calling to him, urging him to touch it but he pulls back, turning to his sister, who stands next to him, dressed in 18^th century style dress just like he is for the journey they are about to embark on.

Brian speaks, “Ellen, are we sure about this?”

“Of course. We need to save Mama and, um, Jamie.” She winces at her stumble.

Brian shakes his head, ignoring her stumble because he gets it even if he and his putative father never quite clicked. “You sure it has nothing to do with Roger?”

Ellen narrows her eyes at him. “Of course not.”

“El…”

“It’s not! I promise!”

Brian looks at her doubtfully but nods. He twists the ring on his right pointer finger. Mama had given it to him, saying it was his paternal grandfather’s, his namesake’s, ring. She had been wearing it when she had travelled back to the future and had lost the gem. Jamie, his Da, had wanted him to have it.

The siblings grip each other’s hands and reach out to the stone.

——

November 1948

Mama is in bed, demanding to know where the baby is when Frank, he and Mama had told Brian he can call the former Dad, brings Brian in along with his newly born sister.

“Claire. Claire.” Dad calls to her. One of his hands grips Brian’s while the other cradles Brian’s new sister.

Mama lets out a gasp at the sight of them.

“It's all right.” Dad reassures as he places the baby in Mama’s arms and helps Brian up onto the bed so he can join them. “Here she is.”

Mama is overcome with emotion as she settles with the new weight in her arms. The baby makes a distressed noise causing Brian to frown.

“Sissy upset?”

Dad smiles at him and shakes his head. “No, Brian, your sister is fine.”

“It’s a girl?” Mama asks as she shushes the baby.

“She is. She's perfect, Claire.”

“What do you think of your sister, Brian?” Mama asks with a beaming smile.

Brian frowns for a moment before declaring, “Pretty.”

This causes the two adults to chuckle.

“What a beautiful little angel.” A nurse remarks as she places something on the table next to the bed.

“Thank you.” Dad replies.

“Red hair just like her brother. Where'd they get it?”

Brian smiles, about to tell the lady all about his Da when he sees the looks on Mama and Dad’s faces and something tells him to keep his mouth closed.

——

March 1958

Eleven-year-old Brian (nearly twelve!) stands in the National Gallery in London. They had come to the city on a school trip. Brian had been keenly interested in all the different objects around him but most of his classmates, while excited to be in a different country, found the place immensely boring.

He’d been actively looking at every painting when one caused him to pause. It’s a woman wearing old-fashioned clothes with a pearl necklace around her neck. Brian steps closer and reads that the portrait comes from Scotland in the 18^th century by a Ellen Caitriona Sileas MacKenzie Fraser.

He looks back at the woman’s face, it's what caused him to pause in the first place. Her features are shrinkingly familiar along with her red locks, Brian feels as if he knows her.

“Oi, Randall, what’s your sister doing in a painting?” Brian turns to see it’s David Mills, one of the less obnoxious kids in his class.

But now that David says it, Brian understands why the woman seems so familiar to him. She looks like Ellen, almost exactly but it’s hard to tell as Ellen is so much younger than how old this woman is in the portrait.

Brian shrugs. “Don’t know.”

——

September 1769

Brian is cradling Ellen as she shakes and sobs in his arms. He should have never let her out of his sight, and should not have stayed with Lizzie. If he hadn’t, then his sister wouldn’t be hurt.

Ellen sniffles. “I got her ring. I got Mama’s ring.”

Brian makes a noise of acknowledgement as he holds her, rocking back and forth.

“I-I’m sorry, I—”

“No, don’t apologise. It wasn’t your fault and no matter how I feel, it’s not mine either. It’s his.”

“But—”

“Ellen.” Brian clasps the sides of her face so that he can bring up her face. “It’s not. Bonnet is an evil man who took advantage of you because he wanted to. It’s not your fault that he chose to do it.”

Ellen sniffs and slowly nods. Brian knows she’s not completely convinced but then who would after being attacked like that, but it’ll have to do for now. It’ll take a while for him to get over the guilt himself.

“Come.” He pulls her up. “Let’s have a wash and see how Lizzie is doing. Yeah?”

Ellen nods and follows his lead into their room.

Chapter Text

April 1968

“Brian?”

Brian, now nearly twenty-two, turns from the painting resting on the wall he’d been staring at when he hears his mother’s voice. He turns to see his mother and sister standing next to each other with a man standing next to them among the many people who have gathered in this house. The man is tall and pale with short brown hair and a thick beard, but he appears nice and gentile.

“Yes?” He says as he wanders over to them.

“This is Roger Wakefield; the Reverend was his father.” Mama introduces. Brian and Roger shake hands and share polite smiles.

“You seem familiar.” Brian comments.

“Do I?” Roger asks.

“Maybe it’s because you met, when you were small, Brian.” Mama explains. “Just before you turned two. We stayed with the Reverend and Mrs Graham, you father and I before we later moved to Boston.”

“Ah.” Roger acknowledges, turning to Brian with a warmer smile. “And wha’ ha’ ye been doin’ since ye last here, Brian?”

“I’m a journalist. I work for a newspaper.” 

Ellen scoffs good naturedly. “He’s being modest. He works for the Boston Globe. It’s largest paper in New England.”

“And he’s becoming one of their top journalists.” Mama adds.

Brian blushes. “Guys…”

“Hey, no need te be modest.” Roger protests. “Ye should be proud o' yer accomplishments.”

Brian raises an eyebrow. “And what do you do?”

Roger shrugs with a smile. “Weel, I’m a history professor at Oxford.”

Brian smirks. “No need to hide that!”

Roger shrugs with a grin. “Wha’ drew ye te journalism?”

“Well, I…”

As Brian talks to Roger, Ellen watches him closely before turning to her mother. “This must be the most comfortable and at ease I’ve ever seen him. Scotland seems to have brought out a different side to him.”

Her mother doesn’t look at her, her eyes flickering everywhere but her. “Yes, it seems so.”

——

Roger, Ellen and Brian stand in the middle of Fort William. Roger had been giving them a tour of the different local sights.

“You know, it’s funny how at ease he is with you. It isn’t usual as he’s always seemed to struggle to connect with others growing up except with me and Mama.” Ellen remarks as she watches her brother as he wanders ahead while she and Roger linger behind.

Roger shrugs. “I like ‘im. He seems a good person.”

“He is.” Ellen smiles softly. “Been my and Mama’s rock for as long as I can remember. I’ve really relied on him these couple years after Daddy died.”

Up ahead, Brian looks around himself, feeling uneasy. He glances up at a wooden structure that stands in the middle. It looms over Brian ominously causing him to shiver. The grey, overcast skies add to the unnerving atmosphere. He reaches towards it as if to touch it before retreating quickly.

“Brian?” He looks over to see his sister looking at him in concern.

Brian tries to give her a reassuring smile, but it comes out as a grimace. “Sorry, it’s just, um, this place is giving me the chills.”

Roger nods in agreement. “Wi’ good reason. Many Scottish prisoners were flogged here. A lot o' blood was spilled on this ground.”

“Let’s go.” Ellen encourages, looking at Brian in concern. 

He realises that he’s actually shaking. This confuses Brian, not understanding why this place disturbs him so much.

——

Ellen, Brian and Roger riffle through the late Reverend’s things. Trying to find what he had on their parents. Brian’s stomach drops when he comes across a newspaper clipping.

“Hey guys, look at this.” Brian calls to the other two. They both lean around him to have a look.

“"Kidnapped by the Fairies"?” Ellen reads.

“‘Claire Randall, wife of noted historian Frank Randall... Holiday in Inverness. Car found. Police thought she was possibly murdered.’” Roger continues to read.

“Well, obviously not. She turned up.” Ellen remarks.

“Three years later.” Brian points out. “‘Mysteriously found wandering, dressed in rags, disoriented, incoherent and carrying a small male child.’” He stops breathing when he reads that. That’s not— it can’t—

“I think we've found yer "incident."” Roger remarks.

“El, look at the date…” Brian whispers.

“April 1948. I was born in November '48.” Ellen murmurs.

“Were ye born early?” Roger asks.

“No, she wasn’t, and anyway I was meant to have been born May ‘46 but it says here Mama suddenly appeared with a small boy in April '48 after being missing for three years.” Brian replies.

“Then daddy, daddy’s not—” Ellen struggles to say the words.

“He’s not our dad.” Brian finishes. If this is true, then things are finally making sense.

Chapter Text

After finishing her story, Mama explains that Dad had asked her where she had been during her absence - that she had told him, and he refused to believe her, thinking she was mentally unstable. Freshly bereaved, Mama had tried to make Dad leave her, but he insisted on staying, asking only that Mama allow him to be Brian and Ellen's only father during his lifetime.

Ellen is infuriated by their mother's revelations and storms out in a rage. Brian instead sits there in silence, digesting his mother’s revelations. He was in shock, hadn’t expected that his true father is, or should he say was, a Scottish highlander from the 18^th century and that he himself wasn’t even born in this century but a couple of centuries ago.

He snaps out of it when someone sits next to him. He looks up to see it’s Mama who’s looking at him with a soft but sorrowful look. Brian looks around to see that Roger has also disappeared at some point as well leaving just him and Mama.

“It’s like those stories you used to tell me.” Brian says, he’s not sure what to say and that’s the only thing he can say. “The brave highlander laird. No wonder you didn’t want me telling Dad.”

“I’m sorry.” Mama murmurs quietly. “I’m sorry I lied.”

Brian shakes his head quickly, his urge to not have his mother feel guilty or sad still strong. “No, don’t be. He asked you to and you kept it, for us.”

“Still…”

“It explains things though, why I don’t look like him, why we were so different from one another and how we never exactly had that father-son bond. To him I was another man’s child.” Brian remarks.

“He loved you, despite everything.” Mama argues. “He was your father in every way that matters.”

“Except one.” Brian says.

Mama nods. “Yes, except one.”

Brian frowns thinking, startling slightly when his mother places a hand on his cheek, stroking it softly with her thumb. “You’re as thoughtful as your father.” She speaks.

“Tell me about him,” Brian replies. Maybe this will help make everything just make sense. It’s already beginning to. Brian already knows that he hasn’t quite felt like he fits in, that this isn’t his life, which is already being explained by the fact that he isn't even from this century originally.

Mama looks at him with wide, happy eyes, she’s almost shaking probably because after all this time she finally gets to tell him. “Uh, he was tall and had red hair just like yours and Ellen’s, you both have his eye shape. His father's name was Brian, and that's where your name came from. He spoke French, and he loved to play chess. And also, he gave me this.” Mama pauses, patting her pockets until she finds it. It’s a ring, an old-fashioned one though it doesn’t show the age of one. “This was your grandfather’s. Jamie, your father, wanted me to give it to you.”

Brian takes it from her, his hands shaking with the knowledge that this belongs to his real father. He frowns when he notices something odd about it. “The setting is hollow. I’d thought there’d be a stone or something.”

“There was one,” Mama says, her eyes tearing up. “It disappeared when I, we, travelled through.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but I think I have an idea.”

——

"Roger. Tell her what you found." Ellen says to the man. They'd just witnessed Gillian Edgars, otherwise known as Geillis Duncan, step through the stones, wiping any doubt of the power of the stones in question. Roger had called in anonymously to the police due to Gillian's murdered husband lying burning next to the stones as they had hurried away from the stones.

Brian is still breathing heavily and shakily. Not only is he still recovering from the strange buzzing it seems he, his mother, sister and Roger had experienced once near the stones (a noise so loud it was overwhelming) but also the image of Greg Edgars’ burning body seared into his mind. How could the woman be so callous?

Roger pulls out a couple of papers from his pocket. “Some research the Reverend did at the request o’ yer husband... yer husband Frank. I'm no’ certain if he ever sent it on t’ Boston.” He explains.

Mama doesn’t take them and asks instead, “Well, what does it say?” Brian can see she’s eager but also fearful to hear what he’s got to say.

“After the battle at Culloden, a few Jacobite soldiers, all seriously wounded, took refuge in an auld house... fer two days, then they were all taken out t’ be shot, but one o’ ‘em, a Fraser o’ the Master o’ Lovat's regiment, escaped execution.”

“There were a lot of Frasers on the field that day.” Mama argues, scared to hope.

“But... only five Fraser officers, and four o’ ‘em hav’ their names memorialised on a plaque in the church in Beauly, so... we kno’ fer certain tha’ they were killed.” Roger counters.

“Who was the fifth?”

“James Fraser,” Brian says, able to tear his eyes away from Craigh na Dun as it sits at the top of the hill with smoke spilling around it.

“Our father.” Ellen adds.

“Jamie.” Mama speaks, her voice breaking as she speaks his name. “He didn't die at Culloden?”

“Weel, he meant t’ die, but... he dinna.” Roger says.

“He survived. He survived, Mama.” Brian says, reaching out to grip her hand. Mama strongly returns it as she stares up at Craigh na Dun.

Dawn is fast approaching. Mama staggers away from them for a moment. Brian, Ellen and Roger exchange a worried looks - will she collapse?

But Mama straightens up after a while. Stands up straight. Turns around and confronts them with the unwavering determination of Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser.

“If this is true, then...” Mama turns to face the standing stones. “I have to go back.”

Chapter Text

The initial hope of finding Jamie is soon dashed. Brian, Ellen and Mama unite to find Jamie with the help of Roger. Brian enjoys this time, not only the hope of finding out about his real father but spending time with his mother, sister and new friend. He knows Ellen and Mama haven’t always been that close. It’d always been two camps, Brian and Mama in one and Dad and Ellen in the other. But now the truth is out, Brian can see that the invisible wall between mother and daughter has come down.

They begin by poring over 18^th century ledgers to try and find where Jamie went after Culloden. They discover a record of him at Ardsmuir Prison, however, they discover that Ardsmuir closed, and cannot find any record of his transfer. They initially hope that ship records will indicate where Jamie went but they soon realise that the dates are wrong and that it can’t be him.

Mama bends over and lets out a sob. Brian frowns as sits down next to her, wrapping an arm around her. She turns her head and sobs into his shoulder.

“It’s hopeless. I can’t find him.” Her voice cracks.

Brian rubs her arm. “You don’t know that, Mama.”

Mama lifts her head to look at him. “But where else can we look? How can we know what happened after Ardsmuir?”

Brian doesn’t answer as he doesn’t know himself. All that hope of finding out about what happened to his birth father, learning what happened more for his mother’s sake than his own, is now faded.

He looks up to see Ellen and Roger's despondent faces. What do they do now?

——

1764

Jamie gazes upon his son as he sits astride the pony that Jamie himself guides about the grounds of Helwater. He thinks of his other son, Brian, he’d be twenty by now, a man. Jamie can only imagine what he’s like now. Jamie hopes he, Claire and his sibling are all safe and well.

He wonders how Brian has matured, and what his interests are. Jamie wonders if he can play chess or perhaps a 20^th century game he won’t understand. Is he a good older brother to his younger sibling? Do they get on well?

Jamie wonders if he and Claire had another son or if it was a daughter. They’d be eighteen. Jamie hopes they are well too and thriving. He wonders what their features are. Did they take after him or Claire or do they favour both?

Sometimes he passes a thought to Frank. He wonders what Claire would’ve told him, did he accept Claire, Brian and the unborn babe? Is he a father to Jamie’s children? He tries not to have thoughts on whether he’s being a better father to Jamie’s own kids than Jamie would ever be because how would he know? Frank is in the future with the option to be a father to the children while Jamie is stuck in the past, unable to see them, to see them grow.

He moves from his thoughts to gaze upon Willie once more. “Now, keep yer back straight.”

Willie nods with a determined face, one that reflects Jamie’s. “I am Mac!”

Jamie chuckles at his son’s tone. “Aye, yer are.” Never would he have thought he’d have a son who’s an English Lord.

His smile drops as he realises it’s no longer safe for him to stay here, particularly for Willie. Too many people are already pointing out the similarities between the two of them and Jamie feels it’s time to go back to Lallybroch and start anew as best he can.

Chapter Text

“Mama?” Brian calls as he enters the kitchen in their house in Boston.

His mother doesn't reply. Brian wonders if she even heard him. His Mama has been quiet and despondent since their return to the States. They all have in a way; their whole world has shifted. Mama with finally telling the truth about Jamie and the hope of finding him only for it to be snatched away. Brian and Ellen on the other hand are coping with the fact that who they thought they were has now changed.

Brian, however, is coping better with the revelations than Ellen. It’s like he always knew that something was going on, something else was calling to him and now it all makes sense, he makes sense. But not everything is smooth sailing. Now that he knows the truth of his and his mother’s past, he feels even more out of step with his colleagues than before. Despite this, Brian’s life hasn’t completely changed from how it was before.

Ellen, however, feels her whole world has been turned upside down and not for the better. Brian can see she is finding it difficult to resume her life at Harvard. It is only through accident that he found out about her failing all her classes and is in danger of flunking out of school. What concerns Brian is that Ellen seems unperturbed by the prospect.

“Mama?”

This time she looks up. “Hmm?”

Brian sympathetically looks at her. “I can make dinner tonight.”

Mama shakes her head. “No, no, it's fine.”

“Mama, you’re tired from work.” Neither of them mentions that it probably isn’t work that’s making her ‘tired’. “Please I don't mind.”

Mama sighs and relents, putting down the potato and peeler that she’d been holding but it’s clear she has been too lost in her thoughts as the potato remains unpeeled. Brian doesn’t say anything about it and gets on with the peeling while his mother stays, watching.

“You shouldn’t feel like you need to look after me.” Mama suddenly says. “You should be in your own home, living your life.”

“Mama…” Brian gives her a disapproving look that’s too soft to be harsh. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you and Ellen.”

“I just feel like I’m holding you back.”

“You’re not, I promise.” Brian says, putting down the potatoes. “You and Ellen are the most important to me, why would I leave you?”

Mama smiles softly and strokes his cheek. Not for the first time, Brian wonders how difficult it must be for his mother to look upon her children and so often be reminded of her lost love.

——

Summer 1968

“Roger?”

“Brian.” Roger greets happily. It seems that they are both in unanimous agreement to ignore the argument going on in the house behind Brian.

Things haven’t improved for the better. Mama and Ellen are in constant arguments ever since Ellen announced her plans to leave Harvard and move out of the house.

Brian winces when Ellen screams, “You’re not listening!”

He awkwardly clears his throat. “So, er, what are you doing in town?”

 “I should've sent word.” Roger replies uncontrollably, his eyes flickering to look inside the house before quickly looking back at Brian. “Clearly, I've come at a bad time.”

“No, not at all. Mama and Ellen are just...”

“Yellin’.” Roger finishes with a slight smile.

Brian gives him a slight chuckle. “Uh, Ellen has... decided to withdraw from Harvard and is moving out. Mama isn’t exactly taking it well.”

“Tha’ one word fer it.”

Brian realises his mother’s and sister’s voices are coming closer. Brian looks back to see Ellen storming into the entrance hall with Mama behind her.

“Let me call Dean Tramble. I'm sure he can have you reinstated.” Mama pleads.

Ellen strides towards the door, looking over her shoulder at her mother and has clearly not noticed Roger and Brian. “No! You're not listening! I need a break. You expect me to just come back to Boston and be who I was? I tried, and it's not— Roger.” Ellen stops her in tracks, staring at the man with wide eyes.

A smile spreads over Roger’s face. Brian almost feels like he’s third wheeling again like he had when the three of them would go on their trips around Scotland. Brian wouldn’t be surprised that one of the reasons or the main reason Roger is here is to see Ellen.

“Hello.” Roger murmurs, somewhat dazed.

 “I, uh, Roger. How lovely to see you.” Mama says tensely. Probably because she’s embarrassed about her argument with Ellen being overheard. 

Mama’s voice snaps Ellen out of her shock. She flashes an angry look over her shoulder at her then turns to Roger. “I have to go. I'm sorry, Roger. It's good to see you. Let's hang out tomorrow, okay? Bye Brian.” She strides off leaving Brian, Mama and Roger awkwardly standing by the door.

“Uh, why don’t you come in?” Brian says hurriedly, widening the door to let his friend in. Roger nods his thanks and steps inside.

Mama snaps back into action. “I'm so sorry, Roger. Let me take your coat.” She starts assisting him out of it, hanging it up.

“Thank ye, but perhaps ‘tis best I check inte my hotel. I-I dinna want t’...”

“Nonsense. No, you'll... you'll stay here.”

Brian grins at Roger, thankful for his arrival if only for it to hopefully put Ellen and Mama on their best behaviour. “Mama’s orders. I’ll have to leave the two of you to it, I’ve got to get to work.” He’d been leaving for work when he opened the door and had found Roger standing there.

“Bye darling.” Mama says, kissing on the cheek. Brian gives Roger a nod and he’s out the door.

——

“And how is Brian copin’?” Roger asks once they are alone.

Claire sighs as she looks over at him. “I believe he’s doing fine but that’s the problem with Brian. He always wants to make me and Ellen feel better, look after us so much that he seems to struggle to show us when he’s upset.”

“Ye worry fer ‘im.” Roger realises.

“I just wish he’d talk to me and not bottle it up.”

Chapter Text

Autumn 1968

Brian stares at the news article his mother had handed over to him and Ellen as they stand under an arch at Harvard. Proof of where their birth father is.

“Roger found this…” Ellen murmurs in shock.

Mama eagerly nods. “Yes, it was published in 1765. That’s only a year ago according to the timeline.”

“But how do you know it’s him?” Brian questions. He’s already seen their mother’s hopes dashed and would hate to see it again.

“Well, the article quotes from a Robert Burns poem that’s not written for another twenty years and the publisher – Alexander Malcolm – those were Jamie’s middle names.” Mama points out. “It has to be him.”

Brian thumbs over the name Alexander Malcolm in a daze. It’s him. It’s really him. His father.

“He’s alive…” Ellen’s comment brings Brian out of his daze.

Brian’s head snaps up to look at his mother. “Mama, this is amazing! You can finally be with him again!”

“That's not why I'm telling you this. My life is here, with you. My two children.” Mama insists.

Brian shakes his head, tearful. “We’re all grown up, Mama. We can live on our own. We have each other.”

“He’s right, Mama.” Ellen agrees. “We love you, but we don't need you... not the way we did when we were little.”

Mama nods, accepting this reluctantly. Brian feels the same, but they’ve had her all these years, now it’s time for Jamie to have a turn.

——

Mama is still unconvinced about returning to Jamie. She expresses those concerns as the three of them eat together a couple of evenings later. Roger had left them alone; having gone to visit a history professor he had met while they’d all been at Harvard. Brian is thankful for his friend.

“But I can’t just leave. I can’t help but think of all those moments I will miss. Marriage, children. I can’t just pop back to see you.” Mama insists.

Brian swallows thickly, thinking of never seeing his mother again. “Mama, you’ve instilled enough in us that if we turn out to be half the person you are, then we’ll be fine.”

“What’s important is that is that there’s someone who doesn’t know us that you should tell. Jamie.” Ellen tells her. Brian can tell that despite her carefree and encouraging attitude, his sister is not finding this any easier than he is.

Brian nods in agreement with his sister’s words. “He’s probably spent all these years wondering about us, how we turned out. And you can tell him.”

“You owe it to him to go back, and we want you to go. And tell him everything.”

“Yes, you’re right…” Mama murmurs.

Something in the look on his mother’s face tells Brian that leaving the two of them is not her only worry. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” He questions knowingly.

“What if he's forgotten me?” Mama sighs. “Or what if he doesn't love me anymore?”

“But Mama, the way you’ve spoken about him, the way you felt, that can’t just disappear. Has it, for you?” Brian questions.

“No.”

“Then you have to trust it's the same for him.” Ellen argues. “You gave Jamie up for us. Now we have to give him back to you.”

Mama smiles at her two children tearfully, stroking their cheeks softly. Brian savours the moment as much as he can.

Chapter Text

Brian grips Mama’s resignation for the hospital as well as the deed to their home in his hands as he tries not to cry as his mother’s taxi pulls away. Ellen stands next to him on the doorstep, holding the Scottish pearl necklace that belonged to their paternal grandmother.

Tears wet his cheeks as the taxi turns at the end of the street and disappears from their view. Brian lets out a shaky breath as he processes that he may never see his mother again. Her warmth and her kindness.

Brian is snapped out of his thoughts by Ellen touching his shoulder, giving him a small smile. She doesn't ask him if he's alright, which he's thankful for. It would be silly. After all, she already knows how he feels because she's going through the same thing.

“Let’s go inside.” Roger says softly from just behind them.

Ellen and Roger step inside the house and Brian eventually follows. He walks inside and sees Roger and Ellen sitting together by the fire and sharing a kiss. He smiles softly at the sight before leaving them be.

——

Autumn 1766

Jamie leads Claire to the back of the shop so that he can get redressed. They soon move to the small alcove of a cot and mantel. Sitting together, Claire then unwraps the small bundle, where a series of photographs are collected together. The first is of Brian seated with a small swaddle in his arms and Claire hovering nearby to ensure he doesn’t drop the baby. Jamie’s breath catches in his throat as he looks at the face of his son whom he hasn’t seen in over twenty years and the face of his other child whom he’s never met.

He is overcome and has to take a breath, taking off his glasses. “Her name. What did ye name her?”

“Ellen.” Claire replies softly.

Jamie glances at his wife. “Ellen?”

“Yes, I named her after your mother, her grandmother.”

Jamie gazes at Claire and, not for the first time, he’s amazed to be lucky enough to have her. “Brian and Ellen.” He smiles softly at that, putting back on his glasses. “Tell me about ‘em. Wha’ were they like as a wee lad and lass? Wha’ did Ellen first say when she learned to speak?” He asks, eager to hear all he can about his children.

“‘Dog’. That was her first word. And ‘no’ was her second one.” Claire says, amused.

Jamie chuckles. “Aye. They learn tha' one fast.”

“Brian taught her that one. She’d often copy what he did. Ellen was such a tiny thing. Brian was so good to her. He’d be upset with me if I ever disturbed her when she slept.” Claire says with a small smile that’s happy but also sad.

“He’s good brother.” Jamie murmurs.

“He is.” Claire reaches forward, bringing out another of these photographs. “This photograph shows him teaching her how to chop wood.”

Jamie smiles, pleased. “Splits wood, do they?” He gazes at the image in front of him tearfully, amazed at how much his children have grown from the previous photograph.

“Well, winters in Boston can be as cold as Scotland.” Claire chuckles.

Jamie finds another photograph. Brian and Ellen seem a few years younger than the previous one this time. They beam with pride as they stand on either side of Claire.

“They are ten and twelve there.” Claire explains. “It was at the graduation... my graduation from medical school.”

“Oh, yer a doctor now?”

“Surgeon.”

“Oh, yer always were one. Now ye ha’ the title to go wi' it.” Jamie remarks with a grin. Claire smiles back. “Does he work, Brian? What work does he do?”

“He’s a journalist. Writes in a successful newspaper.” Claire says with beaming pride. She points at the last photograph. “This is him on his first day.”

Jamie stares down at the beaming smile of his son, stroking his face in the photograph. He smiles, studying the photograph as if he is committing it to memory.

Jamie remembers how he used to watch his son when he was small, marvelling at the fact that he was his child. He would try to memorise his features, trying to distinguish which were his and which were Claire's. He'd always wondered how Brian's features would've changed as he grew up. He'd thought he'd never know.

Chapter Text

Brian and Ellen both have to deal with the loss of their mother. Get used to the fact that she’s not nearby anymore but centuries in the past.

Brian throws himself headfirst into his work. He works longer hours to keep his mind off things. He doesn’t want to be in the house on his own, thinking about Mama, about the real truth of his past.

He’s even tried going on dates with some of the girls from work, but it doesn’t work, doesn’t feel right.

Ellen returns to university but this time she changes her major to mechanical engineering. She completes her degree at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the spring of 1971. Brian is there in the audience, clapping away and trying to be enough for Ellen as he notices that little dip in her smile as she walks onto the stage, accepts her diploma and looks out to the audience. Brian knows she wishes Mama and Dad were here, but they catch eyes, and her smile widens. They’re going to be alright.

——

July 1969

Brian watches with a smile as Ellen gets spun around by Roger, who’s in his Highland dress, to the beat of Celtic music. Roger had returned to the States again to visit Brian and Ellen and had taken them to a Celtic festival. Roger had shown off his singing skills on stage by singing a song about the Battle of Prestonpans. Brian had felt a shiver up his spine as he listened. It was a battle that his parents were both at, Jamie leading the charge. What had been going through their heads?

Brian has been enjoying the Scottish pride he’s surrounded by. The music filling him with familial ease. 

Ellen and Roger’s relationship has been interesting. Brian knows Ellen had kept her distance as she and Brian try to rebuild their lives after losing Mama as well as Ellen trying to complete school. Brian had encouraged her as while he likes Roger, he knows that Ellen can’t just throw herself into a relationship just because he happens to know the truth. Brian just wants his sister to work out if this is what she really wants.

As he watches the two, Brian wonders if she has made that decision. He thumbs the envelope in his pocket. Roger had found photographs of Dad and Mama when they were young and happy, including photos of their wedding. It’s strange to look at those photographs, thinking of the journey this couple will embark on, and how they end up.

“Brian!” Brian startled out of his thoughts to see Ellen beckoning him over with her hand and Roger smiling encouragingly.

“Oh, no I—” Brian tries to dissuade.

“Oh, come on!” And with that, Brian gets pulled onto the dance floor by his sister.

Roger grins at him. Brian beams back and lets himself get pulled into the music.

——

“Houston, Tranquility base here. The Eagle has landed.”

They erupt into cheers. Among the cheers, Ellen turns and kisses Roger. It’s the next day after the festival and Brian, Roger and Ellen have gathered at Joe’s to watch the moon landing. 

Joe’s kids, Lenny and Ellena, pull Brian into their group hug while Gail grins and pulls Joe into a kiss.

“That's one small step for man. One giant leap for mankind.” Comes Neil Armstrong’s voice through the speaker as the grainy images of him and Buzz Aldridge stepping out onto the moon’s surface are displayed on the screen.

Brian looks out of the window, up into the sky. Yes, they’d made it to the moon, but he’s travelled further than that. 

Brian feels this pull inside him, a desire to discover and explore, to travel.

“Neil, this is Houston. We're copying.”

——

December 1969

They spend the Christmas holidays in Scotland with Roger and Fiona and her fiancé Ernie Buchan. Their home in Boston feels too small with just the two of them and it doesn’t feel right to do all their old Christmas traditions without Mama. 

Being in a different place for their first Christmas without her makes things easier but it doesn’t hurt any less.

Brian and Ellen have already put up the house for sale. If either can move on, if it’s possible, then they need to be somewhere else. Somewhere where they’re not surrounded by old memories.

——

April 1971 

Brian stares at the words in front of him in bold, faded ink.

“It is with grief that the news is received of the deaths by fire of James MacKenzie Fraser and his wife, Claire Fraser, in a conflagration that destroyed their house in the settlement of Fraser’s Ridge, on the night of January 21 last.”

He and Ellen look up and share a look. 

They’d gotten around to clearing out Dad’s office, all the documents in there. It’s been closed off since the initial sort through after his death. The house has been sold and they need to clear out.

Brian looks back at the date. January 21st, 1776. He doesn’t know why it shocks him. His mother is in the past – two hundred years in the past – of course, she’s dead by now but to see it confirmed hurts, especially as it’s only ten years after the year at which she would’ve arrived in.

“I…” Ellen’s voice trails off as she tries to find the right words. “I- I’ve seen this before.”

Brian looks at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

A tear falls down Ellen’s cheek. Brian reaches over to grip her hand; she smiles softly at him.

“It was years ago. I’d forgotten till now.” Ellen explains. “I’d sneaked into Daddy’s office when he was out and had found it on his desk, I just thought it was part of one of his research projects.”

Brian sighs, squeezing her hand. “He knew. Dad knew that Mama would go back to Jamie.” There’s a brief silence as they stare at the document in front of them, both lost in their own heads. “What do we do?”

“We need to warn them.” Ellen says resolutely.

Brian looks at her shocked. “Ellen… they’re both two hundred years in the past, how can we?”

“We travel back too, obviously.”

“Ellen, I, we can’t just pop to the past and pop back again.” Brian argues. He knows his sister wants to protect their mother and her husband, their father, Brian understands that, but it’s too big of a risk.

“You don’t have to. I’ll go, warn them and then come back.” Ellen declares, not listening.

Brian grips her shoulders. “I can’t let you do this on your own. I won’t.”

“You either come with me or I’m going on my own.” Ellen retorts. “I have to go Brian, I have to.”

“I know, I know.” Brian sighs, he can’t believe he’s doing this. “So, what do we need?”

The beaming smile he receives makes him feel that this’ll all be worth it.

Chapter Text

June 1769

Claire and Frank had both been only children, as far as Brian knew. Frank Randall had had distant relatives, but Brian and Ellen had never met any of them and only rarely had they received cards at Christmas, the stained and faded postmarks telling of distant lives in remote countries, half a world away. 

Brian and Ellen had set out to find their mother and father, find them and warn them. Brian had not expected and had not been prepared to find a whole new family in the process.

——

Jenny looks up at him with a beaming smile. Jenny Murray is barely five feet tall and as lightly built as a sparrow. Her ebony black hair streaked liberally with grey is pulled back into a bun and the lines that run from nose to mouth are stretched out in a familiar shaped smile. Her slanted cat-eyes, one’s Mama had described Jamie as having, one’s Brian has seen reflect back at him when he looks into a mirror. However, Jenny’s eyes are somewhat softer, greyer than the sharp blades of blue that Brian and Ellen have inherited from their father. 

One hand reaches up to trace his cheek, feeling the high Mackenzie cheekbones while the other does the same to Ellen before falling to seize her own. “Yer truly his, there’s no denyin’ it.”

“Told yer Ma.” Says Young Jamie. He stands tall and broad-shouldered as he stands next to Brian and Ellen, meeting in height with the former and towering over the latter. Everything about him describes the man of the house. Brian recalls the document Mama had shown them from the rising that said Lallybroch would be passed to Jenny and Ian’s son. It’s odd to think that before Brian and his mother travelled to the future, Brian and Young Jamie had known one another.

Jenny then takes notice of the ring which sat upon his hand, taking it between hers to examine in the light for a moment, before replacing it at his side. 

“But it had been his as Laird before then, an’ our father Brian’s first, yer grandsire. Traditionally, given t’ the eldest son. But wha’ happened te it?” Her thumb strokes the scorched metal of the ring.

Brian swallows uncomfortably, sharing a look with Ellen. “Mama said it got damaged.” It doesn’t seem their aunt knows about the time travel so he’s not going to explain that the gem inside it got lost when his mother travelled through time.

Any further conversation however is stilled with a door further down the hallway opening and the sound of wood hitting the boards of the hallway accompanied by the sound of a single foot hitting hard onto the ground. 

“Jen? Jamie? Wha’ going on?” A tall man with a long, work worn face and deep brown eyes comes out of a door. He looks almost exactly like Young Jamie but of a smaller build. His eyes widen in surprise. “Are they?” His voice is soft.

“Aye. They’re Jamie’s bairns.” Jenny answers.

 “I’m yer Uncle Ian, lad, lass. Welcome te ye.” Uncle. Aunt. Cousin. A new-found family that Brian had never known he had. He isn’t complaining.

——

Brian watches as Laoghaire is ushered out of the Murray household. His sister clings to their mother’s, grandmother’s, pearls. Brian can see she’s shaken by Laoghaire’s words.

He sees the young girl who followed her in still standing awkwardly on her own. He flashes a smile at her, hoping to make her feel better and she blushes before scuttling off after Laoghaire. Brian frowns as he watches.

“Puir lass.” Jenny remarks. “Te ha’ a mother like tha’.”

——

Brian and Ellen learn that Mama and Jamie are already in the States. Jenny eagerly shows them letters sent by her brother. Brian gazes with amazement at his- Jamie’s words, the man feeling more real than ever.

Jenny and the family welcome Brian and Ellen enthusiastically and encourage them to stay with them for a few days while their travel arrangements are being made. 

Their guides down the hall when a painting catches his eye causing Ellen to let out a startled noise as she bumps into him, but he doesn’t take any notice as he gazes upon the portrait. Brian has seen this portrait on a school trip. Two hundred years from now, he will stand in the National Gallery of London and look at the same portrait.

“Tha’s yer grandmother, Ellen.” Jenny speaks. His grandmother’s portrait still hanging in a museum two hundred years from now. Knowing that she will endure like that is fitting.

“Amazing talent.” Ellen remarks.

“Aye. She painted it herself.” Jenny tells them.

Brian grins at his sister. “That’s where you got your talent for art.”

Jenny looks at her eagerly. “Yer paint?”

Ellen blushes. “Draw mostly.”

Jenny grabs Ellen’s arm and pulls her along as she talks all about her mother’s talent. Ellen glances over her shoulder at Brian who just gives her a grin.

——

Brian learns that Young Jamie, who’s married with a few children, isn’t his only cousin. There’s also Maggie whom Brian re-meets in the days they stay at Lallybroch as well as Kitty, both married with children. There’s Michael, who’s in France working for a family-run wine business and married, and there’s Janet as well. Sadly, one of his cousins, Caitlin, died soon after her birth. His aunt sombrely shows him her birth and death recorded in the family bible. Young Ian, the youngest, isn’t here as he is actually in the colonies with Brian and Ellen’s parents.

Their Uncle Ian eagerly shows them around Lallybroch. The sheep and potatoes. He tells them it was Mama's idea to plant them, and it kept them from starving more than once. He says it was also her urging to eat leafy green vegetables that he still has most of his teeth. Brian feels proud of his mother.

Ian even suggests that Lallybroch might rightfully be Brian’s. Ellen immediately dismisses the notion, insisting that it belongs to the Murrays and that they only came to find their parents.

Brian nods along. He knows Ellen isn’t eager to stay in this world, she just wants to warn their parents and go. Brian on the other hand is feeling more comfortable in this world than he has ever felt in the 20^th.

——

The day before they leave, Jenny gets pulled away for a birth but is able to return to see them off.

Jenny smiles, briefly turning to her nephew and niece as she embraces both of them in turn tightly.

“Tell Young Ian te write a letter everra once in a while, if ye dinnae mind.” She asks, holding their elbows, with great care. 

Brian grins. “Of course.”

He’s genuinely sorry that they’re not staying, he wishes he could stay longer and get to know his lost family, but they need to get on. They need to find Mama and Jamie.

Chapter Text

July 1769

Brian glances down at the money in his hands in alarm as the trio stands at the port in Inverness. “We can't take your money.”

His Uncle Ian simply grins at him. “Aye, ye can. Yer family.” 

Brian almost feels a blush on his cheeks at that. Yeah, family.

“Now, are ye sure I cannae accompany yer inside t’ help ye buy yer passage?” Ian then questions.

“You and Aunt Jenny have done enough already but thank you.” Ellen answers him.

Ian nods, hugging his niece before she leaves them be and steps inside the alehouse, temporarily being used for the passage organisation for various frigates and trading vessels. 

Ian then turns to Brian, clasping him on the shoulder with one hand. “Take care o’ yer sister? I ken by now tha’ Ellen has a way o’ findin’ trouble.”

“I will.” Brian nods.

Ian leaves then and Brian moves through droves of townsfolk to the inside of the ale house. 

Inside, Brian spots a table in the corner where people are buying passage and glances around the room in search of Ellen before a hand touching his arm catches his attention. He turns to see it’s Ellen standing beside him with a young girl lingering behind her.

She is slightly shorter, with hair covered by a tied bonnet with light grey eyes and an extremely pale complexion. The girl can’t be older than thirteen or fourteen.

“Her father wants us to buy his daughter as an indentured servant. He said she’d be wanted…” Ellen begins to explain, before moving slightly closer to her brother, to be unheard. The girl in question is speaking quietly to a man across the room, who Brian assumes to be her father. “…as a… concubine otherwise.” She continues, visibly cringing in disgust at the particular word. 

Brian doesn’t blame her. He meets her gaze in an unspoken question, before nodding. “I’ll sort it, can you speak with him?”

Ellen nods, briefly excusing herself as Brian stands at the table, placing some coins upon it. He is soon joined once again by his sister and their charge, looking between the two. 

“Brian and Ellen Fraser, and…” He begins, glancing at their new acquaintance. 

She blushes slightly, bowing her head. “Elizabeth Weymss, sir.” 

“And Elizabeth Weymss for passage aboard the Phillip Alonzo, please.”

——

September 1769

He knew. Roger knew. That’s all Ellen said when she returned. Roger had known about their parents' deaths and had kept it from them. She admits they had hand-fast but had left him after finding out he knew.

Ellen says he’s gone and that it’s for the best, but Brian can see from her face that she doesn’t believe that is the case.

——

Ellen says she wants to be left alone. Brian accepts her wishes but regrets them when he finds her beaten and sobbing a day later.

——

Brian continues trying to make plans, to get them to Cross Creek, to their Aunt Jocasta, when Lizzie comes running up to him, face flushed, to tell him what she’s found. She heard a story about the wife of a Scot who performed surgery at the theatre only the night before. The woman’s husband, one Mr Fraser, has just been seen nearby.

Brian’s heart stops. Jamie.

Chapter Text

Brian knows him as soon as he sees him, and his feet cease to move.

Jamie Fraser.

Brian isn’t prepared to approach him here… but it looks like he has little choice. He wonders whether he should’ve waited for Ellen.

He takes a few steps closer to the end of the alleyway, unable to take his eyes off him. Jamie is bigger than he’d imagined, his shoulders broader, his hair longer.

It is his chance, but he can’t make his feet move. Why couldn’t Mama be here? It would be so much easier if he could see her first. It would keep Brian’s nerves from getting the better of him.

Brian’s breath catches when Jamie glances over his shoulder to him.”What d'ye want here, laddie?”

Brian is lost for words as he hears him speak. Technically not the first time as he had been in Brian’s life for the first two years, but, for Brian, it’s the first time from memory. 

He manages to say, “You.” Then internally cringes at how that sounds as well as the fact he’s talking to someone from the 18^th century, he’s in the 18^th century. “I-I didn’t mean—” 

Jamie lets out a chuckle as he turns to him and this is Brian’s first chance to properly get a look at him. He realises why Mama said he and Ellen look so much like their father. He wonders how painful that must’ve been for her.

“‘Tis alright, lad.” Jamie reassures him as he walks over. 

“Are you... You're Jamie Fraser. Aren't you?” Brian manages to say.

Jamie frowns and gives a slight, hesitant nod as he looks at Brian properly for the first time. Brian swallows thickly as he finds himself under the gaze of his birth father.

Brian watches as Jamie’s eyes widen and he takes a shuddering breath, seeming to stagger, catching himself against the building to his right. Brian rushes forward to be sure he is alright, hesitating at the last when he finds him looking into his face. There is recognition there that Brian hadn’t expected. He stares at him, taking in his colouring, the slant and hue of his eyes that share a bond of kinship that Brian had longed for in his own time and yet only ever found in his sister.

“Brian? Is it true? ‘Tis ye.” Jamie murmurs in almost a whisper.

Brian gives him a shaky smile. “It's me. Can't you tell?”

“Aye. Aye, I can.” He chuckles wetly. “Ye look like yer photos and there’s some o’ ye from ye was young.” He tells him, his voice breaking. “I kent ye’d be grown cause I’ve seen ye so in ‘em… but I hadna realised ye’d be so grown.”

Brian chuckles with relief. “You’re bigger than I thought you’d be too.” He confesses. “Mama said you were tall and… but I couldn’t quite picture you.”

Suddenly, a voice enters the alleyway, breaking the moment. “Brian, where did you go off to? Lizzie was saying that—” Brian turns to see it’s Ellen looking frantic. He internally feels all the guilt bubble to the surface again. They’ve hardly left each other’s side since the attack, and he’s wandered off without her knowing where.  

Brian steps forward to go to her but he sees that she is frozen, staring over Brian’s shoulder at Jamie. “Oh…”

“Ellen?” Jamie asks hesitantly, a smile trying to creep onto his face as he gazes upon the child he has never met before.

“Yes…” Ellen whispers as she walks over.

“Y-ye both look just like yer mother.” Jamie says, awe heavy in his voice. He reaches up with both hands and lightly ran his fingers over their cheeks. “Yer mam will be beside herself when she sees ye.”

“Mama? She told us we look like you… and I have to say,” Ellen tucks some hair that had come loose from her bun behind her ear, “I think she was right.”

“‘Tis no yer colourin’ or yer features,” Jamie explains, his focus on them so intent Brian can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “‘Tis how ye carry yerselves. Ye dinna cower or shrink from the world. Ye hold yer heads high and face it.”

There’s a pause as they all hesitate.

“Can I…” Brian begins but then throws his arms around him before he loses the nerve. He smiles into his shoulder as Jamie’s arms wrap around his back and there’s a smaller pair of arms joining in on the hug.

Brian hears and feels Ellen begin to sob and Brian himself knows his cheeks are damp.

“Oh, dinna weep.” Jamie laughs wetly in delight. “Dinna weep, mo chlann. Dinna be troubled. ‘Tis all right. Mo chreach. ‘Tis all right.”

They pull away and Brian cringes at the wet spot on Jamie’s shoulder. 

"Ye'll have no' seen yer mother, then?" Jamie asks.

“No.” Ellen replies.

“Christ. She'll be mad wi' joy.”

——

Mama is exactly like that when they find her. Clinging to her children at the same time than in turn. Brian has missed his mother so much in the three years apart, but he is already seeing it’s the right choice as he watches his parents together as they sit together as Ellen brings out the obituary. Brian’s stomach drops at the reminder of why they’re here.

As Brian and Ellen warn their parents of the death and the possible deaths, a young lad with red hair comes over to them, greeting Jamie as uncle, telling him the ship is ready before seeing Brian and Ellen next to them which causes him to pause.

Jamie tells him that they are his cousins, and Brian can see how surprised he is, probably didn’t know they existed. This must be the missing cousin.

As Brian looks closer, he can see familiar features that he had seen in his aunt, uncle and cousins in Lallybroch.

“I know it’s a surprise. But we’ll explain it all later.” Mama speaks. Her smile goes from ear to ear, and she doesn’t take her eyes off her two children.

“When it comes te ye, Auntie Claire, I’ve learned it’s better no’ te ask too many questions,” Ian replies. Well, that answers the question of how the hell were they going to explain this. “Weel then—” Ian holding out a hand in friendly introduction toward Brian and Ellen, a bright smile across his features. “Welcome cousins.” 

Brian sighs with relief. “Thank you… Ian?”

“Ian. Ian Murray.” His cousin grins as they shake hands.

Ellen nods. “Yes, thank you. It’s very nice to meet you, Ian.” She takes his hand in hers, giving a kind shake. 

Brian tries to push the news of the obituary to the rear of his mind as it is unimportant at this moment. Brian has been successful in what he and his sister had initially travelled to accomplish but now seems to have found something that is possibly worth staying for.

A new and comforting sense of family, warmth, love, and at last — home.

Chapter Text

Brian and Ellen return to the inn and Lizzie so that they can gather their belongings and join their parents on the journey to Fraser’s Ridge. Young Ian is already outside, loading the wagon and Jamie soon joins him. It is then that Brian hears loud and happy chatter. He and Ellen share a confused look while Mama simply grins and strides outside, urging Brian, Ellen and Lizzie to follow with the last of their things.

They emerge from the inn to find a man and woman standing in front of Jamie and Ian. The man is tall with brown hair and blue eyes with a wooden left hand. Brian frowns as he wonders why this man is familiar. The woman next to him is shorter and has blonde hair poking out of her cap and blue eyes and is carrying a baby in a sling, Brian would estimate the child to be over a year and a half old. 

The man’s face goes politely blank in incomprehension as he stares at them.

