Chapter Text
The wind whipped across the hilltop, cold and sharp against Jamie face. Below them, the moor stretched dark beneath a heavy sky. Somewhere beyond the horizon, men were gathering for battle. By morning, many of them would be dead.
He would be among them.
Claire's fingers clutched the front of his coat.
"No." Her voice broke on the word.
Jamie's eyes closed briefly. God, he loved her.
He loved the stubborn tilt of her chin. The fire in her eyes. The way she fought him even now, when every moment brought dawn—and Culloden—closer.
He laid one hand gently against her stomach.
Their child. The child he would never hold. The child he would never see take its first breath.
His throat tightened. "Ye must go."
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks. "Let’s run away, hide, take a ship."
The plea nearly undid him. For one terrible moment, he wanted to say yes.
To abandon duty. To abandon Scotland. To abandon everything and follow her.
But he knew better. The battle was already lost and if Claire stayed, she would die. If the child stayed, the child would die.
Jamie cupped her face between his hands. "I need ye to live."
She shook her head violently. "No."
"Aye." His voice was rough. "Live. For the bairn." For us, he thought because one of us must.
Claire's hands covered his.
The look in her eyes nearly shattered what little resolve remained.
"I love you." The words escaped her in a whisper.
Jamie swallowed hard, "I love ye too, Claire."
The wind seemed to hold its breath. Then, before he could lose his courage, he kissed her.
Long. Desperate. A farewell.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against hers. For a heartbeat neither moved.
Then he guided her toward the cleft stone.
Claire stared at him.
As though trying to memorize every line of his face.
Every freckle. Every scar. Every shade of blue in his eyes.
Jamie managed a smile he did not feel.
"Go."
She sobbed once. Then stepped backward.
The air around the stones began to hum. A low vibration that seemed to rise from the earth itself.
Claire reached toward him. Jamie's hand lifted instinctively. Not enough to stop her. Only enough to touch her fingertips one last time.
Then the sound grew louder. The air shimmered. And she was gone.
Gone.
One moment she stood before him.
The next there was nothing.
Only stone. Wind. Silence.
Jamie's hand remained suspended in the empty air.
For several seconds he could not move.
Could not breathe. Could not think.
The world had become impossibly still.
Slowly, he lowered his arm.
She was gone.
Safe. Alive.
Gone.
A broken sound escaped him then, dragged from somewhere deep inside his chest.
Not quite a cry. Not quite a sob. Something rawer. He bowed his head toward the stone.
Just for a moment. Just one moment.
Then he straightened.
Wiped roughly at his eyes.
And turned away from Craigh na Dun.
Culloden awaited.
Jamie mounted his horse without looking back.
He could not.
If he turned, if he looked once more toward the stones, he feared he might ride back. Might stand there for hours staring at the place where Claire had vanished. Might pray for some miracle that would bring her back.
And he had no time for miracles.
The wind tugged at his hair as he urged the horse forward. The sky was still dark, though dawn crept ever closer. A thin gray light had begun to appear along the eastern horizon, washing the moor in cold shadows.
Culloden.
By this time tomorrow, Scotland would be changed forever.
Jamie rode in silence.
For the first time in years, there was no Claire beside him.
No sound of her voice. No quick remark. No warm hand slipping into his.
The emptiness of it was startling.
His hand drifted unconsciously toward the pocket where he carried the dragonfly in amber.
His wife.
A sharp pain twisted through his chest.
Claire Fraser.
Gone beyond his reach. Gone to another century. Gone carrying his child.
Their child.
The thought nearly brought him to a halt.
A son. A daughter. He would never know.
Would the child have Claire's eyes? His hair? Would they laugh like her? Argue like her? God help her if they inherited both their tempers.
A faint smile touched his mouth before disappearing just as quickly.
No.
He must not think on such things.
Not now.
He had made his choice.
Claire would live. The bairn would live.
That was enough. It had to be enough.
Ahead, the first signs of the camp emerged from the darkness. Small cook fires. Men moving like shadows. The low murmur of tired voices. Jamie slowed his horse. Every face he passed looked worn with hunger and exhaustion.
Some of the men sat cleaning weapons they scarcely had the strength to lift.
Others prayed. Some stared blankly into the darkness. Waiting.
All of them waiting.
They knew.
Perhaps not every man would admit it aloud, but they knew.
The Prince's army was starving. The clans were exhausted. And the British army waiting for them was well-fed, well-rested, and far larger.
This was not a battle. It was an ending.
Jamie swung down from his horse. His boots sank into the damp ground. For a moment he stood motionless, staring across the camp.
He should have felt fear. Instead he felt hollow. As though some essential part of him had been left behind on that hill.
Perhaps it had. Perhaps it always would be.
He lifted his gaze toward the pale strip of dawn spreading across the horizon.
