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lizzie-is-here · 2 years

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like the dawn

part xx- until the end of the line

“i knew i did from that first moment we met. it was… not love at first sight exactly, but familiarity. like: oh, hello, it’s you. it’s going to be you.” - mhairi mcfarlane

summary: 78 years later, you, steve, and bucky get your fairytail ending

wordcount: 1k

warnings: slight angst, cussing

taglist: @whelvedfeelingsstuff @sebsgirl71479 @rebloggingmyrecs @babyblublossom @local-mr-frog @thenyxsky @capsiclesdoll @moonlightreader649 @saranghaey @almosttoopizza @itsprashimusic @yourfavunsub

a/n: i’m so so sad to see this series go 😭 but i’ve really loved it fr and i’m excited to see where to go next. i’m not sure if i want to start another series or kinda just do some one shots or re-open requests, but ig we’ll see where it goes. love you all so, so much, and thank you for reading. i hope you enjoy 🫶

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“Is that everything?”

Steve nods as he sets the last box on the counter.

It’s only been a few months since everyone came back, but you all decided to move back to New York to be closer to everyone. Back to Brooklyn, precisely.

Natasha’s funeral was small. Quiet and personal on the lake at Tony’s cabin. A statue for her was being made, and would eventually sit a block or two from the tower.

Her absence was always noticeable, but everyone was slowly coming to grips with it. She would hate to see anyone wallowing.

You’d given your Romanian cottage to Wanda, who’d been intent on working on the grief of losing Vision. She called every now and then, showing you your healthy chickens and garden that thrived under her care.

Now, with Steve’s recent retirement and a bit of cash from the government as compensation, you all bought a large apartment back home.

Two arms, one metal and one skin, wrap around your waist. Bucky rests his head in between your wings and sighs.

“Don’t wanna unpack yet,” he mumbles. You laugh, turning around to kiss him before grabbing a box.

“C’mon. The faster we get done, the faster you can see your surprise.”

Both of your boys’ heads perked up at that. You had been hinting at it for weeks, but refused to tell them.

It had been a guessing game for a while now. A pet, another road trip, a shitty musical on Steve’s life? (That last one was true, much to your disdain.)

The one thing they hadn’t guessed was the small box tucked in the flowerbed full of phlox on your balcony.

“You never keep secrets,” Steve says as he starts hanging up clothes in the large closet. “Shocked you managed to keep this one.”

You gasp in fake indignation. “Steven Grant Rogers! How could you?”

“Yeah, Stevie,” Buck chimes in. “So inconsiderate.”

The blond rolls his eyes and kisses your forehead before grabbing a new box of clothes.

“I’m sorry, you are so very good at keeping secrets,” he grins.

Unpacking moves quickly from there, the three of you working efficiently as the sun starts sinking in the sky.

By the time you’re done, it’s 6:00. Stark’s throwing a party at 6:30, and he’ll throw a fit if you’re late.

He still bitches a bit when you make it at 6:15.

Most everyone’s there, smiling and filling each other in on the past months’ events.

Tony’s little girl is running around, Peter trailing close after her to make sure she doesn’t trip. Shuri and Bruce are in a heated yet friendly debate over AI, exchanging words that you don’t recognize, and from the look of T’Challa, who stands nearby, he doesn’t either.

Sam’s standing with your boys, annoying Bucky as Steve mediates. The new group, the “Guardians of the Galaxy” has huddled around Stephen Strange as the grumbling doctor creates various portals.

Everyone else is scattered about, drinking and enjoying each others’ company.

“Stark,” you greet at the presence behind you.

“Can’t get anything past you, can I?” he asks. You hum, glancing over at his new prosthetic. “How’s it been with the grandpas?”

“It’s been nice,” you admit. “Finished getting everything moved in today.” He nods, pretending to think for a moment before launching the question that brought him over in the first place.

“Soooo… Any upcoming fancy events we need to know about?”

You raise an eyebrow, not taking the bait. “Like what?”

“Oh, you know.” Stark waves a dismissive hand. “Two suits for them, a nice dress for you. White is really your color by the way. Plus, maybe it could have a nice cake at it. A few dances, nothing special.”

When you only deadpan at him, he continues.

“It could start with ‘W’ and end in ‘edding’-“

“Alright, maybe!” you finally say. “I haven’t given them the rings yet.”