“Ah, there’s two people I want yer to meet, Fergus.” Jamie beams, clasping Brian on the shoulder as he comes to stand next to him with Ellen following. 

Fergus? The Fergus that Mama and Jamie found in France and basically adopted? Mama then Aunt Jenny and Uncle Ian had told him stories about Fergus, the man that is essentially his elder brother.

“Fergus?” Ellen speaks, and she glances at Mama questioningly. “As in the French kid Fergus?”

Mama grins. “Yes.” 

“I—” Brian begins to speak as the silence drags on as Fergus simply stares at them and the woman, who Brian can only assume is Fergus’ wife, frowns as she gazes upon them.

“You’re Brian.” Fergus interrupts, letting out a disbelieving laugh.

“I am.”

Fergus suddenly hugs him, and Brian lets out a surprised laugh. Brian glances at Fergus’ wife and is glad to see that she is no longer frowning and is looking more friendly.

Fergus pulls back with a smile. “I don’t believe it! I know milady said you were well but…” his eyes land on Ellen who smiles awkwardly, “and you?”

“Ellen. His sister.” She’s a little hesitant and reserved. Brian doesn’t blame her for being uncertain around strangers, but is Fergus really a stranger? Brian can’t remember but he and Fergus had known each other for nearly two years before Brian travelled through the stones. 

“Weel, they certainly favour ye.” Fergus’ wife remarks and Fergus prods her in the back of the ribs, muttering “Marsali” reproachfully, but Jamie looks delighted.

Brian feels overwhelmed with having met his birth father, but he can only imagine what Jamie is going through. Thinking he’d never meet his children and then they appear fully grown and warning him of his death.

Ellen smiles, looking slightly more relaxed. “So, we’ve been told.” 

The party travelling to the Ridge must leave before noon to reach it in daylight, so the meeting is all bundled up with leave-taking and promises that they’ll speak more when they meet next. Eventually, everything is packed and ready, and Jamie has put his hands on Fergus’s shoulders to bid him farewell and Mama has hugged Marsali and Germain, whose name Brian had learnt. Ellen and Brian share awkward but hopeful goodbyes with the couple and Brian watches as the three stand together in the street to wave as the wagon trundles off.

——

December 1744

♪ Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? ♪

♪ Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines! ♪

♪ Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong. ♪

Brian is being bounced on Fergus’ knee, facing him, as he sings a familiar melody but with French words put to it. Brian smiles and laughs as he listens, his pudgy hands clapping together.

“Fergus, where did you learn that?” 

Brian turns his head to the familiar voice and sees his mother watching them with a smile.

Fergus’ head snaps up, looking a bit self-conscious at being caught singing and he shrugs one shoulder as he answers, “The ladies at Maison Elise taught it to me.” 

“It’s lovely. And Brian seems to like it, too.” Mama smiles at him encouragingly. 

Fergus grins. “I will have him speaking en français in no time, milady!”

Brian decides they haven’t paid enough attention to him, so he yanks on Fergus’ hair to gain his attention causing the other two in the room to laugh but Brian doesn’t care as Fergus relinquishes to his demands.

Chapter Text

On the way to the Ridge, Brian and Ellen get a rundown of how it’s been progressing. Jamie has built a small cabin for him, Mama and Young Ian.

Some settlers have moved onto the land. This includes the Lindsay brothers, their wives and children as well as a Ronnie Sinclair. All the men were in Ardsmuir along with Jamie.

Jamie and Mama explain why they were in Wilmington. It started a week before when Jamie received a letter from Governor Tryon inviting him and Mama to attend a play with him. Turns out the Governor was attempting a trap for the regulators, including Murtagh, Jamie’s godfather. Thankfully Murtagh had been warned and suspicion had fallen upon Colonel Washington(!) instead. Jamie had explained it in such a blasé tone while Mama had simply smirked in amusement as Brian and Ellen’s eyes bug out of their skulls at the mention of the man. It’s times like this that Brian is truly reminded he is in the past.

Jamie and Young Ian have also set up a whisky business. They have a malting floor about a couple of miles from the cabin in a small clearing. Jamie tells them how he had distilled the Ridge’s first batch of whisky last autumn. They invite Brian and Ellen to have a look soon.

——

“Brian!” 

Brian looks up from where he’d been cutting up wood to see Jamie standing there with another man next to him. The man is lean but muscular. His arms are long, and his skin is spotted by smallpox. His eyes are black, his forehead narrow and his jaw narrow with a grey bushy beard and dense and expressive eyebrows.

The two men walk over to Brian. Jamie is smiling happily while the man has an inquisitive look on his face.

“Murtagh, this is my son Brian, Brian this is Murtagh, my godfather.” Jamie introduces.

Murtagh stares at the young man in front of him before glancing at his godson. He looks shocked and overwhelmed.

“Hi.” Brian greets awkwardly. 

This breaks Murtagh out of his shock. “What took ye so long, diabhal beag?” He chuckles, pulling Brian into a tight hug which Brian reciprocates.

Brian looks over Murtagh’s shoulder to see Jamie grin and he grins back. Brian doesn’t understand what Murtagh called him but the words fill him with warmth.

Murtagh pulls back, holding Brian at arm's length by his shoulders. “Christ, Jamie, ye dinna tell me he’s yer splittin’ image.”

Jamie chuckles with pride while Brian just blushes awkwardly. All of this, having his biological father around, is taking some getting used to.

——

“Your mother would like you to write more often.” Brian remarks to his cousin as they all sit down to eat. “Don’t know what made you think once a month was good enough.”

Young Ian rolls his eyes, annoyed and slightly embarrassed.

Jamie finds it amusing. “Aw, yer ma chidin’ ye from across the seas.”

“Aye, and if ye have any sense ye’ll pay heed, or no doubt she’ll cross the sea herself,” Murtagh continues to tease. “Been tha’ way since she was a lass.”

Ellen gets a mischievous look on her face before her gaze settles between their father and Murtagh. “What was Jamie like as a boy?”

“Och Christ–” Jamie rolls his eyes as his godfather is all too cheery to tell the tale. 

Things soon turn to laughing about stories of Jamie’s first kiss. A tale of milk pails, Leoch, and an unfortunate method of conversation stirred, as the cabin once again erupts with laughter, recalling memories, and joy.

——

Jamie, Murtagh and Mama are on hand to help Brian and Ellen settle into life in the 18^th century, adapting to more laborious jobs. Brian hadn’t realised how much harder daily tasks would be now that early his 20^th century necessities have been taken away. 

Extending the cabin is also a strenuous job. With all the extra people, they need more space to fit them all. It was decided that Ellen and Lizzie would stay in the shelter and Brian and Ian will sleep outside until a second one is built. Murtagh is with them until a shelter on his own land is put together for him.

Everything is going great except one thing. It seems Brian has a follower.

It’s Lizzie. It seems she has a crush on him. She is able to find any excuse she can to be around him, even if it is to just be working outside at the same time as him where she can see him or playing dumb to get him to help her with the simplest tasks. She compliments him constantly and always is the first one to jump up if he needs assistance. Brian is too polite and worried about hurting her feelings to deny her. She’s just a kid.

Everyone seems to find it hilarious, particularly Jamie and Murtagh who are no help. Mama thinks it’s sweet.

Brian wonders if it had always been there and he just hadn’t noticed. Granted his mind had been on other things, getting them to the States, Lizzie being ill, Ellen’s attack then finding their parents. Settling on the Ridge had been the first time in a while that Brian has been able to breathe.

He’s not sure what to do.

Chapter Text

October 1769

“I should warn you, I was never good at this.”

Jamie glances over his shoulder at his son. It still amazes him, even if it’s been weeks since they’d reunited, to see how much he’s grown since he last saw him. Jamie might’ve seen it in the photographs Claire had shown him but to see Brian as a grown man in the flesh is different.

Jamie gives his son a shrug. “Dinna take te it like yer sister did?”

Brian shakes his head. “No, Ellen took to it better when dad, uh, Frank, taught us.”

Jamie gives him a soft smile. “Dinna fash yerself. Ye can call him dad if yer want to. He was yer father fer twenty years.”

“But you’re my dad too.” Brian argues. “I don’t want to disregard either of you because both of you have been a father to me.”

Jamie’s eyes water at that statement, he swallows thickly and replies, “Ye can call me Da. Tha’ good?”

Brian nods. “Yeah… Da.”

Jamie lets out a watery chuckle and grips his son’s shoulder. “Come, we hav’ hunting te do.”

——

January 1966

A 19-year-old Brian picks up the ringing phone. It's Joe. His voice is serious as he asks if he can speak with Brian's mom. Brian sighs, still shaky from the yelling he'd heard coming from the room that contained his parents and then the slamming of the door as his Dad leaves. He didn’t hear much but accidentally heard accusations of infidelity when he wandered too close to the room. Brian has known for a while that his parents aren’t happy but to hear those words had been a punch in the gut.

Brian says he will and goes to that room where his mother hasn't emerged since Dad walked out. Brian is glad Ellen isn't at home but at school, finishing high school soon. She doesn't have to hear the abuse their parents threw at each other nor does she have to see Mama's absolutely unrecognisable face with mascara-stained tears staining her cheeks.

Brian tells her Joe is on the phone and she sprints past him like a bat out of hell, reaching the phone in record time.

Brian lingers behind her. Waiting, listening, to hear what Joe has to say. Something in Brian's gut is telling him something is wrong.

——

Dad's dead.

That's what Mama said. A car crash killed him. It wasn't unfeeling the way she said it, far from it. But it wasn't sorrow either. Brian can see that his mother looks almost liberated.

Brian had the same feeling too. He'd loved his Dad as any child would love a parent but had always known it was never as much as his sister loved him. There had always been this weird chasm between the two. Brian would watch other sons with their fathers and wonder why he and Dad weren’t as close.

Brian was never able to please him. The two of them were so different.

The day he'd come home from school after learning about these other countries in Geography, Brian had been particularly excited about Scotland, wanting to go there and was eager to tell his parents. He didn't know why he was so drawn to Scotland but it felt right. It felt right up until when he told his parents.

Dad had stared at him, his face a mixture of absolute fury and complete shock. Mama had stood frozen to the spot, not daring to move. Dad had stood abruptly, shoving past him, nearly running out of the house and slamming the front door hard enough to knock a painting off the wall.

Brian had looked at his mother with wide tearful eyes. She'd hurried over to him, wrapped him in a hug and promised that everything would be alright. She'd promised that they will go to Scotland one day. Brian had taken comfort in that, in his mother's arms.

But now… now things are different.

Brian can see that in his mother's eyes as they comfort Ellen, who's in tears over the news. Things are different.

Chapter Text

August 1744

Blurry figures stand over him, yelling but it all sounds foggy. It takes him a while but he realises they are asking if he's okay, yelling for the ambulance. An ambulance? But wasn't that– wasn't that before?

There's this strange beeping noise, flashing lights and loud piercing noises. All sounds that sound familiar but he can't remember where he'd heard them before.  

Pain. He’s in pain. Why’s he in so much pain?

Suddenly a figure is next to him, holding his hand. He realises they're talking too.  

“–Jeremy! Jeremy, don't leave me please!”

He doesn't reply. He panics. What's he doing here? Why's he here? Who's Jeremy? No– Jeremy was– Oh God. How could he have forgotten?

He startles awake amidst his panic. He can't remember the dream, only that it upsets him. So, he does the only thing he knows to do, he cries.

Brian hates the noise he makes, a high-pitched, intense wail, followed by very loud crying, but he has to get used to it, he’s here now. He’s not—

Da is leaning over him and holding him. “Ssh, dinna fash yerself, yer Da’s here.”

Brian whimpers. Da brings him up so he is pillowed on his bare chest. Brian sighs, taking comfort in his hold and his warm skin.

“There, there. I ken, I ken weel, mo leanbh.”

——

February 1949

Brian can’t sleep. He lies on his side, staring at the wall as he listens to the sounds of his baby sister crying. He can’t sleep, his mind filled with bad dreams.

“Brian?” Light from the hallway spills into the room as Mama pushes the door open and slips through quietly.“Are you hungry? Would you like to come down to the kitchen?” 

Brian doesn’t say anything for a moment before shaking his head.

Mama sighs, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Would you like to hear the story again?” She asks.

This gets Brian’s attention. He bolts up and eagerly nods. Mama grins. “Well, the Highlander Laird was…”

Mama begins to tell the tale of the Highlander Laird who sacrificed himself for the ones he loved just as she has done many times.

Brian used to know it was the truth, he remembered his father but over time, memories begin to fade, and he begins to believe that the story his mother tells him is a fairytale. A secret fairytale that is never meant to be mentioned around his Dad.

Claire smiles when she sees that Brian’s eyes have fallen closed. She doesn’t want to return to Frank so instead she settles into the armchair by his bed at an angle that allows her to see from the hallway light alone and begins to read. Finding comfort in Brian’s presence.

——

November 1769

Ellen is being attacked by a shadowy figure.

“No, no! Please!” She sobs. “Brian, help!”

The shadowy figure pins her to the ground and then—

Brian is startled awake. He sees the sun is barely reaching over the horizon and realises it’s still early but he finds himself unable to back to sleep. He gets up and sits on the steps of the cabin to watch the sunrise. He hears a sniffle and Ian’s half-wolf canine companion, Rollo, whines and curls up at his feet. Brian smiles softly scratching the back of the canine’s ears.

He hears the door open behind him and then his Mama’s voice. “You’re awake early.”

Brian glances over his shoulder and tries to give his mother a greeting smile but he knows it doesn’t work, he’s still shaken from his dream and there are probably shadows under his eyes. “I couldn't sleep.”

He looks away and hears Mama walk over to him, she walks down the steps so she’s standing in front of him. “Another bad dream?” Brian looks at her in surprise. “Ian told me. He hears you crying in the night sometimes.Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Honest.”

“Is it about Ellen?” Brian tenses. Mama sighs and sits down next to him. “S-she told me, yesterday, that um... there was... this man at the Willow Tree Tavern. They started talking, and... and...”

Brian presses his eyes together, trying to stop the tears welling up in his eyes. “Yeah. The dreams, they’re– they hadn’t been so bad initially, after I found her but know– I’m sure she’s told you…”

“That she’s pregnant, yes.”

“Does Da know?”

He notices her eyes light up slightly when he calls Jamie Da before it dims to better fit the conversation. “Your Da knows, about the rape, and the pregnancy.”

“Not about Roger?”

Mama looks surprised. “You know about that?”

“It’s not hard to workout.” God, he hopes the child is Roger’s.

Mama nods, turning her attention to the sunrise. “Well, no matter how liberal your Da is, I don’t think he’d be able to swallow the idea of pre-marital sex.” 

Brian lets out a watery chuckle at that. There’s a moment of silence. “I don’t know what to do. How do I help her?” He looks at her desperately.

“You already helping her. Just being here for her is what we can do.” Mama wraps her arm around him, stroking his arm. “You’re a good brother.”

Brian scoffs, shaking his head. “I should’ve been better; I should’ve protected her better.”

“No, no. You didn’t know.”

He knows she means well but he knows, he knows he let his little sister down.

Chapter Text

Brian cautiously approaches where Da is applying the finishing touches on the maternity ward that they have been building together. Brian would’ve joined him sooner, but he had kept his distance as he knew they both needed to cool off. That’s what happens when you have a big argument.

Da looks up. “Brian…”

Brian grimaces. “Hello…”

His eyes flicker to the red mark on Da’s cheek, but he can see a bruise is already forming. He winces, running his fingers over his red knuckles.

“I’m sorry.” Da says quietly.

“This disaster isn’t all your fault.” Brian admits. “I expected more from you than I should have, given the time you were raised in.” 

Da looks affronted by that. “Bein' raised in my time doesn’t mean ye don’t know right from wrong or how to behave.”

Brian sighs, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration. “No, fine, I admit that. But I just want to ask you something.”

“Wha’?”

"Do you know where Lizzie was when Ellen was attacked?" Brian asks.

"She said she saw Mackenzie take her awa'." Da replies. "She said she thought he'd taken her off to ravish her."

Brian scoffs. “Lizzie is a child; I doubt she knows much. You should’ve asked me at least. Bonnet raping her happened days later while I was caring for Lizzie. I found Ellen, I comforted her and picked her up.”

Da’s face contort into one of confusion. “Then why didn’t ye defend her honour? Why didn’t ye go find him and—”

“Because I was respecting her wishes! She was barely holding it together and she was desperately focusing on finding you and Mama. And I– I couldn’t face the fact that I had let her down.” Brian crumbles then, letting out a sob. He feels his Da reaching for him and wrapping an arm around him, keeping him upright.

“You nearly killed him, Da.” Brian whispers. “Roger may be dead now because of you. I’d be lying if I said Ellen could forgive that.”

“I ken tha’ now.” Da admits. “I acted irrationally but I dinna want ye, yer Ma or Ellen to be involved. She’d already told me she wanted ‘im dead, the man who raped her.” Ellen had not shared the sentiment with Brian but that she feels that way does not surprise him. “And I didna want te involve her in murder.”

“Saying you wanted someone to die was a far cry from actually commissioning their death.” Brian shakes his head, wiping his cheeks and stepping away from him. “That isn’t the problem. Not really.”

“What is?”

“You. Right after she told you that she’d asked Roger to her bed that you called her a liar.” He points out to him. “You condemned her the moment you heard that she’d been with a man of her own free will. She wept in your lap like a lost child and still you stopped believing in her once she told you she was no longer a virgin.”

“No, I was confused. Lizzie said it was yon Mackenzie who ravished her and then Ellen said she bedded him by choice.” Da shakes his head. “It was that I thought she had lied to me.” Brian can see he’s genuinely distressed about it.

Brian makes a sound between a scoff, a snort and a chuckle, “Why did you think she lied to you? Why all of us didn’t tell you?” He asks.

“Brian, what she did is nae how a woman behaves—”

“This is exactly why.” Brian cuts him off. “You let your archaic beliefs cloud your judgement. You put them in front of being there for your daughter who’s been through a traumatic experience and is terrified about what’s happening to the man she loves. I doubt you would’ve treated me like this if you found out a slept with a woman without marrying her. No, you would’ve laughed and made a joke about me becoming a man but because Ellen’s the one that’s done it, she’s the whore?”

Da goes quiet, looking down shamefully. “Yer right. I shouldn’t have called her a whore.”

“Yeah, you made a mistake there,” Brian takes pity on him as he looks at his devastated face, “but you can still make it up to her.”

Da’s head snaps up. “How?”

“By bringing Roger back.” Brian tells him. The face Da pulls is kind of funny. “Look, she loves him, Da. They were planning on marrying; they had done the whole hand fast before she found out he’d been lying to her. Trust me. I’m not happy with him myself but we need to do this for El.”

Da nods in agreement.

Chapter Text

Mama, Da and Ian head off to retrieve Roger while Brian and Ellen go to River Run where they’ll be living with their Great Aunt Jacosta. Brian hadn’t wanted to leave his sister alone with people she didn’t know as well as the added worry that there’ll be a delay in getting Roger and Brian hates the idea of missing the birth of his own niece/nephew. He can’t let her down again.

The journey to River Run took a week, but it felt excruciatingly long. No one spoke much except when they had to make frequent stops for Ellen to pee or have a breather due to nausea.

——

January 1770

Brian can’t sleep, what’s new? He pulls himself out of bed, out of his room that’s next to Ellen’s and he heads down to where the kitchen is to have a snack or something.

He passes the living room where he can see Murtagh, who’s accompanied them to River Run, Jacosta sitting inside, talking. They don’t seem to notice Brian as he slips by. He doesn’t believe he saw was unusual but when he leaves the kitchen, he hears them yelling at each other. Brian gets curious and hides outside the door to spy. Jocasta throws a drink in Murtagh’s face, he then grabs her wrist, and kisses her!

It takes a few moments for Brian to realise that they are not pulling away from each other. He quickly leaves and runs back to his room. That doesn’t stop him from hearing them walk past his door, whispering and giggling, and then Murtagh’s door opening and it locking.

Well, at least someone is happy.

——

February 1770

“Do you ever think how mad this whole thing is?” Brian wonders as he lounges on the ‘settee’, staring up at the ceiling.

Ellen looks up from her drawing, her stomach visible now at six months. “What’d you mean?”

“Just as crazy is the fact that four years ago, we didn’t know about any of this, about Da, time travel and now here we are two hundred and two years in the past on a slave plantation owned by our great aunt.”

Ellen snorts. “Time itself is insane. Just a year ago we were living in the year 1971. I had just finished studying to be an engineer at MIT, you were working at Boston Globe. And now, you’re keeping me company as I’m here, pregnant and waiting for my husband to be brought back from the Mohawk.”

“When our teachers asked us where we saw ourselves being when we grew up, I don’t think this is anywhere close to what they had in mind.” They both laugh at Brian’s words.

Brian’s happy that he’s brought a smile to his sister’s face as they have been too few and far between.

Chapter Text

March 1770

Aunt Jocasta is demanding Brian and Ellen, now 7 months pregnant, attend some kind of party at River Run. They’d never been to an 18^th century party, so Brian figures he should probably just go along with it. Make the best of it.

Murtagh has gone to Wilmington for business that he gave no more details on. But Brian knows it is to carry out a mission Da had given him; to find Stephen Bonnet.

Brian has been dressed exquisitely in a tailored, deep navy-blue suit with polished buttons. He’d never get used to the shoes though and just as bad as that, were the tall white socks that remind him of the compression socks worn by Mama’s elderly patients to help with circulation.

Jocasta had pushed for Ellen to wear a new dress and instead of going for one that might cover her pregnancy, Brian’s sister had decided to have her stomach boldly on display. He really loves his sister sometimes.

It’s only when they arrive do they realise their Great Aunt’s plan when Ellen is surrounded by different men and Brian with women. The women around him laugh and giggle at anything he says, earnestly agreeing with him. How has he thought Lizzie was bad? Brian finds himself wishing he’ll be able to duck away into the kitchen and see if he can at least find Phaedra to talk to, so he can take a breath.

Finally, there is a lull in conversation long enough that he might get the chance, but just before he can, Brian hears his Aunt Jocasta’s voice come from outside the room. “I would like to introduce you to someone, Lord John. Meet my nephew and my niece, Brian and Ellen Fraser.”

Brian turns to see a gentleman following his Great Aunt. Lord John is a man of slight build and shorter-than-average height (about 5'6"), with thick dark hair and light blue eyes. Brian notes that unlike most of the men here, except for Brian, Lord John has declined to wear a wig and instead has his long hair bound back.

Immediately Brian feels like they could be great friends.

“It’s good to make your acquaintance, Lord John.” Brian greets.

“Yours as well.” The man says. “I am friends of your mother and father. You both look very much like your father.” Lord John swallows awkwardly causing Brian to frown

“How do you know our parents, Lord John?” Ellen asks, side-eyeing Brian.

As Lord John begins to speak, Jocasta pulls Brian away from other guests. Brian feels annoyed, hoping to stay with his sister and Lord John. He is forced into conversations with the men and women in attendance. One woman, Miss Forbes, keeps touching his forearm and laughing much too hard at things he says that aren’t intended as jokes.

Brian has never felt so relieved as when Lord John sweeps up beside him to interrupt the attention of Miss Forbes. John turns to Miss Forbes rather than to him. “You’re Miss Forbes, if I’m not mistaken?”

She nods. “Why yes, I am.”

“I just wanted to inform you that there’s a Mr. Whitley in the dining area and he was asking to speak with you.”

“Oh.” She says, not really paying attention to Lord John.

“It seemed urgent.” Lord John adds.

Miss Forbes frowns, lets out a breath, but then bows to Brian. “We’ll speak again.”

“I’m sure.” Brian replies, hoping he is wrong.

When Miss Forbes is out of sight, he and Lord John are left alone in the secluded corner of the study that Miss Forbes had cornered him into.

“There are quite a few available women here.” Lord John says, lips tipped into an awkward smile.

“Yes.” Brian smiles uneasily, finally ready to voice the concern that has been growing in him all evening. “I believe my aunt is attempting to make matches for me and my sister.”

Lord John presses his lips together, his brow furrowing. “Do you think she…”

“What?”

“Do you…” Lord John’s voice lowers to a whisper, “do you think she intends to leave you River Run and believes that if you have a wife and child maybe, you’d be less likely to turn down the offer?”

Brian is taken aback. “You really think she plans to offer me River Run.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it…” Lord John seems unsettled, though he’d seemed unsettled all night. "But I know she offered it your parents.”

“Why did they turn it down?”

“From what your father said, they did not want to own slaves.”

Brian let out a long breath, reality settling over him as he thought of Phaedra, Ulysses and the others. He has grown to consider some of them friends without considering they don’t legally have a say in the matter of their friendship at all.

“I don’t want to own slaves either.”

“You may want to express that sentiment to your aunt before she starts measuring you for your wedding garments.” Lord John gives him an unreadable smile, then walks away to join another conversation.

At dinner, Lord John had been seated in the group of single men that surrounds Ellen while Brian sits at the other end surrounded by the single women.

Later on in the evening, as Ellen plays her psychology game, Brian notices looks shared between Lord John and Judge Alderdyce. This combined with Ellen’s comments about secrets, Brian realises what’s going on.

——

September 1745

As John is led away, feeling the shame of revealing vital military information even if it was to save the English woman, when something catches his eye, a small boy, a toddler, staring at him wide eyed, as John is being carried away. He has red hair, and his eyes are strikingly familiar.

“Brian!” It’s Red Jamie that yells, running over to the boy, casting a suspicious look at John. “Wha’ yer doin’, wonderin’ off? I thought Fergus was watchin’ ye.” He scopes the boy up and strides off. The boy looks at John over Red Jamie’s shoulder and John looks back until he can see them no more.

Chapter Text

“It is beautiful here, so… open.” Brian breathes in deeply. “And the air is so fresh.”

“Is it not so open in Boston?” Lord John asks. They sit in Jocasta’s drawing room.

“It’s not,” Brian looks over at him with a tilted smile, “but at least we have the Red Sox.” He gets a blank look at that. Brian decides to change the topic. “Do you play chess?”

Lord John Grey’s eyes move the same way Brian’s had to where a chess board is tucked beneath one of the wooden shelves. “I do. Your father and I actually played quite often in our younger years.”

Brian walks over to the board. He tugs it out from under the shelf and sits it on the table between them. He speaks innocently, “I guess you’ll have to tell me who’s better, father or son.”

Brian doesn’t notice Lord John’s breath catching.

 Maybe half an hour later, Lord John has Brian’s king cornered in checkmate.

Ellen soon comes wandering into the room they sit in. “What are you two up to?”

“Chess…” Brian grumbles. He doesn’t receive an ounce of pity from his sister who grins.

“Your father’s better.” Lord John announces.

“A dagger to my heart, sir.” Brian replies with a tilted grin.

“You were always more of a Scrabble man anyway.” Ellen says to him.

Lord John raises an eyebrow. “Scrabble?”

Brian and Ellen share an awkward look.

“Uh, never mind.” Brian laughs but mostly to himself.

“Both of you are as inscrutable as your mother.”

“We’ll try and take that as a compliment.” Brian quips.

“You should.” Lord John gives him a warm smile.

Ellen watches her brother depart and looks back to Lord John, a plan forming in her head. “Uh, Lord John, if we could speak for a moment?”

——

“What is wrong with you?!” Brian hisses as soon as his sister tells him.

Ellen sighs, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you yell at me, Brian. You know I have to. Jacosta was going to marry me off—”

“So, you’re going to blackmail him into marrying you?!”

“No!” Ellen cries indignantly. “I mean was but no, not anymore. Lord John agreed to play pretend for a bit instead.”

Brian calms. “You’re not actually getting married?”

“No.”

“But what if they can’t find Roger, will you truly go through with it? Could you do that to him?” Brian questions.

“I don’t have any other choice right now. It’s this or marry Forbes, and I would rather be forced into a convent than be that man’s wife.” Ellen confesses.

Brian sighs. He’s going to go grey early because of her.

Chapter Text

April 1770

Brian jumps off the carriage once it slows to a stop in front of River Run and helps Ellen down. He sees Fergus in the distance, tending to their horses and luggage. Ellen looks exhausted, and no wonder. She notices Fergus and waves off Brian’s concern, heading towards Fergus.

He’s not surprised they made it back before them considering the speed Marsali had been going at when they left Cross Creek while Lord John had set their own carriage at a more sedate pace. Brian is simply glad that Murtagh is safe.

The whole Cross Creek saga was a mess, Brian is just thankful that Bonnet was killed in the explosion. He hopes.

Fergus says something and Ellen nods, frowning. Brian decides to leave them be and follows Lord John into the house.

——

Brian and Lord John find Jacosta in the drawing room with Marsali and Germain.

His great aunt seems delighted with Germain, and he gurgles obligingly as she dandles him on her knee.

“He’s got my colourin'.” Marsali is explaining gently, sitting close. “But he has Fergus’ straight nose, ye ken?”

“Hello Aunt.” Brian calls as he enters.

“Brian? Good t’ see ye.” Jacosta smiles.

He walks over and kisses her on the cheek but not before stroking Germain’s head. His nephew grins at him.

“Is yer sister here?” Jacosta asks.

“No, she wanted to say hello to Fergus first, for now you have to bear with Lord John and I.”

“Lord John.” Jacosta pleasantly greets.

Lord John walks closer and gives her a nod. “Afternoon Madame.”

Lord John and Jacosta begin to talk so Brian turns to his sister-in-law, grinning. “Got to say, those carriage driving skills, impressive.”

Marsali smirks and shrugs. “Ye’ll ken know weel what I am capable of.”

“Noted.”

They’re interrupted by the happy squeal of Germain as Lord John picks him up.

“Oh, no.” He hears Marsali mutter.

——

By the time Fergus and Ellen join them, Marsali is laughing and apologising to Lord John as Germain pulls on his cravat, while the Englishman assures her that he is not in the least offended by the child’s presumption.

Ellen goes dutifully to greet Jacosta and Marsali comes over to take Fergus’s hand, leaving the baby to torment Lord John further. Brian notes his brother’s complexion is paler than usual. He looks almost shaken. Marsali is muttering to him in concern.

Lord John surrenders the baby to Ellen as she stands again, looking grateful to be relieved of his tormentor.

“And how’s my favourite nephew?” She coos, lifting Germain up to look at him. “You’ve gotten so big!”

Marsali moves close to Ellen but not before giving her husband a searching glance. “Aye, he’ll be a terror, this one.” She speaks.

“Watch your earrings, El, seems he wants to tug on anything he can reach.” Brian remarks, shaking off his worries and basking in the happy moment.

“I’m afraid he’s got no manners to speak of….” Marsali adds apologetically.

Germain decides to prove his mother right and reaches towards Ellen’s earrings. “Mine! I want!”

He doesn’t seem pleased when the adults laugh and chuckle at him instead of giving him what he wants.

Chapter Text

May 1770

Mama and Da return with neither Roger nor Ian in tow. Ian had sacrificed himself to save Roger, but Roger, after being told what happened to Ellen, hadn’t returned. Brian hates him for that.

They retreat back to Fraser’s Ridge in a flurry. Soon after Mama and Da had returned, red coats arrived to deliver a letter from Governor Tryon to Jamie demanding he put down regulators and find and kill Murtagh.

On the way back to the Ridge, Murtagh had been hidden in the back under piles of blankets and with bags surrounding him on all sides. After receiving Tryon’s order for Murtagh’s hunt that Da was to lead, Da thought that the last place he would be searched for would be with him. But he was extra cautious to make sure his godfather was totally out of sight the entire ride home, even when they would need to stop during the night. 

Fergus and Marsali greet them when they return.

——

In the middle of the month, Ellen gave birth. When Ellen went into labour, Mama told her it's like baseball, long stretches of boredom with short intense periods of activity. Ellen had retorted at least at baseball games you get to drink beer and eat hot dogs during the boring parts. 

Da, bless him, has been a bit lost and had offered to fetch ale and asked what a hot dog is. Brian and Mama have to explain that alcohol is not good for the baby and that a hot dog is like a sausage on a roll, but El doesn't want any. Da had also tried to leave, trying to pull Brian with him but Brian had refused to leave his sister and Ellen demanded he stay. 

After hours and hours of labour, came the piercing wail of his nephew. Brian had let out a breath of relief that the baby had been born healthy and strong. He would never forget the elated look on Mama’s face as she’d held the screaming, red-faced baby up for Brian and Da to see though the happy tears clouded his vision.

——

February 1745

Brian faintly hears Jenny screaming in pain, the midwife being brought in by Mama, going upstairs while Da, Fergus and Ian try to keep Brian entertained along with Young Jamie and Maggie. Brian is confused about what is going on as no one would explain it to him.

Mrs Crook had engaged the other two Murray children, but Da takes Brian with him and Ian into the study to order seeds and start for the next season. Da says it’ll be good as it will help to keep Ian from worrying. Again, Brian isn’t sure what it is.

Finally, Mama comes down into the study, still wiping her hands on her apron. “Another girl.” She says as Ian hugs her tightly. “Jenny’s already calling her Katherine.”

Ian goes upstairs. Brian eagerly reaches for his mother who picks him up with a warm smile.

“The birth went weel?” Da asks as he reaches over to kiss Mama.

“Yes, seems to get easier every time.” Mama replies once he’s pulled back.

Da raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Do ye think it would be the same for us?”

“Quiet, Jamie Fraser, there’s innocent ears here.” Mama admonishes but she’s grinning.

Chapter Text

Days are turning into weeks without the appearance of Roger. The youngest member of the family still has no name, not a first one or a last. Brian is really starting to worry for his nephew. Ellen won’t name him, waiting for a man he can’t decide if he hopes will come or will not. She also, to Da’s frustration, won’t marry unless that same man comes to the Ridge.

Da restarts his work on a larger house as it had been delayed by several months because of his leaving to rescue Roger from the Iroquois.

——

“Why are you on the floor?” Ellen asks with a smile, leaning over the bed where she sleeps to Brian who lies on the floor next to it. It is dawn.

“Can you not see?” Brian smiles back, speaking softly. “This little terror has got me pinned to the floor.” He looks down at the sleeping form on his chest.

“How did he manage to wrestle you into submission?” Ellen tries to hold in her laughter but a little chuckle escapes. “You’re a smidge taller than he is.”

“He’s stronger than he looks, and he doesn’t fight fair.” Her brother valiantly holds in his laughter so he won’t jostle, and wake said little terror. “Go back to sleep.”

“Here.” She kneels by them. “Let me take him.”

Brian shakes his head. When Ellen starts to move him, the baby starts to move and sound like he does just before he wakes up and screams his head off. His mother lets go gingerly. She curls up on the floor beside them and rubs her son’s back instead.

“How did you get trapped under a baby?” Ellen laughs silently, facing him.

“He woke up a couple of hours ago.” Brian rolls his head to the side so they are looking at each other. They are speaking in hushed tones that are always employed near a barely sleeping baby. “You’d just fed him and even he doesn’t get hungry that fast, so I thought I’d take care of him and let you sleep. I walked up and down with him for a bit. He calmed. I was tired so I sat down next to the crib for a bit, except when I tried to stand up, he’d fuss. I thought it might be easier if he fell asleep. So, I laid down. I thought he’d fall asleep faster, being horizontal. I think he’s decided I make a comfy bed and he’ll not let me move.”

“To be fair,” his sister chuckles, “he had you the moment you sat down.”

“He’ll make a fine general.” Brian chuckles, trying to limit the movement of his torso.

——

Brian has taken great enjoyment in bonding with both of his nephews. Along with spending time with the unnamed baby, Brian has also been spending time with Germain. He feels it’s only right to offer to help with babysitting duties as Marsali is about halfway through her second pregnancy and already has loads on her plate.

Brian grins at the grisly almost 17-month-old who sits on his lap, being supported by Brian’s arms. Brian bounces his knees slightly and begins singing in an attempt to calm the toddler.

♪ Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? ♪

♪ Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines! ♪

♪ Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong. ♪

“I taught you that.” Brian is startled and turns to find its Fergus standing at the door.

Brian grins. “You did?”

“You were small, it was when we were all at Lallybroch.” Fergus answers. “How do you know it?”

“Oh, Mama would sing it to me.”

Brian hears a grunt and turns from Fergus to Germain to see the toddler looking displeased.

“Oh dear, I think I’ve disappointed my audience.” Brian chuckles. Fergus grins.

“Sorry buddy, your papa’s here and I’ve got to go.” Brian tells his nephew. He turns to Fergus and explains, “Da’s asked if I could join him on the construction of the big house.”

Fergus’ face pinches, giving Brian a tight smile as he extracts his son from Brian. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

Brian frowns in confusion but nods.

——

June 1770

Brian sits on the stairs leading to the cabin on the Ridge. Everything has been going really well recently. The only kink is Ellen’s despondency over the lack of Roger, who still has not appeared. Brian is wondering if he’s gone back to the future.

Brian's thoughts are broken by a small squeak emitting from the carefully swaddled bundle in his arms. But he makes no other objections when Brian adjusts his hold. His nephew’s features have eased from the squashed features he had when he was first born but his brow is still quite furrowed giving him the appearance of concentrating intently on his slumber.

Brian startles when he sees a figure approaching.

Chapter Text

Autumn 1744

“Jamie Fraser!” Claire yells as she approaches the paddock at Lallybroch. The autumn harvest has come and she, Fergus, Jamie and Brian have been settling into life at Lallybroch with Ian, Jenny and their children.

When Claire had left Jamie with their son, she hadn’t expected to emerge to find her husband, with his hands under their son's armpits, lifting Brian to straddle the junction of their calm, old mare’s neck and back. Jamie tuts at the horse, who takes a few steps forward slowly.

“‘Tis fine Sassenach. The wee laddie needs t’ get familiar with his horse. Ye’ve nothin' t’ worry about.” Her husband reassures her.

Her son’s arms fly around all uncoordinated as Jamie walks the mare in a slow line. Claire smiles as she hears Brian laugh happily.

She supposes he’s right. Living in this time, her son will have to be quite familiar with horses.

Jamie lifts Brian down. “A natural, we’ll ha’ te ha’ a pony ready fer him before ye kno’ it.” He hands him to Claire then he begins brushing the mare out.

Claire loosens her stays with her free arm to offer a breast. Brian strangely winces before reluctantly latching on. This is an oddity she’s noticed about her son. She knows it isn’t lack of hunger as he always has her milk often and in great quantities, but he’s always been odd about it, almost uncomfortable. Claire has found this strange especially when he seems to refuse to look at her as he takes his meal, never meeting her eyes with his that match his father’s.

“That is all well and good but I’ll be the one that’ll have to treat him for the first time he falls off.” She says to Jamie as he walks over to them.

“We’ll be fine, will we no’ m'annsachd?”

Brian merely lets out a grunt, not separating from Claire. His parents chuckle at the reaction.

——

August 1770

Claire has finished with patients for the day. She’s been getting busier recently as more settlers begin to trickle in. She hears what sounds like squabbling and looks over to see quite an amusing sight.

Brian sits straddle on a horse, clutching the bridle so tightly Claire is shocked his hands haven’t fallen off due to lack of circulation, while Jamie leads the animal slowly in a circle.

“Am I doing it right?” Their son asks worriedly.

Jamie flashes that familiar smile Claire has seen reflected on Brian’s face. “Dinna fash, a chuilein. Relax, ease into the saddle.”

Brian scrunches up his face. “Couldn’t we have tried with a pony first?”

“Yer t’ big fer tha’ now.” Jamie amusedly retorts. He catches Claire’s eye and raises an eyebrow that says, ‘can you believe this?’ Claire grins back.

“Don’t feel it.” Brian quips back, glancing nervously over the side of the horse.

“Ye asked me te help ye, so listen.” Jamie replies, becoming serious once more though an uptick in the corner of his lips gives him away.

Brian sighs. “Yeah, yeah, fine.” He tries to relax, trying to follow his Da’s instructions though not without the odd whining comment but Claire can see a hint of a smile on his face.

Claire feels almost tearful as she watches them, seeing Jamie being able to teach his son how to ride a horse just as he always wanted to albeit a bit later than expected. Their family is truly coming together now.

Chapter Text

Over the years, milord has become a father to Fergus and when he imparted his last name to Fergus at his wedding, it only cemented his relationship with his father figure.

The relief Fergus had felt when he found out milady is alive but so is Brian was unimaginable. In those years he thought both of them had died, Fergus would always wonder who that little boy would’ve grown up to be. Finding out his adoptive brother is not only alive then meeting him meant everything to Fergus. But not everything is easy.

The first time Fergus had witnessed milord look at Brian, Ellen too, with so much love and joy, he had felt a ping of some emotion. It made his chest get tight. He had brushed it off back then when Brian had turned to him with a grin and greeted him happily. 

Fergus is enjoying having Brian and Ellen around, having younger siblings as well as the family network built around them. But getting along with them didn’t do much to lessen the knot he would feel in his stomach when he would see milord going out of his way to spend time with his two lost children, particularly the father and son activities he would insist on doing with Brian. Watching milord doing everything he can to bond with him. Make up for all those moments he missed, like hunting, riding (something Fergus found odd, apparently no horse riding in Boston?) and building the bigger house together, which is something Fergus can’t physically do.

Certain thoughts would creep into his head particularly at night when Marsali lies asleep next to him while he lies awake. Thoughts such as: Brian is milord’s son. His real son. And even though milord has told Fergus he is too, it’s very very different. Fergus wouldn’t blame him if he started to think otherwise.

It feels silly to feel that way considering how neither milord nor milady had dismissed him and always treat him as their son and Germain as their own grandchild. Brian and Ellen both vocally accepting Fergus as their brother, Germain as their nephew and he knows it will not be any different when their new child arrives soon. But Fergus can’t help but feel lesser than them at times.

Chapter Text

Autumn 1770

The big house is complete, a two-story house, white-washed and shingle-roofed with glass windows. All the work has largely been spurred on by the cramped, tense conditions in the cabin. With a new infant, space had been running out. Ellen, Roger, and Jemmy are living in the cabin along with Jamie and Claire while Brian has been staying in one of the shelters. Cramped is an understatement.  

In the months after their return, word had kept spreading about Fraser’s Ridge, and more and more people of all ages, be it individuals, pairs or families, were flocking to settle on it. From them, Brian and Jamie received help in building the new house. This meant that you couldn’t turn a corner anywhere in the house without hearing hammering or sawing, smelling wet paint, or stepping on loose nails or tools. The downstairs was nearly done, but the upstairs was not even halfway. So, with the bedrooms being unliveable, Jamie and Claire take up in what would become a smaller guest room on the first floor while Brian takes the bedroom attached to the kitchen. Roger and Ellen stay in the cabin with their son.

Over the last several months, Fraser’s Ridge had grown from just a stand-alone cabin with a family of five to its own small village. Since there are more and more people, that means the Big House was not the only building being constructed. The number of settlers has tripled, and they have all built their own homes across the 10,000 acres. Brian finds himself taking part in all sorts. He helps Bob O’Neill and Theo Frye build various businesses, including Ronnie Sinclair’s cooperage, a smithy (Theo’s), and a general store (Bob’s).

——

Grannie MacEalair enjoys watching people go about their day. The feeling of seeing constant people every day rather than just one or two every few days gave the Ridge a much warmer and more familial atmosphere and is a change from what she was used to. Grannie MacEalair is glad her son Chalmers had brought her, his wife Ismene and their two daughters Eudora and Penuel here. It seems just the right place for them all.

However, it’s not long before Grannie MacEalair worries about her granddaughters being led astray. She voices her concerns to Ismene who blinks at her in disbelief and amusement.

“Wha’ makes ye say tha’?” Her daughter-in-law says as she pegs up the dap clothes onto the line in front of her. Chalmers is assisting with the building of the settlement while Eudora and Penuel are collecting plants and herbs for Mistress Fraser. Grannie MacEalair sits in a chair next to her peeling some carrots.

Grannie MacEalair scoffs. “Ye canna tell me ye don’t see it. It’s Mr Fraser’s son, Brian. I worry he’s an inveigler.”

“An inveigler?” Ismene snorts. “How could ye say tha’? He seems like a lovely young man. Civil and respectful.”

“How can he be those things when he’s happily leadin’ young girls astray?” Grannie MacEalair retorts.

“How do ye mean?”

“Ye ken know wha’ I mean.” Grannie MacEalair snaps. “Eudora and Penuel, they’re makin’ fools o’ ‘emselves. Watchin’ ‘im from a distance, goin’ up te talk te ‘im unaccompanied and he smiles and talks te ‘em. Dinna ken wha’ impression it’s givin’ everraone.”

“He’s bein’ polite.” Ismene argues.

“Is he? I willna believe tha’.”

“He’s a nice lad also his father does own this land.” Her daughter-in-law points out. “Ye could say he’s quite eligible.”

Grannie MacEalair humphs. She knows that young man is bad news for her granddaughters even if Ismene can’t see it.

Chapter Text

When he and Ellen first travelled back, Brian’s sole purpose was to warn his parents then it became comforting and protecting his sister after her rape and the wait for Roger but now all that was sorted, he became a bit listless.

Now Brian has been thrown into building and expanding the Ridge, he has also been Da pulling him into helping with his whiskey business. Brian finds himself quite enjoying it. They go to the still to brew the newest batch of whiskey a couple of times a week.

Initially, Brian had slotted quite easily into the rhythm Da, Ian, and occasionally Murtagh, had developed but since Ian’s sacrifice and Murtagh less and less able to venture outside often, it was left to just Da and Brian at first. But, due to the growth of the Ridge, a few of the other settlers, farmers, now come by to bring the barley they have grown and to put in orders for casks also helping to distribute it. The plan is to bring some of their whisky to the gathering next month at Mount Helicon.

The smell of the fresh barley used to make Brian feel sick when he first was working with it, but now he shakes it off and perseveres. He finds himself quite enjoying it, especially when he and his Da would bond over their similar professions. While journalism of the 20^th century is a far cry from what Da had done in his printing business in the 1760s, Brian realises that there are similarities that they can bond over.

——

September 1770

News has reached them about Hillsborough. Once again, Brian is reminded that he is living through history. The fight by the regulators is only one part of America’s fight against British rule. Brian knows there’s worse to come.

Brian looks down at his new niece, Joan Laoghaire Claire Fraser. He smiles softly when she makes a small, disgruntled sound, likely still not happy with her new environment or the fact that she’s wrapped up in a blanket and can’t move her limbs, which is probably annoying after having just escaped a tight space.

Not for the first time he wonders about having this himself. His own family that is his. Mama has Da, Fergus has Marsali, Germain and Joan and Ellen has Roger and Jeremiah. To find someone to have this with…

Mama was lucky to find Da, someone who listened to her and did not accuse her of being a witch while Ellen had Roger who is from the future as well. Admittedly, Brian has his male privilege which means he’d have no witch hunts coming after him, but things won’t be easy.

Admittedly he hasn't been too opposed to either sex. In his teenage years, when the hormones kicked in, it wasn't long until he realised that while he fantasised about girls, he would also fantasise about boys in the same way. Having crushes on Lenny and Ellena Abernathy at different points throughout knowing them was a blaring signal but the 1960s and 70s had made things a little difficult to explore even if it was legal, Brian found a way to in college with his new friends and surroundings. However, now in the 1770s, it's become even harder. Both because of its unlawfulness and the lack of opportunity.

Chapter Text

The slow burn is far more enduring than that of the fleeting flame.

– The Rose and the Pomegranate, Leah Toole

October 1770

Sixteen-year-old Inga Flora McGillivray looks wide-eyed at all those around her. Despite living in Cross Creek, she stares in wonderment at the amount of people around her. The Gathering at Mount Helicon is awash with many varieties of people from different settlements. She anxiously tucks strands of her blonde hair that had come loose from the plait her mother had done for her that morning behind her ears.

“Come, come, Inga, yer mother does no’ want us te be waylaid, does she?”