"Keep her safe," he whispered. Whether he spoke to God or the wind, he did not know.
Then he squared his shoulders and walked toward the waiting men.
Toward Culloden. Toward death.
The camp stirred as dawn crept across the moor.
Not with energy. Not with confidence. With resignation.
Jamie had seen men prepare for battle before. He had seen fear. Seen excitement. Seen bravado.
This was different.
The men gathered around small fires spoke quietly, if they spoke at all. Some sharpened blades already sharp enough to shave with. Others cleaned muskets with careful, deliberate movements. Work to keep their hands occupied. Work to keep from thinking.
Jamie made his way through the camp, nodding when greeted.
A few men called his name. Others offered weary smiles.
He returned them all. It cost him little effort.
The hardest part was pretending nothing had changed. As though he had not just said goodbye to his wife forever. As though half his soul had not vanished into a standing stone. As though his child was not growing beneath Claire's heart at that very moment.
Safe. Please God, let them be safe.
"Jamie."
The familiar voice made him turn. Murtagh approached carrying two tin cups. Without a word he shoved one into Jamie's hand. Whisky. Jamie took a swallow. The burn was welcome.
Murtagh studied him for a moment.
"Ye look like hell."
A short laugh escaped Jamie. "Aye. Ye're a comfort."
"Someone should tell ye the truth."
Jamie shook his head.
For a few moments they stood together in silence. Murtagh staring out over the camp. Jamie staring into the cup in his hands.
Finally Murtagh spoke, "Did ye do it?"
The question struck him like a blow.
Jamie looked down.
Then nodded, "Aye."
Nothing more.
Murtagh did not ask for details.
"Good."
Jamie's throat tightened unexpectedly.
Good. A simple word.
Yet hearing it from Murtagh made something inside him crack.
Because Murtagh understood.
Not the future. But sacrifice. Love. Loss.
The old man took another drink, "Then ye did what ye had to do."
Jamie stared toward the eastern horizon.
The sky had brightened considerably now.
Soon. Very soon.
"I'll never see her again."
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Murtagh was silent. For once there was no sharp answer.
No joke. No attempt at comfort. Only truth.
"No," he said quietly.
Jamie swallowed.
The certainty of it settled heavily in his chest.
No. He would not.
Claire would raise their child without him.
The child would grow up never knowing his father.
Perhaps Claire would tell stories. Perhaps she would not. She would be married to Frank again. The thought hurt more than any wound he had ever received.
Yet if it gave her happiness...
He closed his eyes briefly.
Please, God. Let her be happy.
A bell rang somewhere in the distance. The sound carried across the camp. Men began rising to their feet. Conversations ended. Prayers were hurriedly finished. The waiting was over.
Murtagh set down his empty cup. Jamie did the same.
For a moment neither moved.
Then Murtagh gripped the back of Jamie's neck.
A gesture from childhood. From home. From family.
"If we're te die today," Murtagh said, "let's make the bastards remember it."
Jamie barked a laugh despite himself, "Aye."
Together they turned toward the gathering army. Toward the field. Toward history. And somewhere far beyond the reach of time, Jamie prayed Claire was watching the same sunrise.
The army assembled slowly.
Not because the men were unwilling.
Because they were exhausted.
Hungry.
Cold.
Defeated before the first shot had even been fired.
Jamie stood among the Frasers, the damp earth soaking through his boots. A thin mist clung to the moor, drifting low across the ground. Around him, men shifted their weight, adjusted weapons, crossed themselves.
No one spoke much now.
There was nothing left to say.
The sun had risen, but it brought little warmth.
Ahead, the government army stretched across the field in neat lines of red.
Orderly.
Disciplined.
Fed.
Jamie studied them for a moment.
Then looked away.
The outcome had been decided long before either army stepped onto Culloden Moor.
Today would merely be the payment.
A movement beside him caught his eye.
Rupert.
The older man gave him a crooked grin.
"Ye look miserable."
Jamie snorted.
"That's because I am miserable."
"Aye, well. Ye've always been a gloomy bastard."
For the first time that morning, Jamie laughed.
A real laugh.
Brief, but genuine.
Rupert looked pleased with himself.
"There he is."
The laugh faded.
Jamie looked at the man beside him.
Rupert MacKenzie.
Friend.
Companion.
A man who had followed him through prisons, battles, and half the Highlands.
By sunset, Rupert would likely be dead.
The realization landed with startling force.
Not just Rupert.
Hundreds of them.
Men he had known for years.
Men with wives.
Children.
Brothers.
All standing quietly beneath a gray Scottish sky, waiting to be slaughtered.
Jamie felt suddenly sick.
He wondered if Claire had felt the baby move yet.
The thought appeared from nowhere.
A ridiculous thing to think on a battlefield.
Yet he could not stop himself.