Tony balks. “Seriously? Of all the people I expected to be nervous about proposing, it wouldn’t be you.”

You frown. “Why?”

“Listen, the three of you are madly in love. Anyone who’s anyone could tell you that, if any of us were made for each other, it’s you three.” He silently gags at his words, as if disgusted by the sappiness. “I hate it, but I’m right.”

He sips his (Morgan’s) sparkling grape juice. “Speak of the devils.”

You look up as your boys approach.

“Hey doll,” Bucky smiles before pressing a kiss to your hand. “Miss us?”

“Please,” Tony holds up a hand. “Spare me.”

He whisks away after his daughter, but not before nodding to you with a very obvious wink.

Maybe he’s right.

———————————————————————

That night, as soon as you get home, your boys are pestering you for the surprise.

“Fine, fine,” you concede, opening the doors to the balcony. “Go sit down on the couch.”

When you present the small box, you can hear both of their heart rates quicken.

“Um, the last five years, I had a lot of time to think,” you begin. “It was horrible, being alone. Sure, not everyone was gone, but you two were, and every morning I’d wake up and-“ You pause to swallow the tears.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Bucky whispers. “You don’t have to talk about it right now, doll.”

You sit in between them, wings getting squished a bit on the plush couch.

You give a firm nod, pressing forward. “Anyways, when we were going back in time for the Stones, they had me do a test run.”

“Where’d you go?” Steve asks.

A pause. “I went back to our apartment. Before the war. And I grabbed this.”

You open the box, where three gold bands lie.

“They’re…“

“My parents’,” you cut the brunet off. “My dad always promised my mom he’d resize and put a diamond on her wedding band when he had enough money, but… he never got around to it.”

Steve and Bucky each lift a band, with you doing the same.

“D’you want a traditional proposal?” Steve jokes. You chuckle, shaking your head.

“Nothing about us is traditional,” you reply.

All three of you wordlessly slip on the rings, before Bucky pipes up from your left with both pinkies extended.

“‘Til the end of the line?”

You and Steve respond in kind.

“Until the end of the line.”

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welcome-to-the-end-of-eras · 11 months

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Live Reading: The Salt Miracles

I am only doing this for The Salt Miracles and not the other stories in The Winter Spirits because it's too much effort and I'm already going insane. I'm also going in 100% blind, I have absolutely no idea what it's about or whose perspective it's following, but my lord am I nervous.

I haven't even started yet but I just realised I've been calling it The Salt Mines by accident and put it in a twitter post oops-

OOO IT'S SOMEONE NEW

I STILL HAVEN'T STARTED READING YET BUT I SAW THEM REFERENCE A PRIEST AND NOW I'M GOING INSANE I NEED TO BE SEDATED

I'm chewing on glass and gnawing at the bars of my fucking enclosure

This (not) reading is more indicative of my mental illness than my actual diagnoses

If St Hilda is a fucking asylum I'm going to commit several crimes

I already love Mhairi she's so fun

Wait why is it changing to another dude Mhairi was fun :((( ik I'll probably like Flint but Mhairi is cool and I want her to write a proper female mc for once

Wait wait wait if the salt is pink it's probably Himilayan, and that along with Russia was where Mori said there was a weird no-clairvoyance zone thing so ??? I'm going to lose my marbles

Ohh nvm it's algae, that would've been cool

Okay Flint is also a priest, we have two priests now

"... I've been, you know, head first in a bucket the whole way" yeah okay this is a Pulley protag and I love him

" 'A whole...Christmas selection?' 'Nuts' " that may just become my new Twitter bio (probably not I like my Glass Onion reference too much)

He has a portable camera so this is probably taking place in like the twenties, but Kodak as a company was founded literally the same time tlfop was happening which is funny

Motherfucker are we getting animal-human hybrids???

I like fog as a metaphor, especially in tlfop, so I will probably write out something about it later

"...beehives, or cairns (graves)" this sounds like when Mori threatened Ito's wife who was allergic to bees

Why tf are there pilgrims??? Ik they're not like the Mayflower types of pilgrims, but what kind of religious journey thing are they doing???