Inga smiles slightly at the sound of her Father's Scottish accent. She and her father are close as they are both good-tempered unlike most of their family. Her Father is rather a handsome man in Inga’s opinion, with close-clipped, dark bottle-brush hair and a chiseled face, he was also fine-boned as a sparrow. Looking like a Roman-coin.

“Here, have some of our whiskey.”

Inga watches on wide-eyed as a tall young man with red ginger hair, sharp, dark and slanted blue eyes and high cheekbones, hands her father a bottle of whiskey.

“Wha’ yer name son?” Her father asks.

“Brian.” He looks to Inga, opening his mouth to speak when another voice interrupts.  

“Named after my father, Mister McGillivray.”

Inga’s father spins around. “Mister Fraser! Yer a sight fer sore eyes.”

The man who approaches them has Brian's eyes and hair and is also tall with the same high cheekbones, but Inga notes that his nose is different.

“Aye, I’m glad t’ see ye weel. And who’s this?”

Inga flushes shyly as her father urges her forward. “This is Inga, my second youngest. I ha’ four children, Mister Fraser, two more daughters and a son.” 

“Aye, quite a brood.” Mister Fraser grins. “This is my son, Brian,” he gestures to Brian who flashes them a crooked grin (Inga does not  blush), “and I ha’ a daughter, Ellen.”

Brian, like Inga, looks between the two men curiously. “How do you two know each other?” 

“Aye, we go way back, don’t we Mister Fraser?” Father remarks. 

“Aye, we were at Ardsmuir for a few years together before Mister McGillivray was sent t’ the colonies.” Mister Fraser explains to his son, who nods solemnly. 

“I work as a gunsmith in Cross Creek, Mister Fraser,” Father explains, chest puffed up as if he’s trying to impress the other father. Clearly, Inga’s father has a lot of respect for Mister Fraser. Must be a good man.  

“Aye, good man. ‘Tis good te hear o’ our countrymen doin’ weel.” Mister Fraser grins. 

As their fathers continue to talk of old memories and what has happened to them since Ardsmuir, Brian turns to Inga with a sly smirk. “Here, have some whiskey while they’re not looking.”

Inga blushes, her eyes darting over to where her father stands. “Oh, I shouldn’t. My Mother wouldn’t be pleased.”

While her father is the man of the family, Inga’s Mother is the one to fear. Robin McGillivray is quiet and serious and comes across as timider than Inga’s mother, Ute, who’s like a Valkyrie on a starch diet; tall, very blonde and broadly powerful. Her father is a small and wiry man in contrast to his wife.  

“Oh, come on. They should know it’s part of growing up to rebel a little.” Brian urges. 

Inga thinks of her younger sister, Senga, who would have already taken it without thinking, not caring what either of their parents thought. Senga is the youngest out of the four of them, aged fifteen. Like their mother, Senga is exceptionally strong-willed and opinionated. Opposite to Inga but not always… 

Inga reaches forward and takes the bottle of whiskey. A quick glance over to their fathers tells her that it had remained unnoticed. 

Brian flashes her a pleased grin. Maybe it wasn’t all about trying to be more like her rebellious sister, maybe she had wanted to look grown up in front of this attractive young man.

——

“Ow, Mama!” Manfred whines as she dabs his wound with a cloth that has been dipped in whiskey. While Inga and her sisters took after their Mother, Manfred, however, bares such a marked resemblance to their Father that his identity could scarcely be in doubt. As the eldest child and only son of the McGillivray clan, Manfred, at nineteen, is always described as a handsome boy, with tanned skin and dark, curly hair.

However, his face is currently quite bruised and bleeding. Harley Boble, a short man with a pudgy face, and otherwise undistinguished had accosted Manfred of taking part in the recent Hillsborough riots, trying to arrest him for his supposed involvement. Mother had large the charge, which resulted in Inga, along with her two sisters, subduing Harley Boble by sitting on him, with Father bringing up the rear. He called upon Mister Fraser to resolve the issue before Mother tried to take it into her own hands. Inga spoke on her brother's behalf when Mister Fraser questioned the family about her brother’s whereabouts during the Hillsborough riots. In the end, Boble gets told that if he doesn’t leave Manfred alone, the McGillivray matriarch will kill him.

Mistress Fraser had offered to treat him, but Ute McGillivray was determined to treat her only son herself.

“Sorry, Mein Liebling.” Ute apologises. Like her father, Inga’s Mother, Ute, has never lost her German accent. She looks at her husband in disbelief, turning back to the conversation that Manfred had interrupted with his complaints, the invitation to settle on Frasers' Ridge. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.” Father retorts determinedly. 

Inga smiles slightly as she watches on with Hilda and Senga.

“Why did you say yes?” Mother questions. Her Mother looks ready to tower over him in some form of intimidation, which would not be hard as Inga's Father is some inches shorter than his wife, reaching approximately to the level of her brawny shoulder.

“Mister Fraser is a good man and I believe this could be a real opportunity fer us, fer our children.” Father argues. 

“Even after what happened? What if this gets back to the Morrisons?” Ute questions frantically. Her distraction causes more complaints from Manfred.

Hilda sighs. “Mama, you know Davey will not break the betrothal.”

Like Inga and Senga, Hilda, seventeen and the second oldest, is also a smaller version of their tall and blonde mother. Hilda, like Inga and their father, is good-tempered and friendly.

Mother huffs. “He might not have a say. That mother of his—”

“He’s invitin’ men from Ardsmuir.” Father interrupts before she goes on a tangent. “Geordie Chisholm as weel. The Lindsay brothers, Ronnie Sinclair and Robert MacLeod are already there.”

Mother is still unconvinced. “What about your work?”

“Obviously no’ yet, there’s much te prepare. But I could ha’ my own shop. Brian Fraser has already offered te help build it.” Father argues.

“Brian Fraser?”

Inga blushes slightly as she answers, “Son of Mister Fraser who owns Frasers’ Ridge. Ten thousand acres of land they have.”

“Mm. Sounds prosperous.”

One thing can be said about Ute McGillivray is determined to make sure her children have good marriages. Already she’s thinking of Brian Fraser as a possible suitor.

“But Mama!” Senga whines. “What about my friends?”

“No need to be selfish Senga.” Hilda chides.

Manfred scoffs. “It’s all she knows.” Mother slaps his head. “Ow!”

“Du Schweinehund. All of you behave.” Mother admonishes. “We are moving to that Ridge.”

Chapter Text

Ellen and Roger are finally getting married. Those attending the wedding congregate in the tent at the Mount Helicon Gathering. Roger lingers at the front along with the minister, who’s Protestant much to Jamie's chagrin. 

Brian is babysitting Jemmy for the ceremony though his nephew has become a little fussy, looking for his mother and trying to reach for his father.

“Uh, no, Jem, please.” Brian murmurs, trying to hold down the five-month-old.

“You look busy.” A voice speaks.

“Mmh?” He is slightly startled by the man in front of him.

The man in front of him is tall with a thin, wiry build. His hair is black and his eyes are blue with high cheekbones.

He gestures to Brian’s nephew. “The little rascal you’re holding.”

A man with a nice Welsh accent.

Brian clears his throat and chuckles slightly. “Yeah, a bit.”

“He yours?”

“Uh, no, no. He’s my sister’s. She’s getting married today.” Brian quickly replies.

Is it Brian’s imagination or does this guy look relieved?

“You’re Jamie Fraser’s son.” He speaks.

“One of them, yes.”

“Mmm.” The man frowns. “Wait, the boy’s your sisters and she’s getting married? Today?”

Brian narrows his eyes. “Yes,” his sharp, “what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, nothing. Sorry.” He hurriedly apologises. “Was making a joke that clearly didn’t land well.”

“No, it didn’t.” Brian retorts.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, “terrible first impression.” He clears his throat. “I’m Brynmor Jones.” He offers his hand.

Yeah, definitely Welsh.

Briam smiles slightly, shaking his hand. “Brian. This rascal is Jeremiah.”

Brynmor receives a gummy smile.

“What settlement are you from?” He questions curiously.

Brynmor’s features darken. “Hillsborough.”

Brian winces. “Oh, er, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Brynmor reassures him.

“Brian! Hello!” Lizzie interrupts, stopping Brian from saying anything else. She hurries over with a slight blush on her face. She tucks a loose strand up under her cap. “I-I can take care o’ Jeremiah, no problem. Ye shouldn’t be troubled with the wee bairn.”

He knows she’s trying to be helpful plus the apparent crush she still has in him, but Brian can’t help but feel offended at the implication that he can’t look after his own nephew. 

“No, need Lizzie.” Brian says, trying to sound calm but his voice comes out a little sharp. “I’m fine.”

She blushes and nods, leaving. Brian lets out a huff.

“She’s nice.” Brynmor comments.

“She’s annoying.” Brian grumbles.

He receives a curious look. “You don’t like her?”

“No.”

“Maybe you need maturity.” Brynmor remarks casually.

“A mature woman?” Brian questions. 

“Sure…” a shrug, “if that’s what you want.” With that, Brynmor saunters off with Brian spluttering after him.

——

Brian holds onto Jemmy and stands up with everyone else, cheering and applauding as Mama is the first one to come down the aisle. She smiles at Brian as she goes past to say a quick word to Roger, then goes to her place in the audience next to Brian. She gives her grandson a soft pinch on the cheek.

Da and Ellen are right behind her. Ellen is dressed in a homespun dress, complete with some appropriate thistle embroidery along with their paternal Grandmother’s pearls. Brian knows Da has gifted Ellen a silver sixpence from Murtagh, who can't attend the wedding since he's in hiding. Da brings her to meet Roger, then bows and joins Mama and Brian at the front.

The bride and groom step onto the altar before the priest, and the congregation all sit back down.

“Dearly beloved,” Pastor Caldwell begins, “we are assembled here teday in the presence o’ God. Let us therefore reverently remember that God has established and sanctified marriage fer the welfare and kindness o’ mankind.”

——

June 1961

Brian stares wide-eyed as David pulls away. Their lips slightly parted and their cheeks red. Music for the end-of-year dance plays in the background.

David bites his lip but doesn’t look away from him, doesn’t pull his hand away. Then, he asks, “So?”

“Huh?” Brian says dumbly, not understanding.

“Great, thanks man.” David remarks sarcastically. He grins. “I meant, you’re welcome, now you’ve kissed someone.”

“Erm, er, yeah, thanks man. Great.” Brian says, quietly, clearing his throat and laughing it off when David winks at him.

“Yeah, sure.” David says. “What are friends for.” He snorts a laugh. “Well, to practice-kiss, apparently.” 

Brian forces a chuckle. 

A girl, Kimberly, interrupts causing them to spring away from each other.

“Hey! There you guys are! They’re about to play Pony Time!” She grins, bouncing on the balls of her feet before running off. 

David flashes him a grin and leaves.

Brian sits there quietly, eyes wide, and raises a trembling hand to his lips. Okay, yeah, he definitely likes boys as well as girls. 

Chapter Text

The newlyweds go back up the aisle and the guests make their way to the lawn for the reception. Thankfully Jemmy, Germain and Joan were mostly well-behaved though Germain yelled out when they got to the rings.

Brian sees Ellen looking blankly at Henry Gallegher, a recent immigrant to the ridge, who has a Glaswegian accent that’s so strong that everyone has a difficult time understanding him. Brian watches amusedly as the man speaks to his sister, flailing his arms around as he talks before, he soon takes pity and hurries over to them.

He gives Ellen a huge hug, Jem has already been handed over to his Grandmother, and says, “Congratulations, sis.” He kisses her cheek and turns to face Roger. “Welcome to the family officially, Roger Mac.”

“I couldn’t be prouder te be part o’ it.” Roger tells him. He smiles and hugs his new brother-in-law as well.

“You’ll be happy to know that my wedding gift is having Jem at the Big House so you both can have some privacy.” Brian smirks.

“That’s actually not bad compared to the ‘gifts’ some people are getting me.” Ellen grumbles. Her husband lets out a little snigger.

“Can’t be as bad that Grannie Bacon getting her granddaughters to present Mama with that overly large and garish mobcap to cover her hair.” Brian remarks.

Ellen’s nose wrinkles. “Did she seriously give Mama a massive cap?”

Brian laughs. “Yep, it was meant to be a thank you for treating her but also, she deems it ‘unseemly and amoral’ for a woman of Mama’s age to not only have her head uncovered but to wear her hair loose about her shoulders.”

“It’s worse than tha’ gift.” Roger smirks.

Brian looks curiously at his sister, who sighs. “Mrs Buchanan,” she gestures to an older lady who stands off in the distance, talking with a group of people that look like they could be related to her, “as a wedding gift gave me embroidery thread. Guess what that was for?”

“What?” Brian questions. What could be so bad about a bit of thread?

“To decorate my funeral clothes in the event I should die in childbirth.”

Brian’s eyebrows shoot up at that.

Oh.

Roger sniggers. Ellen sends him a glare, jabbing her husband in the side with her elbow.

——

They are having a ceilidh (a Scottish wedding tradition involving dancing and folk music), and everyone's making merry. Brian takes a break from the wedding/gathering to sit at a table, a sleeping Jem in his arms. He’s taking a break from all the dancing he’s been pulled into. Brian has just escaped from the MacEalair daughters, Eudora and Penuel, particularly with the help of a disproving Grannie MacEalair.

“May I join you?” Brian looks up and sees Lord John standing next to him.

Brian grins, very happy to see him. “Of course, please do.” He gestures to the chair next to him and he sits down.

“You seemed to have your hands full.” Lord John remarks, looking down at the sleeping baby.

Brian blushes. “I’m using him a barrier, plus I’m meant to be looking after him tonight.”

“Yes, erm, you seem quite popular.” Lord John says inelegantly.

“Well, you can say that’s what comes when you’re a young bachelor plus Da owns a great amount of land so…” Brian explains awkwardly. “I’m a dream to all those Mamas out there.”

“Yes…”

It’s quiet for a moment before Brian smirks and remarks, “I hope you’re not to upset that you’re only a guest at Ellen’s wedding instead of the groom.”

Lord John laughs. “I am masking the heartbreak as best I can.” Brian smiles at the joke. “I am truly happy for the two of them. They are very well suited for one another.”

“Absolutely. After all they’ve been through, they deserve their happy ending.” Brian remarks. He hesitates before saying, “How about you, are you happy?”

“I am well.” Lord John replies shortly.

Brian winces. Great, he’s made it awkward again. “How is William, by the way? His schooling is good? He’s enjoying London still?”

“Yes, and very much. He writes frequently.” Lord John replies, happy to talk about his son. “Headstrong as ever.”

“Sounds like him.” Brian grins.

Lord John smiles back but Brian can’t help but notice the tension in his face.

Chapter Text

Brian is taking a breather from the festivities by standing at the back of one of the tents. The dancing to folk music as well as drinking games has started and everyone’s making merry.

“It’s always good to have a bit of a fight, isn’t it?” Brian looks up to see it’s the man he’s met earlier at the wedding ceremony, Brynmor Jones.

Brian blinks in confusion. “What?”

Brynmor gestures over his shoulder. “The fight between Manfred McGillivray and Harley Boble.”

Oh, Brian remembers now. 

It’s not surprising that things are never calm at events like this, especially with heightened tensions, and murmurings of revolution plus everyone has a bit of a drink, celebrating the Gathering as well as Roger and Ellen’s wedding. And it’s because of this that Brian meets the rest of the McGillivray clan mentioned when he had met the father and daughter duo when Harley Boble, whom Brian has already had this misfortune of meeting, tried to arrest the eldest McGillivray offspring.

Brian was about to intervene and protect the young man when he saw three young talk blonde women (one of them he realised was Inga McGillivray, who he thought looked rather beautiful but is sixteen which he is not going near), come charging over with an older version taking the lead and feeling rather impressed as they then subdued Boble by sitting on him. He thought Inga was remarkable in the way she spoke up for her brother when Da had questioned them on what had happened.

Brian looks away from the blue eyes and lets out a shaky chuckle. “Uh, yeah, you’re telling me.”

“Why you out here? Are you hiding from all the attention?” Brynmor smirks.

Brian thinks of all the attention he’s received from all the young ladies. Some he liked and many he didn’t. “Er, um, yes, you could say that.”

“Why?” There’s no judgment in his tone as he watches Brian curiously, walking closer.

“Just...” Brian hesitates, looking down at his shoes. He is not sure, if it is appropriate to share his predicament with the stranger so he shrugs, keeping his answer vague as he says, “…needed some space from everything else in there, I reckon.” 

Brynmor simply hums understandingly, pursing his lips. “I don’t blame you. I’m not a particularly a big fan of all the attention of the ladies.”

Brian dares to look up at that. “And you’re all so desirable then?”

“I like to think so.” His lips tip into a rakish smile. Brian can’t help but notice he’s standing closer than he had been before.

Brian laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, well, I don’t think I completely fit in with the archetypal son my father wants.”

“What? Flirting with all the beauties you come across? Not an enthusiast?” Brynmor is standing right next to him now.

“No,” then Brian corrects himself, “well, I am, sort of. I do and can but not fully plus I, er, don’t like being the centre of attention.”

“Well, too bad. From what I’ve heard, you’re the stud of the ridge.” Brynmor remarks.

Brian scrunches up his nose. “Erghh. No thanks.” It makes him sound like a cad.

“Prefer to hide in secluded corners then?” Brynmor is leaning close now.

Brian freezes and is able to splutter, “W-well, I–I only needed—” and then Brynmor lips press to his. 

It was so fast that Brian hardly even felt the brush of fingers against his cheek. In his shock, all Brian can do is sag against Brynmor, hands gripping his clothes on reflex, limbs pliant and mouth moving. He tests leaning into the kiss and is rewarded by Brynmor making a breathless noise.

After a few moments, there’s cheering from behind them, loud enough to have Brian rip himself away from Brynmor and bolt upright with a panicked look around the tent. He takes enough time to ensure that the cheering they hear is actually from the crowd as they play some sort of drinking game. He can feel the slight tremor in his frame. His gaze moves back to Brynmor and he wonders what he looks like. Probably someone filled with fear and anxiety.

Brynmor seems to have realised no one has seen them and rushes forward, kissing Brian on the mouth once more. Brian is startled once again but this time he has enough thought to shove him back, hard.

“Brynmor—stop. God.” He runs a hand through his hair, panting. “We can’t.”

“Why not? We’re alone.” Brynmor grabs at the wool of Brian’s coat, trying to reel him in. 

“Brynmor, stop. We’re not– I said no.” Brian says hurriedly.

Brynmor stumbles back, blinking, and gets a good look at Brian’s face. “Oh, you’re serious. I’m sorry, I’m so embarrassed.” He laughs awkwardly.

“Brynmor, it isn’t you. We just can’t.” Brian tries to reassure him, feeling bad for having made the other man feel embarrassed. “It’s just my Da will strangle you dead with his bare hands and me too.”

Brynmor nods reluctantly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put in this position.”

“It’s fine. I–I should go find my friends.” Brian stammers, swallowing hard and periodically flicking his gaze back to the crowd congregated. He gently touches Brynmor’s elbow, and he sees Brynmor shiver. Brian continues, “Nothing’s changed. I won’t say anything, and it will be as if this never happened.”

Brynmor frowns in disappointment and nods. Brian takes the opportunity to immediately flee.

Oh God.

——

Ellen’s vision blurs as she stumbles away from where Lord John and Da stand, those words ringing in her ears.

There have been sightings of Bonnet in the Province.

She needs– she can’t— 

He is dead. The explosion– he should be dead.

Oh God. Jemmy, Roger, Brian—

Brian. She needs to find Brian, now. She needs her brother.

She eventually does find him, but he’s surrounded by two young women, looking up at him, giggling, and twirling their hair.

She recognises them, she was introduced to them earlier. It’s Marion and Agnes MacLeod, Bobby MacLeod’s (one of the Ardsmuir men) daughters. Normally her brother gets uncomfortable with the attention from girls who fawn over him but is too polite to say anything. This time he seems to be actually enjoying it with no hint of worry. Ellen would hate to break that.

Normally she would laugh but instead, she feels forgotten as she watches Brian laugh at something Marion MacLeod had said.

She shakily stumbles away, full of abandonment, to where she knows her mother and son are, trying to swallow down her emotions so Mama won’t notice anything’s wrong.

Chapter Text

1954

“Ah, Brian, there you are.” Frank greets as the young eight-year-old boy pokes his head around the corner of the door leading into Frank’s study. “I’ve got something for you.”

Brian shyly walks over to where Frank sits behind his desk. 

“This is a book on Civil War history. It’s important to widen your horizons through academia and literature.” Frank explains earnestly.

Brian looks down at it blankly.

“Well, come on. Isn’t it fascinating?” He urges.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks Dad.” Brian mumbles. “What about the Scottish stuff?”

Frank baulks at this. “What do you mean, Brian?”

Brian’s face reddens. “I-I might’ve had a look a-at your documents and I, um, saw you were looking a-at a rebellion in Scotland?” He looks down at his feet.

Frank narrows his eyes at his putative son. “You shouldn’t be coming in here without my permission, Brian.”

“Sorry.” Brian mumbles, looking up. Frank feels the corners of his mouth pinch at that in annoyance. “I just– I-I liked their kilts.”

Of all the aspects of history Brian could be interested in, it had to be that.

Frank scoffs spitefully. “A group of men running around in skirts?”

Brian blushes. “Erm… I-I just thought that—”

“Be careful,” he can’t help but comment snidely, “you don’t want people to make any assumptions about you.” 

“Sorry, Dad.”

Frank sighs and pushes the book towards Brian. “This what you should be doing. It would make me proud.”

Brian takes the book hesitantly and stands there quietly.

“Yes, well, go on then.” Frank waves his hand towards the door.

Brian nods and scurries out of the room.

Frank sighs. He never seems to get it right with Brian. With Ellen, it’s easy. He knows that he’s the only father she’s ever known. But Brian had another man be his father even if those memories have faded at his end, Frank can’t help but look at him and see another man’s child. 

He wants to bond with his son and teach him how to be a man. Brian is very attached to his mother and sister in a way that is unhealthy for a young boy. He is hardly ever interested in making any connections with anyone else except for the Abernathy children. Frank feels his face pinch at that. While he’s glad Brian has friends outside of their family, he wishes that they were more socially acceptable ones. How else is Brian going to make his way in the world by associating with that crowd?

——

1770

Eighteen years later (also technically a hundred and eighty-four years in the past), Brian stands in front of his Da as he hands him a kilt.

Brian grips the fabric, staring at it wide-eyed as if it’s a mythical unicorn. “I thought these were banned. Where did you find this?” He asks his Da.

Brian softly strokes the distinctive diagonal-weave pattern, the browns and greens woven together. It feels heavy but soft in his hands. He can’t help but well up at the sight of it.

“Just because they’d taken our right to wear ‘em, dinna mean I wouldnae make preparations to have my own on hand fer when they threaten us.” Da declares.

Brian has an idea of what’s caused this. He knows Governor Tryon has been reminding Da of his obligation to the crown, his mission to hunt down and kill Murtagh along with raising a militia to quell the Regulators if necessary. He threatens Da with losing the ridge if he doesn’t follow through with his vow to the British crown that he made when he was given the land to settle on.

“Then shouldn’t you wear it? As our leader?”

“Aye, I ha’ another. I kept a spare wi’ te thought – te hope – tha',” Brian hears his voice wobble with emotion before he takes a breath and puts a hand on Brian’s shoulder, “ye’d return te me again and I could pass on te pride o’ our clan, our family name.”

Would his Da be proud of him if he knew? If he knew Brian’s nature?

Brian’s heart clenches with emotion. “Da, I—” 

“Son, ye carry my name, my blood. Yer a Scot and yer should wear it proudly.”

Brian softens at that. He thinks of the draw, the urge he had felt his whole life towards the highlands and how Dad had always squashed it, criticising him for it and now he has the chance to embrace it.

“Brian, Tryon wants his Scot, let us give him a Scot.”

Brian resolves himself and nods.

——

As in keeping with an old tradition of the Highlands, Brian helps his Da build a giant woven cross, one like he had seen at Castle Leoch many years ago. He says they need to be sure of the loyalty of their men if a war is coming. This makes Brian nervous, the thought of war considering all he had done to fight against his country's involvement in one in his own time.

Brian feels his eyes well up at the sight of his Da in his Highland garb as he stands in front of the crowd, thinking of how this is the first time he is legally donning his tartan since he watched his countrymen die for all it stood for. Brian strokes his own as it rests on his body. The history in this one bit of fabric.

The crowd gathers as Da lights the cross on fire. Brian’s heart is in his throat as he watches his father. His presence. Jamie Fraser has every eye and all attention on him, which is what he wants. Then, he begins to speak.

“In the Highlands, when a chieftain sets ‘imself te war, he’ll burn the fiery cross, sendin’ a sign throughout the lands o’ his clan. It was a call fer his men te gather their weapons, come, prepared fer battle. We are friends, neighbors, countrymen. But we’re nae a clan, and I’m nae yet chief. But I hope that if the time comes, ye will all stand by my side.” 

No one makes a sound while Da speaks, but Brian looks around at the settlers and sees the men are all standing tall, staring unblinkingly at their leader, and it is clear that they would follow him off the edge of the world should he give the order. 

“We canna say wha’ might befall us. By we must nae only be willin’ ye make oaths te our wives and loved ones, but ye our brothers in arms in this new country.” 

Brian feels himself freeze as Da stops pacing and stands opposite him, making strong eye contact so he, and everyone around him, know what Da says next is directed at Brian. “Stand by my hand.” He holds out his hand and waits for Brian to respond. 

Brian thinks back to all the anti-war rallies, the destruction of the registration cards, that he had taken part in, and protesting against a war that America had no part in. Is he really doing this? Should he fight for the existence of a country that’s eating itself alive? 

But then he thinks of the pride on both of his parents' faces as he stood before them in the kilt and the lack of it from Dad when he had gotten into trouble for his anti-Vietnam war activities despite the fact he was fighting against their own government sending their countrymen to fight and die in a war they had no part in being in. Dad's lack of wanting to engage in what Brian was interested in and instead pushed his own views onto him.

With these thoughts in mind, Brian reaches out and grasps his hand. “I will. I’ll stand with you. I pledge you my loyalty.” His father urges him to kneel. He kisses the dagger Da holds out to him to seal the oath and stands up, going beside him.

“Captain Brian Fraser.” Da announces his new title. 

Brian clenches his fist, taking comfort in the pain of his nails pressing into his skin, trying to ease the anxiety he feels.

Da continues his speech. “I want ye te ken tha’ this act we’re undertakin’ forms a bond betwixt us, the foundin’ o’ a kinship in this New World. Just as ye give me yer word, I give ye mine. I will serve ye, as ye are swearin’ ye serve me. And I will nae light the cross again until the time has come fer us te do battle.”

The oaths go on, continuing with Roger, Fergus and then each man of the Ridge. 

It’s not total war just yet but it’s definitely heading that way.

Chapter Text

The reason – well, one of the reasons – that Brian went into journalism was that he wanted to investigate, to tell the truth of what’s happening.

The Vietnam War was a catalyst. Before the United States’ full-scale involvement began, Brian hardly noticed it as it was a war that still felt very far away. But by 1964, it all changed. The draft was developed to usher young American soldiers into combat to protect America and its allies from the communist Viet Cong. 

The Vietnam War was unlike any war before, it was being televised and that led to Brian being glued to every development, how it was being reported, fascinated. When he was asked by his parents what he was going to do after high school, he knew what he wanted to do. The war being televised meant that the first time, the American people could see the horror of war from thousands of miles away. In colour, they witnessed firsthand accounts of the violence and devastation caused by the war.

The question that kept on swimming in Brian’s mind was why are they fighting in a war that wasn’t theirs to begin with.

It wasn’t long before he heard of people’s outrage and disapproval of the United States' involvement in the Vietnam War. 

——

1964

Brian groans as he stares down at his latest assignment. Maybe going out until 5 in the morning was not such a great idea with the assignment due in just a few days.

There was a bar, Sporters, where Brian’s eyes were opened for the first time, to see people like him being free. He meets Bill Conrad who works there, who tells Brian of his story in the army, in Germany, that he didn’t know there was a community until he met Bob White who gave him the job.

In a way, college had become a sort of liberation for Brian. He could explore more than he could before, and work out what he now knows to be his bisexuality. He was no longer at home, no longer under his parents' watchful gaze though society wouldn’t let him forget.

Bill gives Brian advice, advice on how to survive the police raids that happen every couple of months. Brian learnt to have his ID on him and to not react when they called them names.

He also meets Tommy Martin and Kenneth Jackson. Soon, they’re joined by Joyce Harris and Ruth Walker who they meet in the Midtown. He gets along well with his friends, they’re like him, outsiders, not accepted by society.

They also bond over their anti-Vietnam war sentiments. Questioning why America is bothering with a war that has nothing to do with them. It becomes a frequent thing, meeting up to discuss it then, that December, Tommy hears word that there’s going to be nationwide protests against the Vietnam War in Boston, New York, San Francisco, Philadelphia and many more.

He knows his Dad will disapprove but he doesn’t care because he feels like he’s actually trying to make a difference, fighting for a cause.

——

November 1965

Of course, it was all going to escalate. 

Brian has secured a college deferment to stop him being drafted but he knows his deferment won’t protect him forever. These days, more and more men are being drafted to fight in a war that has nothing to do with them, pointless dying and for what? To stop the supposed great evil of communism? 

In August, President Johnson signs a law making it a federal crime to destroy or mutilate draft cards. On October 15th, David Miller publicly burns his draft card, becoming the first person to be prosecuted under that law. 

That doesn’t stop it, if anything, David Miller becomes a symbol of the movement against the war. A movement Brian is a part of. No more passive non-compliance with the National Service Scheme, now it is time to actively demonstrate their distaste for the actions of their government.

Brian feels the heat of the flames flicker across his cheeks as he watches the paper of the draft cards begin to turn black and scrunch up until they’re just ashes settling into the fire or blowing away in the wind.

Brian thinks of his friend, Tommy, who had sought to evade the draft by enlisting in military forces that were unlikely to see combat in Vietnam, such as the Coast Guard, like so many others but that didn’t save him. 

Sudden yelling penetrates through the smoke in his mind as well as the actual smoke around them. Brian quickly realises the police have arrived. Brian is grabbed and soon finds himself being shoved into a locked room with multiple others, some he recognises as his friends.

After a while (a couple of hours maybe?), the door is opened. 

“Hey, Randall!” A guard yells, gaining his attention.

The guard grabs his arm and yanks him up. Brian has no choice but to follow him. He’s pulled along corridors until they reach another room. The door is open and Brian is led in to see—

“Dad?”

Dad clears his throat awkwardly, nodding to the guard who releases Brian’s arm and leaves the room.

“Brian.” He says it so surely but Brian can see how his hands fidget where they rest at his sides.

“What’s going on?” Brian questions.

“It’s best you come home for a short while.” Dad tells him. It’s an order more than a suggestion.

Oh.

“They’re letting me go?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“People respect me, Brian. You’re lucky they’re willing to overlook the federal crime you committed.” The accusation is heavy in his voice.

Brian hates how his Dad is making him feel like he did something wrong but he knows it’s best not to say anything so he instead nods, clenching his jaw in frustration.

“Why did you do this?” Dad questions. “This isn’t like you.”

“You’re wrong, this is me.” Brian retorts, frustrated. “And you know it.”

Sorry, I’m not like you.

“Don’t tell your mother or Ellen,” Dad says as they pull up outside the house.

Brian nods.

“And you’re not taking part in these sorts of activities again.”

Brian starts at that. “But—”

“I mean it, Brian.” Dad clamps down. “You’ve gotten away with a warning this time, doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.”

Brian hates being at home, he’s trying to be on his best behaviour while at home. That doesn’t stop Brian from being faced with pointed comments and questions by his Dad whenever he returns from being out of the house. Mama frowns at Dad, deciding he is at fault for whatever is going on here even though she doesn’t know what’s going on. He wants to go back to college as soon as possible.

Maybe that’s why Brian felt such freedom when going to another protest in March the next year, only a couple of months after Dad’s death. However, despite his friends’ insistence, he doesn’t go back to college, not when Mama and Ellen are struggling after Dad’s death (in different ways) and he can’t leave them.

——

April 1968

Brian watches Roger and Ellen laugh as they dance on the quay before he takes his gaze off them and looks down at the newspaper in his hands. Roger had taken them to Loch Duntelchaig. Brian had let them run ahead knowing that neither would mind.

In the back of Roger’s car had been today's newspaper, which the Oxford Professor had thrown into the back of the car once they were all buckled in and driven off. 

The headline reads: WESTMORELAND REQUESTS 206,000 MORE MEN, STIRRING DEBATE IN ADMINISTRATION: Enemy Hammers 7 Sites On the Outskirts of Saigon

The report seems to make it clear that America and its allies can't win the war. He hopes this is it, the catalyst for the rest of the country to turn against the war because it won’t survive without national support.

Brian remembers that only in February did Walter Cronkite (known as “the most trusted man in America”) say on CBS Evening News that the war was “mired in stalemate”.

Maybe now, this increasingly sceptical and pessimistic tone of reporting may begin to reflect similar feelings among the American public. There are too many casualties on the American side, it keeps building up. People can’t continue supporting a war that’s just killing them all off for no reason.

What most undermined support for the war was simply the level of American casualties: the greater the increase in casualties, the lower the level of public support for the war.

Brian wishes he was back in the States, back at work to be a part of it all, reporting on this rather than follow his sister and his new friend gallivant across Inverness.

Chapter Text

Life goes on after the Gathering and the lighting of the cross. Those who had come back with them from the Gathering continue to carve out their new life at the ridge. 

Arch Bug has been hired as the factor of the Ridge while his wife Murdina settles in as housekeeper at the Big House. There’s also Billy Aberfeldy, his wife and daughter who are both called Ruth are nearly in their own cabin after having to live in cramped conditions in the Big House and two other families. One of the families is Geordie Chisholm’s, from Ardsmuir, brood. His wife, his elderly mother who narrowly escaped being trampled by Da’s high-strung horse, Gideon, when travelling back to the Ridge, and his seven sons. His younger sons, Thomas, Anthony and Toby Chisholm, ranging in age from five through eight, are quickly dubbed “the spawn o’ Satan” by Mrs Bug. 

Marsali also becomes Mama’s new assistant. Brian knows his mother should have the help and support that he and Ellen can’t always offer, particularly after Mr Farrish’s death because of his wife’s well-meaning but murderous methods she used to treat him before bringing him on death door to the surgery meant no hope of being saved.

——

“Dr Rawlings?” Brian questions as he looks at the paper his mother had handed to him. The title reads ‘Dr. Rawlings recommends’ with a list covering the rest of the page. “Do you think it’ll work?”

Mama huffs. “It has to. If I have witness anyone else die from supposed cures that’s actually killing them because of a ‘reputable physician’.” She rolls her eyes causing Brian to smirk slightly. “I’m making lots of copies and distribute them to our settlers. Ellen has helped me.”

“Want more help in writing more about not to do?”

Mama smiles. Grateful for the help, she hands Brian a pen and paper. Brian sits down and starts helping her copy the list.

——

Brian looks around the hallway as he follows his parents in the Big House. With all the men diligently working around the clock, it is now safe to walk around upstairs and the basics of it are done. But there is still a lot to do to get it finished, like carpeting the floors or putting wallpaper on the walls, etc. What will one day become bedrooms are just empty spaces with nothing in them. They don’t even have doors. Except for one.

The three of them stop outside of one room that has a finished door, painted white with maroon trim and a silver doorknob.

“What’s this?” Brian questions.

“It’s yer new room.” Da casually states.

He raises his eyebrows, not understanding. “What? What do you mean? What do you mean my room?”

“Go inside and see for yourself.” Mama adds.

Brian is trying to remain cautiously optimistic as he slowly turns the doorknob and opens the door.

“Wow,” is all he can say at first. Inside is an upgraded version of what he had in the kitchen. 

Not only is it twice as big but there is a new bed as well. On the wall across from the door, which is wallpapered off white, is a large window that looks over the back fields and has curtains that are the colour of the door’s trim that at the moment are drawn back. He no longer has only a small dresser for his clothes. Now, he has a tall and wide-standing wardrobe for just himself that is dark wood with intricate patterns carved out in it. He takes one step at a time going around the room, wondering if this is real.

“Well, lad? Does it please ye?” Da needs to know.

Brian looks back at them. “It more than pleases me. I can’t believe this. This is actually my room?”

“We figured it was time you had a bit more privacy and space rather than being held up in that shoebox of a room.” Mams tells him.

Brian grins at his parents. “Thank you.”

——

…yet the threat still looms

When Da had gotten his order from Tryon to hunt and kill Murtagh, he figured the safest place he could be was on the Ridge, since no one would ever think he would be hiding out there. He lived not even a half mile from the Big House in his own larger lean-to. He didn’t ever dare come to them, but Da, Brian, and the rest of their family made several treks out to see him. But now that Tryon is getting much more serious about taking down the Regulators, Brian is glad that Murtagh has moved on.

Governor Tryon introduced Da to Lieutenant Knox at Ellen and Roger's wedding, explaining that the lieutenant would assist Da with his search for Murtagh. Everyone was worried about how Da could possibly hold off on finding his godfather with the redcoats breathing down his neck.

“What are you going to do?” Mama asked her husband.

“If it’s a manhunt Tryon wants, it’s a manhunt he shall get.” Da responded. Short and sweet. 

Da tries sending Tryon’s men on a wild goose chase, but things are still getting very heated. The regulators are lathering the Militia men with tar and feathers. Tryon is at his wit’s end and Brian knows it is not going to end well.

——

December 1770

Far too soon for anyone’s liking, it comes time for Da to leave again, now taking with him the men of the Ridge. This included Brian, Mama, Fergus and Roger. Lieutenant Knox wants them to gather the men of the Ridge to aid in enlisting for the militia, for Tryon’s army against the Regulators and to show the Regulators their numbers.

Because of Arch Bug's advanced age and injury to his hand, he is ineligible for service in the militia and thus can be depended upon to mind matters on the Ridge in Da's absence. The Lindsay brothers prepare to join them on their journey. Rabbie Cochrane, while he’s too old to join the militia Da has been forced to gather, some of his eleven grown children scattered across the mountains will be mustered.

A dozen militiamen from Fraser's Ridge are travelling with them including John Quincy Myers, Isaiah Morton, brothers Kenny and Evan Lindsay, Geordie Chisholm and Ronnie Sinclair. The plan is to recruit men along the way, with a stop at Brownsville first, and take them to Hillsborough.

“Captain Fraser, permission to approach?” Ellen calls to him. She has already said goodbye to their parents, Fergus and Roger. 

Brian turns from his horse to her. “Granted.” He chuckles. He’s glad for his sister’s jokes considering how nervous he feels though his shooting skills have improved.

“You ready for this?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Stop. You’re gonna do fine. Da’s gonna be right there with you the whole time. He’s not going to let you do anything he doesn’t think you’re ready for.” Ellen reassures.

“I’m just praying that the numbers we form will make the Regulators surrender before there’s any risk of that.” Brian says, chewing his lip anxiously.

“With Murtagh leading them, you know that’s not going to happen. He’s determined to kill Tryon himself.”

“Any chance a captain can get out of having to fight in the actual battle and can just cheer the troops on from the sidelines?” Brian asks only half joking.

Ellen lets out a, “Ha! I would love to see you try to convince Da of that. But if that doesn’t work,” she puts her hand on his arm, “please stay safe. Hide behind trees and rocks or whatever is closest, and just stay alive no matter what.”

A third person then joins them, announcing themselves with, “Brian?” It is Aila Ceallach. She has long curly blonde hair and brown eyes. She is shorter than Ellen but just as slim. She is the kind of pretty and the sort of bubbly and flirty personality. 

Aila glances at Ellen and is almost surprised to see her there. “I apologise, Mistress Mackenzie, fer interruptin’ yer conversation.”

“Not at all. No need to apologise.”

“I will leave the two of you to finish your goodbyes.” Ellen says to them. She touches his arm. “Be careful, got it?” 

Brian nods in reply, flashing her a grateful smile. She gives Aila a kind smile, and Aila curtsies then Ellen walks away to find Marsali.

Aila turns back to Brian. Brian is more than a bit miffed at his time with his sister being cut off but smiles pleasantly at her. 

“Miss Ceallach.” He greets, bowing his head. 

Aila blushes and gives a quick curtsy, biting back an idiotic grin. “I, uh, I-I wanted te wish ye luck on yer endeavours. I’ll be prayin’ fer ye, fer God te keep watch over ye and keep ye out o’ harm’s way. An-and the other men, all o’ them, o’ course too.”

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Ceallach.”

Aila nods so quickly that Brian wonders if her head is going to fall off before leaving. Brian sighs before turning to look at the rest of the group all mounted on their horses and ready to leave.

A moment later, the militia leaves. Brian looks back to Ellen, Marsali, the kids and many Ridge residents watching them go. Brian is reminded that for them they are really fighting.

Chapter Text

“A show of force to prevent war.”

– Claire Fraser


 

“Here.” Brian says, making sure he looks directly at Keziah as he hands him some food.

Keziah smiles in thanks while his twin, Josiah, voices his.

Brian smiles back and with a murmur of “you're welcome” he joins the rest of the men, including Roger and Fergus on the other end of the campfire along with Myers, Sinclair and the Lindsay brothers. He glances over to the two brothers. He had liked Josiah when had met him at the Gathering, particularly when Lizzie's attention was diverted to him, away from Brian, but now, knowing the truth of his and his brother’s backstory, Brian wishes to help them as much as he can.

Things had gotten sidetracked on the way to Brownsville when they came across the Beardsley twins. Da declared he would go to the Beardsley Post himself to buy back their thirty-year contract, to save them from their enslavement. Brian in the meantime had been sent with the boys and the rest of the company to Brownsville to fill the recruitment register with as many men as possible. A daunting task but one he knows needs to be completed considering the corner Da has been backed into.

“Captain Fraser, how long till Brownsville?” Hugh Findlay asks. The teenager sits with his brother, Iain, and their two uncles. Brian had felt he had done a good job so far, recruiting members of the Findlay family. It had to take some persuasion with money to encourage Joan Findlay to part from her sons though he would’ve preferred it if Roger hadn’t stepped forward with a bold promise to bring them home safe.

The young boy is nervous with the thought of battle and Brian doesn’t blame him as he feels the exact same way. He tries not to show it with a shrug and a, “It shouldn’t be far. Sinclair?”

“Aye, he’s right lad, weel reach ‘em tomorrow.” Ronnie Sinclair replies with a grin.

“At least yer ken kno’ weel yer geography, I ken kno’ weel yer lack o’ other abilities.” Kenny Lindsay grins.

“Like wha’?”

Brian watches the small rise of smoke emanate from the pile next to the fire. “The ability not to burn your socks?”

“Ugh! No!” Sinclair frantically lunges forward to pick up his socks which he has laid near the fire to dry them. He tries to put them out by beating them on the ground. This causes the rest of them to laugh.

——

Brian honestly doesn’t know what to do. Does he listen to Fergus or Roger? 

Essentially, it was realised soon after arrival that the militia is not welcome, in particular Isaiah Morton due to Lionel Brown’s daughter, Alicia, wanting to marry him rather than Elijah Ford causing the match to fall through. 

The Browns declare that they want Isaiah as he dishonoured Alice and demand that Brian hands him over, to kill him. Roger argues that they should then ply them with Fraser whiskey to keep the peace and alleviate the murderous atmosphere. Fergus, however, argues that all that’ll do is betray the trust of the men and dishonour their loyalty.

And Brian is in the middle of it all.

He understands Roger’s wanting to keep the peace but Fergus, on the other hand, understands this world and battle more than him, about what it takes to maintain these men’s loyalty and respect.

Eventually, Brian settles for pleading for time, to talk to Isaiah before he decides.

——

“Why haven’t you married her?” Brian questions him. Isn’t that what you do to save a woman from disgrace around here?

Isaiah Morton empty-handed, unable to answer.  

“Come on, what stopped you?” 

Morton hesitates again. 

Brian sighs, gesturing towards the door of the cabin the Browns had ever so graciously allowed them to have this chat in. Brian wouldn’t be shocked if they’re building a pyre or something similar outside as they wait. The only reassurance is that the militia’s numbers are nearly two dozen men, the Brown men are outnumbered. “Isaiah, that girl clear loves you, why haven’t you married her? Do you not return her feelings?” 

Isaiah frantically shakes his head. “No, no, I do. It is just– I would do it, Captain. But I can't... Unfortunately, I already ha’ a wife.”

Great, just great. It has just become a little more complicated than expected.  

Brian sighs and scratches the back of his head. “What do you mean ‘you have a wife’?” 

“My marriage was arranged, betwixt her parents and mine.” Isaiah argues, on the defensive. “Ally – Miss Brown – she started te love me when I used te cross Brownsville. And I began te love her... My heart spoke by itself. It was as if I dinna ha’ a say.” 

“Yet, you made vows to your wife, which you broke. And you swore an oath to my Da. How can you be sure that you will stick by it at the end of the day?” Brian demands to know. He can’t stand by him if his loyalty is so fickle. 

“My wish fer yer Da and yerself was o’ my own will.” Isaiah declares. 

“Yes, your infidelity too!” Brian cries out in frustration more than anything else.

Roger, who’s been lingering at the edge of the conversation, speaks up, “We could consider clemency fer this man. After all, love makes us all stupid.” 

Brian knows an unhappy marriage, he saw it for most of his life with Mama and Dad and knows that she suffered, only finding her happiness again when reunited with Da.  

Isaiah's eyes widen with hope at Roger’s words. 

Brian knows his Da wouldn’t do what he’s about to do. He would simply get Isaiah Morton to leave if he can’t marry her, and never see her again. And, while everyone says that Brian looks just like his father, he isn’t his father.  

Brian lets out a groan of annoyance. “Fine, fine. If you seriously love her and you’ll stand by her—” 

“I do.” 

“Then we’ll help you.” 

“We will?” Roger questions. Brian nods. 

“Thank ye, Captain.” Isaiah says glancing, looking ready to sprint out of the cabin and wrap Alicia Brown in his arms. 

But Brian blocks him. “But, we need to do it once they’re all distracted, we can’t do it now.”

——

Brian knew his announcement that the militia has no intention of handing Isaiah Morton over would be met with anger but a stand-off against the townspeople verging on the potential for violence was what he should’ve expected.

Lionel Brown, a scrawny man with hair the colour of dried tobacco along with a straggling beard and a spare almost gangly build, leads them, furiously waving his musket in their direction. “Isaiah Morton must pay for his actions, you dare not deliver him to me?!”

“Morton is a militia, under my protection!” Brian retorts. He’s worried and alarmed by the situation but to have Roger, Fergus and the militiamen standing by his side with quiet determination is a comfort. If it comes to a fight, it’ll be an equal one. 

“We are as protective as you, Captain. I also protect mine.” 

Tense silence between the two factions. Lionel is preparing his rifle. Brian's hand is closer to the gun in his case. Alicia Brown tearfully clings to her aunts and mother as she watches the scene play out.

Suddenly, a man in his fifties, arrives on horseback, irritated by the chaos that surrounds him. Brian thinks this must be another Brown relative due to his similarities with Lionel Brown, the same build and hair colour among other things. He is an imposing man with an impeccable posture, exuding arrogance and self-satisfaction. Brian notices that all the men of Brownsville immediately retreat out of respect. Including Lionel.

Meg Brown comes to greet him, grabbing the horse and the man sets foot on the ground. “Stop! What the hell is going on?” As he strides over, Brian notes that he’s only slightly shorter than Lionel Brown. 