Had the bairn kicked?
Had Claire smiled?
Had she laughed?
Had she cried afterward because he was not there to feel it?
His hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.
God.
The things he would never know.
A trumpet sounded across the field.
The note cut through the morning air.
Every muscle in Jamie's body tightened.
Around him, men straightened instinctively.
Conversations ceased.
Even the wind seemed to still.
This was it.
This was the moment.
The final edge between life and death.
Jamie lifted his gaze toward the distant horizon.
For one foolish heartbeat he imagined he could see Craigh na Dun.
Imagined Claire standing there.
Imagined her dark curls blowing in the wind.
Imagined her hand resting over the child they had created together.
Safe.
Alive.
Far beyond the reach of British muskets and Highland steel.
A strange peace settled over him then.
Not happiness.
Never happiness.
But certainty.
He had done the right thing.
No matter what happened here.
No matter what happened to him.
Claire would live.
The child would live.
That was enough.
The order came down the line.
Men began moving.
Steel flashed.
Muskets lifted.
The great machine of war finally lurched into motion.
Jamie Fraser drew his sword. The familiar weight settled into his hand.
Around him, the army advanced.
And the Battle of Culloden began.
The first cannon fired with a thunderous crack that seemed to split the world apart.
A heartbeat later, another answered. Then another.
The ground trembled beneath Jamie's feet. Smoke began to roll across the moor. Men flinched instinctively as iron shot tore through the Jacobite lines.
A scream rose somewhere to his left. Then another.
Jamie did not look. There was no point. The battle had scarcely begun and already men were dying. The artillery continued its relentless assault.
The Jacobites endured it.
Waited. Endured some more. And still they waited. Jamie's jaw clenched. This was madness. Every minute they stood here was another minute spent being slaughtered.
A cannonball struck the ground ahead, bounced once, and plowed through a cluster of men. Bodies crumpled. One man simply disappeared beneath the spray of mud and blood.
Jamie forced himself not to look away. Around him, men shifted restlessly.
Some prayed aloud. Others cursed. A few wept openly. No one judged them. Fear hung over the moor like a living thing.
Then, the charge.
A roar erupted from the Jacobite line. The sound was almost animal. Hundreds of voices becoming one. Jamie surged forward with the others.
The world dissolved into motion. Mud flew beneath pounding feet. The wind tore at his face. Men screamed war cries around him.
"FREEDOM!"
"FOR SCOTLAND!"
Jamie heard none of it clearly. His blood thundered in his ears. The distance between the armies vanished. Musket fire erupted. The front ranks of Highlanders fell.
Jamie leapt over bodies.
Kept running. More men dropped. Still they came. The red line loomed ahead. Then they hit. The impact was violent.
Steel crashed against steel.
Men slammed into one another.
The neat order of battle shattered instantly.
Jamie swung his sword. A redcoat fell. Another lunged. Jamie parried and struck again.
Blood sprayed across his sleeve.
The sounds became unbearable. Gunfire. Screaming.
Steel ringing against steel. The cries of wounded men. The wet, terrible sounds of dying. Everything blurred together. Time lost meaning.
There was only the next enemy. The next swing. The next breath. Jamie fought like a man possessed.
Not because he hoped to live. But because he no longer feared death. Death had been waiting for him since the moment Claire disappeared into the stones. Everything afterward felt borrowed. A redcoat thrust a bayonet toward his chest. Jamie twisted aside and buried his sword in the man's throat.
Another came. And another. The line seemed endless.
At some point he lost sight of Murtagh. Lost sight of Rupert. Lost sight of everyone he knew.
The battle swallowed them whole.
Smoke covered the field. Visibility shrank. Men emerged from the haze like ghosts. Some friend. Some foe. Jamie barely noticed the cut across his shoulder. Barely felt the blow that glanced off his ribs. Pain became distant. Unimportant.
Then he saw it.
The line breaking. Not the British. The Jacobites. A gap opening. Men falling back. Others running. The charge had failed. It had failed. For a moment the truth settled over the battlefield with horrifying clarity.
This was the end.
Not just of the battle.
Of everything.
Finished. Finished here in blood and mud.
A strange calm settled over Jamie. He had known it was coming. Known it for months. Perhaps for years.
Claire had known too.
Claire.
The thought struck him with unexpected force. Not grief this time. Not despair. Love. Pure and overwhelming. His last clear thought was of her face. Her eyes. The way she smiled when she forgot to guard herself. The sound of her laughter. The feel of her hand in his. The child beneath her heart. Safe. Alive.
Because of him. Because he had let her go.
A shout pulled him back. Too late.
Something slammed into him from the side.
Pain exploded through his body. His footing vanished. The sky spun.
The earth rushed upward. Jamie hit the ground hard.
For several seconds he could not breathe. Could not move.
Around him the battle raged on.