I also want to write about the complete lack of respect for government officials and just general authority from the pulleyverse protags bc none of them have any fucks to give about authority figures

"...in his unofficial capacity as the bishop's shoulder-angel" PLS-

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was mentioned and now I'm 1.) thinking about tlfop again, and 2.) am fairly certain that this story takes place not far from the events of tlfop, because the first Sherlock Holmes book was published in 1887 and he references them as being "new:

"...now the bishop didn't believe in miracles"

"I'll be Eve in a cider factory" tbh I don't understand what that means too well rn but I love it regardless (ik Eve bit the apple and all that jazz I just can't wrap my brain around the metaphor please don't explain the Bible to me)

I auto-filled an Irish accent for Kerryn in my brain so when he called Flint "Father Kang" I thought he meant "King" for a minute

Okay so it starts December 18th, which is also the date that Mori said he would come back to Japan if I'm not mistaken??? (Edit: I WAS RIGHT AND I FEEL LIKE GOD)

But I must be slightly off because X-rays weren't invented until 1895 :(((

Also I know Kerryn is probably the secondary lead but there's something off about him I don't like, I can't put my finger on it

Either Ms. Pulley messed up her math or I don't know what an advent calendar is, because I was under the impression this was in December, so how tf has Rosemary been on the island for 38 days if she's been there since September??? She would've had to have come in November for that to be true

Flint out here profiling people by name like his name isn't fucking Flint (I also definitely laughed and thought of Batman when I read Bruce's name for the first time)

I can't handle references to the winter king rn don't do this to me-

I stopped to make dinner because I'm hungry, I started at like 5:30 and it's now like 7:35 and I have some yummy pasta and pumpkin tea (I also had like 1.5 margaritas)

I can finally use my insanely eurocentric art history class notes to explain the imagery of what Flint describes in Ezekiel's angels; each of the four creature's heads is representative of the four apostles who wrote the bible, and that coupled with the biblically accurate angels coming down from on high are clear indicators of the second coming in art, meaning the previous priest was preaching the end of days to these people

I've always been such a sucker for Catholicism in gothic media, especially when it comes to imagery, so this all is right up my alley

THE O W L ? ? ?

"...the Almighty had forgotten about the United Kingdom" she's so fucking real for that

Honestly??? The Bishop sounds like he'd be a good love interest for Flint. Maybe it's because I don't like Kerryn that much even tho he's the standard choice, but the whole "hearing them talking to you in times of stress" thing is a fun thing I like with all the pulleyverse couples and it happened with the Bishop so. Hmm.

Fliny's whole color metaphor for logic + Thaniel's synesthesia sounds like another essay for me

The optimism of Flint and the pilgrims is really going to make the horror aspect of this all hit so hard I'm excited

On that note, I love how the stones that looked like beehives so readily became cairns as the tone got darker

My computer started updating as I was making this and I was so scared that I lost everything but thank fuck for tumblr drafts

Anyways those salt rocks are a grade A prime example of Chekov's gun if I've ever seen one

The rocks are fuckin BIRDS???

The fear of machinery is something we have seen in Pulley novels before, especially around this time period, but it's just making me think of the Mars House and how that would tie in

HIMB BABY BIRD I'M ABOUT TO CRY-

N O NOT THE BIRD :(((

That was fast

"The islanders didn't leave a hundred years ago. We're walking in them." this line goes so hard, especially because it includes the audience in the "we"

OOO altitude sickness, very Bedlam Stacks-core

The cloaked devil imagery and unforgotten knowledge description is giving very much Edgar Allen Poe and it's gorgeous

I cannot say I care at all about Kerryn becoming salt but damn was it a creepy twist

And the way she physically started crumbling??? Genuinely horrifying

It took this short story for me to realise that that scene in twofs where Mori is giving his side of the argument with the priest in the future where he actually did go to the wedding, he's arguing about the story of Lot, which likely was derivative of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. Wonder why that would come up. Hmm. A mystery.

"He could taste it -- something electric." PLS I'M GOING NUTS-

What in the fucking Cthulu-

Oh Mhairi's back!!! Yay!!!