“Those bastards refuse to give us Isaiah Morton when we have every right!” Lionel cries before turning to the new arrival. “Did you succeed with Elijah Ford?” 

“I couldn't persuade him.”

“Then we’ll have that bastard if the militia lets me do it...” Lionel points to Brian, representing the militia.

Brian draws himself up straight now his the focus of everyone’s attention once more. “I am Captain Brian Fraser. Any attack on Morton will be considered an assault on my father’s, Colonel James Fraser, militia, formed by His Excellency, Governor Tryon. And I will have no choice but to consider you as traitors to the Crown – like the Regulators we were sent to disperse.”

It's a smart attitude to the Browns. As Brian looks around, he sees that he has convinced several men from Brownsville.

Except, of course, Lionel Brown, whose face scrunches up and the vein in his forehead looks ready to burst. “Who do you accuse of treason?! You have the man who disgraced my daughter!”

The new arrival puts out a placating hand. “Stop, my brother. You look like an idiot. And a drunk idiot in addition. I want Morton as much as you, but I will talk to Captain Fraser – and reach an agreement.” He looks around him. “Is it clear?”

The men of Brownsville lower their guns. This man, Lionel Brown’s brother, managed to calm them down. Brian can't help but admire this quality. 

——

Richard Brown, Lionel’s brother introduces himself as, now informed of all the details says, “You have a strange company, Captain Fraser. Isaiah Morton, huh? He is not a good Christian.”

“I can't do much about a man's character.” Brian answers simply to avoid saying too much.

“There is enough sin and illegality every day, not to mention these Regulators who cause unrest in an already shaken society. And we don't want trouble with the Governor. So, if you came to recruit, you couldn't find better men in all the Carolinas. We will accompany you to Hillsborough.” Richard declares. An upset Lionel is about to intervene but Richard silences him with a severe look. Richard approaches Brian, looking at him severely. “But they will all be under my orders.”

“During the duration of our agreement you will answer in front of my father.” Not having the men of Brownsville under his control would not suit Da but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have some control. 

Richard's mouth contracts, irritated. “Of course.”

Brian sighs, relieved. The tension between everyone is easing.  

As he watches Roger take down the names of the new men and Ronnie Sinclair handing everyone his salary, Brian is glad things have calmed, ready for Da and Mama’s arrival.

Chapter Text

Brian blinks in surprise when Mama shows him that it is a newborn that she has been rocking in her shawl.

Brian bends over and frowns with curiosity as he takes a closer look. “A baby?”

“Mrs Beardsley’s, she left her with us.” Mama explains.

Da and Mama had arrived that night with the good news that they'd secured the Beardsleys twins’ papers. Josiah wants to continue with the militia, but Jamie insists he's too young and that they should go back to the Ridge tomorrow and provide for all there by hunting.

“But her…” skin is what he meant to say before he stopped himself. He shouldn’t be judgemental about it.

“The baby urgently needs milk. Are there any nursing mothers here?”

Before Brian can reply, a voice interrupts them. “Captain Fraser.”

It’s Richard and Meg Brown who nod in greeting. Brian and his parents do the same.

“Mr Brown. May I introduce my parents, Colonel Jamie Fraser and Claire Fraser.” Brian introduces. His parents express their hellos.

“Will you stay the night with us?” Richard asks politely.

“If it's no’ a problem.” Da replies.

“What kind of man would I be if I let a lady sleep outside in the night and the cold, with militia?” Richard responds.

Mama thanks him for his hospitality.

Meg Brown, looking proud of her husband's hospitality, turns curiously to Claire. “What’s this?”

“If it’s no trouble. The baby needs milk.” Mama tells them, revealing the newborn.

The Browns look on in surprise at the baby’s appearance before Meg nods. “Follow me.”

——

It is only later on when Brian is able to pull his father aside, does he explain what has happened.

“It looks like ye convinced ‘em.” Da compliments Brian proudly. Brian smiles happily that he’d made him proud.

“There was a small problem.” Brian quietly tells him.

“Wha' this problem?” Da questions, frowning.

“A small misunderstanding when we arrived.” Brian explains. “It’s Alicia Brown, Lionel Brown’s daughter, wants to marry Isaiah Morton.”

“And, wha'? He hasna? He dishonoured her? He needs te marry her! Ye ken kno’ weel tha’ is how we do things around here.” Da berates.

“I know!” Brian snaps irritably before calming himself. “I know, I tried but…”

“Wha'?”

“He’s already married.”

Brian wouldn't be surprised if his Da collapses in shock, considering how he staggers back in shock. "I dinna kno' why he's still here? Ye should've sent 'im awa'!"

“I will, just not yet. I’m helping them escape.” Brian retorts, now feeling irritable at being treated as naïve.

“But he has a wife.” Da counters in disbelief. “Ye shouldn’t let 'im dishonour the girl like tha', how can he stand by her?”

“Because he and his wife are separated, they are not happy, they didn’t chose each other.” Brian explains.

“How can ye believe 'im—”

“Because I have seen an unhappy marriage!” Brian cries in frustration and now that the dam has broken, he doesn’t stop. “I saw Mama and Dad, I could see how unhappy they were with each other. I would often hear them yelling at each other about their unhappiness, that Dad didn’t want me when they thought me and Ellen were asleep!”

“Oh…”

Da and Brian soon around to find Mama standing there, shifting uncomfortably and looking hurt.

Brian looks down as Da clears his throat uncontrollably. “Claire?”

“There’s something you should know.” She tells them quietly.

——

Alicia Brown is pregnant.

It throws a wrench into the works. Not for Brian though but for his Da who has to backtrack on his plan for Isaiah to simply leave and now has to jump on to Brian’s original plan, which is to get the two of them out of here.

That night, Brian sneaks into where Isaiah is to tell him the news. Isaiah is stronger than ever in his belief that Alicia is the true love of his life and Brian isn’t one to argue.

Early the next morning, Da leads a horse with Alicia and Isaiah on it out of town, while Roger is on the lookout at the other end of the hamlet. Wrapped in a wool plaid, Mama stands in front of the window of the general store, looking down and nervously waiting.

At first, everything is fine. But the horse walks too close to one of the hitchposts. When Isaiah straightens the reins, the horse slides on a big stone and kicks into a pile of empty barrels, which then roll, hitting everything they touch. Brian breathes with difficulty. It's not good. It will wake up all of Brownsville. Roger lunges forward and hastily clears the barrels out of the way. It’s no use as Brian can hear murmurings of noise and confusion in the houses around them.

Isaiah and Alicia need to go now.

Da controls the horse and gives it a pat to send Isaiah and Alicia at a gallop before slipping into a neighbouring house. The alarm begins to sound while Lionel and Richard Brown along with the other men emerge, searching, having heard the noise but Brian is prepared. He lets the other horses, about twenty in total, loose to create a distraction. None of Brownsville's men suspect anything as they jostle to catch up with the horses on the left and right, sending the men of Brownsville chasing after them in the opposite direction from the star-crossed lovers. Lionel scratches his head, baffled at how the horses managed to escape from their enclosure. Lucinda Brown, Richard and Meg Brown’s daughter-in-law, who had been the one who took in the Beardsley baby since she’d lost a baby herself and has the milk needed, emerges from her home with her husband Hiram to check what is wrong.

In the middle of this chaos, Brian emerges with Da popping up beside him with a goat he holds by some rope. They share a grin, prior argument is forgotten before they call the attention of the Brownsville men.

“This wee demon, while prowlin’ around, will ha’ scared the horses: they dinna like our wee friends wi’ split hooves.” Da remarks to them all. He receives a varied amount of baffled, stressed and frustrated.

Chapter Text

“I never thought you heard,” Mama murmurs later on after everything has calmed down and is under control once more.

The Browns were angry when they later realised that Alicia and Isaiah were gone and they were slightly suspicious about the Fraser/Mackenzie involvement in it all but could not do anything, they made their vow.

Brian turns from where he’s been staring out into the bustling activity of Brownsville to his mother who sits next to him on the steps of the general store’s porch. Everyone’s packing. They’re leaving, all of them, leaving Brownsville. Their job has been done at Brownsville so they must move on though not all together.

Keziah and Josiah Beardsley are unwell. Tonsillitis. The signs are there. Keziah is experiencing a high fever, and his tongue has the putrid bacterial smell of the infected mucous membranes. Josiah is experiencing an off-and-on again sore throat.

Mama needs to operate on them soon and to do that, she needs to get to the ridge to where Marsali is hopefully waiting with penicillin so the plan is for Mama to leave with the twins and return to the ridge. Roger is to join them for the journey back while Da, Brian and Fergus head to Hillsborough along with the militia.

Brian knows his Da is disappointed with Roger, for how he behaved as Brian’s second. He knows that Roger takes this to heart, being sent away to protect a woman who can protect herself, but Brian thinks it's also for the best. Roger’s good with comforting people, and telling stories, he’ll be good company for the young twins.

“Neither of you were very quiet.” He remarks dryly to her as he continues to pack.

Mama winces sympathetically with a layer of shame, reaching out to grasp Brian’s hand which he accepts. “I was unhappy but I never wanted you or Ellen to experience it. To feel unloved. He did love you.”

Brian wrinkles his nose. “Not truly, not in the way he did with Ellen. I was always another man’s child to him.”

“He tried, you know he did.” Mama argues.

“I think that was the problem.” Brian says, thinking how Dad’s attempts only ever drove a further divide in their relationship. “It makes me think though.”

Mama frowns. “About what?”

“Children. About whether I’d be any good at it, being a father.” Brian admits, not daring to look at her, staring straight ahead.

Mama grips his hand more tightly, shaking them just as he knows she’s shaking her head. “You don’t know that. You’ll be an amazing father.”

“You don’t know that either.” He says, turning to look at her. “Dad and I could never build that bond. Da, he– he never got to truly raise any of us and he’s only able to be a father to me late in life and he struggles. I don’t know example of a father bring up a child successfully. I just can’t help but think I carry too much baggage.”

Mama opens her mouth to retort before closing it, not knowing what to say then Brian sees what reads to be the Woolam’s Creek’s Gazette clasped in Mama’s hands. He knows Woolam’s Creek to be a small but growing settlement at the base of Fraser’s Ridge. While the Woolams, a local Quaker family, own the mill there, and the land on the far side of the creek, Da owns all of the land on the Ridge side.

“Why do you have that?” He questions. There’s something in the way she’s clinging to it as if it might disappear if she relaxes her grip.

Mama says nothing and hands it over to him. Brian’s eyes are drawn to the familiar words. The title of the article reads ‘Dr. Rawlings recommends.’ It is there in black and white. Oh God.

“Uh, where did you get this?” He asks as his eyes take in his mother’s words written out on the page.

“The Brown women had it.” Mama softly replies.

“But, how? I thought it wasn’t meant to go any further than the ridge?”

“It was Fergus.” Mama then quickly continues when Brian begins to turn, wanting to find his brother, to demand what he was thinking, “The paper he’d sent to the printer, for the militia, this must’ve been written on the other side. It’s the same printer.”

Oh.

“I worry it might get them into trouble, but your father’s dismissing it for now. Says there’s no trouble unless someone comes looking for me.” Mama says.

“Maybe he’s right?” Brian responds, hopeful.

“Christ, I do hope so.”

Chapter Text

Brian grips his bridle tightly, trying not to alert his horse to his nerves. This is all becoming increasingly too real for him. It was one thing to learn about it all in the history books. The distorted story of the victory of the underdog versus the villainous oppressor. But now here he is heading out to Hillsborough to join the militia with the British army to tear down the traitorous regulators and his Da’s own godfather, practically second father.

Brian rides at the head of the militia, along with Fergus and Da, into Hillsborough and is greeted with a less than cordial welcome. First, they are assumed to be part of the Regulators and then can't find any new men to join them. In fact, the residents of Hillsborough are already annoyed because the Red Coats are taking advantage of their hospitality. Brian gets how the third amendment came along.

His initial relief in getting off the streets inside is quickly dashed when he, Fergus, his Da and John Quincy enter the tavern to the sound of a loud thud in the wood before drunken cheering reaches their ears. Brian sees that William Reed's Tavern is full of drunken redcoats throwing knives at a wanted poster. His heart drops when he sees that it’s Lieutenant Knox who had thrown it and his heart drops further when he realises it’s Murtagh that is on the poster, covered in many knife marks.

While Knox removes the knife from the poster, Da pulls a coin out of his pocket and hands the money to John Quincy.

“Go buy a barrel of rum. Let the garrison settle down. And tha’ they drink the whole barrel.” He instructs.

“Don't say more, colonel - your orders suit us.” Quincy says, impatient and happy, before departing.

Da, Brian and Fergus make their way through the crowded tavern to Knox. 

The lieutenant sees Da as he plants the knife on the table. He turns to his men, announcing, “Didn't I tell you the colonel would arrive as promised? And before nightfall.”

“And wi’ a few men in reinforcement, lieutenant. About fifty.” Da tells him.

Knox addresses Fergus and Brian in greeting then turns to a red coat lingering at his elbow. “Bring them all beer.” 

Da nods to Fergus and Brian. “Go with him. I need a moment alone with Knox.”

Brian is thankful for this and leaves with Fergus and the red coat to the bar. Brian’s eyes flicker nervously around the vividly red tavern, anxious and unnerved by it all. Maybe this is why he doesn’t notice a very familiar man standing right in front of him until it’s too late and collides into him. They quickly right themselves before they tumble to the floor. This causes the red coat and Fergus to stop as well once they notice Brian’s near-floor splatter.

When he looks at the man’s face, he splutters in surprise, “Brynmor?”

Brynmor’s eyes widen in panic before he carefully rearranges them so his face gives nothing away just as quickly but Brian had spotted it. Was it the fact that he’s previously been rather up close and personal with said face?

“Brian.”

Brian forgets that Fergus is right there until he asks, “Do you know him?”

Brian clears his throat. “Er, yes, he was at Ellen and Roger’s wedding.”

“I accompanied Knox.” Brynmor adds. His eyes flicker over to the red coat who was accompanying them to the bar still lingering close enough to hear the conversation.

This admission causes Brian to snap his head to him so violently that he’s surprised it doesn’t fall off. “Oh, you didn’t say that.”

“Well.”

Brian frowns at his… friend (?), rewriting all that he knows about the man in his head. The initial impression he had gotten from him was a patriot, had he been wrong?

At this point, Fergus and the redcoat move onto the bar with the promise of bringing Brian his drink.

Brian shifts uncomfortably, unsure of how to act with Brynmor, particularly in public. “It’s good to see you.” He says awkwardly. “Can we talk? Er, more privately?”

“What about?” Brynmor replies shortly.

Brian frowns once more. Why is Brynmor being shot with him? If anything, Brian should be the angry one as Brysnmor works for Knox, not him.

Brian opens his mouth to speak but gets cut off by Knox announcing to the whole room, “Here, try.”

Brian turns to see Know handing Da the knife. Oh…

Da takes the knife, feeling the weight in his hand. He is in the spotlight, he has no choice. Fergus sidles up next to him, handing him his beer. His brother stands tense as he remains laser-focused on what’s happening.

“Between the eyes, Colonel!” One of the redcoats yells. 

Brian’s heart is in his throat as Da aims at Murtagh's poster ten feet away. He steps back and does what looks like an expert throw. But the knife misses its target, and it shoots to the left, on the wall. Grumbling in the room from everyone except Brian and Fergus who both sigh in relief. Brian knows that wasn’t an accidental miss, it can’t have been.  

Knox gives him a comforting pat on the back while Da flashes him a forced smile. Well, at least they got through that.

——

Brian should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. Knox is miffed because Tryon plans to give the Regulators a full pardon. But Knox does have some good news, or so he thinks. The pardon isn’t being extended to Murtagh and Knox has arranged to receive the rolls of the prisoners at Ardsmuir to see if it will help him find more contacts close to Murtagh to sniff him out. Da is, let's say, less than thrilled at this news.

While his Da is panicking, Brian needs to talk to Brynmor. He needs to understand, clear the air.

When he catches him in the alleyway outside the tavern, Brian yells, “Brynmor!”

The man in question turns at the sound of his name being called. When he sees who is calling him, Brynmor shifts on the heels of his feet and turns back to where he was walking but Brian doesn't give up, not that easily.

“Brynmor!” He runs after the other man to catch him and closes his fingers around his wrist, pulling him in his direction. Brian forcefully turns Brynmor and sees his face up close, his black hair falling on blue eyes. Full lips. He moves his gaze away. “What was that? Why are you being short with me?”

Brynmor shakes off Brian’s hold on him with a flourish and Brian steps back, waiting for Brynmor to speak.

“I wouldn’t have expected this of you. Maybe I should’ve with that English Lord at your sister’s wedding. How could you support them?” He accuses.

Brian almost laughs at the absurdity of it but he sees the anger in Brynmor’s eyes and the right set of his jaw and realises this is no laughing matter. 

“That’s not what I’m doing! And you can talk! Why work for Knox?” Brian retorts. Not his best argument admittedly.

“Keeping on the enemy so to speak. I risked exposure for my non-sympathetic about British control here so I was forced to pledge loyalty.” Brynmor explains. “What’s your excuse?” 

“We’re being forced to do this—” Brian tries to explain but gets cut off by Brynmor’s scoff.

“What? Your father couldn’t bear to lose his land and the prestige along with it? Sounds like a man without morals to me.”

Brian glares at him for that. “My Da’s not that shallow.”

Brynmor raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Then why?”

“We’re protecting Murtagh.”

Brynmor’s sceptical look morphs into one of confusion. “Murtagh? The regulator?”

“He’s my Da’s Godfather, he’s like a father to him.” Brian explains, pleased he seems to get through to him and is no longer faced with a ball of anger and disappointment.

Brynmor blinks stupidly, a blush flooding his cheeks. “Oh, well, now I feel embarrassed.”

Brian smiles slightly. “You should. You of all people should know not everything’s so black and white.”

“Fair.”

They go silent. The air around them changes to something else, something Brian doesn’t know how to describe, now that they’re no longer arguing.

“I thought you were mad it me because of, well, you know.” Brian says softly. Not putting a word on it because how could he?

Brynmor smiles tenderly. “No, I could never be mad at you for that. I was mad because I thought you were a loyalist.”

Brian scoffs jovially. “How could you say that? Have not heard about my family? We’re full of revolutionists.” They both chuckle before they quieten. “I’m glad you don’t hate me.”

“No, I rather think I don’t.” Brynmor’s gaze flickers down.

Brian is about to lean in closer when screaming sounds from inside the tavern. The two men jump apart and run out of the alleyway. Brian looks around them and realises smoke is coming from one of the rooms of the tavern, a redcoat leans out of it, holding a handkerchief on his mouth. Then the door opens with a bang and a wave of soldiers and inhabitants spring up.

“Find a doctor!” A red coat cries.

Two soldiers drag Knox's body out of the tavern and spread it on the floor. They cough, suffocate. A crowd begins to gather as a man with a bucket of water enters the tavern.

Brian sees Fergus standing at the end of the street looking at the mess in the street. He runs over to him just as the soldier checks Knox's breathing, then puts an ear on the dead man's chest. He looks at his comrades-in-arms and shakes his head. 

“What happened?” Brian asks his brother. 

“I don’t know.” The Frenchman admits.

Brian is startled when a pair of hands fall on his and Fergus’ shoulders.

It’s Da.

“Let's Go.” He says.

“Milord, it's Lieutenant Knox.” Fergus protests.

“We cannae do anything for ‘im anymore.” Da replies, urging them away and into the shadows.

“But the militia?” Brian questions.

“Bein’ disbanded. There’s no time te explain.”

He frowns at him. Wondering whether he wants to know but then decides he doesn’t need to hear it. Knox asking for the rolls of the prisoners at Ardsmuir, the man’s death and Da’s sudden need to leave, he can put two and two together – or maybe three and three?

As they flee, Brian looks back. His shoulders slump when he realises he lost Brynmor in the crowd.

Chapter Text

December 1770/January 1771

Brian stumbles, slightly drunken on the Fraser whiskey, laughing at Mrs Bug as she curses at Geordie Chisholm’s younger sons, Thomas, Anthony and Toby, as they get under her feet, mucking about as the poor woman tries to carry trays of food and whiskey out to the guests. Brian knows the boys are all reverberating with the excitement at the prospect of staying up late tonight.

“Spawns of Satan!” Mrs Bug hisses. “Ye should mind yer hide, I might smack it!”

“Calm, Mrs Bug!” Brian cries cheerfully. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”

"Humph." She grumbles. "Just keep 'em awa' from the fire."

The fire being the lit bonfire sitting in front of the Big House. 

Brian flashes a grin and salutes. Mrs Bug looks at him, baffled then glares, realising he’s being cheeky. This sets off the boys into a round of giggles, trying to hide behind Brian’s legs when Mrs Bug turns her glare to them.

“Right, you lot, you’ve got to listen to what Mrs Bug says," Brian says sternly. “You wouldn’t want me to tell your parents and go to bed early.”

The mischievous child inside him revels against it but he keeps his face firm. He remembers how these three had apparently ransacked the surgery and caused mayhem while the militia had been away. Mrs Bug had informed the boys, in the hopes of keeping them out, that Mama is a notable witch; a White Lady, who would undoubtedly turn them into toads on the spot should any harm come to the contents of her surgery, which, according to her, would be no great loss to society. That didn’t keep them out. Quite the opposite, they are fascinated, but it had so far prevented them from breaking much.

“Aye, Mister Fraser.” The five-year-old Thomas says, his tone full of awe as he looks up at Brian.

“Good. Now, who wants to melt some cheese on the bonfire?” It is no s’mores but Brian figured it’s the next best thing and what kid doesn’t find melting food on fire exciting?

All three grin with excitement.

Brian is happy to have returned to the Ridge, particularly to call in the new year, or Hogmanay to the Scots, for the second year. They’d returned from Hillsborough now that the militia had been disbanded to find a few surprises. A happy one was the Beardsley twin’s successful operation with the use of Mama’s first batch of penicillin. Brian is happy to hear that Lizzie had stayed with them, seems her attention has truly shifted, and he’s glad. Another pleasing discovery was to find that Joseph Wemyss, Lizzie’s father had arrived as well. It was good to father and daughter reunited.

The final surprise was one they brought with them. Adso, the kitten. Yeah, that was a surprise, the sudden meowing that had come out of Da’s pocket on the journey back to the Ridge. He’s given it to Mama as a gift, the name coming from the cat his Mother owned when he was a child. 

Brian is broken out of his thoughts and where he’d be teaching and keeping an eye on the young Chisholm boys when there’s a giggle and then someone grabbing his leg. He turns and looks down to find the newly turned 3-year-old Germain grinning up at him.

Brian grins at his nephew. “Now what are doing here? Where’s your Mama and Papa?”

The young boy pouts. “They’re no fun Uncle Brian, they’re looking after Joanie and she doesn’t do anything!”

“She will one day. She’ll be able to do all that you can do.” Brian says, arguing in defence of the three-month-old.

Germain grumbles, clearly not believing him. Brian chuckles, swinging him up in his arms causing the young boy to laugh.

——

Brian walks by and he hears giggling and laughter nearby. He turns and it’s Eudora and Penuel MacEalair blushing and giggling. They stand in a group with some other girls including Marion and Agnes MacLeod and Aila Ceallach.

When he looks over, Aila Ceallach straightens and tucks back a stray hair, looking up at him through her eyelashes. Eudora and Penuel pout and frown at the older girl.

“Do I want to know what’s going on there?” Brian remarks to John Lowry, a young farmer from Woolam’s Mill, who’s also watching the group with a bewildered look on his face as Marion MacLeod flashes her eyes at him.

The younger farmer shakes his head. “I dinna ken wha’ they’re about but I ken know we best leave the lasses to it.”

Brian shrugs, letting it go and turns to John. “Care for more Fraser whiskey?”

“Aye, a wee glass can’t hurt.”

——

And of course, there’s dancing. It begins with Kenny Lindsay bringing out his fiddle to accompany his brothers Evan on his bodhran and Murdo on his flute. Thurlo Guthrie hands his elderly father a set of small uilleann pipes. A drunk Ellen dances with Marsali who’s equally on the tipsy side. Brian, feeling looser than usual, agrees to giving Eudora and Penuel MacEalair a spin after the two girls ask him to. He also agrees because he sees the look of displeasure on Grannie MacEalair’s face.

Ronnie Sinclair brings out a drum and a new beat begins. The Lindsay brothers soon implore Da to perform the Highland sword dance, chanting ‘Mac Dubh’. Brian laughs with Ellen as they both join in. It takes Fergus and Geordie Chisholm grabbing Da by the arms and pushing him to the centre of the circle, where a makeshift dance floor had popped up, that Da finally obliges them with a jig.

Da's feet hit the ground, to the north, east and west, skilfully chaining the steps between the swords. He dances with all the skill of a warrior. Brian watches, fascinated by his ferocity and the rhythm of the Scottish drum. The sweat now flows on Da's forehead, he looks at Mama, who smiles at him.

——

They all cheer, knocking their drinks together in celebration when it turns midnight, signalling the start of a new year. Brian can’t believe that he’s really here, in 1771, surrounded by the history he learnt at school. He shares looks with Roger and Ellen who share similar looks of disbelief. 

“Get te the back, Frasers. We dinna need yer bad luck!” Nelson McIver yells as they all get ready to start what Brian has learnt to be first-footing, which is an event that starts immediately after midnight. 

It involves being the first person to cross the threshold of a friend or neighbour and often involves the giving of symbolic gifts such as salt, coal, shortbread, whisky, and black bun, intended to bring different kinds of luck to the householder and supposed to be good luck for the rest of the year. Food and drink (as the gifts) are then given to the guests. This may go on throughout the early morning hours and into the next day. 

Brian rolls his eyes amicably, scratching the back of his head underneath his red hair. “Oh, you want me to take back our whiskey then.”

Those around them begin to jokingly whine at Mclver, declaring he’d ruined everything. Da tips his head back and laughs.

Tomorrow they’ll continue with saining ('protecting, blessing') another Hogmanay custom but for now, Brian happily joins in the merriment, reassuring everyone that they can keep the whiskey though they better watch it.

Chapter Text

March 1771

A young girl, who introduced herself as Miss Martin, beams up to him happily as Brian dances on the dance floor with her to the Irish music being played. Of all his dancing companions, she’s the one who he’s enjoyed the most as by most beauty standards she’s considered rather plain which means there’s no confident flirtatious attitude and just a happy young girl to be noticed. She had blushed when Brian had offered his hand to her and had needed a quick nudge from her elderly companion, Miss Bledsoe before she stuttered out a reply. He had asked her because she wasn’t making obvious eyes at him but to also get out of having to do another spin with Jemima Hatfield.

Brian, Mama, Da, Ellen and Roger had all been invited to the wedding of Jocasta Cameron and Duncan Innes at River Run. They had received the invitation a month previous and had all responded they would attend but then a day or two before they would leave to begin their journey, Jemmy had begun showing symptoms of a cold. Roger and Ellen had decided that they would sit out the wedding to take care of Jemmy. 

When news of Jocasta and Duncan Innes’ engagement reached the Ridge, the shock was an understatement of what they felt. They had thought that once everything had come to pass with the Regulators, she and Murtagh would have made their way back to each other and would finally be together and marry. They have had no way of getting in contact with Murtagh to get his take on this, but talking to Jocasta once they’d arrived at River Run about her soon-to-be husband, the indifferent look on her face speaks everything she can’t say out loud. This isn’t a marriage for love, but for ease and stability; and that is something Brian cannot get out of his head.

It should be Murtagh .

Another point of business was the review of Jocasta’s new will. Considering Brian’s refusal, just like his parents, to want to own the plantation, River Run will now be left to Jemmy. Gerald Forbes, as a wedding guest, is the lawyer overseeing the proceedings. Jocasta would sign the contract that names Jemmy as the heir of River Run with Da as a witness, and it would be put into action immediately. Jocasta will serve as the guardian of the plantation until Jemmy comes of age. It’s the best for everyone as Jocasta gets to live out her life in her home and won’t be pushed out early (if the revolution doesn’t do that).

The house has had a new layer of paint and the front courtyard is neat and flowered for the festivities. A large pergola has been erected on the other side of the river with a boat carrying people on the other side of the river to the festivities. Inside the pergola, laughter and the tinkling of the crystal float in the air while slaves in livery bring plates filled with food and drinks. The guests at the wedding are in large clothes, eat, mix with the different groups and converse. Brian is in the middle of it all, trying to fend off advances from all the eligible ladies. Not that the female attention isn’t unwelcome, it’s just a bit much and currently he has his eye on someone though he’s not sure he’s even here.

The song ends and Brian spits his parents walking amongst the crowd, avoiding the eye of two elderly women, the Misses MacNeils, who have been suggesting and nudging him towards what they describe as eligible ladies, and quickly makes his way over, hoping they’ll act as a block to anymore dance partners.

“You did very well out there.” Mama compliments, smiling. Da stays quiet, frowning at everyone around them. Something he’s been doing since they’ve left the Ridge.

“I was trying to survive.” Brian replies, pulling a face. “It seems every single lady in North Carolina is out there trying to force Cupid. They’re vultures out there.”

“What about that last girl, Miss Martin?” Mama suggests, hopefully. “You danced a couple with her.”

Brian knows his mother wants him to find someone. He doesn’t know if Brynmor is that person but he’s certainly not what his parents would describe as appropriate. 

“I don’t think so, Mama.”

Da lets out a dry chuckle at Mama’s pout, but strangely doesn’t say anything and instead moves his gaze back to the crowd. 

“Are you alright, Da?” Brian asks him. 

“It should be Murtagh at Jocasta’s side.” He says. He follows his gaze and sees that he isn’t staring at the crowd in general but at his aunt and Duncan Innes standing together and speaking to friends. “Instead, here I am, rubbin’ shoulder wi’ the verra devils who’d see 'im dead.”

Mama takes Da’s arm, comforting him. “You can’t be so hard on yourself.” She tells him. “You asked him to wait. If Murtagh isn’t here today, then that’s his own choice.”

“And you know that the further away he is from here, the safer he is.” Brian adds. “If he stays out of sight for long enough, Tryon will have to give up the fight. He’s already given mercy to the other Regulators. He’ll back down from Murtagh sooner or later.”

When he doesn’t respond, Mama changes the subject, looking back out onto the dance floor. “He looks like he’s having so much fun.” She remarks to Brian.

Brian looks out to see Lord John looking like he is being held at gunpoint dancing with the same group of women who’s also been hounding Brian. But when the music at last ends, Brian sees his body relax and he walks off the dance floor before any of the women can approach him. He goes to his three friends once he turns around and sees them. 

“Very impressive, John.” Brian tells him with a grin. 

“I had no idea you were such a good dancer.” Mama goes on. 

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not certain I am.” He admits. He, with the others following, looks back to what appears to be his and Brian’s fan club, stealing quick flirty glances at them and giggling. “I think I must’ve danced with every girl in the province.”

Brian winces in pity knowing it’s worse for him than it is for him. Unlike John, Brian isn’t exclusively interested in men. “I apologise for not staying on the dance floor for longer, would’ve evened the load.”

The conversation turns less jovial when Governor Tryon and his wife, Margaret, approach them.

Apparently, Mrs Tryon has a big mouth. They all approach Governor Tryon for a chat, and his wife lets it slip that they're moving to New York. Even more pressingly, since he is to leave, Tryon clearly wants to do a cleanup, their conversation leads to the revelation that Tryon has signed an order to prevent riotous assembly – it prohibits 10 men or more from gathering under specific circumstances. Brian tries not to snort at the misplaced pride on the man’s face. If the Regulators are willing to go to war over the taxes Tryon has set, what in the hell makes him think they’re going to listen to some little rule about how many men can be in one room?

Tryon remarks how he wishes he’d come up with the idea sooner then Knox might still be with them. Brian shares a look with his Da who tries to hide his guilt. Again, Brian understands the feeling for a different reason. If he hadn’t been distracted and he’d been with his Da and Knox, he might’ve been able to stop this.

Just as he has this thought, he chokes on his wine when he sees the person he’s just been thinking over walking through the crowd. A very familiar tall, thin and wiry build with black black and blues and high cheekbones. Brynmor.

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ as his mother likes to say.

His visceral reaction doesn’t go unnoticed and Mrs Tryon turns to him with wide concerned eyes. “Mister Fraser, are you well?”

Brian coughs slightly before flashing his most charming smile. “Of course, my apologies, Your Excellency.”

He looks towards where he’s seen Brynmor and that is when he catches the man’s eye and, because he’s him, Brian takes another sip of his drink and proceeds to choke on it again.

Chapter Text

Brynmor slams his lips against Brian, holding the other man against the wall of some outbuilding as they press closer to one another. The ferocity of the kiss can entirely be blamed on the tension that’s been building up between them.

Mrs Tryon and Mama had been concerned and had walked him away from the conversation. Brian would have rather heard more about what Tryon had to say but instead, he’s dragged into the man’s wife’s nattering before he’s able to slip away when a man called Philip Wylie, someone his mother has met before, appears and Brian makes his escape with her while leaving Mrs Tryon to block him.

Even though he tries to avoid him, Brian is always hyper-aware of where Brynmor is. Every so often, he would glance over to see Brynmor doing the exact same thing. He would blush, looking down at his wine every time, trying to act like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. 

It comes to a head when Brynmor slides over to where Brian hides behind the outbuilding, remarking, “There always seems to be a violent altercation when we meet, isn’t there?”

Brian startles before letting out an awkward laugh. He’s not wrong about that. Shortly after the wine choking incident, it became clear there was a fight going on between Robert Barlow and Nubian Hamilton along with several other guests over varying opinions on the regulators until Major MacDonald and Hermon Husband intervened and ended the conflict peacefully.

Brynmor clears his throat, walking closer. “So, I cannot help but think that we rather got interrupted last time.”

Brian flushed. “I, er, I s-suppose you could… say that?”

Brynmor is standing right in front of him now, hands gripping Brian’s lapels of his coat. Oh. “I do.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Brian gasps. 

“Shut up.” Brynmor shoves Brian against the nearest wall and crushes their mouths together. 

Brian's too shocked to respond, mouth falling open slackly in a way that's more surprise than an invitation, but then he starts kissing him back after it takes him a second to realise what’s happening. Brian's legs fall open readily, Brynmor crowds up between them and hooks one knee around the back of Brynmor’s thigh, his hands on Brynmor’s neck and back. God. 

“Brian?!” 

Shit. Lord John.

They freeze before leaping apart but it’s too late as John stands there, staring at them with mouth agape. 

“John, I…” Honestly, Brian is lost for words.

John clears his throat siding Brynmor who appears to be trying to hide from view. “Sorry, Mister…?”

“Jones.”

“Mister Jones, could Mister Fraser and I converse in private?” John asks cordially.

“Er, sorry, yes, yes, yes, of course.” Brian and Brynmor share one last look before the latter leaves quickly.

Brian straightens his clothes and squares his shoulders as he looks at John. He is not entirely sure how the man will react to the situation so he needs to be ready.

But if anything, John is just frowning in what appears to be confusion. “So, uh, you appear to show some affection with a person of familiar stature…”

“It would appear so…” Brian says slowly, curious at where he’s going with this as thankfully it’s not negative so far.

“I didn’t know you were– I thought– you seemed to like the female attention even though it got a bit much—”

The man’s stumbling over his words so much that Brian decides to cut in. “I still do.” John looks confused. “I like both you see.”

“Oh.”

“And currently I appreciate the attention of, er, well you know.” Brian adds awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Er em, yes, Mister Jones.” There’s a moment of hesitancy then he asks, “Does anyone know?”

“Da, definitely not, Mama, don’t think so but I’d put Ellen at a maybe. Why?” Brian’s eyes widen. “Wait, does Da know about you?”

John hesitates but gives a nearly imperceptible nod. This makes a small bubble of hope rise in Brian’s chest. “You two are friends? So maybe…”

“It might be best not to tell him, Brian.”

Brian frowns. Eh? “What, why?”

“Despite him knowing of me, I do not know if he’ll—”

Brian’s stomach sinks. What had he been thinking? “He’s going to kill me, isn’t he? Da is going to kill me if he finds out what I am.”

Da is anything but progressive. Except maybe, in some ways, when it comes to Mama. Brian leans against the wall once more, head in his hands. 

Moments later, he hears John settle beside him. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Brian looks up to see a look of pity on John’s face. One he doesn’t appreciate and he can’t help but glare at the man. “Look, I don’t need your advice, alright?!” He spits before striding away, stepping back out into the party, looking for Brynmor. He can hear John walking after him causing him to roll his eyes.

“Brian, I’m sorry for what I have said, but perhaps your father will be more open minded than you think, you must understand that you need to be careful—” John tries to argue.

“You don’t know that!” Brian snaps. “And, of course I’m careful. Do you really think think I’m that stupid? That I—” 

He cuts himself off when his eyes catch an odd sight of Mama following Philip Wylie, a man Brian had only just seen her trying to escape from.

“Is that…” he murmurs, stepping around John to see better. “What the hell?”

“What is it?” John asks, turning to look too. 

“It’s my mother and Philip Wylie. It looks like she’s following him into the stables. What is she doing?” He looks at John. “I need to find Da, right now.”

“I’ll help you find him.”

Brian hesitates briefly before reluctantly nodding. Luckily, they don’t have to go far as Da has apparently been looking for her. 

“There ye are, Brian.” Da calls to him before Brian and John make it ten seconds into their search. “I was wonderin’ where ye and yer Mother ended up.”

“Er, around… but I just saw Mama go into the stables with Philip Wylie.”

“Philip Wylie? I’ve heard his name mentioned several time teday. Why would she be alone with him?” Da wonders.

“I don’t know but whatever it is, it can’t be good.” Brian remarks.

Not needing to hear anything else, Da takes off running to the stables with Brian and John following him as well as they can. 

Chapter Text

A loud noise, as if a hand hitting skin, echoes as they reach the stables and a voice sounding rather like Wylie’s yelling, “You bitch!” 

Da barges into the stable. Brian and John arrive just in time to see a manure-covered Wylie being held against the stable wall by Da who's also holding a knife against Wylie’s privates. 

“Jamie, no!” Mama cries. 

“She offered me a drink and almost begged me to take it right away! This woman is a despicable succubus!” Wylie accuses. 

Brian tries to lunge at him but John grasps his shoulder stopping him. 

“How dare ye?” Da sneers furiously. 

“Stop! Are you really going to kill someone at your aunt's wedding? It's not worth it.” 

Mama’s words cause Da to hesitate. He grasps Wylie by his clothes tightly one more time, leaning in. “If I see ye near my wife again, I will kill ye.” Da threatens, with every intention of keeping that vow. “Yer understand?!” 

Wylie doesn’t answer, too frozen in fear to speak before eventually nodding. Da pushes him against the wall, releasing him, then throws him his walking stick as a signal to get out. Then, trying to preserve what remains of his dignity, Wylie fixes his wig and saunters out the door, not giving Brian and John a glance, with manure on his back. 

“I’m going to go make sure he doesn’t make a further fool of himself and spread lies,” John whispers to Brian. 

“Of course, thank you,” Brian replies. John nods and follows after Wylie. 

Brian walks further into the stables where Mama is now being held in Da’s embrace. “Are you okay?” He asks her. 

Mama gives him a smile, her hand cupping his cheek. “Yes, I am. You don’t need to worry about me.” 

“I always worry about you.” Brian retorts. 

“I can fight my own battles. Wylie wasn’t a hard man to fight off.” Mama’s grin is wider now and Brian lets out a soft laugh at that. 

Brian frowns when he then notices a mark on her neck that he swears he hadn’t noticed earlier. “What’s that?” He bends over and touches Mama's neck with his hand. Brian brings his hand back and stares at what appears to be… mole? 

Brian lets out an exclamation of disgust and Mama winces in embarrassment. 

Da angrily turns away and takes a hundred steps, trying to calm down before rounding on them. “Wha’ in the name of Christ, wha’ were ye thinkin’, Sassenach? Spendin’ time alone wi’ a man like ‘im? I'll leave you alone for a little while and—” 

“He knows Stephen Bonnet.” Mama interrupts him. Silence. 

Brian’s mind begins to short-circuit. What, no– she can’t— 

“Wha’? He told ye this?” Da questions. 

“Wait, wait. ‘Knows,’ like present tense? Stephen Bonnet is dead. How can he know him?” Brian frantically asks. 

Da and Mama look at each other, and then Da says, “We didna want ye tell ye until it was absolutely necessary. And it appears it now is.” 

“Tell me what? He’s dead, right? He blew up in the jail.” Brian asks, desperately hoping what they’re saying isn’t true. That the man who hurt his sister isn’t still out there. 

“We dinna ken how, but he survived. He’s been livin’ in Wilmington this whole time.” 

The room starts spinning around Brian and the nausea is building. “What? What do you mean? No. He… he’s dead. He couldn’t have… he’s… he’s alive?” 

“He is.” Mama answers, griping his hand to comfort or maybe ground him. “We’ve been trying to find a way to him, which is why I went with Philip Wylie. That smuggler he employs in Wilmington, it’s him.” 

“How long have you two known this?” 

“John Grey told me at Ellen and Roger’s weddin’,” Da replies. 

Brian’s eyes bug out. “You’ve known all this time and never said anything? Does Ellen know?” 

“She doesna. We didn’t want ye te ken any of this until there was a plan in place te end ‘im once and for all.” 

“And as much as I detest the idea of being within a mile of that man again, Wylie is our way in,” Mama adds, reasoning with him. “He’s up to his neck in gambling debt. So I thought I could tempt him with a business deal, then maybe he’d set up a meeting. I had a feeling it was Stephen Bonnet. Turns out, I was right. But now, I’ve thrown him in horse shit and you’ve threatened to kill him. How are we supposed to get him back on our side?” 

As much of a horrible shock this is to Brian, he is now determined to do whatever he has to so as to see the death of Stephen Bonnet play out. He watches Da as his brain is wracking for an answer. He caresses the beautiful black stallion, an idea forming in his mind. 

“Ye say the man likes te gamble?” 

“Too much. But he doesn’t seem to be very good.” Mama replies, slightly confused. 

“I have a plan. There’s talk of a whist game takin’ place later. I can challenge ‘im. If and when I win, he’ll give us tha’ meetin’.” 

——

That night Brian paces on the porch of River Run. Rubbing his face in frustration as his mind whirls from angry to worried. 

Da’s plan was partly the reason for his anger. The plan was to have a high-stakes card game. If Da wins, he gets the stallion and the chance to negotiate but if Wylie wins, then he gets Mama’s golden wedding ring she’d received from his other Dad, Frank. Mama had been rightfully outraged at this as Brian had been too. 

His relationship with his other Father wasn’t the strongest but he still meant something to Da, same for Mama. She’d taken both rings off and stormed off with Brian close behind. 

He can’t believe what Da was thinking about taking the risk and Brian blatantly refused to take part. To take part in allowing that coward to humiliate and hurt his Mother like this and that is how his mind goes from anger to worry as what if Da loses. 

“Ye tryin’ te travel te the other side of the world by burrowin’ through the ground, diabhal beag?” 

Brian recognises it right away, but he can’t believe it is real. He turns to see Murtagh standing in the shadows beside the building with a grin on his face. 

The biggest smile Brian has had on his face in a long time exploded. “Murtagh!” He cries in utter excitement while being as quiet as he can. Brian collides into him in a massive hug. Murtagh grasps him just as tight. “I can’t believe it’s you.” When they separate, Brian hits him on the shoulder, his voice chokes up from happiness, “What are you doing here? How are you here? Tryon is here with his Redcoats.” 

“Ye ken I’m no seen when I dinna want te be.” Murtagh retorts with a wry grin. 

“Does Da know you’re here?” 

“No, and he canna know. It’s too dangerous fer him. I just needed te come and see her before she gives herself te another.” 

Brian softens. Jocasta. “You came for her?” 

He nods. “I needed te know if… it doesna matter. I canna stand in the way of her happiness. I love her too much te keep her hostage like that.” 

“Please stay, Murtagh,” Brian begs. “Please, come back with us to Fraser’s Ridge. You don’t need to be alone. You have us. Please, don’t leave again.” 

“I wish I could. I would give anythin’ fer a life wi’ Jamie and all of ye. But I can’t. I have my duty te me men. I must see this through. I’m sorry, lad. I must go before I’m found here.” He grasps his shoulder with firm but affectionate and smiles at him, the wrinkles around his eyes coming together. “I’ll always be with ye. Ye ken diabhal beag?” 

Brian nods tearfully. Then, like he had been a dream, he’s gone. 

——

The next day, Brian is relieved that Mama has not lost either of her rings as Da has won the game, keeping both rings safe and winning Wylie's prized Friesian stallion named Lucas. 

Everyone, at last, gathers for the wedding. Brian can’t help the extra ping of sadness he feels watching Jocasta and Duncan exchange their vows after he knows that Murtagh had gone to her. He notices how Jocasta is tearing up during the ceremony. But Brian knows it is for a different reason rather than what everyone else thinks. While the audience coo and awe over how beautiful it is that Jocasta loves him so much she is crying, Brian knows they can’t have been farther from the truth and she is crying because she wishes it is another man she is standing in front of saying “I do” to. 

They bid the newly Mr and Mistress Innes goodbye the next morning, and start the journey home. 

Chapter Text

Spring 1771

Robin and Ute McGillivray, after having received the invitation to settle on Fraser’s Ridge at the Mount Helicon gathering the previous October, arrive at the Ridge along with their brood, Manfred, Hilda, Inga and Senga to find the leader of the settlement, Jamie Fraser, isn’t there along with his wife and his son, Brian, due to them all attending their Aunt’s wedding at River Run.

Inga notices her mother’s disappointment at their absence and Inga is too, particularly at the absence of Brian, she would’ve liked to have seen him. But they are warmly welcomed by Jamie Fraser’s other children, Ellen Mackenzie and Fergus Fraser, along with their spouses, Roger and Marsali, and their children. 

The family are settled into the home and property of Ronnie Sinclair, a man who Inga’s father met at Ardsmuir Prison. Ronnie, a copper by trade, helps her father set up his shop so he can continue his work as a gunsmith. 

Her mother is happy to meet another German family, the Muellers. She happily batters away with Rosewitha, the mother, in German while her husband, Gerhard, shows little interest in conversing in English with Inga’s father. There are eight of them in total with the children and the nephews. Sadly, one of the sons, Fredrick (or Freddy) had lost both his wife and child to measles more than a year ago now. Marsali confides this to Inga when she asks as well as the fact that Gerhard disagrees with Marsali’s mother-in-law and instead believes the infection is a deliberate curse put on his family by the Cherokee.

It’s not long, however, until the other members of the Fraser clan return to the Ridge and welcome the McGillivrays clan themselves. Inga blushes when Brian turns to her with a warm grin on his face.

“Inga. Right?” His strange pattern of speech feels comforting to her ears.

“Er, yes, Mister Fraser.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Call me Brian. Saves confusion.”

Inga smiles shyly, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear.

“Where have you been? Da had hoped you’d be here before winter.” Brian remarks.

Inga cannot help but feel disappointed with the fact that Brian’s tone seems only friendly interest, the interest of the son of a leader inquiring after the people’s well-being but she answers anyway.

“My father at to settle business in Cross Creek and my brother in Hillsborough with his apprenticeship so my mother, me and my sisters spent winter in Salem.” Inga explains.

Brian looks startled but there’s also an almost gleeful curious glint in his eyes. “Salem?”

Inga goes to respond but they’re interrupted by Senga. “Mister Fraser!”

She flicks her loose hair over her shoulder as she bats her eyes at him. Inga purses her lips in annoyance at her younger sister’s interruption.

Thankfully, Brian is startled rather than won over. “Oh, um, hello. And you are?”

“Senga. The most intelligent and beautiful of all my sisters.” Senga replies flirtatiously.