Boots thundered past. Men screamed. Steel clashed. But the sounds seemed farther away now. As though he were sinking beneath dark water.
Warmth spread across his side.
Blood.
A great deal of blood.
Jamie stared upward at the gray Scottish sky.
The clouds drifted lazily overhead. Beautiful. Strange that he had never noticed that before.
His eyelids felt heavy.
The battle continued around him.
Yet somehow it already seemed distant.
And for the first time since leaving Craigh na Dun, Jamie allowed himself to wonder if he was about to see Claire again.
Not in life.
But in death.
The sky above him blurred.
Jamie forced himself upright. Pain tore through his side. His left arm felt numb. Blood soaked his shirt beneath his shirt.
Still, he rose.
Around him, the battle was collapsing. The Jacobite line had shattered.
British troops pushed steadily forward through smoke and bodies.
The moor had become a slaughterhouse. Jamie staggered a few steps.
Then froze.
A figure emerged from the haze. For a moment he thought he was imagining it. A fever dream born of exhaustion and blood loss.
But no.
The man was real.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a British officer's uniform.
Jonathan Randall.
For several seconds neither moved. The noise of the battle seemed to fade.
Years collapsed. Flogging. Wentworth. Chains. Darkness. Pain. Claire's voice calling his name.
Everything narrowed to the man standing before him. Randall's eyes widened slightly in recognition. Then a slow smile touched his mouth.
Not pleasant. Never pleasant. Predatory.
"Fraser."
Jamie's grip tightened around his sword.
All these years. All this hatred. And now here they stood. At the end of the world.
Randall drew his weapon. The steel flashed.
Jamie did the same.
Neither spoke again.
Words had long since lost their usefulness.
Randall attacked first. Fast.
Far faster than a man should have been after a battle already fought.
Jamie barely managed to parry. Steel rang against steel.
The impact jarred his wounded arm.
Pain shot through him.
Randall pressed the advantage immediately.
Another strike. And another.
Jamie gave ground.
Boots slipping in mud slick with blood. The years seemed to vanish.
For a moment he was nineteen again.
Broken. Terrified.
Trapped beneath Randall's whip. Then rage flooded through him.
No.
Not anymore.
Jamie drove forward. Their swords collided.
Randall stumbled back. Jamie struck again. And again.
The battle disappeared. The armies disappeared.
There was only this. Only them. Two men carrying years of hatred toward the same inevitable conclusion.
Randall's blade sliced though Jamie's thigh, hitting bone.
Jamie cried out but he answered with a brutal strike that tore through Randall's defense.
The officer cursed.
Blood appeared along his arm.
Randall smiled. Actually smiled. As though he were enjoying himself. As though this were all a game.
Something cold settled inside Jamie.
He was tired.
Tired of the memories. Tired of the nightmares. Tired of giving this man space inside his head.
The next exchange ended it.
Randall lunged.
Jamie pivoted. Caught his arm.
And drove his sword forward.
The blade entered Randall's body with terrible ease.
For a moment neither moved.
Randall looked down. Then back up. Surprise flickered across his face. Not fear. Only surprise.
A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Jamie stared at him.
Waiting.
For triumph. For satisfaction. For something.
But there was nothing. Only emptiness.
Randall swayed. Then collapsed.
Gone.
At last.
The man who had haunted half his life lay motionless at his feet.
Jamie stood over him.
Breathing hard.
The battle roared around him once more.
Claire was still gone. Culloden was still lost.
The dead would remain dead.
His knees suddenly gave way.
Jamie dropped heavily to the ground.
The strength seemed to pour from his body all at once.
Blood loss. Exhaustion. Pain. Everything crashing down together.
He rolled onto his back.
The sky above him stretched endlessly gray.
The sounds of battle grew fainter.
Distant. As though he were drifting away from them.
His eyes began to close.
Hours later something moved in the darkness.
A figure.
Standing several yards away.
Jamie frowned. The shape was blurred at first.
Impossible to make out. Then the wind shifted.
And his breath caught.
Claire.
She stood on the battlefield untouched, dressed in white.
Untouched by blood. Untouched by mud.
Her dark curls stirred gently in the wind.
One hand rested over her stomach.
His child. Their child.
For a moment the pain disappeared.
The noise disappeared. Everything disappeared. There was only her.
"Claire," he whispered.
Her face was soft.
Sad. Beautiful.
The way he would remember it for the rest of eternity.
She did not speak.
Only looked at him. As though she could see him. As though she knew.
Tears burned unexpectedly behind his eyes.
"I love ye, Sassenach."
The words barely left his lips. The figure seemed to shimmer.
The wind swept across the moor. And darkness rushed in.
The last thing Jamie saw was Claire standing beneath a gray Scottish sky, her hand resting protectively over their unborn child.
Then the world disappeared.