Alright maybe I spoke too soon with the whole Bishop and Flint thing

Wait it's not Flint??? I thought Bruce was Flint for a second

Oh f u c k dude that was HEAVY

That's so nuts

I literally do not have words what the fuck was that ending

It was really good and clever and fun but w o w

Ending thoughts: I genuinely have none, that was terrifying and beautiful and cool as FUCK, and I think if Ms. Pulley started pumping out only horror novels from now on I would be in full support. It's a really fuckin out of pocket move considering her previous works and even her last short story that had a relatively happy ending but my god it was good. 10/10, very creeped out. Also the sign at the end??? Knowing Flint probably wrote that out and put it around his own neck like a noose??? That's so fucking hardcore I can't believe it. Utterly amazed.

#natasha pulley #the watchmaker of filigree street #twofs #the lost future of pepperharrow #tlfop #the kingdoms #tk #the bedlam stacks #tbs #the half life of valery k #thlovk

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irlbellaswan · 2 years

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me omw to tell mhairi bruce is staying over again

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phoenixflames12 · 6 years

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Epilogue: Remembrance Sunday, 1947

A/N: This takes place in my WW2 AU that began with An Endless Night and takes place seven months after Dancing by Moonlight

11th November 1947

The Frasers along with their extended family and friends gather in Broch Mordha’s village square to pay their respect to the dead and look to the future for those who have been left behind

Catch up on all of Vergangenheit on AO3 here

I am going to do a proper acknowledgements post later on, but here is a quick one. This story and this AU would not have been possible without the help, guidance and unfailing support of some very special people, without whom this epilogue would not be here today.

@momwendy, @abbydebeaupreposts, @gotham-ruaidh, @sassy-sassenach, @missclairebelle , @sassenachwaffles, @lady-o-ren, @mo-nighean-rouge, @whiskynottea and @thatsoccercoach have given this story more than they know- putting words in my head when I had none and breathing such life into this story and its’ characters that I don’t know where I would be without them all.

This story is also a tribute and a memorial to the men of the 51st Highlander Division who fought at the battle for France in May 1940 and I hope will be a fitting one to all those who have fought and died over the conflicts since.

11th November 1947

The sky is a cool, crisp grey that hangs over the moor like a cloak, almost shielding the two figures that are making their way over the hill and down the long, winding road that snakes across the softly muted carpet of dead heather and broon completely from view.

There has been a haw frost in the night, hardening the ground until the mud comes up in thick, rough sods flecked with silver under the treads of their boots, biting against the wind, the winter light thick and low against the shadow of the hills.

The sky is quiet, the songs of the larks and the thrushes held tight in a reverent hush, the black skeletons of a thorn tree copse reaching like spiders across the slate coloured sky.

Jamie’s right hand is heavy on Claire’s arm, the weight of cold skin hard against her own.

The other one is clasped heavily against the horn crook of a walking stick, his fingers stiff and still and cold in their grip.

His face is impassive, the mask of careful blankness that she wishes that she could tear down and smash into a thousand tiny pieces, firmly in place. Only the tremble of the third and fourth fingers of his right hand tell her that anything is amiss, their tattoo slow and aching against the thick fabric of her coat.

‘What is it?’

Her voice is little more than a whisper, watching a muscle in his jaw twitch, the slow throb of his throat as he swallows, trying to find words enough to answer her.

‘It’s…’ He tries to speak and then pauses, holding her gaze with wide eyes that glimmer with ghosts.

His face is pale in the wane light, his lower lids smudged dark with bruising, the crows’ feet that crease the skin around his eyes more pronounced than she has ever seen them.

He has not been sleeping well of late, she knows that.

Has never slept well during the winter since his return, the chill of the wind baring his defences to the elements, lost and frozen as he struggled once more along the bitter death march of memory.

Has felt his body tense against her own in the laird’s room that for so long had hosted his ghost, a body that now moved stubbornly against the aches of flesh and bone on cold mornings.

A body stiffened not just from the physical damages that the war had wrought on him but aggravated to the extreme by the damp of the camps and the frozen wasteland of the march.

Has felt the knot of panic pulsing through suddenly clenched fists return as it had done in those terrifying nights when he had first come home, the tendons in his neck as taut as wire beneath her touch, jumping out against the crumpled linen of the pillowcase.

Has heard his breathing coming out in short, sharp gasps as he struggled against her touch, the names of the dead, breaking against his lips, their memories rising to invade their bed as her words of comfort were lost in the folds of his pyjama shirt.

‘It’s all right, Jamie. It’s just a dream, love. It’s over. I’m here. You’re home. Come back to me. Come back to us.’