“Why of course.” Brian says indulgently. He shuffles uncomfortably.

“And the most selfish.” Manfred quips as he pops up next to them.

Senga cries out in annoyance and thwacks their brother. Inga blushes, embarrassed, but Brian chuckles at them. He flashes a look to Inga that reads Siblings, hey?

She blushes and looks down.

——

It’s the last day of March and everyone’s celebrating Easter Sunday. 

Inga smoothes down her finest dress, green in colour, loose hair kept away from her face by a silk ribbon that matches her dress as she watches the gathering, looking for a certain someone. She sees her sister Hilda beaming at her new husband Davey Morrison. The nuptials only happened a couple of days ago and the two seem very happy. The Fraser-Mackenzies were also in attendance. 

Inga’s mother stands in a group with Ronnie Sinclaire and Senga. Inga would be stupid not to notice her mother has been nudging Senga towards Ronnie recently and can’t help but roll her eyes at the sight as she knows her younger sister isn’t going to be interested.

It’s then that she spots Brian talking to William and Fiona Ceallach and their daughter Aila. Her heart drops, feeling disappointed.

Manfred pops up next to her. “I can sense your plot to kill that poor girl from miles away.” He’s swaying slightly and has a half-drunken cup in hand.

Inga rolls her eyes and smacks his arm but her brother continues to grin at her.

“Why don’t you go and say hello?”

Inga’s eyes widen in alarm. “No! I cannot do that!”

“Yes, you can.”

And with that, Manfred grasps her upper arm and drags her over before she can stop him. She hisses at him to stop and tries desperately to dig in her heels but it doesn’t work and they arrive at the group. Mister and Mistress Ceallach look at her oddly and Aila looks at her with disinterest but Brian beams and welcomes them warmly.

“Oh, hello, Inga.” He greets.

Her heart does a flip but she tries to remain calm and collected. “Hello, Brian.”

"What a nice dress," he said.

After a short conversation with the group, Inga decides that she will not murder her brother when he is soon able to turn Ceallach’s attention away, which gives Inga her chance to talk to Brian. 

“I’m not going to be here long.” Brian confesses as they drink their drinks. “Governor Tryon. He’s the—”

“Governor of North Carolina, I know.” She feels miffed that he assumes she wouldn’t know. 

Brian has the wisdom to look mildly ashamed. “Yes, sorry. Anyway, it appears the Governor has called upon my father to gather the militia once more.”

“Why?” Inga knows this means fighting for Brian as well as her father and brother possibly but it can’t mean that, can it?

“His new Riot Act. Tryon is indicating any man even seen at a riot in previous months. None have asked for clemency so the regulators will face his ire.” Brian further explains.

Inga perks up, she knows about this! “Such as the one in Hillsborough?”

Brian looks surprised and pleased at her knowledge. “Yes.” He sighs to himself. “I hope Brynmor will be safe.”

“Brynmor?”

Brian blushes. “Er, yes. Brynmor Jones. A friend of mine. He was there.”

Inga frowns. “Oh, will he not show mercy? To your friend?”

Brian scoffs. “His prior work for Lieutenant Knox may protect him but I don’t think men like him know the concept.” His eyes widen. “Er, I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

Inga smiles conspiringly. “Don’t worry, I will not tell.”

Inga feels warm from the thankful smile he gives her. Inga sees Senga sending her a jealous look from where she’s trapped with Ronnie and their mother.

“Fraser! Come here!” Tommy Mueller calls, waving for Brian to come over.

Brian smiles apologetically before following Tommy to where Gerhard and Freddy Mueller stand with Eudora and Penuel MacEalair as well as their grandmother. Tommy’s brother looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

She watches him leave, her lips press together in a pleased smile even though their conversation being cut short.

Chapter Text

“Do not be afraid, it doesn't hurt a bit to die.”

– Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser

Reincarnation wasn't anything like how it was depicted. He didn't magically have all the memories of his past life. An infant's brain couldn't handle the strain of having all those memories. In a way, it did all filter through to him through dreams but he never retained them, just woke up with the feelings they had caused. These feelings felt distant as if it wasn't him though. 

——

May 1771

He dangles, kicking, and hears a far-off rumble from the crowd. He kicks and bucks, feet pawing empty air, hands clawing at his throat. His chest strains, his back arches, and his sight goes black, small lights flickering in the corners of his eyes. And then the stubborn impulse leaves him and he feels his body stretch and loosen, reaching, reaching for the earth.

“Brian!” Ellen’s cry breaks through.

“I’ll hold him! Cut him down!” Da speaks. 

Hands take hold of his body round the middle, lifting slightly to take the strain off the rope. Brian moans. 

The next few minutes had been a blur. Hands holding him steady as he’s cut down. He can hear Da’s frantic begging, full of apologies, Ellen’s sobbing and Mama’s practical doctor voice as she tries to help him but he can hear her voice wobbling. 

“You’re going to be ok, Brian.” She whispers, her hands on either side of his head. 

He tries to move, he tries to speak, but he can’t. He hadn’t died yet but he was, however, in the process of doing so before his parents’ and sister’s eyes as they cry and yell frantically above him. 

Then another voice breaks through, an old memory that drowns out his family’s voices. Instead, he finds himself on hard tarmac ground. A road? 

“–Jeremy! Jeremy, don't leave me please!” 

He doesn't reply. He panics. What's he doing here? Why's he here? Who's Jeremy? No– Jeremy was– oh God. How could he have forgotten? 

Leave? No, he can't leave, not again. 

The blackness envelopes him. 

——

August 2016 

Jeremy gasps awake and his hand immediately goes to his neck, rubbing it to make sure it’s not, it didn’t happen. He’s been having a lot of those strange dreams lately, of him living this other life but inside a body he can’t control. He knows it can’t be real but he can’t not believe it as well. The rope around his neck had felt so real as it choked him. 

He’s breathing heavily, panicking as he sits up in bed. The memories of his dream flicker through his mind making him shake, his breath catch. 

He startles when his door shakes as a few thumps smack against it. 

“Jeremy? Jeremy? Get up you lazy ass. It’s move-in day. We have four and a half hours to get to NYU!” Cries his mother. 

“I’m coming, Mom!” Jeremy calls back, flinging out of his bed. Here’s to a new beginning. 

——

December 2017 

“Jeremy? Jeremy!” 

Jeremy blearily blinks up at his friend Brandon. “Mmm? What?” 

“You okay man?” Brandon asks worriedly. 

“Uh, no, not really.” He mumbles. 

Brandon raises an eyebrow as if encouraging him to continue, chewing on his burrito. The NYU Campus Corner Cafe is many things, but an upstanding, clean establishment is not one of them. Still, it is perfect for Jeremy and his friend Brandon to meet up once a week, take their drink of choice, and split an overwhelmingly large breakfast burrito. 

Jeremy sighs and begins to speak, “It's– I’ve been having this dream for like a year now where I, er, basically, I’m being hanged and I, um, I don’t know but I can’t help but feel like it’s a warning. A premonition or something.” 

“Well, fuck man, I don’t know how to help you there,” Brandon responds. 

“Neither do I,” Jeremy grumbles. 

Suddenly, Brandon jumps up as if he’s been electrocuted, he waves his hands around excitedly as he articulates his idea while Jeremy winces at the wasted bits of rice that fall out of his friend’s burrito. 

“What you need is a distraction!” 

Jeremy blinks at his friend in alarm. “A what?” He blurts. 

“Distraction, a hook up, a dalliance.” 

Jeremy wrinkles his nose. “No one says dalliance, Brandon.” 

Brandon scoffs. “They should.” Jeremy sighs. “Oh, come on man! What about Amelia Davis?” 

“Brandon, no,” Jeremy intones, a small groan in his voice betraying how he really feels about this subject. 

“Brandon, yes,” Brandon retorts with a ridiculous smile. “All I’m saying is that you should do something about your ridiculous crush before we go into next semester. I think you should go for it.” 

“Brandon, it's not going to happen,” Jeremy grumbles out. 

“You never know, she might actually be exactly what you are looking for.” 

“I am not going to ask Amelia Davis out, Brandon. Remember what happened with that British guy, Henry, last semester?” He retorts. 

“Jeremy, you have been obsessed with her all semester, yet you haven’t said a word. Please just walk up to her tomorrow and literally just introduce yourself.” Brandon pleads. Jeremy is sure that he is sick and tired of hearing Jeremy moan about his crush. 

“I am not going—” Jeremy starts, and then is stopped by a hand on his mouth. 

“Look, if you do this and it doesn’t go anywhere, I promise to try out for the lacrosse team.” Comes Brandon’s ultimatum. 

He turns to look Brandon in the eye. “Really?” He asks. Jeremy’s been trying to get Brandon to join the team for months and the national championship is coming up in about four/five months. 

“Really.” He says smugly. 

“Fuck me, I guess I am going to embarrass myself greatly tomorrow in the name of entertainment for my best friend.” Jeremy starts. 

“Oh, you mean your only friend,” Brandon interjects. 

Jeremy lets out a cry of outrage, throwing some of his burrito in his friend’s face. 

——

June 2018 

Jeremy is frantic as he runs. When he starts running it is hard to stop. He can’t let things end like this, he needs to tell Amelia the truth. But he forgets to pause at red lights. He forgets to look both ways. His legs push him closer and closer and as he gets nearer the bond strengthens, tightens, and thrums with energy. Something catches his attention from the corner of his eye, but by the time he glances up, it’s too late. There is a terrifying screech of brakes, and then the car hits him. 

His entire body hurts as he smacks down onto the road with a skin-numbing thump. He can feel blood leaking from the side of his face but everything is one smear of pain and he can't tell whether it is from his nose or his mouth, or both. 

It takes a few minutes for sound to return to the world. He can hear three distinct voices, each of them talking over one another, and none of them familiar. A car door slams. Someone swears. Someone starts speaking a one-sided conversation, into a phone presumably, calling the police or an ambulance perhaps. The light from the street lamps is so bright it almost hurts when he's finally brave enough to open his eyes. 

Someone is kneeling by his side, and considering the look of annoyance crossed with guilt on the person's face, Jeremy has a feeling that this is the driver of the car that hit him. He tries a weak smile to reassure the guy it isn’t his fault that Jeremy ran out into the middle of a road without looking both ways. 

“Are you okay? Just stay still, alright? Don't move a muscle, you might have broken something. The woman on the phone said it was important to make sure you weren't moved.” The man says, one hand still holding a phone up to his ear and the other fluttering helplessly over Jeremy’s body. 

“Mm,” Jeremy lets out a soft grunt of pain. He’s peachy. Just peachy. Why does this never happen in the movies? When the protagonists are running towards their destiny, or to the love of their life, none of them get hit by a car. 

He closes his eyes again, ignoring the man when he tries to shake him gently, worried that Jeremy is falling into some kind of coma. Honestly, he thinks he is. The pain is wrecking through his body. 

“Jeremy!” 

Amelia.

Amelia falls to her knees by Jeremy’s side, practically shoving the driver of the car out of the way before the poor man has even registered that somebody else is coming towards them. 

“I’m sorry.” Jeremy sobs. 

Amelia reaches out with shaking hands, stroking his face. “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.” 

“Amelia…” 

“No, ssshh, it’s okay.” 

His eyes flicker closed. He feels his body shutting down, his breathing shallow. 

“Jeremy! Jeremy, don't leave me please!” 

It’s the last thing he hears before everything goes black. 

——

May 1744 

He sees what he thinks is the light at the end of the tunnel, his life passing through his eyes, but the light he is seeing is not from a tunnel but from his birth, or rather, from his rebirth. As he emerges, he hears French being spoken in soft, worried tones before frantic English being spoken by a woman breaks through. 

“What is it? Why isn't he crying? He–” 

She gets cut off when he suddenly receives a harsh slap on his bottom and suddenly wailing can be heard. 

“See, Madame Fraser. All is well.” 

He is placed in someone's arms. His vision is blurry but he can see shades of amber, golden brown, and smoky topaz, surrounded by brown framing the blip the colours sit upon. The woman lets out a gasp as she sobs. 

“Oh,” she sobs, “thank God.”

Chapter Text

May 1771 

The time had come for a moment they all dread, having to face the Regulators or, more specifically, Murtagh. Lizzie, Jemmy, and Ellen are staying in Hillsborough at the Sherstons’ while Brian, Roger, Da and Mama join the militia, Fraser’s company, where they camp with the rest of the regiment at Alamance. 

They’d been a bit lost on the outcome of this event. Brian and Ellen have no recollection of this event from any of the history books on the revolution despite Ellen’s uncompleted degree in History. They had read about the Boston Massacre but never this. Not a word about Governor Tryon, or North Carolina, or a place called Alamance. Ellen had been arguing that it can only mean that there will not be a battle as if there is a big battle, someone would have written something about it and nobody has. 

Brian hopes that she is right. They are no more than four years from the outbreak of the Revolution; even the minor skirmishes preceding that conflict are well-known. The Boston Massacre had happened a little more than a year before. It had been reported, with a good deal of fierce editorialising, in one of the Boston newspapers. He had seen it, in Jocasta’s parlour; one of her friends had sent her a copy. And two hundred years later, that brief incident is immortalised in children’s textbooks, evidence of the rising disaffection of the Colonists. 

Everyone’s tense, not knowing when it’ll all happen. That is the question, all right. Rumours have flown around them like a tornado, all the way from Fraser’s Ridge. The Regulators have ten thousand men, who are marching in a body upon New Bern. General Gage is sailing from New York with a regiment of official troops, cannons and guns to subdue the Colony. The Orange County militia have rioted and killed their officers. Half the Wake County men have deserted. Hermon Husband has been arrested and spirited onto a ship, to be taken to London for trial on charges of treason. Hillsborough has been taken by the Regulators, who are preparing to fire the town and put Edmund Fanning and all his associates to the sword. Brian hopes that one isn’t true—or if it is, that Hubert Sherston was not one of Fanning’s allies for Lizzie, Jemmy, and Ellen’s sake. Sorting through the mass of hearsay, supposition, and sheer wild invention, the only fact of which they can be sure appears to be that Governor Tryon is preparing them all for a fight and does not appear ready to back down. 

It doesn’t help that Isaiah Morton then returns to the militia, much to the dismay of the Browns who still want Alicia back. Mama had tried to insist Alicia made her own choice, but that didn't go over well with 18^th century patriarchy. Morton wanted to repay Brian for helping him and Alicia, so they tried to convince the Browns to accept another man willing to lay down his life. Da tells them they can go if they won't fight alongside them – so they begrudgingly agree to let the unpleasantness go. 

As Brian watches his Da talk to the young Findlay boys, teaching them the differences between hunting and war and to focus on killing as the only way to defend themselves. The boys soak up his advice like sponges. 

He knows his Da is worried and anxious. They had seen the weapons that the regiment has and the comparison to the fact that the Regulators are not as well equipped as the English army is terrifying. Colonel Chadwick has also been a nightmare. The man seems to counterpoint Da at every turn as they advise Governor Tryon. Every time Da tries to get Tryon to proceed with caution, or even stop the fight, Chadwick is aggressive and stimulates him. 

Surely, if there is to be a major battle here, a Royal Governor putting down what is essentially a taxpayer rebellion, that will be worth noting. Still, that is theory. And Brian is uneasily aware that neither warfare nor history take much account of what should happen. He’s never been in a war before; he’d spent his time protesting against one happening. But here he is, Captain Fraser, son of Colonel Fraser, reporting to Governor Tryon, an English colonist. Brian knows Roger is in a similar boat, but for him, he’s recalling the loss of his father to war and not wanting the same for his own son. 

As the thought passes through Brian’s mind, he freezes when he spots a familiar tall man with a thin, wiry build and black hair lurking at the edge of camp. It is only when the face turns and Brian’s blue eyes meet a familiar blue, does he realise it’s Brynmor Jones complete with the high cheekbones. 

Brian strides over to him and gawps at him like a fish. “W–what are you doing here?” 

Brynmor shrugs with a smirk. “What? You didn’t think I’d miss a fight, did you?” 

“More that you’re in this camp and not in the opposing one.” Brian retorts lightly blushing. 

“A man can be versatile.” Is said with a pointed raised eyebrow. 

Brian blushes a deeper red, looking down. Doesn’t he know it. “Really, why are you here?” 

Brynmor sighs reluctantly before asking, “Why do you think?” 

“Information.” Brian realises, eyes flickering over his shoulder in panic and worry for the man in front of him. “You want to get information on the regiment.” 

Brynmor, for the first time, looks hesitant and worried. “You won’t give me away, would you? You can’t seriously support what our supposed Governor is doing?” 

“Of course not,” Brian assures him vehemently. “To both.” 

Brynmor smiles, relaxing. “So… I didn’t come here just for information.” 

Brian’s heart skips. “No?” 

“No.” Brynmor replies. “I came to see you.” 

Brian looks around, Da’s with the Findlay boys and Mama is in another tent set up as an infirmary. Realising everyone is occupied, Brian grabs Brynmor’s arm and drags him into his tent. The man chuckles behind him.

——

“Brian? The troops begin’ te move. Yer mother is—” 

Brian freezes as he hears his father’s voice suddenly cut off behind him. Brynmor sits on the table, Brian pressing into his front with his undone pants slung low on his waist or Brynmor's hand gripping his shoulder. Brian feels Brynmor tense against him, going completely, lifelessly still. His hands are clutched in Brian's shirt, tight enough to hurt and his breathing had picked up to desperate. He is blocking most of Brynmor from sight but Da must see how the legs, wrapped around his waist, are distinctly male. 

Brian can feel his throat closing up, his chest pounding. Please, he internally begs, please just leave. Please just pretend you didn't see anything. But Da doesn’t move and neither do they and the light spilling in from the outside is begging for more witnesses. Brynmor shifts his body and slowly unclench his hands. The table groans underneath him and snaps everyone out of their stand off. 

“Wha’ the– cac, Brian? Wha’ in the devils name are ye doin’?” 

His father’s face is one of complete befuddlement as he stares at them, mostly Brian who – he realises – hasn’t stepped away from Brynmor, hasn't tried to run, just frozen. Brynmor has kept his hand on Brian's shoulder. It certainly doesn’t seem like anything other than a passionate tryst. 

“Wha’ are ye two doin’?” Da speaks in a way that makes it sound like he knows the answer but can’t believe it. Or doesn’t want to. He is faced with his son and an acquaintance in a tent and he has zero idea how to handle it. Da takes a step back, ready to flee. 

“Da, please, wait.” Brian pleads, turning his body slightly toward his father. 

Da turns tail and flees. 

Chapter Text

“Fuck.” Brynmor curses, jumping off the table and trying to fix his clothes but Brian is faster. Never in his life has he dressed so quickly but before he knows it he is bolting from the room in Da's wake, Brynmor's voice calling out behind him. 

“Da! Wait!” 

He catches up with his father as he strides across the camp, grabbing his arm to pull him to a stop. 

“Da—” Brian tries to speak but he gets cut off. 

“Mo mhac, I dinna ken wha’ I saw but we dinna need te speak of it.” Da interrupts, looking uncomfortable and shifty. 

“Da—” 

“I dinna want te speak of it, mo mhac, ye understand?” Da interrupts again. His tone is desperate, almost begging for Brian to stop. “Have ye told yer mother?” 

“No, and not Ellen either. It’s– it’s not exactly a welcome thing still, back in our old time.” Brian sighs and asks hesitantly, “Are you– are you mad?” 

He can’t have Da disappointed in him, one father was bad enough. Maybe Lord John was right about not letting his Da know. 

“I ken it’s yer business. Tis’ something I dinna want to see if me own son. Man or woman.” He says instead and then pauses for a moment, looking uncomfortable. “Is it? Or…” 

“Oh, um, both, er, I like both.” Brian clears his throat, shifting on his feet uncontrollably. This is not something he thought he’d be explaining to Jamie Fraser. 

“Ye ken the dangers, no? Ye and… er Mr Jones, ye ken kno’ it’s dangerous for ye both.” Parental worry is written all over Da’s face. 

“We’re being careful—” 

“No, Brian. Ye canna keep doing this. Dinna argue with me.” Da counters. “Now, ye need to help yer mother.” 

Brian’s heartbreaks but he nods, departing to his mother’s infirmary with a heavy heart. Da never said he wasn’t mad or disappointed in him.

——

The troops are now installed on the West Bank of Alamance Creek with the regulators on the other side, two thousand of them. Double Tryon’s figures. Things had ratcheted up when Tryon learnt that General Waddell’s brigade was ambushed by Murtagh and his men and had their munitions destroyed. The general's troops were forced to retreat. Tryon was enraged by the news and made the quick decision to have the battle here. 

Brynmor had soon scarpered after Da discovered them. Brian doesn’t blame him and now that Da knows, he probably won’t see Brynmor for a while.

Brian worries for his father’s godfather as Tryon is determined to fight. Reverend Caldwell’s plea from the Regulators to settle the matter without bloodshed, offering Tryon a list of demands from the rebels doesn’t stop him. Tryon demands nothing less than surrender since he can't let their blatant disregard for the law go unpunished. 

As they wait, preparing themselves for the inevitable, Brian looks up from where he’s playing mumblety-peg with Murdo Lindsay and Geordie Chisholm to see Ellen arrive across camp on horseback. She looks anxious and exhausted as she dismounts. He rushes towards her, converging on her as his parents and Roger do. 

What’s she doing here? She was half a day away in Hillsborough at the Sherstons with Lizzie and Jemmy. She must’ve galloped at full speed to arrive on time. 

“What are you doing here?” Brian asks Ellen, frantic, once they’re all inside the tent. “Did something happen? Is Jem okay?” 

“He’s fine,” Ellen assures him. “I’m here because I have information about this fight and how it turns out.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Ellen unrolls on the map and points to Alamance Creek. “Look.” She gestures for them all to look at the map on the table, speaking in a low voice despite the five of them being in a more private space and she points out a small marking on it that reads Great Alamace Creek, where they currently are. He tries not to think about how it seems that Da is keeping his distance from him as they gather around it. “It happens here at the creek and the militia will win.” 

They all go quiet, their minds turning with so many more questions and fears. 

“How do you know this?” Brian asks first. “I thought there was nothing recorded about the Regulators. I never learned anything about this in school.” 

“It was a footnote in one of my classes at Harvard. We barely talked about it. I–I knew the name Alamance sounded familiar, I just didn’t know from where. But when I saw it on the map at the Sherstons, it just hit me.” 

“How many lives are lost?” Is Da’s first thought. 

“I don’t know numbers or details. Like I said, my professor mentioned it very briefly. But he did say that some people consider this to be the spark of the American Revolution.” 

Brian is having a hard time wrapping his head around this. “That doesn’t make any sense. If it’s such an important event, then why do none of us know about it?” 

An answer to his question is cut off by Roger. “But the Regulators aren’t tryin’ te overthrow the Crown. They aren’t fightin’ fer independence.” 

“No, but they are rebelling against corruption and unfair taxes,” Mama points out. 

“Yer certain Tryon wins?” Da asks Ellen again, needing the confirmation. 

She is blunt. “Yes.” 

Da steps away, trying to process this new information and what to do with it. 

“We can’t let this happen. The battle, I mean.” Brian states. “We can’t let those men go to their deaths.” 

Da glances at him before hurriedly looking away causing Mama to look at them oddly. 

“I must get a message te Murtagh.” Da declares. He comes back to the table. “If he can be warned the Regulators are doomed te fail, then maybe he can convince his men te retreat and lives will be spared on both sides.” 

An unfortunate realisation comes over Ellen’s face and she bends over to lean on the table. “Wait. If we do stop this fight now, what if… doesn’t that mean the Revolutionary War won’t happen? And America will never become America.” 

“Ye say some people believe this is the spark. Couldn’t the spark alight from somewhere else?” 

“Yes, it could.” Mama agrees. 

“There’s the Boston Massacre, the Boston Tea Party.” Brian puts in. “The Massacre has already so there’s already talk up North of revolution. History has its way of playing out, no matter what obstacles we throw in its way.” 

Da goes on, “Wha’ matters are the men in my charge, the Regulators fightin’ fer wha’ they believe in and my godfather.” 

“I agree,” Roger says. “If America is supposed to be born... history will find another way to get there. I’ll deliver the message te Murtagh.” 

Da nods, surprised by Roger's sacrifice. “It’s too dangerous.” He tells him.

Ellen doesn’t say anything, but the immediate ghostly pale that washed over her face at her husband’s suggestion speaks for her. 

“Then I’ll go with him.” Brian declares. 

If anything, Ellen turns paler while Mama staggers on her feet. 

His mother steps forward, hand stretched out. “Brian—” 

“Roger’s right.” Brian cuts her off, knowing his resolve will weaken if he listens or looks at her. “We need to warn Murtagh and who better than two people he knows are from the future?” 

Roger’s eyes widen as he reads between the lines, realising that Brian is putting his life on the line to protect him. To keep him safe.

Da clenches he’s his jaw and then nods. He reminds them to keep their cockades in their pockets and hands them a white handkerchief, instructing them on what to do. 

Brian puts the handkerchief in his pocket and looks at his sister, who looks at him, proud, but terrified. 

He can do this. 

Chapter Text

Brian groans as he wakes up slowly. The back of his head is pulsing, throbbing in pain. Did something hit his head? He tries to reach to check his head but finds his hands restricted. Wha–

He has no idea where he is, or how he came to be here, but there are voices, lots of voices, but Brian can't decipher their words. For a moment, he feels as though the voices are inside his head. Brian opens his eyes, his vision blurry. He stares numbly for some minutes as men swarm before him in a sea of colours, swirling blues and reds and yellows, mixed with blobs of green and brown.

Is he sitting on the ground? Brian jerks hard at the rope round his wrists but only succeeds in digging the rough material farther into his flesh. He can feel the burn and a damp feeling that he thinks is oozing blood, but Brian can't be sure as his hands have gone numb and an ache courses through his body. He moves to stand or sit up, only then realising that he is bound.

The others are still talking, though, and now Brian is able to seize on a word here and there and try and decipher what is being said. Several pairs of legs swim into view.

“He’s James MacQuiston.” Says one voice. “From Hudgin’s Ferry.” 

“You are sure?” A second asks. Brian wonders, dimly, why he's asking this. Sure of what? Brian is sure of nothing, save that he is in a bad way. 

“Yessir.” Says a third voice. “I saw him in Murtagh Fitzgibbons’s camp, palavering with him. You ask amongst the prisoners, sir—they’ll say so.” 

“You saw him in the battle?” The second voice asks for confirmation.

James MacQuiston. He’d heard of MacQuiston… what…? 

“He killed a man in my company.” The first voice says, his voice harsh with anger. “Shot him in cold blood as he lay wounded on the ground.”

The first voice, he's heard it before.

Brian's vision clears as the faces swim into view. He gags around the fabric in his mouth, stopping him from speaking.

Two men are standing over him. One is unfamiliar, with dark hair and eyes. He is a soldierly-looking man in his late thirties, dressed in a red uniform. The second face swims into view alongside the first. This one seems familiar, face fringed with a thick black beard.

The third, however, looks very familiar. Dirty blond hair, broad-boned, handsome face with deep, striking green eyes. The green eyes looking down on him, dispassionate.

William Buccleigh "Buck" Mackenzie! Green-eyes is Buck! Roger's own great-grandfather – the bastard son of Geillis Duncan and Dougal MacKenzie. His sense of relief at remembering the name is succeeded instantly by shock as he realises that Buck had told them he is MacQuiston. Why—

Brian hears a groan next to him. He turns to see Roger next to him. Face beaten bloody, mouth gagged with cloth and wrists and ankles tied with rope. He blinks blearily at Brian. It clicks then. He remembers.

There had been a fight between Roger and Brian, and Buck's group. After having tried and failed to convince Murtagh to abandon this fight, they had come across a group of women washing clothes with one of them being Morag Mackenzie. She was a woman Roger had met and saved aboard the Gloriana on his voyage from Scotland to the colonies and also Roger's ancestor. It was absolutely great to meet Morag and to see Roger be reunited with his four-times great-grandmother. A sweet scene, until it wasn't...

Brian forgets that certain gestures from a 20th century time traveller's point of view are not perfectly innocent from the point of view of 18th century husbands. If he had, he wouldn't have hugged Morag like he did, and Roger would have stopped him, but Brian had been so excited to meet the woman who is Roger's ancestor that things went wrong. Then they were approached by the enraged Buck.

The rustle that occurred with Buck and his followers led to Brian and Roger being exposed as being on the militia side when their cockades fell from their pocket, a traitor in the men's eyes. They had then knocked Roger and Brian out with the butt of their guns.

As the memories flood his mind and Brian tries to stand, but his wrists and ankles are tied. He manages to get to his knees, hunched like an inch-worm, but lifts his head to see Buck, with a faint smile and his eyes on Brian, put his hand in his pouch and draw out a yellow piece of cloth folded to look like a flower. With a small shock, Brian recognised his own militia badge. Oh God.

Brian shivers as he looks at Buck in horror. His clothes feel damp due to Buck and his friends having thrown him and Roger into the river after he and Roger had first woken up, pressing their heads underwater. Recalling how shots were still being fired nearby; not in volleys, but a ragged popcorn rattle. The air reeked with black powder smoke, and every so often, something came whistling through the trees.

Then they'd gagged him with the flag of truce, Roger with another cloth, and stuffed the kerchief so deep into his throat that he was close to choking, and knotting his own stock round his mouth. Brian gags with reaction at the memory, feeling bile rise up the back of his throat.

He remembers not much else after being knocked out once more until he woke up.

“And which one is—” The soldier asks.

Buccleigh points at Brian. “That’ll be him, Colonel Chadwick.” Then points at Roger. “And he is his accomplice.”

“Very well. Take MacQuiston, too, then.” The soldier, Colonel Chadwick, says and turns away. “Leave his accomplice. Three will be enough for Governor Tryon for now.” 

Hands grip Brian's arms and jerk him upright, pulling him so that he stumbles, his weight supported by two men dressed in uniform. He pulls against them, wanting to turn and find Roger and Buck, but they yank him round, compelling him to stumble toward a small rise, topped with a huge white oak and surrounded by a sea of men, but they fall back, making way for Brian and his escorts. He sees the horses beneath the tree, the looped nooses hanging above the empty saddles from its branches.

The three chosen ones are quickly prepared for execution and forced to stand on a horse. Brian throws himself to the side, trying to fall off the horse, but hands catch him and push him back, one strikes him hard across the face. He shakes his head, eyes watering, and through the blur of tears sees who he thinks is Roger, fighting against the captors to save him. To save Brian.

The sack is placed over his head, the rope is placed around his neck, drawn tight about his throat, and Brian screams behind the gag. He continues to struggle with a strength beyond what he had ever imagined he possessed, desperate to survive. His highs clench so hard about the horse's body that it jerks under him in protest.

A voice is speaking, but Brian hears nothing for the roar of blood in his ears. Then he feels his bottom slide back over the horse's rump. Now, without the animal's support, Brian's legs dangle helplessly. He hears a wrenching jerk, and then he is spinning, choking, fighting for air. His hands have come loose, and he tries to tear at the rope, but it is too late.

He dangles, kicking, and hears a far-off rumble from the crowd. He kicks and bucks, feet pawing empty air, hands clawing at his throat. His chest strains, his back arches, and his sight goes black, small lights flickering in the corners of his eyes. And then the stubborn impulse leaves him and he feels his body stretch and loosen, reaching, reaching for the earth.

“Brian!” Ellen’s cry breaks through as he falls into unconsciousness. 

Chapter Text

"Leave? No, he can't leave, not again."

– Brian Ian Randall Fraser

Claire watches solemnly after her husband as he strides out of the medical tent, finally accepting the terrible reality. His British army uniform's harsh red stinging her eyes with a fuller red stain on it, the blood of his godfather. His worst nightmare has come true... His godfather is dead. The pain is unbearable.

Claire places her shaking hands on the table before her, smoke-stained and weary. A table that now carries the dead weight of Murtagh upon it. She gives her friend's body one last glance before she places a sheet over him to protect him from view, before quickly moving to pack some of her equipment away so as to join the search party for her son and son-in-law.

The battle went as expected and was a success for the British. Claire and Ellen had focused entirely on their patients in the medical tent, trying not to think about how they were both still missing. The despair returns when the battle is over and still neither has appeared. A number of the men had offered to join the search party, an offer that made Claire thankful for the offer of help, but this meant time, time to move a larger group. Weapons were cleaned, canteens refilled, and cast-off shoes located.

Claire pauses when she becomes aware of some disturbance at the edge of the meadow. She emerges to see a young woman, evidently in a dreadful state, heading toward them at a lopsided trot. She is slightly built and limping badly due to what appears to be a missing shoe, but still half-running, supported on one side by Murdo Lindsay.

“Fraser.” She gasps. “Fraser!” She lets go of Murdo and pushes her way through the waiting men, her eyes raking the faces as she passes, searching. Her brown hair is tangled and full of leaves, her face scratched and bloody. “James F–fraser… I must– are you…?” She is panting for breath, her chest heaving and her face red. 

Jamie steps forward and takes her by the arm. Claire notes that now he no longer wears his red jacket, his hair more ruffled than earlier. His eyes have gone from pain and shock to entirely focused on the young woman in front of him. 

“I’m Jamie Fraser, lass.” He says. “Is it me ye want?” 

She nods, gasping, but struggles to speak. Claire hastily pours a cup of water and offers it to her, but the woman shakes her head violently, instead waving her arms in agitation, gesturing wildly toward the creek. 

“Rog–er, Bri–an…” She gets out, gulping air like a landed fish. “Roger. MacKen–zie. B–rian. Fra–se–r...” 

Before the final syllable leaves her mouth, Claire seizes the young woman’s arm, as much to compel answers as to provide support. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jamie and Ellen right next to her. “Where are they? Are they hurt?” 

The girl’s head bobs up and down, shakes back and forth, and she gasps out, “Hang… they–they are… hanging him! Gov–ner!” 

Ellen immediately runs for the horses. Claire curses under her breath, then thrusts the cup of water into Hugh Findlay's startled hands, catches up the sack with her emergency kit and runs for her own horse, leaving the brown-haired woman collapsed on the grass, vomiting from her effort. Jamie is already there, untying reins with swift intensity. Without a word, he stoops, hands cupped; Ellen steps up and swings into the saddle, kicking the horse into motion before Jamie has reached his own, but he and Claire soon get on their own, and the horses disappear into the willows.

——

The sound of the rope against the tree causes his blood to run cold. Roger, still gagged and bound, stares at the tree in horror at the sight of Brian's and the other men's bodies hanging from the huge white oak. Three stick figures, dangling broken in the tree's deep shadow. The Regulator prisoners around him shifty uncomfortably, trying not to look at the bodies, likely out of fear of being reminded that this is their likely fate but Roger watches on in desperation, eyes flickering over to the British soldiers guarding them now and again to see if there was a chance for him to flee, to find Jamie, Claire and Ellen.

“Regulators. Sentenced for their crimes.” One of the soldiers explains to someone. 

Roger looks up to see familiar sets of bright red hair along with brown curls. Roger immediately staggers over to them, pushing against the soldiers trying to stop him. 

“Roger!” Ellen cries out, flinging herself towards him. 

The soldiers try to pull her back from him but Roger hears Jamie demand they let go of them and why his own son-in-law is being treated this way. Militia men swarm around them, demanding similar answers. Ellen ignores them, taking off his gag and binds. 

“Roger,” Claire steps up to him, the surgeon's eyes flickering over him for any serious injury, “are you alright?” 

“Y–” He lets out a cough, “y–yes.” 

“Where’s Brian?”

Roger gasps, letting out another cough. “T–there.” He points a shaky finger towards the tree. He sees, as the Fraser family looks over towards the tree, how it’s as if a hammer has struck one final blow and their hearts have shattered like ice. 

“Brian!” Ellen cries. 

Jamie rushes towards the tree, but the hooded men are completely motionless, with no sign of life. 

“I’ll hold him! Cut him down!” Jamie speaks. 

Roger watches as Jamie, the Lindsay brothers, and Quincy Myers take hold of Brian's body round the middle, lifting slightly to take the strain off the rope. Keeping him steady as he's cut down, quickly removing the gag and the hood. Jamie is frantically begging, full of apologies, and Ellen is sobbing. As he reaches the ground, Jamie holds him around his chest. He stops, waiting a few seconds to see if he is really feeling what he thought he was.

“He’s breathing!” He exclaims. “He’s breathing! Claire!” 

The noose has sunk deep in his flesh; Claire gropes frenziedly for her penknife. Ellen grabs it from her mother, clawing and ripping at it; tears soaking her cheeks. The last strand pops and she yanks it free. 

Roger slumps next to Brian, watching him worriedly. He isn't breathing visibly; no obvious movement of the chest, no twitch of lips or nostrils. His features have gone slack, the tissue of his neck swollen, and his lips and the blood vessels in his eyes have burst, and Roger tries his best not to flinch when he looks down into them.

Ellen holds his face and strokes his face gently. "You're going to be ok, Brian." She whispers.

Roger, not knowing what to do, grips Brian's hand as Claire makes quick work by making an incision in her son's neck. Roger grimaces at the sight. Jamie watches over them all worriedly, his eyes focused on his son's unconscious face.

Claire takes the pipe of one of the Redcoat officers standing around and breaks the end piece off. After dousing it in alcohol, she places the small tube into the incision to help him breathe easier. He still isn’t moving. 

“Ellen, talk to him. See if you can get him to wake up.” Claire instructs. 

“Brian, can you hear me? It’s Ellen. It’s me. I’m right here. You need to wake up. Please, please wake up.” His wife pleads.

Slowly, Brian’s eyes open. They all let out enormous collective breaths of relief. Brian doesn’t move his body. Only his eyes go from person to person. 

“Yer alive. Yer whole. All is weel.” Jamie says to him. 

Brian doesn’t reply, only blinking at his father. His breath is still raspy and strangled.

“We need to get him back to my tent. Now.” Claire orders. 

Jamie, Myers and the Lindsays all carefully lift Brian so that he is still flat and carry him as fast and as safely as possible back to and Claire pulls Roger up, and they follow after the group.

Roger repeats the same words in his head.

Brian’s alive. Brian’s alive. Brian’s alive.

Chapter Text

Ellen watches her brother closely, counting each breath he takes; she's terrified that the next one she counts will be his last. She sits by her brother's bedside in his tent. Due to his precarious state, they'd been tending to him for the better part of the night. Mama, Da and Roger have all been in the tent, fretting around Brian.

The Sherstons have already offered their home for Brian to recuperate further. The letter hadn't mentioned Brian's accidental hanging. It would be uncouth to discuss so openly, even in a letter, but the snide part of Ellen knows that sensationalism of the story has no doubt made the rounds of Hillsborough society, and it's too big for Mrs Sherston to offer her invitation out of kindness. The notoriety of having the hanged man as a house guest would focus the attention of Hillsborough on the Sherstons in a most gratifying way.

The whole situation is precarious, as even though Brian lives (Ellen crosses her pointer and middle fingers as the thought crosses her mind), she's now reminded of how easily you can lose the ones you love. The thought causes her mind to swerve back to Murtagh. Earlier that day, Ellen had watched as Da and Roger, who's been recovering from his own injuries (thankfully only has a few bruises and sore limbs), loaded Murtagh's covered body into a wagon to be taken with them. She saw Da linger by the wagon for ten minutes, Roger placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort, before straightening his shoulders and returning to work.

Ellen turns back to Brian, her hands reaching out to touch him but they hesitate, hovering in the air as she tries to decide where best to put them. His state still seems so precarious that touching him might hurt him even more.

There doesn't seem to be one bit of him that hasn't been touched. His hands are swollen, stained purple-red with bruising, the crushed fingers nearly black, raw rope-weals sunk so deep in the flesh of his wrists that she is queasily sure she can see white bone. Two fingers of Brian's right hand are broken; all his nails are clawed, bloody, torn, or missing. Her own throat tightens at this evidence of just how ferociously he had fought to live. She'd almost lost him, her best friend.

The grotesqueness of his hands doesn't match the horror of his face. It is bruised and swollen, too, with a ghastly ruff of leeches attached beneath his jaw, but it is more subtly deformed, like some sinister stranger pretending to be her brother. His hands are decorated with leeches, too. It is almost like he is wearing every leech available.

It all looks unreal, badly done makeup for a horror play.

——

A little while later, Jamie slides into Brian's tent (trying not to think about the position he'd found his son in with Brynmor Jones in the same tent) where Claire is currently sitting with Ellen while Brian sleeps. Roger has been tasked with organising food for the men and making small medical checkups on Claire's behalf. Ellen is combing out Brian's tumbled hair with a wooden comb, gently removing burs and twigs, working at the tangles, slowly and patiently. Claire strokes his cheek, singing something under her breath—"Frère Jacques."

Jamie stays close to the entrance of the tent, only looking over at them briefly before standing awkwardly by the door. His mind still swirling from all the conflicting emotions he has been experiencing, what with his godfather's death and the devastation that came with it, then the horror, then relief at his son's hanging then survival. He's almost afraid to grasp onto that relief as he knows how quickly it can almost disappear.

Claire looks up and catches Jamie's eye. She gives him a nod and a tiny smile, meant to be reassuring, but he can see the bleakness in her eyes. Claire gives Ellen's arm a small squeeze and then gets up to go over to Jamie, laying her hand gently on his arm.

They step outside, lingering at the entrance of the tent. They’re startled when a figure steps in front of them. “My apologies, Mr and Mrs Fraser. I did not realise that you didn’t see me.” It is the Governor. He takes another step and looks towards the flap of the tent as if to look in, Jamie makes a determined move to stand in front of the tent to keep him away from his son. 

“Your son. Is he—” 

Jamie glares at the man, surprised he’s approached them after Jamie had yelled at him after Murtagh’s death and now with Brian’s hanging on Tryon’s orders. He is alone and looks very tired. He smells of drink; his Council and the militia officers would have been toasting his victory. His eyes are clear, though, and his step firm. 

“He is alive,” Claire says shortly, her cheeks still stained from tears. 

Jamie clenches his jaw, trying to control his emotions as he’s reminded of the fact that while one person in their life is alive, there is another person who is not. He takes a deep breath and steps towards Tryon, looming over him, Claire looks at him sharply. The Governor has to tilt his head back to look up at him and Jamie can see that he doesn’t like it, but Jamie doesn’t care. He’s happy that the expression on his face appears to rattle Tryon too, but the Governor lifts his chin, determined to say whatever he had come to say. 

“I have come to make my apologies for the injury done to your son.” He says. “It was a most regrettable error.” 

“Most regrettable,” Jamie repeats, with an ironic intonation. He takes a step forward, and Tryon automatically takes a step back. 

Heat rises in the Governor’s face, and his jaw clenches. “It was a mistake.” He insists, through his teeth. “He was wrongly identified as one of the outlawed ringleaders of the Regulation.” 

“By whom?” 

“I do not know. By several people. I had no reason to doubt the identification.” 

“Indeed,” Jamie asks sharply. “And did Brian Fraser or Roger MacKenzie say nothin’ in their own defence? Did they no’ say who they were?” 

Tryon’s lower teeth chew his upper lip briefly then lets go. “They… did not.” 

“Because they were bloody bound and gagged!” Claire cries furiously. “You didn’t let them speak, did you, you— you—” 

Jamie places a reassuring hand on his wife’s arm before raising the other slowly towards the Governor’s throat, just above the gorget. A flash of panic lights Tryon’s eyes, and he jerks backwards before the hand reaches him. 

The panic then subsides at once, replaced by fury. “You dare try to lay hands on me, sir!” 

“Oh, I do, aye. As ye did lie hands on my son.” Though a response to the core of cold rage he feels inside him, Jamie doesn’t actually intend to harm the Governor and is not just an act of intimidation either. 

“It was a mistake! And one I have come to rectify, so far as I may!” Tryon is standing his ground, jaw tight as he glares upward. 

“Then I insist ye recall te me the circumstances when Brian Fraser and Roger Mac were taken; who gave ‘em up, and wha’ was said. I mean te get te the bottom o’ it.” Jamie takes a deep breath and steps back, forcing his hands to relax from the fists into which they had been clenched. 

Tryon’s jaw muscles bulge, and his limbs tremble, but he keeps his temper in check. He breathes deeply through his nose before he speaks. “There were three men, Mr Fraser. They held Brian Fraser and Roger Mackenzie captive; one had a badge for Fraser’s Company, so of course I thought the man was one of yours.” 

That would have been a reasonable assumption for the Governor to make, Jamie thinks but he himself is in no mood to be reasonable. 

“One man identified your son as James MacQuiston, one of the ring-leaders of the Regulation.” Tryon continues. 

“Does the Governor recall what any of these men looked like?” Claire asks with eerie calmness. Eerie to everyone but to Jamie. He knows she's raging furiously inside. 

“There’s no need,” Roger says, approaching them. “I ken who it was tha’ handed us over.” His face twists, recalling the horrifying memory. 

Jamie ignores it and turns to his son-in-law, eager to know who did this to them, to his son. “Ye do?” 

“Aye, he was a fair-haired fellow, verra tall and weel set up. Green-eyed.” 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” Claire murmurs, ashen. “It’s not–” 

Jamie's eyes widen and he stares at her for a moment, not knowing how to respond. Tall, fair-haired, and green-eyed. It could have been Stephen Bonnet. He looks back at the tent that still occupies his son and daughter as he thinks over his wife's suggestion. For a moment, Jamie wonders why she cut herself off before realising that only he, Claire and Brian in their group know that Stephen Bonnet is alive.

“Jesus.” He says. “I ne’er thought o’ such a thing.” 

“Who?” Roger interrupts. He's frowning in confusion. 

“How do you know?” Claire asks him instead. 

Roger, thankfully, takes the diversion. “I’ve met ‘im and his wife. It’s William Buccleigh MacKenzie. He’s one o’ the men tha’ did this te me and Brian.” He gives Claire a pointed look. Jamie clues that it must be something related to time travel that cannot be mentioned in front of Tryon. 

Mackenzie… 

It narrows it down, but the four or five that he can remember are all in Scotland, not here. He'll ask later, but one thing is for sure: Jamie will avenge his son for the harm caused to him. Jamie clenches his jaw in fury, trying to contain it as his mind races.

Chapter Text

Everything is a blur for Brian after he's been pulled down from the tree, but physically, he feels battered and bruised, poked and prodded. The world keeps fading in and out as he struggles to stay conscious, afraid that if he falls asleep, he won't wake up again.

The blackness melts away around him once more. He hears the soft melody of Frère Jacques before it slowly fades away, a soft hand on his cheek. He flickers open his eyes. Once again, the world swims into view, and he can't tell what he is looking at and struggles to understand. He catches sight of the purple, red and black colours that litter his body and his head throbs. He feels something in his hair pulling softly as it weaves through.

His mind wanders, his throat feels tight, like he's not breathing properly. He feels no air moving in his mouth or nose, his throat is closed, and his chest burns. He jerks, flailing with his arms, towards his throat to where he thinks the pain is. He tries to cough and can't, tries to gulp air and finds none, struck something hard—

“Da! Mama!” He hears faintly as he panics. If he was thinking clearly, the terror and franticness in the person’s voice would have caused him to pause. 

Brian hears rustling around him as he grasps at what feels like an object in his neck – he realises it's a tube – clutches at it, struggling vainly to speak, and shaking his head violently. Suddenly, hands are grabbing his arms, yanking them away from his neck, pinning them down. In his hands, he feels something thick and wet on his throat.

He blinks, his vision swimming, gradually clearing. Arms are holding him, a hand is clasping his arm, another on his shoulder, pressing hard. Pressure, warmth. A face appears above him, a blur of skin, a blaze of reddish hair. His eyes focus a little, bringing a harsh, fierce face into view. Da. Jamie Fraser. 

“Mo mhac,” Da murmurs softly. Blue eyes stare intently into his own – eyes that mirror his – so close he feels warm breath on his face. “Ye safe now. Dinna fash now, m'annsachd.” 

Brian gazes intently up at his father. His chest still burns, but he is breathing, whistling can be heard through the tube due to his quick, heavy breaths; he feels the soreness of the tiny muscles between his ribs as they move. He hadn't died then; it hurt too much.

He examines the words, feeling the weight of them. A feeling of comfort comes over him, and tears stream down his cheeks. Arms wrap around him, arms that he recognises as his Da's but also Mama's and Ellen's. Within the weight of his parents' and sister's arms, he feels like a little boy again.

That sense of comfort is quickly gone when he tries to open his mouth to speak, but he can't. He lets out more gasps, which continue to whistle through the tube in his neck.

“He’s struggling.” He hears his Mama say urgently. Da takes him firmly by the other shoulder as he and Mama help to ease him back on the pillow. He goes with it, his brow furrowed in confusion. 

Brian realises that he doesn't seem to be able to speak, but he still tries to speak. His mouth works urgently, asking silent questions.

“I had to make an incision in your neck, to help you breathe.” His mother explains in full doctor mode. “The tube has been dislodged slightly, reopening the wound.” 

Brian blinks at her. He’s bleeding? That explains the dampness he had felt on his neck. He creases his face in frustration, trying to express his displeasure. 

“I know, I know,” Mama replies. “But I don’t want to risk moving it until the swelling of the tissues in your throat goes down.” 

——

Brian, as well as Isaiah Morton, who'd been shot in the back at close range, likely by the Brown brothers, is soon moved to the Sherstons to recuperate from their injuries. The Sherston couple, Hubert and Phoebe, stare at Brian with a mixture of fascination, intrigue and uncomfortability, which is never more prevalent than when they awkwardly ask after his injuries, never directly commenting on what happened. Not that his own family seems to ask him what happened. Roger had likely explained what had happened.

The Sherstons are good hosts, however, making sure that he and Isaiah are comfortable along with Mama Da, Ellen and Roger, who all take round-the-clock care of Brian. They make sure that Brian's tube doesn't become clogged or dislodged.

Other than that, Brian just lies listlessly on his back and sleeps a great deal, which in other cases would be a good thing, but Brian's slumber is never restful. That's what he hears everyone else refer to it as such, but to Brian, it's something he sought, to be unconscious, and he would cling to it stubbornly. Unfortunately for him, Brian comes from a family of stubborn asses who will not let him, particularly his sister.

Ellen takes the job upon herself to force him awake every few hours, if not her then Roger, who unfortunately takes his job very seriously, to eat and have the tube and its incision cleansed and tended. Brian couldn't look at any of them and instead, he would fix his eyes on the middle distance and stare darkly at nothing, making the barest acknowledgement of remarks addressed to him. Once finished, his eyes would close again, and he would lie back on his pillow, bandaged hands folded across his chest like he's in a coffin, with the breathy whistle from the tube in his neck.

Murtagh had died, that's what they told him. Killed by Hugh Findlay. Murtagh had found his cause and become a leader among men, but he died doing what he had sworn his life to do: protecting his Godson and fulfilling his oath to Brian's Grandmother, Ellen. He died a hero's death by saving Da in that way. It was his last act on earth, and that was how it was supposed to be.

Isaiah Morton is recovering well. He has had no infection and very little fever, though that may be in part due to, a few days after the battle, the appearance of Alicia Brown, now enormously pregnant, as an important boost to Morton's recovery. Within an hour of her arrival, he was sitting up in his cot, pale but jubilant, hair sticking up on end and his hand lovingly pressed against the writhing bulges of his unborn child. Brian is glad for him as he, unlike Brian, will be able to live a proper life while there's a good chance Brian will likely never be able to speak again. Who would want someone like that?

Why is he still here?

Chapter Text

Brian is gradually healing, physically that is. The bruises on Brian's face lessen, moving from reds and blues into an array of purple, green and yellow, as he physically returns to looking more normal. The fractures to his fingers were simple; with splints, and they healed with no trouble though the broken bones will take longer to mend. What his Mother is most happy about is that his throat has subsided enough that he can move air through his nose and mouth again. She has been able to remove the tube from his throat and stitch up the incision. He can swallow his food again, the first time being uncomfortable as Mama wiped his face, fed him like he is a baby again with little water mixed with brandy as a restorative and pressed her fingers lightly to his throat to try and best asses the damage.

Essentially, his vital signs have been improving significantly, and even his throat is on the mend; his vitality, however, is a different story.

Soon, both he and Isaiah Morton, have recovered sufficiently for travel. His parents and sister are ready to go home, filling the house with restless excitement and relief – except for Roger. Given the imminence of Morton's offspring and the danger to him in coming anywhere near either Granite Falls or Brownsville, Da had arranged for him and Alicia to lodge with the brewmaster of Mr Sherston's brewery, where Isaiah would be employed as a wagoner for the brewery, as soon as his strength permitted.

Tryon has released the Militia company from service. The governor has released all but twelve of the prisoners taken at Alamance, who will be held for trial in a month, on charges of rebellion. The spiteful part of Brian thinks of how they'll at least be able to speak before hanging – if they're found guilty.

On the journey back to the Ridge, Brian either sat or lay awkwardly (he would often have to lie down when his Mother felt particularly cautious about his injuries) on the back of a wagon, Ellen refusing to leave his side. He would gently stroke the rope scar still dark under his jaw along with the smaller, neater line of Mama's own incision.

He tried not to look at the other wagon that trailed after them that contained Murtagh's body, secretly secreted there amongst some of the luggage so as to not raise any suspicion. A few nights later, after they had arrived back on the ridge and after Murtagh had been properly buried. But, the funeral ceremony wouldn't be happening until later, so that Da would have more time to grieve on his own and try to make his head understand that his godfather is really, truly gone.

The revelation of William Buccleigh MacKenzie's identity hasn't altered Da's urgent desire to find the man, but it has changed his intention of murdering him immediately, once found. The man is family, he's Uncle Dougal's child, Da's own blood – Brian's too. A MacKenzie. A MacKenzie of Leoch. But the key to Da's frustration is that he hasn't been seen since Alamance despite Da seeking the man from one end of the county to the other in the immediate days after.

——

August 1771 

"Here, have some tea." Ellen offers. She sets a cup of piping hot tea on the table in front of him, then touches Brian's back gently. He startles a little, not expecting to be touched. He was worse about it early on after coming back home, but now, he only startles a little if he is touched unexpectedly; he used to recoil away completely. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." She bends forward and kisses the top of his head, squeezing his arm affectionately before walking away.

He knows Ellen is very worried about him. Not for his scar or any outward wounds, but just for him in general. As his scar from the tracheotomy healed, Mama had told him that he should practice talking, but he kept refusing. Ellen has tried to make the best of it, referencing the silent movies she and Roger used to drag him to see with them and the importance of non-verbal communication.

Brian turns his head to look at his sister, wanting badly to say 'Thank you', but he can't bring the words to his lips. He fears them, afraid that the hanging took away his voice or changed it completely. If he doesn't speak, he doesn't have to know, and therefore won't be reminded of that terrifying event. It's been a dark and silent world since May, and Brian has found it hard to find light. Shadows creep into his peripheral vision, reminding him of the horrors he had endured.

Brian is no longer helping out everywhere around the Ridge, a change from the usual sight. Theo Frye's smithy still needs completing, but Brian cannot mentally face them all. At first, his excuse was that he was slowly building his strength back after weeks of bed rest at Mama's urging. That wasn't hard for him to do since he hadn't felt very up to being around people or taking part in events or activities on the Ridge. However, since then, he has hidden away in his room on the upper floor of the big house, getting lost in his own mind as he stares endlessly at the wall. He's haunted by the images of his hanging coming back to him in flashes.

The attitude of those at the Ridge has altered. In no way does the community ostracise him but there is an alteration at least to how Brian is perceived. His usual female followers have drifted away from him, unsure about how to talk to him now that he's mute – and not just verbally – or perhaps their families have advised them not to go near a man who may have betrayed King and country. He knows that Mama, Da, Ellen and Roger, who are there, along with Fergus, Marsali, Lizzie, and the Beardsley twins, would have all defended him to the Ridge as a person who was wrongly accused. It has all led to everyone feeling not entirely sure how to treat him, especially to a man who doesn't seem all there.

Suddenly, there is a knock at the door, and Brian turns back to his tea. 

“Coming!” Ellen calls, answering the door. “Mama! Come in!” 

Their mother steps into Brian’s room. “I was on my way to visit Rabbie Cochrane, the poor man is having issues with his feet, but I thought I’d come and check on Brian.” 

“Ah, thank you,” Ellen replies, embracing her mother and kissing her cheek. “Here he is. He still isn’t speaking…” 

“Still?” Mama asks, setting her medical bag on the table beside Brian. “Hey, Brian, how are you, lamb?” She asks him. Brian merely looks up at her and nods before looking away again. “Brian, I need you to tell me how you’re feeling. Are you having any pain?” Brian shakes his head, looking down at the teacup in front of him. “Here, let me have a look.” 

She reaches into a bag and pulls out a glass rod. Brian sits up for her and opens his mouth, Mama depressing his tongue with the glass rod and looking into his throat, just to make sure that everything is continuing on the right path, physically at least. She doused a cloth in alcohol and wiped the rod clean.

“Everything looks good,” Mama observes. “Your throat’s healing nicely. Scar’s faded.” Next, she felt his throat externally, poking around his neck and chin and pressing down in places. “How do you feel? Does anything hurt?” Brian doesn’t answer, but instead, shakes his head, shrugging. He feels broken and traumatised. Depressed. The reminder of Murtagh's death only intensifies his deep grief. “Hmm… well, your throat is healing nicely, your hyoid bone is intact, and your scar has faded almost entirely…” 

Brian feels his hand go to his neck, feeling where the rope burns used to be. The scar might have faded, but it feels as if the rope is still there. He’ll never touch rope again if he can help it. 

Ellen puts her hands on her hips and lets out a quiet exhale, looking to the floor. Lizzie – when did she come in? – rubs her upper back. Ellen and Mama make eye contact, and Brian immediately knows they're going to try to encourage him again.

Brian can already feel himself starting to fade away, their words washing over him. His eyes have locked somewhere on the floor but he isn’t looking at it. His mind is miles away. He dangles, kicking– feet pawing empty air– his sight goes black– he feels his body stretch and loosen, reaching, reaching for the earth— 

Then Lizzie speaks, snapping his mind away from those thoughts. “Maybe I should bring Keziah in?” 

Keziah. Recently, Brian has been finding comfort in the presence of the quieter Beardsley twin. Lizzie’s been bringing around and Brian has found himself quite enjoying his company as the two of them have had many a silent conversation, an understanding. 

Mama looks on at him in worry. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

Chapter Text

“...a shared grief, a painful and tacit camaraderie... the distressing realisation that it's time to say goodbye.” 

— Claire Fraser

♪ There'll be nae more liltin' ♪ 

♪ Nae laughin' or kissin' ♪ 

♪ Go in peace and ♪ 

♪ Leave us to grieve ♪ 

♪ Sighin' and moanin' ♪ 

♪ On ilka green loanin' ♪ 

♪ The flowers of the forest ♪ 

♪ Are all wede awa' ♪ 

Brian closes his eyes tightly as Jocasta's soft words wash over him. Her voice carries through the wind. Her voice is strong despite the pained words of the Scottish folk song that flow out of her mouth, a hauntingly beautiful lament to a fallen soldier. Being a proud Scot and a Mackenzie, she appears tall and composed but they all can see that she is broken inside. Brian feels sorry for his aunt. To not truly be able to express her feelings openly because she and Murtagh were not husband and wife. Murtagh had been the love of her life, though she would never speak that out loud. As a woman of the time, married to another man, it would be inappropriate for her.

Murtagh was buried the same day they all returned from Hillsborough. They had to wait a couple of months for Murtagh's funeral for the heat of Alamance to fade a bit and for Jocasta, along with Ulysses, to travel from River Run to the Ridge to say goodbye. Da had sent word of Murtagh's death to his aunt, and she apparently had left River Run to come to Fraser's Ridge before the end of that same day. It was small. Only Jocasta and Ulysses, Da and Mama, Marsali and Fergus, Lizzie, Ellen and Roger and Brian, ready to say goodbye to an old friend.

Though he's avoided leaving his room in the Big House, especially the house itself, as much as he could get away with, Brian had decided to join everyone for Murtagh's funeral. Still, he keeps to himself; not saying a word while his mind focuses on the funeral before quickly shifting to the memories of the attack. He knows his family has noticed, as he can't hide how his body tenses and shakes intermittently.

All those present stand solemnly, their heads down as a sign of mourning. Emotions are vivid because each of them suffers, each in their own way, from the atrocious mental wounds inflicted by grief. Mama leans over to add a stone to the cairn that Da built near the mound of earth under which Murtagh's body rests.

“Rest in peace.” Mama murmurs. 

Like Mama, some other members of the group add stones to the cairn. Once Brian places his, Ellen reaches over, trying to grab his hand, but he flinches once more. His heart breaks at the way his sister's face drops. His mouth parts as if to apologise, but then he sees the hope in her eyes and quickly shuts it. He can't stand it, nor can he stand the sympathy and guilt in Roger's. Brian strides away from the family plot quickly and rushes back to the house.

——

Jocasta stays a week longer after. She, like Brian, tries to be around as few people while she stays if she can help it. She and Da spend the days together, mainly at Murtagh’s grave. Brian would see them standing silently side by side. If they do speak, it is very softly to one another, but mainly they recite prayers or hymns. 

——

July 1744 

Murtagh takes a few tentative steps into the room to see Claire gently rocking a small bundle. Fergus sits next to her, intently watching over her shoulder and waving a silver rattle at the bundle. Murtagh’s just returned from Portugal where he’s spent the last couple of months reselling Prince Charles’ wine shipment, which will hopefully prevent the rising. 

The floorboards creak under his feet, causing Claire to look up. The smile on her face is strained. Suzette has already told him how the baby's been fighting against the odds and how Claire's been losing sleep as she diligently watches over him.

“Suzette said ye and the bairn were settlin’ in.” He says, his attention drifting between Claire and the babe in her arms. 

Claire rises, protectively clutching the bairn – Brian, Suzette had told him – across her chest. “There’s a new Fraser for you to meet.” She says as she brings Brian closer to a dubious Murtagh. Fergus quickly follows, hovering worriedly. “Do you want to hold him?” She asks. 

Murtagh hears Fergus let out an amused snort just as the former answers the question with an unfiltered, terrified expression that flitters across his face. 

“What’s wrong, blaireau? You are not able to hold la petite miraculée?” Fergus quips. 

“What did ye call me, ye wee shite?” Murtagh demands of Fergus. 

“Did you miss me, vieille foulque malodorante?” Fergus asks him instead, and Claire quietly snorts with laughter. 

“Not a chance.” Murtagh retorts, ruffling the young lad’s hair. “And I have held bairns before.” He feels offended at the assumption. “His Da fer one.” 

Fergus watches him closely with a protective stare as Claire holds Brian out for Murtagh to take. Murtagh pauses to wipe his hands on his kilt (despite having cleaned his hands in the basin that Claire has insisted everyone clean their hands in before touching the bairn) before raising them to take the babe. Brian stares up at him with his Da’s slanted blue eyes and his face puckers, a whimper escaping his quivering lip. Murtagh freezes with Brian in his arms, the lad working up to a wail. 

“I think it’s your beard,” Claire explains, interceding. She takes Brian from Murtagh – the lad calms in his mother’s arms – and brings him back towards Murtagh. Claire shifts Brian in her arms and takes hold of the little hand. Brian quickly wraps his fingers around Claire’s. She guides the little fingers out until they can just brush against Murtagh’s bushy beard, using the back of Brian’s hand to pet it slowly. “See. It’s all right. It’s soft.” She coos. 

Murtagh remains still as a statue as Claire places Brian back into his arms until he feels Brian relax as the fear fades. “He truly is such a bonny wee laddie. Jamie's lad, and he's the spit of him.” He says with a grin. 

Brian eyes Murtagh suspiciously with a strange alertness for a two-month-old. His small hand reaches out of his blankets towards Murtagh’s face. Jamie’s Godfather watches intently as the fingers burrow into his beard then… tug! 

“Arrgghh. Och ye diabhal beag!” He cries to Claire and Fergus’ amusement. 

Chapter Text

Brian is sitting by Murtagh's burial plot – he knows Da, with time, is planning on having a tombstone made with Murtagh's name engraved on it to replace the cairn, but for now... – as a thick mist descends over the Ridge as the sun sets over the Blue Ridge Mountains. A place for peace and quiet; the surrounding environment is tranquil, idyllic, and undisturbed.

In the distance, trees tower their branches outstretched as they reach for the darkening sky. The ambience is filled with a symphony of chirps and distant howls. There's a relatively unseen, untouched peacefulness to them, the kind that can only come from insouciance to the passing of time. His eyes wander aimlessly, taking in the strange reality of a world devoid of his usual daily comforts. No stores lining the streets, no telephones, no cars, no movies. Just the vast greenery and trees as far as the eye can see.

With no one to witness, he wants to experiment, to formulate sounds. He takes a deep breath. The air rasps against his windpipe – his face twists as he struggles, coughs, and clears his throat, but it doesn't work. No sound will come out. He prepares to try again. His mouth forms the shape of the words, but he still can't make a sound. And he knows Mama's right, there is a psychological problem that is getting in the way. He is suffocated by everything that is not said, all the things he wants to say, by the fear of the consequences of his words.

He takes another gulp of the whiskey he'd poured from the barrel he'd rolled to this spot from the distillery. He's on his way to becoming drunk to forgetting it all as much as he can.

“Would you mind if I join you?” 

Brian startles, looking up to see Lord John standing above him. He had noticed the man's approach. However, he shakes his head no and gestures for the man to take a seat next to him. He doesn't mind the older man's company.

John Grey arrived on the day Jocasta had set to return home. They did cross paths before she left and John expressed his condolences to her for the loss of her friend. He, like all of them, is aware that they had been far more than friends, but he knew not to speak of it. He's come with a suitcase full of books and gifts. Ellen has already tried to excitedly show Brian John's gift, an astrolabe, explaining how John has shown her how to use it to find her position and tell the time, but had been left disheartened when Brian had simply stared blankly at her, unable to bring himself to engage with her.

There had also been a letter. They had sat around the table as Da took the letter and read it. It was from Tryon, acting as a sad excuse for making amends for what he did to Brian. And, as a way to buy their forgiveness, had given Brian a land grant of 5,000 acres. The absurdity of it. Five thousand acres of wilderness, in exchange for a life almost destroyed. Cancel the “almost,” he thinks. Brian had let out a grunt of frustration and had stormed out and later found himself at Murtagh’s grave with his father’s whiskey. 

“I gather you're not pleased.” John awkwardly remarks before taking a sip of the whiskey Brian’s offered to him before handing it back. Brian gives him a disbelieving look and John is aware enough to look ashamed at his remark. 

Brian rolls his eyes. Of course, he's not pleased. He's been struggling with what's happened to him, and Tryon just wants to wave it away and magically make it disappear? Another rich man trying to buy forgiveness.

“I know it’s an insensitive thing for His Excellency to do,” John continues, “but you have to admit that his offer is too good to pass up. To build your own home, perhaps have your own farm and the like.” 

Brian lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug. He doesn’t think so, but mouths a silent, “Maybe.” 

“And, er, I brought another letter but I, um, thought it best to hand it to you in private.” Brian looks at him questioningly as John pulls out another letter from his pocket. “It’s from, er, Brynmor.” 

Brian can’t help but flinch at the mention of his name. John offers the letter to him, but he shakes his head. He can’t. 

“I know I warned you to be careful but it might offer you some comfort,” John pleads, “and I can send a reply—” 

Brian lets out a silent grunt before shaking his head and pushing the letter away. He can’t carry whatever it was that he had with Brynmor, it wouldn’t be fair to the other man. He can’t speak. He feels like he’s not whole. He doesn’t feel worthy. 

John nods, reluctantly accepts his refusal and instead offers a toast to Murtagh. It reminds Brian that John is a good man; that he would toast to a man that was his political enemy. The two of them toast and take a sip each of the whiskey as the sun sets around them.

Chapter Text

Brian jars, his sleep ending abruptly. It feels as if his entire body has rigged itself, waiting for something to strike upon him, except his hands, which fly up to his throat.

His eyes flicker open upon a figure looming over him. At first, he sees the flash of the red British soldier uniform and tries to yank himself out of the arms of the person. The searing pain is there again, radiating around his neck. So vivid and real that he gasps, fighting for air. For a moment, he thinks he is still hanging from the large white oak, still dying. 

“Brian? Brian? It’s Mama!”

It takes a few momentary blinks to wash away the oriental distinctions into the distinct features of his mother. Blue eyes meet golden brown. His brow furrows in confusion, shifting slightly upon the cot, as he slowly wakes up.

“Brian, darling…” Mama expresses her voice softly with profound affection. Mama's hand gently intertwines with Brian's, offering a maternal touch. Her face displays evident signs of sleep deprivation; dark circles frame her weary eyes, and the tight-lipped smile is a tell-tale of her emotional fatigue. Her curly hair, light brown hints of grey weaving in with the gold, is wilder than usual. “Breathe,” she whispered, her lips brushing his temple. “You’re safe now. I’m right here.”

The weight of everything—his injuries, the pain, the nightmares, the fear—seems to lift, if only for a moment. He isn’t alone. It is then he sees Ellen staring at him with worried eyes, and the relief he’d felt melts away sharply. He’s reminded of what’s happened, everyone’s pity - he can’t. Brian abruptly turns his eyes away from her. He feels his mother’s other hand softly stroking his hair from his forehead. Brian squeezes his eyes shut to hide the tears; the familial love becoming too much. Don’t they understand that he is broken?

He should have died. He still feels like he is dying, yet somehow, he is still here, still alive.

How is he even alive?

——

“El…” Claire sighs as she sits next to her daughter with two cups of tea. 

Ellen sits slumped at the kitchen table in the big house, head in her hands and she lets out an exhausted exhale. Claire sympathises. It’s not the first time that they have experienced little sleep due to Brian’s nightmares. She wishes Ellen wouldn’t put so much upon herself and be with her son and husband. She knows how worried Ellen is about Brian.

Claire knows exactly where his mind was in that dream, where his mind is whenever she catches him staring listlessly off in the distance. His mind plunged into his own demise without conscious consent. She had not seen the moment her son was hanged, but she was there afterwards, after having raced against time itself to find him. Nevertheless, the image before her is now engraved in her head. When Claire arrived by the large white oak, she had thought him dead, although the finality of it had not completely registered right away. The sight had been so horrifying that even after all this time, she still remembers the dreadful sensation of all blood being drained at once, which stopped her heart momentarily. It had only started again, prompted by a moan from the seemingly lifeless form of Brian, which swung from the branch between life and death. She had frantically torn at him, only just about grasping to her Doctor and patient decorum, but it was difficult to forget that her own son was her patient.

Ellen doesn’t reply straight away, taking a sip of her tea before breaking the silence. “My roommate at MIT, Gayle... she had a boyfriend who had gone to Vietnam. I didn't know him very well. His name was Don. But Gayle asked me to go with her to see him a few times after he got back.”

War is always a difficult subject. Claire has a clear idea of where this will lead them.

“He had been back for almost a year the first time I went... I don't really know what I expected, but... he was like a zombie. Just no life in his eyes at all. Gayle called it his "thousand-yard stare".”

Claire has unfortunately seen enough traumatised soldiers in her life to know what that means.

“He was hit by some shrapnel, but he wasn't seriously injured, but he had seen many other men die…”

“Yes, we call it "war neurosis", a "state of emotional shock",” Claire explains.

Now, Ellen makes the connection… “It's been months now... and you said Brian is fine physically. So, it may be a war neurosis. I mean, it must be mental... psychological…”

They both know that we don't know how long Brian's condition will last, the scars will take time to heal, if ever…

“It's as if he were drowning in silence... And he has that same thousand-yard stare in his eyes. I'm afraid he's lost…” Tears well up in Ellen’s eyes as she looks at her mother hopelessly.

Claire wants to reassure Ellen and ease her fears as best she can. “No matter how lost he is… we just have to have faith that we will find him.” She declares strongly. 

Yet, Claire can’t help but wonder if this is all her fault. Is she the reason her son nearly died, the reason her daughter was raped? She was the one that her children had travelled back in time to warn. To warn her of her and Jamie’s deaths. And now they are stuck here. She doesn’t know if she can ever forgive herself for that. The weight of her guilt and fear feels like they are threatening to suffocate her.

Chapter Text

Inga McGillivray sits with her mother, Ute, and her sisters, Hilda and Senga, along with other women of the Ridge such as Mistresses Claire Fraser, Margaret Chisholm, Rosewitha Mueller, Rosamund Lindsay, Ruth Aberfeldy and Ismene MacEalair as they all work together making candles for the community — a task that requires a lot of hands. Several women stir heavy pots and heat the melted tallow until it dissolves. The women hold sticks terminated at both ends and dip them back into the mixture. The candles are soaked to have more layers of wax until the desired thickness is reached. An ethereal and beautiful visual process.

Another group of women, including Mistresses Johanna Richards, Marion MacLeod, Marsali Fraser and Fiona Ceallach, cut cotton strands to the desired lengths. The strands are soaked in the mixture, then removed and covered with a thin layer of tallow. The strands are tied by five or six on a stick and hung to dry.

Inga quite enjoys these moments, when they all gather together to pool their energy for large tasks such as these for the betterment of the community. The work around them on the Ridge continues at a steady pace: laundry, grass to cut, animals to feed, and the railing to paint at the Big House.

Inga looks up from her pot, which she is stirring and catches sight of a lonely figure in the distance. She notices that it's Brian Fraser who's sitting listlessly. His body is stiff as he gazes off in the distance, and his shoulders are slumped. His hands fiddle with some thread as he mends some clothes that Inga had seen his sister, Ellen Mackenzie, hand to him earlier, but he seems to be ignoring it. Inga wants to comfort him but she doesn't know how or if it is even wanted from her or anyone. She wants to hold him and protect him from the world. Inga blushes at the thought. Inga hears a scoff from behind her.

“Mama…” Senga whines, “Inga is staring at Brian Fraser again!” 

Inga whips her head around in alarm, sending a glare in her sister’s direction. The sixteen-year-old simply shrugs carelessly and goes back to her candle dipping. 

Their mother turns away from talking in German with Mistress Mueller to her daughters. “Honestly bärchen, you really need to set your sights on better prospects like Geordie Sutherland.” 

Inga flushes and quietly grumbles. With Hilda married off and Manfred now engaged, Ute McGillivray won’t waste an opportunity to encourage her younger daughters to also get married. 

Lizzie Wemyss hurries out with refreshments and food from the Big House, instructing the young children around them on how they should give them out to everyone. One-year-old Joan Fraser stumbles after the Chisholm and Aberfeldy children. 

“What happened to Brian Fraser being a prospect?” Eighteen-year-old Hilda questions. 

“He was but now…” She looks over to Briana and shakes her head. “Now he behaves all verloren.” Mama looks accusingly at Hilda. “Though I do not know why you’re so worried about this. You should be focused more on becoming with child. How long have you been married to Davey Morrison, kindchen?” 

Hilda winces. “Just over half a year.” She murmurs shamedly. “There’s still time Mama.” 

Their mother lets out a humph noise of displeasure. The mention of children causes Inga to glance over to Johanna Richards. The poor woman had lost two children to the croup when Inga and her family first settled last spring, but the way she stares at the children running around them and how she clutches her belly, Inga wonders if her fortunes may already be turning for the better.

“Odd family though. The Frasers.” Senga remarks. “They all disappear then they all come back except the nephew and the daughter comes back with a baby with a husband who magically appears out of thin air. Interesting timings I say.” 

“Senga!” Inga hisses, glancing over to Mistress Fraser, who’s thankfully in deep discussion with Mistresses Chisholm and Aberfeldy. “Let’s not take advantage of their good nature. They have given shelter and support to many families.” 

Their mother eagerly turns on Senga urging her to be quiet, fervently casting her gaze between Mistress Fraser and Lizzie. Inga's father, Robin McGillivray, had recently approached Joseph Wemyss on the topic of a betrothal between sixteen-year-old Lizzie Wemyss and Inga's brother, twenty-year-old Manfred. Ute McGillivray cannot risk losing this engagement. Despite all her beliefs that Brian Fraser is no longer suitable, Lizzie Wemyss remains so. Jamie Fraser has promised Lizzie a dowry, which consists of a section of prime land and Mr Wemyss, Lizzie's father, freed from his indenture, had a freeman's homestead claim of fifty acres as well—to which Lizzie is heir. The Wemyss land adjoins the McGillivrays' section, and the two together would make a very respectable farm.

The plan is for Manfred to ply his trade in Woolam's Creek, providing he can manage a shop — one of Inga's mother hopes is that Jamie Fraser will provide the premises for as part of the agreement considering that Lizzie and her father hold a place of special esteem with Jamie and that he will in all likelihood be moved to do what he could for her — and they'd live at the farm. It had been agreed that the marriage would take place the next summer after Manfred had finished setting up his shop in Woolam's Creek.

Inga likes the girl, but she doesn't believe there is any affection between the engaged couple, which worries her. She watched them on the night that she and her family had joined the Frasers and the Wemysses at the former's home for a lavish supper and couldn't see much between them. Inga has brought this up with her Mother who insists it can still happen and they just need to get used to each other. She knows her mother and Lizzie like each other, the former taking the latter under her capacious maternal wing. Inga worries that while Lizzie likes her future mother-in-law, the young girl seems to like the prospect of that mother-like relationship more than she likes Manfred.

“Would you like some Dundee cake, mistress?” Archie Chisholm politely asks. The four-year-old holds up a small plate of them towards Inga. 

Inga smiles warmly at the boy, taking a cake and thanking him. Archie grins happily before moving along to the next customer. She looks over again to see Brian has been joined by his nephew, Germain, and Toby Chisholm, who seem to be eagerly showing him their sword fighting skills. Brian gives them a weak encouraging smile as their cries carry over to the large groups by the House. 

Chapter Text

Claire winces at a particularly loud smack from upstairs. She looks over the faces of her children and their spouses – Fergus and Marsali, Ellen and Roger – and Jamie, all trying to make conversation and trying to ignore the loud bangs from upstairs, as they eat their meal. But, despite everyone's best attempts, the awkwardness lingers in the air. They are having their Sunday family meal. Most Sundays, especially since Alamance, they have all made an effort to try to have a family dinner. Brian, however, is nowhere to be found. 

There's a particularly loud hammer. Fergus grimaces. Marsali, who is still early on in her new pregnancy, rubs her temples with her fingers as if trying to alleviate a headache. 

“Wha’ the devil is he doin’?” Marsali grumbles. 

“The lad has decided we need a playroom fer the children. Fer when they visit.” Jamie explains. “I believe young Keziah is wi’ ‘im now.” 

These days, Brian has thrown himself into working on the upstairs of the Big House. Claire is glad Brian is now putting his mind to doing things rather than sitting and staring off into the distance, but he's still not talking.

“Does he have to do it now? Doesn’t he know it is Sunday?” Fergus questions after finishing his mouthful of pork. “I imagine he could take a few hours off of his newfound hobby in woodworking, no?” 

Ellen forces herself to smile, touched by the gesture of her parents. “It gives him peace, I suppose.” 

Claire isn't sure. She had found her son in the room he'd decided for the playroom to be, having stridden up there with plans in hand. Claire had gone up to see how he was doing and had found him standing over the toolbox and gripping onto some rope as his eyes were glazed over. She had gently interrupted him, his hands letting go of the rope as he blinked furiously as if trying to wipe away the images. That's the funny thing about psychological wounds, they glare up when you least expect it. She feels awful for Brian.

Claire instead says, “I said it would be nice to have a room of that sort but now it's difficult to keep Brian away from his new passion for carpentry.” 

“It would be nice for the lad to stop for a while…” Jamie remarks. His comments seem in jest, but Claire can see the heavy set in his shoulders and the pull at the corner of his mouth. He's worried, maybe even frightened.

“Milady says his throat has healed fine,” Fergus says. “Why doesn't he speak?” 

“Brian had a verra frightenin’ experience,” Roger tells him, cutting into his meat. “Everraone heals in their own time. ” 

Claire nods in agreement. “It’s best you don't rush him.” She decides to change gears to something that, at the moment, is more uplifting and turns to Ferguson and Marsali. “Germain’s getting very good at reading now. Too good. He read my notes about lancing a haemorrhoid.” Claire goes to take another bite, then winces after realising she is speaking about arseholes and put it down. Jamie and Ellen look as if they’re trying to contain their laughter. 

“Ah, thank ye verra much Claire,” Marsali says warmly. 

Claire nods, glad to gloss over her comment. “You’ve done well teaching him to read, but… you’re doing the hard work, aren’t you? Teaching him to write, too? Jamie and I were talking about getting a school of some sort going for the children. Find a teacher looking to settle. It’ll be useful for Germain as well as Joanie and Jem along with the new little one in the future.” 

Marsali and Fergus share a warm look as the former gently strokes her stomach. 

“It’s a lot of children though,” Ellen argues, taking a sip of her wine. “You know there’s an alternative to you having to pay for all that work.” 

At this, Claire raises a brow. “What’s that?” She asks. 

“Me.” 

Claire looks at her daughter in surprise, glancing at Jamie, who seems intrigued. “I… I guess it would save on our coins…” Claire agrees weakly. “But… do you know the first thing about teaching?” 

“I can help her.” Roger declares, looking eager that his teaching skills are coming into use. Ellen smiles thankfully at her husband. 

“Well, if you're sure…” Claire doesn't want to stop her daughter, but can't help but be concerned, and it's not because she doubts her daughter's capabilities, but more that this is another job above everything else. Ellen is already using her engineering degree by coming up with as many plans as possible to make life on the Ridge easier, looking after Jem and spending time with Brian, trying to encourage him into activities and into talking. But everyone else seems pleased for Ellen so Claire realises she must step back for now.

Jamie raises a glass. “Weel, a toast te yer new endeavour.” He toasts, and everyone joins in. The merriment is only disrupted by another loud bang from upstairs.

Chapter Text

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the Ridge. Inga walks along the swiftly running river, her arms laden with baskets, picking up various this and that in the fading light. Her Mother had instructed her to forage before the season turns to winter. She freezes when she sees Brian Fraser sitting against a tree with lumps of wood in front of him and an axe at his feet. Yet, he is not touching them, and instead, he sits crouched over. His shoulders are tense, and he is gripping onto something Inga can't see.

Her bonnet flutters lightly in the breeze, her thoughts a tangled mess of curiosity and longing. She tucks her loose hair back to neaten it, taking a moment to admire the way his orange hair shines in the autumn sunlight and strides over. 

“Hello!” Inga greets cheerfully. 

Brian startles, looking at her. It’s then that she sees his hand gripping tightly on what appears to be rope. Inga’s heard enough about what happened at Alamance to know that rope is not a good thing. 

“Sorry.” She apologises uncomfortably, blushing in embarrassment and at his attention on her. 

He shakes his head hurriedly and stands, waving his hand dismissively, telling her that it is fine and to not worry. He tilts his head questioningly, eyes flickering to her baskets. 

“Oh! I, uh, was – well my Mother had suggested – that I forage for some food and herbs.” Inga wiggles the baskets in front of him. “I could do with some help. You have lived here longer than I.” 

Brian looks thankful as if wanting to step away from his work and silently accepts the invitation by walking on, glancing back at Inga. 

——

They soon find themselves working together in their foraging, but Inga, feeling awkward due to the combined factors of talking to her crush and the fact that the crush in question is completely silent, finds she can't help herself and proceeds to natter away unnecessarily to fill the silence.

She talks of her mother’s match-making efforts – Lizzie and Manfred (“I heard she fancied you and of course why wouldn’t she, uh, I did mean it like that!”) as well as her hopeless efforts with Ronnie Sinclair and Senga (“It’s all about security, we live at the man’s property and Mother worries what’ll happen to us if he marries someone else.”). 

At one point Inga looks up to see Brian looking at her with an amused as well as exasperated look, which reminds her far too much of Mistress Fraser. 

She laughs awkwardly, tucking her escaped blonde locks behind her ear. “Sorry, I just wanted to make things less awkward and I just made it awkward anyway, didn’t I?” 

Brian smirks and nods but he doesn’t seem too bothered. 

“I do not care that you cannot speak.” Inga then says abruptly before she thinks it through. 

He goes silent and looks down, and Inga realises she misspoke. She hurriedly walks forward, trying to forget her blunder. Inga’s eyes follow the water’s course, unaware of the uneven ground beneath her feet. A sudden slip—a misstep, perhaps, or a careless glance—sends her tumbling into the frigid current. 

She gasps as the cold water rushes over her, dragging her further into the river’s fast-flowing current. Panic grips her chest as she flails, trying desperately to catch hold of something, anything. 

“Ingah!” The sound of her name cuts through the air, and Inga freezes, her heart leaping in her chest. It is a terrible cry, loud and harsh, but with a ghastly strangled quality to it, like a shout forced out around a fist shoved down your throat. It was Brian. The same Brian who hasn’t spoken a word to anyone in months. 

In a heartbeat, Brian is at the water's edge. He reaches out, his eyes wild with urgency, and his hands grasp her wrists with surprising strength. With a sudden, powerful pull, he drags her to safety, hauling her from the river’s grip. 

The riverbank is quiet now, save for the gentle lapping of the water against the shore. Inga sat up, her body shivering from the cold. Her wet clothes clinging to her skin, her breath coming in sharp gasps. Her heart pounds—not just from the shock of the fall, but from the realisation that Brian had spoken, for the first time in so long. Brian, still kneeling beside her, had pulled her from the river with strength and determination she hadn’t known he possessed. She looks up at him, her eyes wide. 

It’s then that she sees that one hand is clutching at his chest, his breathing quick and short as if he can’t breathe properly; his eyes darting around. His other hand is still gripping hers, but now it is trembling—his jaw clenched, and his breaths come in uneven, ragged gasps. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his face pale, and his eyes are wide and unfocused. 

“Brian?” She prompts softly, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch his arm. “What’s wrong?” 

His eyes dart to hers, but they seem distant, lost. He shakes his head in a frantic motion, his mouth opening as though he wants to speak but can’t form the words. A strangled sound slips from his throat, and he sways where he kneels. He seems to be drowning in his own panic, unable to ground himself, unable to find his centre. 

She doesn’t think. She acts. 

Inga shifts closer to him, moving slowly so as not to startle him further. She places a reassuring hand on his back, hoping her touch will be firm yet soothing, trying to anchor him to the present moment. 

“Brian, focus on my voice and breathe with me.” She urges softly. “Take a deep breath. In... out... slowly. You're safe, Brian. We’re okay now.” 

Brian lets out a sob and nods. “Y–you…” His voice stutters from either lack of use or due to his breathing being erratic, sharp, and quick. 

Inga doesn't pull away. She doesn't hesitate. She leans in a little closer, her fingers lightly brushing his collarbone to guide him, to give him something solid to hold onto. The breathing isn't helping, so Inga tries another tactic.

She takes his hand and places it over her heart. "I'm here. I'm here." She repeats, her own voice steadying as she speaks. His gaze flickers from her face to her hands as he tries desperately to match his breaths to hers. Minutes stretch on like that, the world reduced to nothing but their breathing.

It seems to have an effect. As Inga keeps repeating it, Brian starts repeating it brokenly, struggling to complete full words. Slowly, his rapid, shallow gasps begin to ease, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly under her touch. His hands still tremble, but they are no longer clenched in panic.

After a long, quiet moment, he exhales sharply, his breath still shaky but more controlled now. His wide, unfocused eyes gradually return to hers. She sees the vulnerability in him—the rawness, the fragility he had kept hidden behind his silence.

“I–I…” he stumbles, his voice hoarse, still trembling with the aftershocks of the panic attack. 

“You don’t have to explain.” She says softly, her thumb brushing the back of his hand. “Just breathe.” 

Another period of silence passes between them and Inga can still see he’s shaken and scared. So the next time she speaks, she tries to make him laugh. 

“Do you know something funny about my sister Senga?” 

Brian croaks out what might be a no. 

“It’s Agnes backwards.” 

Brian pauses, his face scrunching up as if he's just tasted something horrific. Inga laughs at his face, and he lets out a broken half laugh and a half sob.

——

Ellen has been teaching the girls on the Ridge their ABCs. She's not a natural teacher, but she's finding a way to contribute to the Ridge. Of course, she'd be able to contribute in other ways, considering her skills, but this is an important one. Young girls (and even some boys) wouldn't get the chance to learn to read and write, but Ellen is making sure they do. She isn't a natural teacher so Roger has been a great help, using songs he remembers from his own childhood to make it fun for the children.

Ellen smiles warmly as she waves goodbye to Anne and Kate Henderson from the doorstep of her cabin as they run over to their brother, Obadiah, to be escorted home. 

“Oh dear.” She hears Roger mutter amusedly. 

She turns, about to ask him what's happened, when she spots two familiar figures emerging from the woods. Inga McGillivray leans heavily upon Brian as they stagger along, both drenched head to toe and Inga's blonde hair plastered to her shoulders. But despite this, both are smiling warmly at each other. Brian pulls a face, causing Inga to let out a loud laugh that carries to where Ellen and Roger stand.

Ellen steps forward, ready to do something, but Roger grasps her elbow, stopping her. 

“Leave them be.” He says.

Ellen reluctantly nods. For months, Brian had been trapped in his own silence, his isolation thickening like a fog around him. And though Ellen had tried, and tried again, to reach him, nothing had seemed to break through. She almost feels jealous of Inga. How has she made Brian look so jubilant when Ellen, his own sister, has been trying for weeks – months – to do the same thing without success?

Chapter Text

Marsali sits at the table in the Big House, the tarot deck in front of her, carefully shuffling the cards. Brian sits in front of her, humouring her. He wants to be supportive, but there's something unsettling about this whole tarot reading. A part of him doesn't believe in it, but Marsali had been excited about it and insisted that maybe seeing what the cards have for him would be a good thing since he started testing the speaking waters; a sign of a turn to good fortunes.

When he'd returned to the house with Inga, soaked to the bone. Inga had spoken, detailing the events, and his family had been ecstatic that he'd spoken. The joy on his family's faces when they learnt he had finally spoken, it had been overwhelming.

“Da’s mighty proud of ye, lad,” Da had said, his voice thick with emotion. “Ye’ve got yer voice back. It’s a blessin’, truly it is.”

Marsali grins as she deals the cards. “Fer Brian Fraser now.” 

She lays out the spread in front of her, pulling the cards one by one. As she flips the next card, it falls face-up onto the table. The image of a man suspended upside down, his body slack and his eyes closed in resignation, sends a chill down Brian’s spine. 

The Hanged Man. 

Marsali’s hand hesitates, her fingers trembling slightly as she stares at the card. The room seems to freeze. Suddenly, Brian feels that terrible sensation of darkness descending once more when he closes his eyes... 

A sudden wave of nausea floods his chest. His breath catches, the room distorting before his eyes as if everything is spinning around him. He feels his hand go to his neck, feeling where the rope burns used to be. The scar might have faded, but it feels as if the rope is still there. He sees the flash of the red British soldier uniform. The familiar, crushing sensation of the rope tightening around his neck, the horrible weight pulling him down—he remembers. So vivid and real that he gasps, fighting for air. His pulse quickens, heart pounding in his ears, as the world around him seems to disappear. He dangles, kicking– feet pawing empty air– his sight goes black– he feels his body stretch and loosen, reaching, reaching for the earth— 

“Oh…” Marsali mutters, shakily. “Sorry. Maybe I should try again—” 

“N–n–no—” He croaks, trying to reassure her, but he feels like he can't breathe. His fingers fumble together as he tries to grasp something and finds his grandfather's ring that sits on his right pointer finger. He strokes the hollow setting where the stone once sat and twists the scorched metal around his finger.

Just then, the door creaks open, and Ellen steps in. She immediately notices the room. Brian’s tense shoulders and Marsali’s horrified look. 

“What is it? What is it, Marsali?” She urgently asks. 

“Nothin’, just a wee game, ye ken.” Marsali tries to sound casual, but her voice betrays a trace of unease. 

She hurriedly tries to pick up the cards which draw Ellen’s attention to the card. Her eyes immediately flick to the table, catching the Hanged Man. His sister stops dead in her tracks, her expression changing as her heart skips a beat. 

“A game? Marsali, that card…” Ellen’s words falter. 

Her eyes dart toward Brian, who’s staring at the floor. She can see that his face has gone ashen. His shoulders are hunched, his face pale, his eyes distant. His back is rigid, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. The faintest tremor passes through him, and Ellen can see it immediately. Ellen’s stomach lurches. 

“Brian, Brian it’s okay. It’s over, r–remember?” Her voice cracks as she reaches for him. Her hand is on his arm, and he flinches. The reaction stings, but she forces herself to keep going. She’s not going to let him shut her out—not now. She’s already imagining him slipping back into the silence that’s plagued him for months. “Please, Brian. Please, talk to me.” 

But her words seem to fall flat. Brian’s eyes are vacant, still locked in whatever nightmare his mind is replaying. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t acknowledge her presence at all. The silence between them grows, suffocating. 

“Ellen…” Marsali’s voice breaks through the tension. “I didna mean—” 

Ellen whips around to face Marsali, the anger rising inside her. “You didn’t mean to?” Her words are sharp. The sudden surge of emotion overwhelms her. “Marsali! What the hell were you thinking?” She storms toward Marsali, a fire in her gaze. “This isn’t some... harmless game! He just spoke his first words in months! MONTHS, Marsali! And now this. This goddamn Hanged Man... Are you trying to send him backwards? You think this is a joke?” 

Marsali recoils slightly, startled by the sudden outburst. She opens her mouth to speak, but Ellen is too far gone, the protective instinct for her brother burning through her like wildfire. 

Brian can hear his sister berating Marsali but it all fades into the background. Brian wants to tell Marsali it’s okay, she was only trying to help and he doesn’t blame her. He’s the problem. He comes back to the conversation as Ellen approaches him. 

“Look at me, Brian. Please…” Her voice breaks. She needs him to see her, to hear her, to know that she’s still here. She crouches in front of him and gently places her hands on his shoulders, turning him towards her. Brian sees the guilt in her eyes mixing with the anguish. 

Brian gawps like a goldfish as he tries to find his voice. “E–e–l–l–l…” He flushes in embarrassment as his voice croaks and breaks. It sounds grotesque and squeaky. He feels is a sickly shame, his own voice like a foreign thing in his mouth.

He hates the burst of hope on her face. “Yeah, Ellen, that’s me. Can you say something else? Please?” 

His lips part as though trying to speak, but nothing comes. The guilt swells inside of him—the shame of his voice, the weight of the expectations of his family, all pressing down on him. Brian shakes his head, horrified and ashamed of his hoarse voice. 

The silence lingers in the air, the weight of the moment pressing down on them all. Ellen takes a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm despite the overwhelming rush of emotions flooding her chest. But Ellen isn’t giving up. Not now. Not ever. This is her fight, her battle to help her brother, but they will fight it together. 

“You don’t have to do this alone. You never have.” Ellen pleads. “We’ve always taken care of each other. We’ve always fought for each other, and I’m not letting you slip away from me now. Just try...” 

Brian’s eyes are wet, his jaw clenched. He remains silent. 

Chapter Text

Brian sits at the desk, brow furrowed as he tries to focus on the papers before him. The numbers swim together in a haze, meaningless and distant. His parents, Mama and Da, have been trying to distract him from the horrors in his mind with these mundane tasks, but it's not working. His thoughts are a tangled mess, and no amount of ledgers or trade goods can untangle them. Still, he focuses on the task at hand, his eyes skimming over the details of their trade plans with the Cherokee, where they trade spare honey for sunflower oil. Mama's soap and shampoo-making plans—one where the soap and shampoo they use is no longer smelling like a dead pig soaked in lye—no more hands reeking of dead pig fat!—but sunflower oil or olive oil in place of suet—though both very expensive.

It's a plan—a plan where the soap and shampoo will, hopefully, in turn, excellent prices—Da is unsure about given it'll take months to come to fruition, if they can dispose of honey for immediate profit and if he sees for sure that the soap and shampoo will bring much more than the raw honey, though, there will be no difficulty in getting her way.

The immediate financial demands aren't going to wait ten years. Beyond the possibility of a gunsmith's shop for Manfred McGillivray and a modest dowry for Lizzie, there are the normal expenses of farming, livestock maintenance, and an ambitious plan to provide ploughshares to every tenant, many of whom are still tilling by hand.

And beyond their own expenses, there is one very burdensome obligation. Laoghaire. She isn't precisely an ex-wife, but she isn't precisely not an ex-wife, either. Generous to a fault, though, Da has agreed to pay a large sum to her in annual maintenance, plus a dowry to each of her daughters. Marsali's dowry is being paid gradually, in land and whisky, and there is no news of Joan's (his other sort of step-sister/sister-in-law—does it count when it's his brother and her sister?) impending marriage. But the money to keep Laoghaire in whatever style she keeps in Scotland is falling due—and they don't have it.

Brian sets the ledger aside for a moment and rubs his eyes. The task, the numbers, even the trade goods—none of it seems to make the weight in his chest any lighter. Alone with his thoughts, Brian feels a deep sense of shame about his voice, unused for so long, and the overwhelming attention it brought. And now with the dealt card, can he go back? Or is he permanently changed?

It's hard, so damn hard, to focus when his mind keeps slipping back to what happened with Marsali and the cards. It had taken a few days and a talk with Roger before Ellen had calmed down and was no longer hashing out with Marsali. His poor sister-in-law has been trying to make amends by offering her opinions and help with finances and his building projects, to offering to let Brian name the baby that's expected to come in late spring next year. Thankfully, everyone has pulled her away from him every time she's tried to 'help'. He doesn't blame her, truly, but he'd rather not confront it now.

The sun outside has set to a burning glow beyond the chestnut trees, and he can hear the noise of women and children in the kitchen; Mrs. Bug is starting to lay the supper, helped by Ellen and Marsali.

“Do you think he's… all right?” Ellen's voice carries through the crack of the door, just loud enough for Brian to hear. “Da, it's been days, and he's barely said anything since or at all.” 

Brian closes his eyes, wishing he could block it out, but it is impossible. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, trying to focus on the papers again. But the voices from the hall keep intruding. They are talking about him. 

Brian doesn’t hear what his Da says, but he knows what he’s thinking—what everyone in his family is thinking. It lingers in the air—the expectation that he’ll speak again, that he’ll heal. 

He hasn’t wanted to speak, hasn’t wanted to disappoint them with the weakness of his tone. Their relief, their smiles, their praise—they all mean well. But that card game with Marsali just reminded him of how his voice sounds thin, and fragile, as though it isn’t truly his. He hates the way it feels, the weakness in the sound. He can’t bear it. He recalls how happy and good he felt when he spoke with Inga for the first time and wishes he could go back to that instead of this deepening shame. 

Brian’s lips part, but the words don’t come easily. His throat feels tight as if the muscles have forgotten what it’s like to speak. “Y–you... d–damn fool.” He mutters weakly, the words rasping as they leave his lips. 

The soft padding of paws on the floor draws him from his thoughts. Adso, the cat, wanders into the room, tail twitching with mischief. He drops a half-chewed dragonfly at Brian’s feet, looking up at him with wide, expectant green eyes. It’s as though the cat is offering him a gift, though it’s hard to tell if the offering is meant to comfort or entertain. 

“Thank... you.” He whispers again to the cat. It’s barely audible, the sound of it is more felt than heard. Adso, however, doesn’t seem to mind. Other than Keziah, the cat is the only one who never judges. He simply blinks and nuzzles against Brian’s leg, purring softly—steady, soothing, without any expectation. There’s no need to explain himself to the cat. No need to speak at all. Adso simply accepts him as he is. 

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against his hand, trying to steady himself. He startles when Adso leaps up onto the desk, knocking over a stack of papers in his quest for more hors d’oeuvres. Brian winces as the papers scatter, grasping the inkwell protectively, but the distraction is welcome. For a brief moment, his mind is away from the crushing weight of his own trauma, the lingering fear of his own voice. Deprived of prey, Adso strolls to the edge of the desk and sits on the stack of letters, tail waving gently as he pretends to admire the view. Brian lets out a croaky laugh at the cat’s attitude. 

“N–no.” He pokes at Adso with the sharp end of his quill. Adso's big green eyes widen as they fix on the tip of the moving feather. He twiddles the quill tantalisingly, and Adso makes an abortive swipe at it with one paw.

Knowing mayhem could ensue, he reaches out, lifting the cat from the desk and cradling him in his arms. Also, lets out a surprised and indignant mirp! of protest before he nestles into Brian's chest, purring loudly. Brian lets out a quiet, shaky breath, his hand absentmindedly stroking the cat's fur. With Adso curled in his arms, Brian doesn't need to force the words unless he wants to. And he does really. Just needs some confidence. And no help from Marsali.

“M–maybe,” he whispers to the empty room, his voice raw and unsteady, “Maybe tomorrow w–will be better.” 

Chapter Text

September 1771

The Ridge is quiet in the evening, with wind whispering through the budding trees. Inside the big house, the hearth casts flickering light across the room. Roger sits by the fire, a weathered wooden guitar resting on his knee, fingers grazing the strings without sound, though his mind is far away. His face is shadowed, tired, heavy with guilt. 

Across from him, Brian sits in a shadowed corner. His arms are folded tightly over his chest, staring out at the dark woods, lost in thought. The silence between them is palpable. The kind of quiet that sets into the bones. 

Everyone else has gone to their own beds except for the two of them after their usual Sunday meal. It has been a week since the Card Incident — as Roger describes it — when Brian had retreated back into his silent shell after his initial breakthrough. 

Despite Ellen's insistence, Roger has felt everything that has happened to Brian (and perhaps Ellen and Claire as well) since that fateful day last May (and maybe ever since he turned up on that doorstep in Boston and told Claire he'd found Jamie) has been his fault. 

Roger watches him for a long moment before speaking, his eyes never leaving the guitar as he says, “It's my fault. I shouldn’t ha' let ye te come wi' me. And ye—God, ye shouldn’t ha' come.” 

No answer. Just the whistle of wind under the eaves. But now that he's started speaking the thoughts that have been floating through his mind for the past four months, he can't stop. 

“If I had, ye wouldnae ha' been there. Ye wouldnae ha' gotten... hurt. Ye wouldnae ha'—” He swallows, the guilt tightening in his chest. “I should’ve stopped ye. Told ye te stay behind. 'Tis my fault, Brian. ‘Tis my fault ye ended up—” 

Still silence. Brian doesn’t look away from the window except for some slight movement as his eyes flick towards Roger briefly. His face is unreadable, but the words linger in the room. Roger's hands tremble around the guitar’s neck, and his voice cracks a little as he continues. 

“I cannae stop seein' it. The rope– yer face. How still ye were when they cut ye down. I almost got ye killed.” 

Brian flinches. A long silence stretches. Roger’s eyes close. 

“It should’ve been me.” 

Then, very quietly, with a voice still rough from disuse, weak but firm, Brian finally interrupts, “No.” 

The voice is hoarse and weak, but the word is like a breath of air after suffocating silence. Roger's breath hitches. His head jerks up, startled, eyes wide. Brian's hands are trembling in his lap, but his gaze finally lifts to meet Roger's. His gaze lingers on Roger for a long moment.

“Wha'?” Roger blurts out 

“No. It w–wasn’t your fault.” Brian speaks carefully, each word a struggle, but his voice is clearer, a little stronger now, though still rough round the edges. “I–I was there b–because I w–wanted to be. You could not have stopped me. I knew the risks, and I t–took them.” 

Roger stares at him, wide-eyed, but Brian continues, his voice still trembling. 

“I–I chose it. I can’t b–blame you for w–what happened. I–I can’t.” 

There’s a long pause. Roger, unable to speak, just watches Brian, as if looking for any sign that this is truly real, that Brian isn’t just saying these things to make him feel better. 

Brian’s eyes shift, and he speaks again, softer now, but still firm. “I’m not blaming you.” 

Roger blinks, the words sinking in, his breath catching. His guilt is still there. Roger’s face crumples with emotion, half-relief, half-pain. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I thought I lost ye. Ye wouldnae speak... wouldnae even look at me.” 

“I–I didn’t know who I was, for a w-while. Just… saw the r–rope. Over and over. And the faces.” Brian shudders, voice fading a little, quiet. “I was ashamed of how I s–sound. Didn’t feel like it belonged here. Didn’t feel like I–I did.” 

Roger slightly chuckles, trying to alleviate the tension. “Neither did I. Still dinna, sometimes.” His voice turns to a whisper. “I dinna ken how te forgive myself.” 

Brian doesn’t answer right away, his voice fragile but clear when it comes. “M–maybe you don’t have to. Maybe you just… need to stop carrying it alone.” 

Roger’s gaze drops to the guitar again, his fingers nervously strumming the strings without purpose. For a moment, it feels like nothing has changed. But then Roger has to say one more thing. 

“I’m sorry, Brian. Fer everrathin’.” Roger tells him remorsefully. 

Brian gives a small nod, eyes still closed, his voice barely a whisper. “I–I know. I f–forgave you. Long ago.” 

Roger stops strumming, looking up at him, the weight of Brian’s words settling over him. He exhales, hearing it from Brian is what he needs. Slowly, he sets the guitar aside, his eyes still fixed on Brian. 

“I willna forget.” He says quietly. 

Brian nods. “Y–you don’t have to. But… you can stop blaming yourself. I–I won’t let you.” 

“Ye really think I can stop blaming myself?” Roger asks doubtfully. 

Brian nods slightly, his throat moving with a shallow breath. His voice is quiet, but the pain in it is clear, “Y–you can try. I’m not gone. I’m s–still here. And I... I want to heal. Not just me. You too.” 

“Aye, I want te as well.” Roger agrees.

The silence that follows is quieter but more peaceful. Brian’s eyes close briefly, exhausted, but not entirely withdrawn. Roger takes in a deep breath, and for the first time in a while, he feels the weight lift just a little. Roger picks up the guitar again, his fingers brushing the strings gently. The music is slow and soft, filling the space between them. Brian doesn’t speak, but he listens, his chest rising and falling with every fragile breath. 

He begins to play the tune of “Oh, My Darlin’ Clementine” — a tune Brian will know. He strums a soft chord. Then another. A familiar tune begins to take shape. He begins to sing the first verse aloud, voice warm and deep, looking to Brian, who smiles softly as he watches. 

“Do ye want te join in?” The older of the two asks. 

Brian flushes in embarrassment. “I–I don’t…” 

“I willna judge.” Help, that's what he can do. For Brian, as well as Ellen and his parents. 

Brian closes his eyes. His lips twitch, a whisper of melody forming there. Like he's not sure it’ll hold. Like he’s afraid it’ll break. Broken. Crooked. 

They finish in silence. The fire crackles. Roger wipes his eyes with his sleeve, only just realising they've flown onto his cheeks. 

Brian lets out a quiet chuckle. “I–I sound like a cow.” 

“We’ll keep singing though, aye?” Roger encourages. 

Roger grins, and so does Brian. 

——

Ellen sits hunched at the table, sketching with sharp, deliberate strokes—her pencil scratches across the paper in a rapid, anxious rhythm. The images are fragmented—pale green eyes, fair hair, broken glass, and the shadow of a mouth caught mid-smile. And by the corner of his mouth, a small scar, just enough to make his smile a little off. It hid something far darker beneath. His features are coarsely handsome, the kind of face that women notice. She doesn’t need to name him. She knows his face too well. 

Ellen’s hand tightens on the pencil as the memory of that smile seeps into her fingers, but she doesn’t stop drawing. 

She hears the floor creak. In one swift movement, she flips the top paper over, laying another blank sheet across it. Her breath catches in her throat, but when she looks up, her expression is calm. 

Brian stands in the doorway. Hands are loose at his sides, the wind has tousled his hair. His eyes settle on her, steady. She stares at him in surprise, having expected it to be Roger and Jem coming back. 

“Hey,” she says, too casually, “I didn’t hear you come in.” 

He doesn’t reply right away. Steps closer instead. His lips press together, his jaw working like he’s testing the machinery before trusting it to move. She can hear the air rasp in his throat as he takes a breath. His voice, when it comes, is rough and quiet—worn from disuse. 

“E–ell’n,” he says. The word is quiet and raspy. 

Ellen freezes. Her eyes fill instantly. “You spoke.” She says like she’s not quite sure she believes it. “You—” 

Brian nods once. Her face crumples, just for a heartbeat, then she laughs—soft and breathless. Ellen rises and crosses to him, folding her arms around his waist. He leans into the contact. She takes Brian’s hand with her free one and smiles at him, the smile trembling only a little round the edges. 

“Can you do it again?” She asks. 

His smile matches hers. “Ellen.” He rasps, but the word sounds sure, and she bursts into tears. 

“I didn’t know if you would again.” She murmurs through her tears. 

“S–sorry.” His head dips, his brow resting lightly against hers. “I–I just… d–didn’t want to disappoint y–you. Roger s–said to try.” 

“You could never,” Ellen says, grinning now. She lets out a laugh that turns into a sob. “You absolute pain in the ass. You’ve been holding that in?” 

Brian gives the ghost of a nod, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. Not quite a smile. But nearly. 

And the silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full, not with hesitation, but with peace. Hard-earned, fragile, and real.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Bug, Ellen, and Mama carry the pizzas to the table, the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and toasted crust drifting through the room like a promise. Ellen pulls out her Swiss Army knife with a triumphant grin.

“This should do the job since we don’t have a pizza cutter.” She says, flipping out the blade and getting to work slicing the first pie into eight even pieces.

Brian presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. Around the table, the Bugs, Fergus, Marsali, and Da lean forward with wide-eyed fascination, murmuring quiet “oohs” and “aahs” as if Ellen’s performing a magic trick. Who knew pizza would be such a spectacle?

It had been Ellen’s idea. She’d declared she missed pizza and wanted to try making some—well, the closest thing they could come up with in this century. Brian and Roger had backed her immediately. What followed was a sort of summit around the kitchen table—Ellen, Roger, Mama, and himself—hashing out how to recreate the dish with what they had. Sheep’s milk cheese makes the cut, since it melts better than the hard wheels they usually keep on hand.

Da had stood nearby during the planning, trying to make sense of it all. He’d repeated the word “pizza” a few times, suspiciously, and it had come out sounding like “peesa.” Brian nearly choked laughing—almost as good as Da’s attempts at “gerrrms” and “murrrrderr.”

Fortunately, they grow their own tomatoes, basil, and garlic—the last of which Mama mostly uses in her surgery, but she’s willing to spare a few cloves. Da and Brian had gone up to the distillery earlier in the day and rolled down a barrel of cider they'd made a few weeks ago to pair with the meal. Ellen takes charge of the crust, while Mama gathers the rest of the ingredients. It had come together better than any of them expected.

Brian’s glad to be part of it. Since that first breakthrough with Roger and Ellen, he’s been slowly making small progressions in speaking with his parents too. His throat is still sore, and some days his voice gives out entirely, but he's talking again—carefully, quietly. Marsali has been particularly relieved and vigilant, often stepping in to remind others not to push him too hard. Brian knows it’s because she’s afraid—afraid he’ll backslide again, disappear back into silence, and it’ll be all her fault. She doesn’t say that out loud, but he feels it in her carefulness.

Roger has been steady as ever—never reacting with pity, never flinching at the rasp in Brian’s voice. Just listening. That alone makes it easier to keep trying. With less pressure from the rest of the family and Roger’s unwavering presence beside him, Brian feels like he’s finally got both feet under him again.

He’s even agreed to go survey the land grant—5,000 acres adjacent to Fraser’s Ridge. He and Roger have gone out with stakes and rope, measuring distances and marking boundaries. Brian still doesn’t see the point of it—not like he has a family of his own—but Ellen had shrugged and said, “You might as well do it.” And she’s right. He might as well.

Tonight, it’s a full house: Da, Mama, Ellen, Roger, Fergus, Marsali, the children, and the Bugs. They’ve made at least five big pizzas to feed everyone, and judging by how fast the slices are disappearing, they probably could’ve used a sixth.

Mama takes a too-big bite and nearly chokes, laughing as she fans her mouth from the heat. Da, cautious as ever, nibbles the tiniest bite Brian has ever seen, then nods in satisfaction and finishes two full slices in quick succession.

They eat and drink until nothing’s left but crumbs and oil-streaked wooden plates. Pizza has clearly won the Ridge over—Brian’s sure this won’t be the last time they make it.

Everyone has a glass of cider in front of them, the golden liquid catching the firelight. The children have milk, of course—though Brian’s caught Da letting them sneak sips of cider more than once. Da never seems to think it’s a big deal, even when Mama scolds him.

As the meal winds down, Fergus leans toward Roger, launching into a bawdy ballad he picked up during his street-rat years in Paris. The women drift to the hearth, arms full of baby gowns, wool, and knitting needles. Marsali’s suspected third pregnancy and Lizzie’s recent engagement mean birth stories are flying—some funny, some outright terrifying.

There’s other good news, too: Jenny has finally replied to Da’s many letters. For months, ever since Ian had joined the Mohawks in Roger’s stead, Jenny has steadfastly refused to communicate with her brother. The silence from his Aunt is always defined by the fact that Uncle Ian’s sporadic missives with additional notes from Young Jamie and then a line from Maggie, Kitty, Michael, or Janet. But the silence from Jenny is so deafening as to drown out all other communications.

It pained Brian to see him carry that guilt day after day. The guilt of Ian’s disappearance had been gnawing at him already, but Jenny’s silence made it worse. She is closer to him, more important to him, than anyone in the world—save, perhaps, Mama. She has shared his heart and soul since the day he was born—until the day he lost her youngest son. Or so she plainly saw it.

Brian had tried to understand that. And he does. But he still couldn’t help but feel some small resentment toward his Aunt. Ian isn’t dead—not so far as they know. She alone could absolve Da, and surely she must’ve known it.

Brian doesn’t know what the letter said, but he notes a difference in his Da, a shift so subtle he hadn’t realised it was missing until it returned. Lighter shoulders. Quicker laugh. A kind of stillness behind his eyes. He wonders if the news they’d received from Ian the previous fall had anything to do with Jenny’s apparent forgiveness.

Through the agency of John Quincy Myers, they had received a ratty paper letter written in clumsy Latin—one Brian couldn’t hope to understand. But it gave them the only concrete evidence they had that Young Ian was still alive and well. The letter assured them he was safe. Happy. Married “in the Mohawk fashion” (which Brian assumed meant he shared her house, bed, and hearth, and she let him). Ian was expected to become a father “in the spring.” And that was all.

Spring had come and gone with no further word. Brian knows Da has kept the note. To give it up would’ve been, in some final way, to relinquish him to the Mohawk. Ian isn’t dead, but he was the next thing to it. The chances of them ever seeing him again are remote. Still, it is something. 

The night ends in a roar of laughter as Fergus belts out the full version of the prostitute’s ballad, arms stretched wide like he’s on a stage. Da and Germain keep time on the table, pounding out the rhythm with their hands.

It’s loud. It’s warm. It’s chaotic. And for the first time in a long time, Brian feels like he belongs in the middle of it.

Chapter Text

October 1771 

The light is soft and golden, filtering through the trees in slanting beams. Brian and Inga walk in silence. It’s a peaceful, quiet, not strained, not uncomfortable, boots crunching softly through fallen leaves. Brian walks beside Inga, hands tucked in his coat pockets. There’s an ease between them now, one born not from words but from shared understanding. 

They’ve started taking these walks, just the two of them, since that day at the river—an unspoken agreement to meet when the Ridge is still sleeping or settling in, away from the gossiping eyes of their families and the Ridge. At first, their paths were full of silences. But Inga has never minded. She’d matched his pace, content to walk beside him without needing anything more. It wasn’t about talking, not then. It was about being somewhere no one asked questions, where no one stared or tiptoed around him like he might shatter. 

And slowly, it changed. The walks grew longer, their paths winding. Sometimes they strayed off the trail, stopping to watch a pair of squirrels chase each other or to listen to the wind rustling through the dying leaves. In those moments, when the world hushed, something inside Brian loosened—something wordless and wounded that didn’t need fixing, just witnessing. Inga never pushed. She has simply stayed. 

The crush Inga has on him has not gone away, though she’s careful with it. She’s happy to be his confidant, to be someone who sees him, not as the man who nearly died, but as Brian. 

“Did you hear? My mother’s up to her matchmaking tricks again.” Inga smiles, rolling her eyes. “She’s decided poor Joseph Wemyss should marry Monika Berrisch. It seems now that Manfred is marrying Lizzie, Mother thinks she should pair up the rest of her family.” 

Brian huffs a faint laugh. Not loud, but it’s real. It’s not much, but it’s more than what it used to be. “God help them.” 

Inga glances at him, pleased by the dry reply. “You said a whole sentence without sounding like a dying frog.” She quips. “You sound almost like yourself again.” 

Brian’s smile fades a little, but not with sadness—just thoughtfulness. His voice is still rough, still hoarse, but stronger than it was when they first began meeting up. He shrugs and murmurs, “Progress.” Brian glances at her, then. “Thanks to you.” 

She frowns lightly, surprised by the turn in conversation but adapting to it with a shrug, her Mother would disapprove of and a brushing of hair behind her ear as they keep walking. Inga’s smile flickers. “You don’t need to thank me.” 

“I do.” He stops walking, and she stops with him. His voice is low but steady. Their eyes meet. Something unspoken passes between them, and she looks down, the tips of her fingers brushing a fern as they resume walking. Their hands don’t touch, but the space between them feels thinner now. 

Then Inga speaks gently, “Does it still hurt to talk?” They usually don’t speak of his struggles with speaking beyond a quick remark, but today seems different. 

Brian pauses, looking down. One hand grazes his throat — the pale scar barely visible now beneath the stubble. “It hurts. But I can. I will—Inga.” His voice turns quiet. “I’m tired of silence.” 

She nods, her throat working. She wants to touch him again, like before, to be sure he’s still here, still real. But she doesn’t. Not yet. They keep walking until they reach a quiet bend in the path. A mossy log waits, and they sit side by side, breath misting in the air. 

She remembers the first time they sat here—how quiet he was after having his family clamber all over him excitedly when they’d heard he’d spoken. It had been overwhelming, so the two of them had sat in silence. Inga had offered the only thing she could—her presence. 

Now, as they sit again, she glances at him. “So… what now?” 

Brian stares ahead, gathering himself. The truth has been heavy on his chest for days—weeks. But she’s already proven she can carry things he thought too heavy to share. He draws a breath and turns toward her. “There’s something you should know. About why I came back. Why I’m here at all. Only some know.” 

Inga’s eyes lift back to him, curious but quiet. “Come back? What do you mean? Come back from where?” 

“I didn’t come here alone. My sister came with me—Ellen. We came back together.” He swallows, voice roughening. “From the future.” 

Her breath catches. She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t scoff. Her mouth opens, then closes. For a second, she just stares, lips parted. “W–what?” She eventually splutters. Of everything she thought he was going to say, that was not it. 

“I know how it sounds. But it’s the truth. I was raised in a time that hasn’t happened yet.” He pauses, trying to gauge Inga’s reaction, but she continues to stare at him, waiting. “Came back through the stones—because I had to save my parents. I learnt that there is a fire, just over 4 years away now. At the Ridge. A bad one. Ellen and I had to warn them. That’s why I’m here.” 

The wind picks up slightly, stirring the hem of Inga’s skirt. Her face is pale with disbelief, but not fear. She stares at him for a moment longer, then slowly exhales. Her shoulders drop slightly. “You’re… telling the truth, aren’t you? You came from the future. With your sister. To warn your parents about a fire.” 

Brian meets her eyes, calm and open. “Yes.” 

A long silence. A pause—then a grin tugs at her lips and then, almost to herself, she says, “You really are the strangest person I have ever met.” 

Brian huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but it catches at the end, a flicker of vulnerability. 

“But I believe you.” She slips her hand into his, easy as anything, like they’ve done it a thousand times. 

“You believe me?” 

She shrugs like it’s obvious. “You told me the truth. That’s enough for me. Though my Mother would likely ask yours to examine my head.” 

Brian exhales, long and quiet. He squeezes her hand. “Thank you.” 

She leans her head against his shoulder. “Then let’s walk. And you can tell me everything.”

Chapter Text

The night has settled in, the stars twinkling above in their quiet, distant rhythm. Inside their cabin, Ellen slumps into a chair after putting Jem to bed, she’s frowning into the fire. Roger is just finishing up a few chores, but the moment he notices Ellen’s pensive mood, he sets down the broom and joins her. 

“Ye’ve been quiet tonight.” Roger remarks, his voice gentle but curious. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies her expression. “Somethin' on yer mind?” 

Ellen hesitates before she sighs deeply. “I don’t know, Roger.” She begins, her voice soft but troubled. “It’s just... I thought I would be the one to pull him out of the darkness. To bring him back.” 

Roger raises an eyebrow, his expression turning more concerned as he leans forward. “Ye’re talkin' about Brian, aren’t ye?” 

Ellen nods, her eyes distant. “I know I should be happy that he is speaking now and how he’s really coming out of his shell, but I’d been trying for months, Rog. I was doing everything I could to get through to him, to get him to speak again, to not be so distant... and now, here’s Inga, and she’s the one who got through to him and I see them now and he’s—” 

A silence hangs in the air, and for a moment, Ellen looks almost ashamed of her own feelings. She knows she shouldn’t feel this way, knows it isn’t fair to feel resentment toward Inga and knows she should let it go and be glad, but it is hard to shake the feeling of inadequacy. 

Roger studies her carefully, his face softening with understanding, before he speaks quietly, “Ye feel like ye failed 'im.” 

Ellen blinks, her breath catching in her throat as she meets his eyes. “Yeah.” She admits, her voice is barely above a whisper. “I should’ve been the one to help him find himself again. I’m his sister. I’ve always been the one to protect him, to keep him safe.” 

Ellen’s gaze drifts to the window. She thinks of Brian, how she had seen him tonight—laughing, smiling, something she hadn’t seen in months. He looked lighter, freer, as if a burden had been lifted. Ellen hadn’t done that. 

Roger leans back in his chair, his eyes thoughtful as he processes her words. “Ellen...” He exhales slowly. “Maybe 'tis no' about ye, though. Maybe ‘tis about 'im. Sometimes people need somethin' different te help ‘em heal. Someone different.” 

Ellen’s brows furrow, her confusion clear. “What do you mean? Why couldn’t I be the one?” She asks in frustration. 

Roger is quiet for a moment, his hands folding in front of him. When he speaks, it is calm and wise. “Ye’ve been there fer 'im more than anyone. But I think Brian needed someone who could break through in a way tha' wasn’t tied to his past. Inga McGillivray... she’s not his sister. She doesn’t have the same expectations or the same baggage. She could just be there fer 'im, in a way tha' was fresh and new.” 

Ellen is quiet for a long moment, considering his words. She hadn’t thought of it that way before. Had she really been putting so much pressure on her brother? She thinks of when Inga had first told them all that Brian had spoken, the excitement. Ellen had grabbed Brian’s arm and looked at him imploringly and begged him to speak for her. Brian’s mouth opened a little, and when a hoarse sound came out of his mouth, he seemed to panic, his face red. He turned on his heel quickly and fled the room. It was then, after talking with Roger, that he finally spoke with her. The bond between them probably comes with its own set of pressures—pressures that, perhaps, made it harder for him to open up to her in the way he needed. 

Roger continues, his voice steady, “Maybe 'tis just tha' sometimes, someone else has te come along and be the one te help 'im see the light. And ye kno’ wha'? Tha’s okay. Tha’s how healing works sometimes.” 

Ellen’s eyes soften as she looks at him, still feeling the sting but a weight on her chest lifting just a little, Roger’s words starting to ease the tightness inside her. “But what if... what if he never needed me?” She asks quietly. 

Roger shakes his head, a reassuring smile on his lips. “Oh, Ellen, he’ll always need ye. Ye’re his sister. Ye’ll always be the one who kens 'im best, and no one can replace tha'.” 

“I suppose you’re right.” She murmurs. “Maybe I’ve been expecting myself to be the one to fix it.” 

Roger takes her hand, his grip firm and warm. “Sometimes... healin' isn’t about fixin'. ‘Tis about bein' there. And ye’ve always been there fer 'im. He’ll ne’er forget tha'.” 

Ellen smiles and nods, leaning over to give him a loving kiss. 

Maybe it isn’t about who lifts him up. Maybe, in the end, it is just about Brian finding his way back, no matter who walks beside him.

Chapter Text

Brian is elbow-deep in a losing argument with the goats. One of them manages to knock over the feed bucket—again—and the pigs, clever little beasts, are already trotting over to take their share. 

“Damn it, will you just—” He starts, wrestling the bucket upright. 

A burst of laughter rings out behind him—light, bright, unmistakably Inga. 

He looks up, wiping his hands on his clothes. She stands just beyond the fence, arms resting on the top rail, her cheeks pink from the cold and her blonde hair curled slightly from the morning mist. 

“Looks like fun.” She remarks with a grin. 

“Trust me, it isn’t.” Brian grimaces, casting a glare at the evil pigs who are scoffing down the food he couldn’t save. “How can I help?” 

“I was hoping you would tell me more stories from your time?” Inga asks hopefully. “You know, when you told me about the metal birds in the air?” 

Brian laughs, a sound which now doesn’t come across as a dying goose. He remembers the look on her face when he first described aeroplanes—how her eyes went wide with amazement, mouth parting in disbelief. 

He still isn’t sure why he’d told her, only that he’d needed someone to talk to. Da hadn’t said much when Brian mentioned it; he only gave a small nod, like he understood. Mama had asked a few quiet questions—what Inga had said, how she’d reacted—but in the end, she’d just said, “If she’s got sense, she’ll keep it close.” Ellen had blinked at first, surprised, but not disapproving. Roger, ever the cautious one, had asked if Inga really grasped what it meant and asked if she’d stopped calling aeroplanes “metal birds.” The obvious answer is no.

“God, don’t tell anyone I told you that.” He mutters. 

“I promise.” She says, lips twitching in amusement. 

She already knows about the music, the food, the books, the wars, the cities lit up like day—and somehow, she never seems bored. 

“Yes, Inga.” He says, leaning against the fence now, “I’ll tell you more stories. What would you like to hear?” 

“Hmmmm.” She tilts her head thoughtfully, chewing her lower lip. He notices a slight flush on her face. Is she warm? “Anything we don’t have here, I suppose. In this time.” 

The grocery store floats to the surface of his thoughts. A strange thing to think of, maybe—but it fits. 

“Well,” he begins, “there’s a place called the ‘grocery store.’ Imagine a building, and inside are rows—aisles—stacked with food, taller than you. Kind of like a trading post, but… more organised.” 

Inga blinks. “All in one place?” 

“Vegetables, meat, fruit, bread already made, and hundreds of other things you can just… buy.” Brian gestures vaguely. “It’s rather convenient, really.” 

Inga looks at him with wonder, her eyes round, as if he’s just described a castle made of light. It strikes Brian as sweet—her amazement over something so mundane. 

He thinks of Mama, the way she’d duck into the grocer’s in Boston, the scent of cinnamon and wax paper thick in the air. He smiled softly at the memory. She how tried to bake Ellen a birthday cake with the wrong kind of flour, how the layers had sunk in the middle, how they’d eaten it anyway. That memory brings a soft smile to his lips. 

Inga sees it and smiles too, not knowing the reason, only glad to see it on his face. 

“You mean,” she says slowly, “you don’t have to plant all the seeds like you have in your wee garden?” 

Brian glances out toward the small garden Da built for Mama. He shakes his head and crosses his arms. “Well, you can still grow your own if you want. A lot of people do. But in a city like Boston, there isn’t much land. Mama had some pots for peppermint and rosemary, but nothing like what we have here.” 

Inga nods slowly, eyes alight with fascination. She’s clearly picturing it in her head. 

“And– I… I don’t know the word, but I think it’s like a cart… with no horse, and you ride it yourself?” She frowns, clearly searching for her next thought. 

“A bicycle?” Brian guesses. 

Her face lights up. “Mmmm, yes—a bicycle.” She says the word slowly, savouring the strangeness of it. 

Brian laughs. “A bicycle has two wheels made of rubber—hence the name starting with ‘bi’—and there are metal chains and gears attached to it. You sit on it almost like you would on a horse. But it has handlebars in front that you hold for balance. You place your feet on these things on either side of the bicycle called pedals, and push down in a circular motion back and forth.” 

He watches her face for confusion but sees instead a slow nod. 

“Ah,” she says thoughtfully, “I think I get the idea. Did you ride one, Brian?” 

“I learnt how to ride a bicycle when I was five. Ellen too. But I mostly drove the car or walked when I was older and needed to go anywhere.” 

He tells her about the first time he got on the bicycle without training wheels—he has to explain those too—and how he fell a few times, grazing his knees. 

“Mama would always tell the story—every time I fell off I would huff and puff. And when I finally rode up the street and managed to turn back, Mama was so proud!” 

Inga laughs softly, the sound like wind in the trees. “I can just imagine you—wee and furious.” 

“You wouldn’t be wrong.” 

She smiles at him softly. 

——

Her next questions tumble out eagerly, as they always do. “Are there really carriages without horses? And how do people know what time it is without the sun?” 

The sharp scent of pine and fresh-cut wood fills the air as Brian drives the axe into the block. It’s good work—steady, real. His hands blistered when he first started, but now they’re rough enough to grip the handle like it’s part of him. 

Inga sits nearby, her fingers busy mending a hem, but her eyes are fixed on him more often than her stitches. 

“Yeah.” He replies, resting the axe and pushing his hands into his coat pockets. “And… we call them cars. And watches. You wear them on your wrist.” 

Inga’s laugh rings out like birdsong, echoing through the bare trees. “That’s ridiculous!” 

“It is.” He agrees, grinning. 

She’s ridiculous too, he thinks. Her questions, her delight, the way she looks at him like he holds the key to another world. But it never annoys him—not even a little. 

In fact, if he lets himself admit it, he likes it. He likes her voice. He likes her company. And he likes how her eyes light up every time he gives her another piece of the world he’s left behind. 

But he doesn’t see it—not yet—the way she watches him when he turns away, the quiet warmth in her eyes when he laughs. 

Not yet. 

But soon.

Chapter Text

November 1771 

“Ran! Ran!” 

The squeal comes from somewhere near Brian’s knee. He looks down just in time to see Jemmy MacKenzie’s chubby little finger jab through the air, pointing wildly at the steps where Brian’s Mama stands talking animatedly with Marsali. 

Brian laughs, crouching to the year and a half old’s height. “Yeah, Grannie.” He says, enunciating the full word with a grin. “That’s right, Jem.” 

Jem bounces slightly on his feet, clearly delighted with himself. “Ran!” He repeats, louder now, proud and insistent. 

Brian snorts and tugs the boy’s slipping woollen wrap back over his shoulders. “You’re on a roll, kid.” 

“Ran” has been Jem’s go-to for “Grannie” for the past few weeks, ever since he’d burst it out through a mouth full of bread and jam, much to Mama’s giddy delight. She’d spent months trying to coach the word out of him, and when he’d finally blurted it, Mama had shrieked so loud at the sound, the goats bolted, and Mrs Bug nearly dropped a pot of soup. Brian had been there, laughing at the way she scooped Jem up like he'd just recited Shakespeare. 

He is getting more adventurous by the day. Today, Ellen has been trying to coax Jem into walking, bent over with her arms outstretched and whispering coaxingly. She’d been laughing, face pink in the cool air, until Roger appeared and quietly drew her away. They’d disappeared around the corner of the big house, leaving Brian holding the baby and biting back a comment about what they are likely off to do. 

Now, Da’s familiar, broad-boned figure is striding across the frosted grass, his face flushed with the crisp air and excitement. “Brian!” He calls. “Come along, lad. Josiah and Bobby MacLeod spotted traces o’ game west o’ the Ridge. We’re gatherin’ a huntin’ party te stock up fer winter. Ellen should come too.” 

Brian arches a brow and hitches Jem onto his hip. “You might want to wait a bit.” He replies, shooting a glance back toward the house. “Ellen’s… occupied.” 

Da makes a face like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Jesus. Must ye?” 

Brian smirks, shifting Jemmy’s weight with a conspiratorial glance. “Well, she is good at keeping Roger on task.” He quips under his breath, glancing down at the obvious result of such past… dedication. Jem chooses that moment to blow a raspberry, as if to underline his uncle’s point. 

Da scowls harder. 

Brian gives Jem a conspiratorial grin. “See? He agrees.” 

Da grunts, clearly not amused. 

“And, uh, why doesn’t Roger come with us instead?” Brian suggests. Da gives him a look like he’d just suggested bringing a goat to a christening. Brian holds up a hand. “No, listen. Roger should come. He wants to help. You keep leaving him behind and putting Ellen forward instead. That’s not giving the man a chance.” 

“I give the man enough chances. I cannae be blamed fer his lack o’ skills.” Da grumbles.

“He’s trying.” Brian shrugs. “He’s spent a good bit of time alone—woods, silence, weather. He’s not useless. Just not much for blood.” 

“Ach, fine,” Da mutters, clearly not thrilled by Roger’s inclusion, but acquiesces to the idea. “But bring Fergus too. He’s half-useful—he’s no’ made o’ glass.” 

Brian shifts Jemmy as the boy reaches to grab a fistful of his uncle’s hair. “Tell you what, Jem,” he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “if you can say Brian, I’ll give you a bit of the meat.” 

“Biiiii!” Jem declares, eyes wide and earnest. Right… 

Da snorts. “Close enough.” 

——

The air bites at Brian’s face as he pushes through a dense patch of pine, Fergus just behind him, both leading their horses through the underbrush. On the hunt, when they’d made a plan when they realised it was Bison they were hunting, which included Da and Roger splitting off together so to come from behind the herd to push them towards the others. Brian hadn’t gone with them, figured it might help to give Roger the space to show himself and went with the rest of the group, which included Josiah, Fergus, Kenny Lindsay and Bobby MacLeod. He’d thought leaving them alone would help. A chance for Da to see Roger’s worth. Time to bond. When the rest of the party returned without them, Brian had assumed the pair would come back late, perhaps trailing meat. But the next morning, the horses returned without their riders, and Brian’s worry had bloomed into panic. He and Fergus rode out immediately. 

“Over here!” Roger’s voice cries, hoarse, frayed with exhaustion. 

Brian spurs his horse forward. They crest a low ridge and spot them. Roger is on his knees, clutching a makeshift sled fashioned from branches and the stripped leather from his own saddle. Tied to it with ropes is Da, his broad body limp, his head lolling with the movement as the sled jostles over roots and frozen ground. Brian’s face twists with guilt.

“Jesus Christ.” Brian breathes, swinging down and lunging forward. 

Da doesn’t speak. His lips are cracked. His chest rises and falls in shallow gasps. His skin is pale and slick with sweat, his shirt plastered to him. One leg is swollen, the skin is blistered, hot and red, as if it had been immersed in boiling water. Fergus stares for a split second, then drops beside Brian to help. 

Brian bends over him, his heart hammering. “Da?” He says softly. A low moan answers him. Relief crashes through his chest, but it’s laced with dread. Whatever happened, it’s bad. 

Roger collapses onto a log, his hands shaking. “Snake,” he mutters. “Bit him yesterday mornin’ just as he went fer the shot. He’s been sick, has the fever, spewin’, sweatin’... I couldnae lift him. Could barely move ‘im.” He rubs at his eyes with filthy hands, breath hitching. “I stayed. I– I wouldnae leave ‘im.” 

Brian and Fergus help Roger lift Da carefully onto his own horse. The older man groans as they shift his weight, his head lolling against Roger’s shoulder. 

“Still breathing,” Brian mutters, more to himself than anyone else. 

Da stirs faintly, his voice like sand dragged through gravel. “Bloody dafty sled Roger Mac.” 

Fergus huffs. “He’s back, then.” 

Brian manages a weak laugh, but his eyes stay locked on the misshapen leg. Mama’ll know what to do. She has to.

They lash Da in place across Fergus’s saddle, careful not to jostle the limb more than they must. Roger stumbles as he mounts the horse behind Brian, and Brian catches his elbow to steady him. 

“You got him through the night,” Brian says, voice low. “That counts.” 

Roger only nods, jaw clenched.

Chapter Text

Brian stands in the doorway of the infirmary looking at his Da’s unconscious body. Mama had left to make an onion poultice and clean out the wound a bit and Brian had agreed to stay with Da. 

By the time they had reached the Ridge, the house was in a flurry of movement. Mama was calm but fierce, barking instructions as Da was carried in. Brian had stayed out of her way but close enough to help if she needed it. Feegus was still winded, and Roger looked like he might fall over if someone breathed on him. A worried Ellen joined Mama with a stroke of tea towels. They soaked them in fresh water before placing them on Da's face to lower its temperature or at least prevent it from rising. 

Brian takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, reminding himself as he looks at his Da that he’s still alive. For now. 

Mama had said he looks like he’s been roasted over a slow fire, and she’s not wrong. Brian steps towards him, setting a hand gingerly on his ankle. The skin is puffy, hot and dry under his hand. It is also red. Bright red. The brilliant colour extends from Da’s feet up nearly to his rib cage; he looks like he’d been dipped in boiling water. His face, ears, and neck are also flushed the colour of a plum tomato; only the pale skin of his chest had escaped, and even that is dotted with pinpricks of red. It looks like a rash, but Mama says it isn’t, and she thinks it must be petechiae, pinpoint haemorrhages under the skin. But so many of them… 

The skin is peeling from his feet and hands, hanging in wispy shreds. The foot and ankle on the injured side are still warm and pink, or rather, red. That is a good sign, insofar as it means the deeper circulation is intact. The problem is to improve circulation near the wound, enough to prevent a massive die-off and sloughing of tissue. But Mama is seeing signs that could be only part of the hemorrhagic process, but it was more likely that they were the early signs of septicaemia, as in blood poisoning. 

Brian shivers and quickly pulls his hand away. Da’s alive, he reminds himself. 

For now. Says a voice in his head. 

“Is there a reason yer forehead is wrinklin’ like tha’? Has somethin’ crawled up yer arse?” 

Brian startles and looks up to the top of his Da’s body to see the man blinking blearily at him. “Ha, uh, no.” He stumbles. Reaching out to pour some water into a cup then helps him sit up slightly to sip.

“I dinna believe ye.” Da retorts as he lies back down again. “Ye not scared?” 

“‘Course not. You’re gonna be fine. You’ve got an excellent doctor.” Brian retorts, trying to be blasé about it. 

“Ye dinna ha’ te lie te me.” Da admonishes with a huff. “I can tell ‘tis no’ good. Yer Ma is bein’ tender instead o’ scoldin’ me like she likes te do. She thinks I'm dyin’.” 

Brian winces; he’s not wrong exactly. Mama didn’t deal with snake bites as a surgeon, which is why he remembers so vividly the time when she had giddily rushed home to tell him, Ellen and Dad all about the autopsy of a man, who had died from a king cobra snake bite, she had been invited to see. Not comforting at all. 

Mama is distraught because the venom is in Da's blood, and with no syringe, she can only give him penicillin broth, which is less potent. Mama couldn’t give him brandy or whisky to ease the pain, and Mama hadn’t any laudanum. She doesn’t know what kind of snake had bitten him—not that it made much difference, with no antivenin for treatment—but it plainly had a powerful hemolytic toxin. 

He has survived for a while, night and day, since his and Roger's night on the mountain. Chances are, Da will continue to survive—if Mama can control the infection. But in what condition? It's a good sign that Da has stopped vomiting, but Mama fears gangrene. What would happen to him then? Amputation?

“Fergus and yerself did braw work.” He says. Brian can hear the deep fatigue in his voice, but a big hand rises slowly out from under the quilts to touch his cheek. “Findin’ me and Roger Mac. He saved my life.” 

Brian just hopes it stays saved. 

Ellen has been rather proud of Roger’s actions. Brian is rather impressed himself, hearing how his brother-in-law worked quickly to try to fix things, slicing Da's leg and sucking the venom out. 

“I just wish we had caught the buffalo for all our troubles. Just one would have fed the whole Ridge for the winter.” Brian grumbles. 

Da gives a small grunt of dismissal. “Och, weel manage.” 

It’s plainly becoming an effort for him to speak, so Brian steps out of the room to give him some rest, covering his leg with the blanket. He’s quickly accosted by Marsali, who tries to look over his shoulder to see inside, which is an impossible task considering their differences in height, but she certainly tries. 

“Is he verra poorly?” She asks earnestly. 

“I think he’ll be all right,” Brian assures her, suppressing his own fears. “He feels awful and looks worse but if the wound doesn’t get infected…” Brian crosses his fingers behind his back.

Marsali nods solemnly. “Ah, he’ll do.” Marsali declares confidently in an attempt to convince herself of it. “Fergus said ye were worried when ye found him but then he were makin’ terrible jokes about Roger Mac and his sled, so ye didna worry anymore.” 

Brian doesn’t quite agree, having seen the state of his injured leg, but nods anyway. “Yeah, that’s right. He still has his wits about him which is good.” 

Marsali crosses herself and rubs her three-month swollen stomach. Brian can’t believe it’s her third child in four years. And a one-handed husband, who can’t manage the man’s work of a homestead and won’t do the ‘women’s work’ of baby-minding and mash-brewing that he can handle. 

“Beef tea is wha’ he needs.” She says, pausing to look at him, brow furrowed with concern. “Tha’ is wha’ my Mam did swear by, and her Mam before her. When a body’s lost a deal o’ blood, there’s naught like beef tea.” 

Marsali must be seriously worried if she's bringing up her mother in Mama's vicinity (she is literally just through the door) out of a natural sense of tact. Mama had mentioned something similar, but had also said that they don't have any fresh beef.

“Right now, you could help find some maggots,” Brian says instead. “Mama has already sent Ellen, Roger and the Beardsley twins out to find them. To fight infection.” 

Marsali nods in agreement and hurries off to complete the task, clearly glad to be doing something. Brian lets out a sigh and slumps against the wall outside the infirmary, releasing a heavy breath. He then does something he hasn’t done in years: he recites a pleading prayer in his mind to anyone who is listening.

Chapter Text

Brian lets out a heavy groan as he pulls himself up from the ground, his ribs aching from where he hit the ground. A hand thrusts into his vision. A hand appears in his face, and he looks up to see Ellen standing above him, hair tangled, face streaked with dust and sweat, looking every bit as ruffled as he feels. Her eyes are wide, her chest heaving. He takes her hand without a word and lets her haul him to his feet. He looks around at the disaster scene.

Lizzie cowers behind the overturned laundry basket, holding Jemmy tightly to her. Marsali is not far behind them with her arms wrapped around her stomach in an attempt to protect her child, her face pale and stunned. Mama stands on the porch of the Big House, lowering the still-smoking rifle in her hands, lips pressed tight, her eyes locked on. Da is red in the face with his body contorted in a painful position as he pulls himself along the porch half naked, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath him from where he tried to leap up in defence, only to be brought down by the sudden pain in his snakebitten leg. Finally, lying in a torn-up bed of crushed pumpkin vines and earth, the massive bison lies in a heap before them.

Yeah. A bison.

They'd all been on the hunt for maggots when Lizzie could be heard letting out a terrified scream. The shout, Lizzie's scream splitting the quiet. Ellen came running without hesitation, and he was right behind her, not even knowing why yet. Then the sight, Jemmy frozen in place, eyes wide and the wounded bison standing in the pumpkin patch like some monster out of time, bloodied and massive.

It had snapped through the paddock fence, dazed and in pain, and seemed confused to find itself surrounded by people. Lizzie's fear set Jemmy off screaming. Then Mama had come outside, frozen at the sight before running back in for something. But Ellen didn't freeze. She ran straight for her boy. Called to him. Almost reached him.

And then the thing charged.

He still hears the thud. Still sees her body flung like a rag doll. The way the beast turned on Jemmy again. He hadn't even thought. Just spotted the axe and ran, silent and fast, swinging with everything he had.

It didn't stop the beast, but it bought them time. Mama's shot cracked across the Ridge like thunder. And Ellen, damn her, got back up. Took the axe and ended it.

Brian takes a deep breath, looking down at the massive body. Lying on its side, it rises nearly as high as Ellen's waist. Its dark hide is matted with dirt and blood. Marsali and Lizzie, the latter handing over Jem to his mother, come to stand beside them, shaking their heads in awe at its size.

Jemmy, terror forgotten, leans far over, looking down in curiosity at the buffalo. “Ooo!” Jemmy says, eyes round with awe. 

“Yes,” Ellen says dryly, brushing dirt from her skirt, “very well put.” 

Brian exhales a long breath and mutters, “On the bright side… seems we’re getting a decent amount of meat for winter.”

——

The air still smells of blood, smoke, and something deeper—wildness, maybe. Brian doesn’t know what he expects to feel as he stands near the stripped remains of the bison. But all he feels is off-balance. Like he’s still mid-sprint. 

The bones are picked clean already. He sees Murdo Lindsay rinsing his knife in a pail of water dark with blood and dirt. Ellen stands at the far side of the field, sleeves rolled, giving instructions like a captain directing a final wave of troops. A pair of Chisholm boys assist Bobby MacLeod with the last hewn chunk of ribcage, grunting as they lift it to a cart for boiling. The prized hooves and horns are to be kept as tacit trophies, the eighteenth-century equivalent of two ears and a tail. Someone gave Mama the gallbladder, too, though that was simply by default; no one wanted it, but it was popularly assumed that she must have some medicinal use for almost any natural object. 

Brian wipes his hands absently on the hem of his shirt, though they’re not bloody anymore. 

“Brian.” 

He turns. Inga stands with her shawl tight across her shoulders, blonde hair mussed from the walk, cheeks still flushed. Her family is a few steps behind her, speaking with Mr Bug, but she’s slipped away from them. 

“You have taken no hurt, have you?” She asks, brows drawing together. 

He blinks, startled that she’d ask him, of all people, and not his mother or sister. “Nah.” He says, voice hoarse. “Only a fright.” 

“Still,” she says gently, “you went toward it, not away. That takes mettle.” 

He huffs a breath, not quite a laugh. “Ellen and Mama were the brave ones. I just reacted. I wasn’t even thinking.” 

Inga lifts her chin slightly. “That’s what bravery is sometimes.” Her eyes meet his. “Acting anyway.” 

He doesn’t know how to answer that. She’s looking at him like she sees something he doesn’t. He glances past her for a moment, toward the house where Mama had gone not long ago. His voice quiets. 

“Mama’s not doing well. Not about Da, I mean. She’s holding on, but…” Inga says nothing, only waits. “She’s in that... state. Not angry, not crying, not panicked—but she barely speaks. She’s just there, doing what she has to do, and nothing more. Like she’s gone into herself to hold everything together.” 

Inga nods slowly. “Mmm… that’s a terrible burden for one person to bear.” 

“She says the venom might pass, but the infection’s bad. Real bad.” 

Brian remembers how Mama had lifted the onion poultice and tucked the maggots into the wound carefully, one by one. The sickly-sweet smell of garlic, onion, and rot clung to her hands. The poultice was soaked in broth and wrapped in muslin. The honey sealed over it after. Everything is done just right, but it might not be enough. Mama had said it needed more than what she could do from the outside. She needed a way to get penicillin into his bloodstream. 

“She’s been thinking about amputation.” He says quietly. 

Inga’s eyes widen. “Already?” 

“She hasn’t said it out loud, but I can tell. She’s considering it.” 

“But the leg,” Inga presses, “it’s still warm? He can feel it?” 

“Yeah. He can.” 

Inga frowns, her voice low. “Then she should wait a bit longer. See if the rot eases. There’s still a chance.” 

He nods. “That’s what I’m hoping.” 

The field is quieter now. Most of the meat has been hauled away; just the bones and hooves are left. Ellen’s voice carries distantly, giving someone orders. The last rays of the sun catch in Inga’s hair. 

Inga’s eyes are wide, her lips parted as if she wants to say something else, but instead she reaches out and places a hand on his wrist. Her fingers are cool but steady, the touch grounding. 

“You’re not alone in this, Brian.” She says. 

He looks at her hand, then up at her face. Her hand is warm. Steady. Something moves in his chest, something heavy and uncertain. He doesn’t name it. 

“I know.” He says, though his voice has a scratch in it. “Thanks.” 

And for a moment, the air feels still. Then someone calls for Inga, her father, perhaps, and she steps back, nods, eyes lingering just a moment longer before she turns back toward her family. Brian watches her go, not understanding what sits like a stone in his chest. 

Behind him, the bones of the bison lie like pale ruins in the grass. His sister’s voice echoes across the Ridge. And for the first time all day, he lets himself feel afraid.

Chapter Text

“Mama’s talking amputation again,” Brian says, his voice low and tight as he stands near the hearth, arms crossed. “Says it’s not getting better despite the maggots. She’s worried it’s too deep. Keeps muttering about sepsis. Says if she had a way to inject penicillin, she might stand a chance.” 

Mama has been continuously tending to the wound, checking the progress of the maggots. The smell has been turning Brian’s stomach, but he never looks away. She has been renewing the poultice of onion and garlic wrapped in muslin, soaked in her penicillin broth, every hour. It looks almost like a leg again. The swelling has eased, the curve of the shin and the arch of the foot faintly visible beneath the bruising and mottled skin. But the dangers haven’t passed. Infection, gangrene, or worse can still take hold. Brian knows it. He can see it in Mama’s face every time she checks the wound, that flicker of worry she tries to hide. 

Roger shifts where he stands by the window, glancing out of the room. To where Da now rests. Da had insisted on being moved from Mama’s surgery despite the fever burning in his skin and the weakness in his leg. Brian hesitated, knowing Mama would disapprove, but with Roger’s help, he got Da out of the narrow bed and half-carried him through the house and up the stairs to the master bedroom. Da was determined to be in his own bed, unwilling to let Mama continue sleeping on the floor beside the surgery bed. 

Roger winces. “He won’t like tha’.” 

Brian turns, frowning. “What do you mean?” 

Roger hesitates, then sighs. “He told me he ken wha’ Claire’s thinkin’. Tha’ she means te take the leg. And if it comes te tha’… he’d rather die than be useless. Said he’s no good te anyone wi’ one leg.” 

Brian stares at Roger for a long moment, unmoving. Then his jaw clenches. He turns away from the fire, pacing two steps before stopping again, shoulders rigid. 

“That’s bullshit.” He mutters, low but sharp. “He’d rather die than be ‘useless’? Is that what he thinks this is about? Pride?” 

Roger doesn't answer right away. The faint creak of floorboards sounding like Mama’s footsteps reminds them Da is still there, still breathing—for now. 

“‘Tis no’ just pride,” Roger says finally. “Ye ken wha’ he’s like. He sees things in absolutes. His duty, his body... they’re the same thing te ‘im.” 

Brian shakes his head, frustrated. “Uncle Ian only has one leg and he still rides, hunts, and runs the farm. Fergus has one hand, and he’s raising a family, holding his head high. They’re still them. Still whole. So what the hell is Da talking about?” 

Roger nods, quietly. “Aye. He ken tha’.” 

“Then why the hell is he acting like this?” Brian shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Mama’s killing herself trying to save him. Ellen’s barely sleeping. And he—he’s lying in that bed choosing death like it’s some kind of noble sacrifice.” 

Roger’s voice is soft. “Maybe he doesn’t see it tha’ way.” 

“Well, he’s wrong.” Brian snaps. Then quieter, “He’s wrong.” 

He glances out of the room now, fists clenched at his sides. “I’m going to talk to him.” 

——

Brian doesn’t bother knocking. He pushes open the door to the master bedroom, jaw tight, chest heaving. Da lies propped on pillows, his face pale but alert, blue eyes watching the doorway with that infuriating calm he always wears like armour. 

“You really said that to Roger?” Brian demands, crossing the room. “That you’d rather die than lose your leg?” 

Da raises a brow. “Aye. I did. ‘Tis the truth.” 

Brian stares at him, stunned for a moment by the coolness of it. “Uncle Ian and Fergus manage just fine.” He says, voice rising. His throat feels a bit raw, the scars left from the noose being tugged on by the force behind his words. He ignores the slight cracks in his voice and pushes through, ignoring the burn. “One’s got one leg, the other’s got one hand. You calling them useless? You saying they should’ve laid down and died too?” 

Da looks away, jaw clenched. “‘Tis no the same.” 

“How is it not?” Brian presses, furious now. “Fergus was a kid. Ian’s father, he got through it. Ian told me about what it cost him, what he overcame. You gonna tell me you’ve got less courage than they did? Less strength?” 

“He and yer Uncle... they are braver than me,” Da says remorsefully, looking back at him. 

“Or less proud, less stubborn.” Brian snaps. 

“‘Tis a matter o’ honour.” Da retorts. 

Brian scoffs, pacing, hands clenched at his sides. “Honour? No, Da, you’re too proud. Proud enough to think this is about honour? A snake bit you, Da. You didn’t fall on the battlefield with a sword in your hand, you got unlucky in the grass.” 

Da flinches, ever so slightly. 

“And you think that’s worth dying over?” Brian pushes. “You’ve got Mama. You’ve got Ellen, Roger, me, Fergus and Marsali. The grandkids. You’ve got the Ridge. What, none of that matters if you can’t walk straight?” 

Da’s silence stretches too long. Brian shakes his head, bitter. 

“You know, I’ve heard Ian say once… that sometimes, when he was a lad, he wished you were his father. He looked up to you that much. So did I.” Brian’s voice is low now, pained. “But you know what? Right now, I’m ashamed. Ashamed that you’d let your pride come before your family.” 

Da’s eyes close for a moment. He doesn’t respond. 

Brian doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns and storms out, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Brian stands in the wide passage of the Big House, pacing slowly. The firelight from the sitting room flickers against the wall, but he doesn’t go in. He hears the soft thump of boots on the step outside, and moments later, Fergus slips in, shaking the cold from his shoulders. 

“You’re here to see Da?” Brian asks, more sharply than intended. 

Fergus raises a brow. “Aye. I heard he’s been moved to his bed. Thought I might check on him.” 

Brian steps into his path. “Maybe… maybe don’t. Not right now.” 

Fergus tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing in quiet assessment. “And why is that, mon frère?” 

Brian glances at Fergus’s wooden hand. Fergus notices the look. 

“What is it?” Fergus asks. 

“Nothing,” Brian says quickly. 

Fergus gives him a suspicious look. “You lie very badly.” 

Brian shrugs, trying to hide the half-truth. He doesn’t want Fergus to hear what Jamie thinks about the loss of his leg. “We were talking about you, that’s all… me and Roger,” he says, forcing casualness. “Said it’d be a shame for you to leave Marsali and come all this way to see Da because he’s tired.” 

“But I walked here to see him… and I left Marsali. So I’m going to go see him quickly.” 

Brian steps sideways to block him. “I think he’s resting… maybe later.” 

“What’s wrong? Where is he?” Fergus asks again. 

Brian hesitates, then admits, “Mama thinks she may have to amputate it if—” 

“If it gets worse,” Fergus finishes for him. Once the initial shock passes, a flicker of anger touches his face. “Why don’t you want me to see him? Don’t you think I can stand it?” 

“It’s not that,” Brian says quickly. “I know you can. It’s him I doubt. He’s so damn stubborn, Fergus. He doesn’t want to lose his leg. Acts like it’s the worst thing that could happen to a man. I just… didn’t want you to be upset. You’ve—” He stops short, glancing at Fergus’s wooden hand. “You’ve been through enough without him making some damn fool comparison about what’s worth living for.” 

Fergus sighs. “Suddenly, he will become idle.” 

Brian frowns. “What?” 

With a faintly sad smile, Fergus explains, “That’s what I told him when it happened to me. That I would depend on him, and he would have to be there for me. It was our agreement, if I lost an ear or a hand in his service. I was teasing him.” 

Brian’s mouth twitches despite himself. “An idle, huh? I can’t wait to hear what Marsali would say about that.” 

Fergus smiles. “I’m sure she would have a lot to say. She saw what it’s like to live with me. You know, Marsali and I… we don’t think about what we’re missing, but about what we have. You and I have a father. We should be there for him when he needs us. That’s all we can do.” 

Brian exhales, shoulders sinking a little. “So what? Just wait?” 

“We wait,” Fergus says simply. “We are there when he needs us, as he has been there for us. He will come to see what matters most, but he must take that step himself.” 

Brian glances toward the stairs, jaw still tight, but he gives a small nod. “Alright. But if he tries to throw his life away…” 

Fergus’s faint smile holds, though there’s a glint of steel in his eyes. “Then we remind him that the Frasers are not so easily rid of one another.” 

——

The room is quiet, save for the faint pop of the fire and the rasp of Da’s breathing. The air smells of liniment, sweat, and woodsmoke. Brian sits in the chair beside him, elbows on his knees, watching the rise and fall of Da’s chest, irritation simmering under the surface. He wants to shake sense into him, to force him to see reason, but Fergus’s voice lingers in his mind, reminding him that they can’t choose for Da, only be there when he needs them. Still, the thought of doing nothing twists in his gut. He stays put because he’s also afraid that if he moves away, Da might slip away with him gone. He’s worse than before, despite the maggots, and he keeps getting worse. 

Da stirs, his eyes half-lidded but sharp when they open. “Brian… lad. Come here.” His voice is low, frayed around the edges. 

Brian leans closer, tone tight but steady. “I’m here, Da. Don’t try to move.” 

“Aye, I’ll no’ be movin’ anywhere soon,” Da mutters, a flicker of dry humour in his voice. He shifts slightly, then fixes Brian with a look. “Ye’ll mind yer Mother, aye? And Ellen. The Ridge, too. Ye’ll see they’re kept safe.” 

Brian exhales hard through his nose, frustration and worry tangled together. “You’re not dying on me, Da. You could live if you’d let Mama take the leg if it comes to it. I know you don’t want that, but if it’s the only way to keep you breathing…” He swallows hard, voice roughening. “It’s just… I don’t want to lose another father, Da. Yeah, me and Dad didn’t always get along, but he was my dad.” His voice softens, pleading. “Don’t make me go through that again.” 

Da’s eyes soften for just a breath, a shadow of something unguarded crossing his face. “Aye… he raised ye. Looked after ye when I couldna. I owe the man for tha’.” He shifts against the pillows, his gaze steady on Brian. “And I’ll no’ have ye feel tha’ loss again if I can help it.” 

Brian swallows, the lump in his throat thickening. “Then don’t make it harder than it needs to be. Let Mama do what she has to do, even if it’s the leg. We can manage that. We can’t manage losing you.” 

Da shakes his head. “Ye ken I cannae do tha’.” 

Brian exhales through his nose, trying to mask the tightness in his chest. “You’re not dying on me, Da. Even so, you don’t have to ask me to look after them, I would anyway. Of course I would.” 

Da’s jaw tightens again, stubbornness flaring, but there’s a flicker of reluctant acknowledgement in his eyes. “Good. And if I cannae… ye’ll need te deal wi’ Bonnet. The bastard’s still breathin’. He’ll come fer us again, I’ve no doubt. Remember Philip Wylie. His arrangement fer Bonnet te smuggle my whisky, if Bonnet agrees te a meetin’. Lord John kens the rest o’ the details. Ye can go te ‘im if need be.” 

Brian’s fingers tighten on his knees. “I know the plan. But… Da, I’ve never killed a man. Not like that. Not face-to-face.” His voice drops, almost to himself. “It’s not the same as hunting or shooting in the heat of something. It’s different when it’s deliberate.” 

Da studies him, expression unreadable. “Bonnet’s no man worth pity, lad. He’s murdered, raped, stolen, near destroyed this family. If ye ha’ the chance, ye end ‘im. Better ‘im gone from this earth than another hurt laid on those ye love. ‘Tis no’ about revenge… no’ truly. ‘Tis protection.” 

Brian swallows, jaw still tight. “Still feels like revenge.” 

Da’s gaze hardens, though his tone stays steady. “There’s a fine line betwixt a monster and a hero. But if Bonnet’s breathin’, our family is no’ safe. Bonnet will claim wee Jemmy as his. Ye ken wha’ he’s tried before.” 

Brian nods slowly. He does. The thought of Bonnet, what he’s done and could do again, twists his gut. 

“Then I need you to stick around long enough to teach Roger to fight,” Brian says, a faint edge of humour breaking through the tension. “Because if it comes to it, I need help.” 

Da exhales through his nose, a small, tired sound that might almost be a laugh. “Aye. I’ll see te it. If I’ve breath left, I’ll make a swordsman o’ ‘im yet.” 

Da’s eyes flutter shut, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. Brian sits back in the chair, rubbing a hand over his face. Da believes he’s going to die; his words were clear enough, but also why he had insisted on going to his own bed. Through the open shutters, the voices of family and tenants drift up. Da has, very carefully and without saying so, decided how and where he wants to die.

Chapter Text

There is a pep in Brian’s step as he hurries through the chill morning air toward Roger and Ellen’s cabin. The world seems too bright after the night they’ve had, fitful hours of fever, Da slipping in and out of consciousness, Mama’s hands steady even when her eyes betray the fear she tries to hide. Finally, after what had felt like a battle every bit as bitter as the ones he’s fought on the Ridge, Da has agreed to the amputation. Mama has sent Brian to fetch reinforcements. 

There's a pep in Brian's step as he rushes over to Ellen and Roger's cabin. After a touch-and-go night, Da has finally agreed to the amputation, and Mama has sent Brian over to the cabin for some reinforcements.

He raps once on the door before pushing it open. Ellen is at the table, Roger by the hearth with a kettle warming. Both of them look up quickly, Ellen’s eyes sharp with worry. 

“Brian? How’s Da this morning?” She asks, voice tight. 

“Not all that well,” Brian admits, though he feels the corner of his mouth twitch with relief. “But thankfully, he’s agreed to the amputation.” 

Roger lets out a long breath, his shoulders sagging as though he’s been holding it since yesterday. “Oh, thank God.” 

“That’s why I’m here,” Brian adds quickly. “Mama needs us to help hold him down, and I’m definitely not doing it by myself.” 

The colour drains from Ellen’s face. “Amputation! God, has it come to that?” 

“’Fraid so.” Brian runs a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of how grim it sounds. “Mama can’t inject the penicillin she needs, and the maggots haven’t done enough. Though—” he tries to lighten it, just a little, “I don’t suppose MIT taught you how to engineer a hypodermic syringe, did they?” 

Before she can answer, movement catches his eye. Roger has pulled something from a pouch near the hearth. 

It takes Brian a second to realise what it is—the snake head. 

His brow furrows. “What the hell are you doing with that?” 

Roger turns it over carefully in his hand, his expression unsettled. “I dinna even ken why I took it,” he admits, voice low, Scots burr thicker with fatigue. “Somethin’ pushed me… I thought maybe if Claire kent the species, it could help.” 

Ellen’s eyes flicker, that sharp spark Brian knows well. “I don’t know if I can make a syringe,” she says slowly, “but I’d be really surprised if I can’t figure out something that does the same thing.” 

Brian blinks at her, not sure if she’s serious or not. Ellen has already risen from her chair and crossed to him, eyes fixed on the head as though she’s just been handed treasure. She doesn’t seem to hear Brian’s scepticism at all. 

“Did you know that rattlesnakes have superb machinery?” she asks, sounding almost dreamy. “Pit vipers have beautiful engineering. Their jaws are disarticulated, so they can swallow prey bigger than they are, and their fangs fold back against the roof of their mouth when they aren’t using them.” 

Brian raises an eyebrow. “Yes?” he says, giving her a fishy look. 

But Ellen ignores him. She points lightly at one of the fangs, her voice brimming with sudden excitement. “The fangs are hollow. They’re connected to a venom sac in the snake’s cheek, so when they bite down, the cheek muscles squeeze venom out of the sac and down through the fang into the prey. Just like a—” 

“Damn.” Brian breathes. The pieces click together faster than he can stop them. 

Ellen finally looks up, grinning now, eyes alive. “I was thinking of trying something with a sharpened quill, but this would work much better, it’s already designed for the job.” 

Roger stares at her for half a second, then barks a short laugh that is half disbelief, half relief. “God, wha’ are we waitin’ fer?” 

Brian feels a shiver pass through him, but for the first time in days, it isn’t from dread. 

——

Brian pushes through the door of the surgery room, Ellen and Roger right behind him, Fergus on their heels. Marsali is already there, a sleeping Joan cradled against her chest, eyes wide with surprise, standing at the table, sleeves rolled up, saw in her hands. Da sits propped on the pillows, pale as death, sweat standing on his brow, lips pressed tight as though sheer will alone is keeping him upright.

Mama’s voice is sharp with urgency. “Where in God’s name did you all go? I need people for his—” She breaks off as Ellen steps forward, something odd and gleaming in her hands. 

“Mama,” Ellen says, breathless, her face alight. She holds the contraption out as if presenting an offering. 

Da frowns, eyes narrowing. “What in Christ’s name is that?” 

‘That’ is a short length of oiled silk stitched into a tube, joined to a turkey quill, and finished with the long hollow fang. Beeswax glistens along the seams. It is a nice, neat job, but it did look quite like a small, fat snake with one enormous curved fang, and occasioned no little comment from the spectators. 

Ellen lifts it carefully, her voice certain. “The fangs are hollow, Mama. Perfect for carrying liquid. It’ll work.” 

Mama’s mouth falls open, eyes wide with shock, and then the faintest of smiles appears. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. You’ve made a syringe.” 

The others murmur in astonishment, craning to see. Even Da, sick as he is, leans forward a fraction, disbelief warring with a flicker of reluctant hope. 

Da blinks at his daughter. “Is it the same snake?” 

Roger, setting down the pouch he still carries, says flatly, “Aye. It’s justice, if ye ask me.” 

Da stares at him like he’s lost his senses. The room is still, all eyes fixed on the strange little device in Ellen’s hands. 

Mama lays aside the saw and pulls back the quilt. The smell strikes them first, sweet, rotting, metallic. Lizzie, standing near the hearth, covers her mouth with her hand. The wrappings come off, still damp with onion and flaxseed poultices. The sight of the leg draws gasps: angry red to the knee, streaked with black patches, pus oozing from angry sores. 

Mama wastes no time. “Let’s see if it works.” She nods to Ellen. 

Ellen pours alcohol through the silk tube, holding her breath. The clear liquid threads its way through the fang and drips neat and sharp from the tip. No leaks. She exhales, shoulders straightening. 

Mama exhales softly, almost in awe. “A superb machine, really.” She glances around at them. “And anyone who would like to pray about it, please do.” 

Marsali makes the sign of the cross, clutching her rosary as her lips move in whispered prayers, and puts a steadying hand on Da's shoulder. Fergus steps forward with the candle when Mama beckons. Brian grips Da's hand hard, knuckles white. He sees Da's other hand twitch toward Roger, who looks startled for a beat but immediately clasps it tight, turns his head as Ellen edges closer, and with effort lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to it. Gratitude radiates from him, even through the pain.

“Alright.” Mama murmurs, taking the syringe. Her voice is calm, firm, though Brian sees her hands tremble faintly as she guides the fang toward the swollen flesh. “Let’s do this.” 

Next comes the penicillin. Mama pushes the syringe as deep as she can. Da makes a sharp, breathless sound, and Brian and Roger both lean in instinctively, shoulders braced against his, holding him upright. 

Mama works slowly, cautious of the waxed seams, pressing the liquid through. The first injection seeps into the ruined tissue, a glimmer of blood rising around the hole. Ellen is quick, refilling the tube the moment Mama pulls back. Her hands shake as she refills, but she doesn’t falter. Again and again, the fang slides in, the venom fang of a rattlesnake turned into salvation. 

Brian strokes back the damp hair from Da's forehead, wiping sweat from his brow and neck with a towel. Roger keeps his grip firm on Da's hand, murmuring something under his breath in Scots as Mama continues, working her way up and down the leg. Brian feels the knot of dread in his chest loosen, just a little. For the first time in days, he allows himself to hope.

Chapter Text

The Ridge is still misted with dawn when Brian and Inga fall into step together. No one ever asks, no one ever says, they just know. These walks have become theirs. A small corner of the world before the Ridge stirs, and eyes start to watch again. 

He’s grateful for it, for her, to escape the clutches of the young ladies of the Ridge who have suddenly decided he’s appealing again after the incident with the bison and his part in looking after and curing his father. Flitting, giggling, lingering just a little too long when they pass him. They had vanished after Alamance, after the hanging, as if speaking to him might taint them too. He doesn’t blame them, not really. But it had been lonely. Now, after the bison, after Da nearly dying, they’re circling him again. And it feels hollow. Shallow. Inga isn’t like that. She doesn’t flit. She walks. 

“It was Ellen who did it,” Brian says at last, answering what Inga had murmured about Da. He shakes his head, still in awe. “Da’s still here because of her. MIT or not, I don’t think I’d ever have dreamed up a snake-fang syringe.” 

Inga smiles faintly. She looks mildly confused at his mention of MIT (he needs to remember there are still things from the 20^th century she hasn’t yet learned), but she nods in general understanding. “Your sister is clever. People will talk about that for years.” 

“They already are.” He gives a short laugh, though it comes rough, like the fear hasn’t fully left his throat. “God, I thought we’d lose him. But she—” He exhales hard, shaking his head. “She’s something.” 

They stop walking, almost without meaning to. The morning is hushed, birds just beginning to stir, the air cool and damp against their skin. For a moment, neither of them speaks, as if both are remembering what it had been like, how close it had all come to ending differently. Inga turns toward him, her hand hesitantly rising almost of its own accord. Her fingers brush his throat, trailing down over the jagged, faded scar that still marks him. She trails downward, light as a whisper. Brian stiffens, not from pain, but from the memory. Rope tightening. The world is going black. The months after, when he couldn't speak, then barely above a whisper. He doesn't like to think about it, but the way she touches him, it's not pity. It's something gentler.

“What exactly is it that you…” He asks in confusion. But her eyes aren’t on his throat. They’re on his mouth. His lips. 

“This,” she whispers—and kisses him. 

It’s brief, startled, more collision than kiss. But heat flares between them anyway. She jerks back, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, as though she can’t believe what she’s done. Brian doesn’t push her away. God help him, he might have leaned toward her. 

“Uh, Inga…” His voice feels too raw, cracking slightly from the noose’s old damage. 

She lifts her chin. Defiant. “There. That’s done. It’s out there. Maybe I’ve just made a fool of myself, but I don’t care.” 

“No, you haven’t.” His words come out soft, uncertain. His hand lifts off its own accord, brushing lightly through her hair. “Why, though?” 

“Why?” She bursts. “Have you seen yourself? Because I have. Since the Gathering at Mount Helicon. I’ve seen you, even though you’ve never once seen me.” 

“Of course I’ve seen you.” He protests quickly. Then, quieter, more ashamed, “Not as a woman, perhaps…” 

“Right.” Her voice turns sharp with hurt. “Just a wee lass. Not worth a second thought.” 

The words slice him because they’re true, at least in how he’s treated her. And he hates himself for it. 

He splutters, heat rising in his face. “You’re seventeen. And I—” He rubs a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “I’m not used to putting myself first. Not like that. Not at the cost of someone else’s good name.” 

The truth hangs heavy between them. 

Inga’s voice is quieter now, but sure. “You know, Marsali is younger than Fergus. And they’re happy.” 

Brian nearly chokes on air. “That’s—Jesus, Inga, that’s different!” 

Her gaze sharpens. “Why?” 

Brian’s chest tightens with conflict. Inga’s not wrong: here, in this century, girls marry at her age without anyone batting an eye. Marsali had been younger than Fergus when they married, and folk here think nothing of it. But in his head, Boston is never far away. The 1960s, with its rules about age, consent, and what’s proper. He can’t just shake that off. He feels pulled apart—half in this world, half still in the one he left. 

He thinks of Fergus, who had been taken in as a boy and grown alongside Marsali until something new, something right had kindled there. They are good together, happy. But that’s not this. Not him and Inga. And yet… 

Inga sees only his silence and presses on. Her lips twist, bitter but still shining with defiance. “Well, at least now I can say I kissed you once.” 

“Twice.” He says before he can stop himself, voice low and grave. 

Her head snaps up. “What?” 

He reaches, steady now, and tilts her chin with a gentle finger. His lips meet hers again. Not clumsy this time. Certain. Deliberate. Warm, deep, alive. It’s everything the first wasn’t. She melts into him, her breath hitching, her heart racing against his chest. When he pulls back, she’s gasping, eyes bright. 

“Any chance we could make it three times?” She teases, breathless. 

He chuckles, leaning in and giving her a quick, soft kiss, then pulls away with a rueful smile. “We should stop. At this rate, it’ll be too much, too quickly.” 

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” She whispers, reaching for him again. 

His hand comes up, firm, stopping her. “No. You’re a good girl, Inga. I won’t ruin that for you.” 

“To the devil with being a good girl!” She snaps. 

“I’m serious.” His voice is quiet but heavy, thick with conflict. “You’re so pretty. So kind. I couldn’t live with myself if I caused you difficulty.” 

She huffs, folding her arms, but his words settle in her, tugging her lips into a smile. “Do you really think I’m pretty?” 

“Of course.” His hand brushes her cheek, tender. “You’ve the warmest smile on the Ridge.” 

Her breath catches. “See, you can’t say things like that and expect a girl not to want you. Especially not when every other girl on the Ridge sees you, too. I have never stopped seeing you.” 

Brian swallows. Her words land heavily. He hasn’t let himself see her in that way. Not until now. 

They stand close, shoulders brushing, the morning air cool around them, but his skin warm where she touched, where she kissed. He doesn't move away. Neither does she. Their hands swing in step, grazing once, twice, and this time he doesn't pull back. He lets his fingers slip into hers. She laces them tightly, holding fast. It feels dangerous. It feels right.

He glances at her, catching the faint smile curving her lips, and for a moment, he forgets the Ridge, forgets what's proper, forgets Boston and 1960s rules that still rattle in his head. For this moment, there's only her.

A bird calls somewhere in the trees, sharp and sudden, and the spell cracks just enough for reality to creep in. Someone will notice, sooner or later. There will be questions. Gossip. But not yet.

Brian squeezes her hand once before letting it go, drawing a breath deep into his chest. “Come on,” he says quietly, forcing his voice steady, “we’d better head back before someone comes looking.”

Inga doesn’t argue. She just nods, though the spark in her eyes tells him this isn’t the end of it. Not by a long shot.

As they turn back toward the Ridge, Brian can still feel the ghost of her kiss on his mouth. It lingers like a promise, like trouble he doesn’t know how to avoid. And he realises, with a twist low in his chest, that part of him doesn’t want to.

Chapter Text

“You did what?” Brian hisses, his voice raspy due to the strain he puts on it. He stands outside Da’s study – what most of the tenants still call the speak-a-word room – glaring at Roger. 

Brian had only just come back from his walk with Inga when Lizzie met him on the path, breathless with the news of a new arrival at the Big House. He hadn’t even had time to shake the chill off before Roger pulled him aside, his face proud. 

Roger shifts uneasily, arms folded, shoulders drawn up, pride wiped from his face. “He ken Jamie. From Ardsmuir.” 

Brian’s jaw tightens. Of all the bloody timings. 

Da is still confined to bed, chafing at every restriction Mama has placed on him to keep him from overexertion, his leg healing but not fast enough to suit him. It has been five long mornings of Da staring out the window and grumbling about having an entire Ridge to run. Sometimes Mama brings one of the children in with her—an attempt to soften his temper. While Da’s life no longer hangs in the balance, he is nowhere near back to full strength. Which means this—welcoming strangers, deciding who should settle here—is something that cannot, should not, be decided without him. And yet Roger has gone and done just that. 

Brian steps in closer, lowering his voice to a cutting whisper. “You had no right to do this without Da’s word. God, Roger, do you know what you’ve promised? You can’t just open the Ridge to whoever turns up with a tale from Ardsmuir!” 

Roger’s jaw works, defensive. “I didna think it right te turn ‘em away. They’ve come a long road, Brian, and Tom said he kent yer Da well. They’ve nowhere else te go.” 

“Then you should’ve told them to wait.” Brian snaps back. “Da’s the one who decides who lives here, not you. Not me. Him. And you’ve gone and made a decision in his name?” 

Roger exhales sharply through his nose, colour rising in his cheeks. “I only thought to do right by him. By the Ridge. Tom Christie’s no common vagrant—he’s a schoolmaster. And if ye think Jamie would turn aside one of his old comrades—” 

Brian cuts him off with a sharp huff, dragging a hand over his mouth. “Ardsmuir or no, this isn’t just about shelter. It’s about trust. You can’t hand that out like bread at the table.” 

For a moment, they glare at one another, the silence between them tight as wire. Finally, Brian shakes his head in frustration and pushes past Roger before he can try to explain himself further. 

Three faces turn toward the door as he enters. Tom Christie is broad through the chest, square-set, his dark hair streaked with grey and trimmed neatly close, a rigid posture that suggests someone used to command. His eyes, a yellowish-brown, are prominent and unblinking, lending him the faint, irritable look of an owl. 

Beside him stands a younger man, no more than twenty. He is fairer in appearance with a broad, square, clean-shaven face and the same feathery, tufted dark hair. Seems outwardly agreeable as his gaze flicks toward Brian and gives a small, silent nod in acknowledgement. 

And then the girl. Slender, dark-haired, neat in a dark blue dress and white kerch, her hands folded in her lap. She barely glances up, though Brian notes the pale oval of her face and the frill of black curls. Seventeen? Eighteen, perhaps. Brian thinks absently that girls of marriageable age are rare here, pretty ones rarer still. An advantage for Mr Christie. 

Brian forces a small smile, though it feels brittle. He doesn’t want to appear hostile—not yet. He can’t back out of the deal Roger made now, it wouldn’t be good face. Christ, what has he dragged them into? 

Brian steps forward. “Brian Fraser.” He says, the words clipped. “Jamie Fraser’s son.” 

The elder man inclines his head gravely. “Tom Christie. My children, Allan and Malva.” 

Brian’s eyes shift between them, then back to Christie. “I’m told you know my father?” He asks, voice measured. 

Christie’s jaw tightens for just a moment. “Yer father and I ken each other in the… days after the Uprisin’.” 

“Ardsmuir.” Brian supplies, watching the flicker cross the man’s face before he gives a small nod. 

Before he can press further, Roger jumps in, voice warm, too eager. “And I said we ha’ room fer ‘em here—as we do all o’ Mr Fraser’s auld Ardsmuir comrades.” 

Brian’s lips purse. He can’t outright contradict Roger now, not with the Christies’ expectant eyes on him. Turning to Roger, Brian nonverbally gestures towards the corridor with his head. 

Roger takes the two younger Christies out into the hall with a few murmured words about finding them something to eat. The door shuts behind them, leaving only Brian, Christie, and the faint sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. 

He exhales hard through his nose, buying himself a beat, then straightens. “Well. My father will want to see you.” He says at last. “But he is indisposed just now. If you’d follow me…” 

Brian moves to the desk, where Adso is sprawled full-length across a pile of papers, tail flicking in lazy defiance. “Off,” Brian mutters, nudging the cat aside with the back of his hand. Adso blinks once, unimpressed, but slinks away to curl beneath the window seat. 

“I think you’ll find a lot of familiar faces here,” Brian says, riffling through the mess of ledgers and papers. “Ronnie Sinclair, the Lindsay brothers… been a while since you’ve seen them, I imagine.” The words come a little awkwardly. What do you talk about here? 

Christie gives a small nod, his expression shifting only slightly at the names. “Aye. Any others?” 

Brian scratches his jaw, glancing down at the heap of ledgers. “Oh, uh—Geordie Chisholm, Robert MacLeod. And I think… yeah, I’m fairly sure Alex MacNeill was from Ardsmuir too.” Brian finally glances up from the drawer he’s been rummaging in, catching the faintest twitch at the corner of Christie’s mouth. 

“I ken ‘em,” Christie says, with an air of satisfaction. “MacNeill will vouch for my character, if that is needful.” His tone makes it plain he doesn’t think it should be. “Ye said Mr Fraser is… incapacitated?” 

Brian’s jaw tightens, but he forces a polite tone. “Taken ill, yeah. Snake bite. My mother’s making him rest.” 

One dark brow rises. “Yer mother? I thought I heard Mr Fraser say his wife had died.” 

Brian pauses, fingers brushing a stack of papers before he forces himself to keep shuffling. “Ah—no. She went to the Colonies after Culloden. She didn’t know my father was alive for a time.” He sets the map on the desk and unfolds it briskly. “Here it is. Right, let me see what we have available…” He runs his finger across the marks. “We’ve plenty of room. Good land for you and your children.” 

Lizzie slips in just then with a tray of beer and biscuits, her eyes darting curiously at Christie. Brian wordlessly thanks her before she retreats. 

Brian notes it down on the parchment listing Ridge residents, charcoal pencil scratching against the page. “All I’ve got to do is find the blank deeds…” He mutters under his breath as he digs through the clutter of the desk. “Christ, Da, you need to organise yourself…” He pulls open one drawer, then another, thumbing through the jumble inside. Brian hazards a conversational stab over his shoulder. “My brother-in-law says you’re a schoolmaster?” 

Christie folds his hands behind his back. “Fer a time. And my son is a carpenter.” 

Brian nods, though something about the man’s stiff tone prickles uneasily in his gut. Christie doesn’t sound glad to be here—more resigned. Like a man forced into a corner. Brian can’t quite pin down why, but it unsettles him. 

He opens a third drawer and exhales sharply when his fingers finally close on a neat stack of folded parchments. “You’ll be happy to hear we’ve plans for a school.” He says, pulling the papers free. “Would you be interested in carrying on as schoolmaster? Could be good to have you teach some of the Ridge children.” He shakes a page loose with a flourish. 

Tom’s brow furrows as he leans slightly forward. “Perhaps. Ye wouldnae mind also buildin’ a church? Yer brother-in-law mentioned ye didna ha’ one.” 

Brian looks up from the parchment, caught off guard. “No, we don’t. You don’t want a house first?” 

Christie’s jaw sets, expression grave. “A man must build the house o’ God before he builds his own.” 

Brian blinks, lips parting in surprise. “…Right.” He scratches his name onto the deed, as agent for James Fraser. Slowly, he pushes the paper across the desk toward Christie. 

Christie takes up the charcoal, his movements deliberate. “I am not Catholic,” he says, almost spitting the word. “I’ve merely wanted Scotland’s best interests served rather than the Pope’s.” 

Brian looks up sharply, pulse ticking in his jaw. 

Christie continues, penning his signature with neat precision. “Yer father, on the other hand, has ne’er been one te stand at a lot o’ ceremonies when it comes te right and wrong.” 

Brian’s brow furrows. “What does that mean?” His voice is tight, sharper than he intends. 

Christie doesn’t flinch. He places the charcoal down, folding the signed parchment back toward Brian. “My apologies. I only meant te imply that he’s no’… too scrupulous when it comes te matters o’ morality. He does what he must. Always has.” 

What the hell? 

He hears the front door open suddenly and close somewhat loudly. “I’m back!” Mama calls into the corridor. 

“That’ll be my mother,” Brian says, standing up. “One moment.” He leaves the study to find her pulling off scarves and her cloak, hanging them on the rack, cheeks flushed from the chill outside. 

“Ah, Brian! There’s a wagon outside, is there someone here?” Mama asks him. 

“Yeah,” Brian says, lowering his voice. “Another man Da was at Ardsmuir with. Looking for a home.” 

Mama’s brows lift. “Ah, I see. Your father’s still in bed, then?” 

Brian nods. “Mr Wemyss and the Beardsleys are taking their guard-dog duties very seriously.” He adds wryly. 

That draws a small smile from her, but her eyes soften. “I’ll see to him in a bit. But I should probably greet our new settler, shouldn’t I?” 

She moves past him into Da’s study, and Christie rises stiffly to his feet as she enters, his rigid posture shifting to something like politeness. Brian can see how carefully Mama takes him in—how she reads the unease braced into his shoulders. 

“Ye must be Mistress Fraser.” Mr Christie says, his eyes widening a little when he sees her. 

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mama says warmly, offering her hand. She holds it there until Christie, after a pause, takes it briefly. 

“This here’s Thomas Christie.” Brian supplies, watching the exchange closely. “He’s come with his son and daughter.” 

“I’ll go and say hello to them, then,” Mama says, her gaze flicking briefly toward Brian before returning to Christie. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr Christie. I look forward to your family joining us on the Ridge.” 

Christie inclines his head. “Thank ye, verra much.” 

Brian watches as Mama leaves the study, her skirts brushing the floor, and he lets out a slow breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. But the words Christie had spoken gnawed at him. 

Brian swallows hard turning to Christie with a polite smile. “Well, Mr Christie, let’s arrange your accommodation for now.”

Chapter Text

December 1771 

Brian is splitting logs just beyond the Big House. His coat is off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the thud of the axe echoes in the crisp air. Da’s leg has been healing cleanly and well, and it is becoming clear that the only permanent traces will be two small depressions and a thin, straight scar across the calf where Mama had made an incision for debridement and maggot placement. Da has a slight limp still, but Mama says this will cure itself in time. Da is still thinner than usual but now he is more mobile than he used to which means back to business, or as much as he can under Mama’s watchful eye.

Da’s reaction to the news of Tom Christie’s arrival tells him to be wary. It could only be described as ‘what the hell’ when they tell him. He's not angry and he welcomes Christie with open arms, but it’s clear to see that something is bothering him. When Brian asks, Da remains tight-lipped and only mentions that he feels sorry for Christie, remembering that he received a message that his wife had died while at Ardsmuir.

The last time Da and Tom Christie had seen each other some fifteen years ago when they went their separate ways after Ardsmuir closed as a prison, Inga’s Father, Robin McGillivray, had said, they had reached some semblance of peace between them, but beforehand, tensions ran thick. McGillivray saw this clearly despite having only been there a year.

Kenny Lindsay, however, had more of a story to tell.

Christie was a Lowlander, Kenny said, from Edinburgh. At the time of the Rising, Christie had been a merchant in the city, newly inherited from a hard-working father. When the Stuart uprising began in 1745, he became a commissary officer. He followed the army throughout the campaign though not a fighting man, but left it in Nairn the day before the Battle of Culloden. But he had left too late: at the wheel of an economy cart, he was arrested by a Campbell government troop.

The thought of battle makes Brian’s stomach twist. His hand just up to feel the light scarring on his neck.

Christie was transferred to Ardsmuir prison in 1752. Before Da arrived, Christie had been the religious head for all of the prisoners. After Da arrived at prison a year later, tensions between the Protestant faction, led by Christie, and the Catholic faction, led by Da, continued to grow. As Protestants and Catholics are prone to doing, they behaved like two parties of Parliament, always disagreeing with each other for the sake of disagreeing, whether it benefited the men or not. At least, Tom Christie was that way. Da tried his best to maintain the men’s best interest at heart. As a result, they became Freemasons, creating their own Masonic Lodge and making apprentices out of all of their fellow prisoners. It was the best solution to create peace, as Freemasons are meant to be peaceable.

He pauses to wipe sweat from his brow when he hears a voice behind him.

“Mr Fraser?”

Brian glances back, surprised but not unkind. “Oh, Miss Christie. Something I can help you with?”

Malva steps closer, hands folded neatly in front of her, eyes wide. “I was sent te fetch some kindlin’. Mistress Fraser said I might find some near the shed, but I saw ye workin’ and thought, well, I might ask where best te look.”

Brian points with the axe handle toward a small lean-to. “You’ll find a stack just around there. We keep it dry for winter. No need to go poking through the green stuff.”

Malva smiles sweetly. “Thank ye. Ye’re always so kind. Ye’ve yer father’s strength.”

Brian gives a small, bemused smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Malva tilts her head. “It was. I’m glad we came te the Ridge. ‘Tis—peaceful here. And… there are good people.”

“I hope it stays peaceful, aye,” Brian replies carefully, not sure how to take her forwardness and aware of how the two of them together and his slight undress will look to 18^th century eyes.

Before she can reply, a twig snaps behind them. Allan steps from the shadows at the edge of the trees, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. 

“Malva. Father’s been lookin’ fer ye.” Her brother informs her.

Malva, without turning, replies, “I was only fetching kindlin’, Allan. Mr Fraser was helpin’ me find it.”

“Ye’ve found it now,” Allan says shortly.

Brian nods politely but guardedly. “Allan.”

Allan, with a faintly challenging look, responds, “Mr Fraser.”

Malva brushes past her brother to collect the kindling, but just then, Tom Christie appears, his posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back as if schooling himself in patience.

“Malva.” He greets.

Brian feels an uncertain twinge in his stomach. Not sure why. Tom Christie seems to be a sound tenant and had agreed during their discussion not only to be a schoolmaster, but to pay half his quitrent by serving as schoolmaster for five months of the year. The Christies have kept largely to themselves, aside from Thomas Christie’s schoolmastering, at which he appears strict but effective.

“I was only talking te Mr Fraser.” Malva retorts with faint exasperation.

“I didna ask what’ ye were doing, only tha’ ye stop doing it and return te the house. Ye’ve chores, girl.” Christie counters coolly, without raising his voice.

Malva lowers her eyes. “Aye, Father.”

“Mr Fraser.” Christie nods stiffly to Brian. “A man of yer position must understand how careful one must be with a young woman’s time and her soul.”

One thing Brian has learnt – Christie is a most devout Presbyterian, and never happier than when hitting someone over the head with a fistful of Sacred Scripture. 

“I understand the need for discipline, sir. Though I reckon there’s also merit in letting folks breathe.” Brian replies measuredly.

“Breathin’ is earned.” A tight smile is on the older man’s face. “Come along, girl.”

Malva gives Brian a lingering glance over her shoulder before Allan catches her elbow and guides her away. Tom follows after, his expression unreadable.

Brian watches them go, eyes narrowing just slightly, before he goes back to splitting wood—this time, with a touch more force.

Still, the work sits heavily on his shoulders. There is always more.

A hole in the roof of the smoke-shed, made by a falling tree branch—the roof to be mended and re-shingled, and the branch itself to be chopped for wood. A fresh privy-hole to be dug before the ground froze or turned to mud. Flax to be chopped. Fence rails to split. Lizzie’s spinning wheel to mend…

And what is to be done about the other matters? Some he knows too well: the bad feeling between Alex MacNeill and Nelson McIver, and the cause of it. That one of Patrick Neary’s sons is likely a thief—and the question of what should be done about it.

The axe falls again, hard into the wood, its crack echoing through the trees.