‘I know,’ she replies slowly, her voice caught, her hand reaching to clasp his own, drawing their joined fist up so that her lips can brush against his knuckles, holding the wide, fearful gaze with her own.

‘I know.’

The war memorial rises tall and black against the crisp, slate sky when they reach the square.

The figure of an infantry man leaning on his rifle gazes out over the glen from the top of the great, dark obelisk, the cast of his kilt cut so fine that there is a moment in which Claire believes that she can see the thick tartan catch against the ripple of the breeze. His is a young face, a face of so many of the young men, mere boys really, who had come through the doors of the recruiting office, drunk on the promise of doing their bit for King and Country, never to come home again.

The granite that sweeps over his cheek is unlined and hopeful, the dark, sightless eyes bright as he stares out over the square and over the wet-stoned houses of Broch Mordha, looking past the slowly gathering crowd and into a great beyond.

Far out over the moor and onto the deep, purple rimmed hills beyond, the first crisp hints of snow lie soft and undisturbed, bringing with them the first white silences of winter.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Faith shiver and turn away to Albert, pulling the dark blue nurses’ cape more tightly around her. Even in the cold, her eldest daughter’s skin seems to glow with an internal warmth, the wane, cool sun lighting up the escaped curls that fluttered from her nurses’ cap so that they blaze in a burnished crown of auburn, cinnabar, russet and roan.

A slight swell tugs at the cut of the grey-blue nurses’ dress, the promise of new life blooming through her cheeks that sparks a fire in Claire’s heart.

‘Notre petite flocon de neige’, Jamie had called her when Claire had returned with Faith from the hospital to their rented rooms that the RMA had set aside for married couples.

His eyes had been wide and bright with wonder, sparked through with hope as he had carefully taken the bundle from her, face softening into a smile as the weight of his first-born bairn had settled comfortably into his arms; the softly slanted eyes that Claire will never tire of blinking up into sleepy wakefulness; a soft, mewing cry falling from the virgin lips.

Those eyes that had blinked once and then fixed themselves on her father’s, surrendering herself completely to his utter adoration.

‘Mo cholom geal ye are,’ he’d whispered, eyes shining as he had caught Claire’s gaze, a large, rough finger softly tracing the barely there line of their daughter’s cheek, the crown of his curls catching at the flickering light of the oil lamp that had hung by the door.

Albert stands tall beside her, feather dark hair hidden under a tweed cap, hazel eyes soft and loving as he bends his head to press a soft kiss against the crown of his wife’s curls, one arm pressed against the slow swell of her waist.

There will be grandchildren soon,she thinks, tightening her grip on Jamie’s hand as the thought spikes against her synapses; a sudden sob catching in her throat.

Grandchildren racing through the rooms of the gatehouse that Jamie has given to Albert and Faith, free of rent, until they find a place to strike out onto and call their own.

Grandchildren with her daughter’s shining eyes and her son-in-law’s soft smile, feather dark heads and blazing blue eyes brimming out of indistinguishable faces.

Grandchildren with lisping voices that would stick out chubby hands for her to hold and call her ‘granny Claire’ as they told her to close her eyes and follow them to the witches’ cauldron or up into the tree house to exclaim over their treasures.

‘Sassenach? Are ye well, mo Sorcha?’

Her husband’s eyes are narrowed with concern as he turns to face her and she nods, a small smile quirking painfully at the corners of her lips.

‘I’m fine, my love,’ the words are a murmur, lost against the warmth and weight of his chest.

‘Just thinking about all this…’

She turns in his arms, spreading hers wide to encompass the scene; seeing Brianna, who had taken an early train to join them, deep in conversation with Hector Fraser. The toss of her curls is long and loose down her back, the long fingers flying like quicksilver through the cold, crisp air.

Their middle daughter had come home two nights ago, cheeks flushed with the thimbleful of sherry that she had accepted from Claire, eyes burning with stories of being invited to nights at the King’s Theatre with artist friends who spoke of the future as if they owned it as they had gathered into the drawing room after supper, the wireless a low, comforting, background hum that had made Jamie cough out a derisive Scottish noise deep in his throat.

‘She’s not a child anymore,’ she’d murmured as they had got ready for bed that night, the curve of his skull glowing in the flickering lamplight.

A moment of silence, his back turned to her, his shoulders hunching briefly as he had gathered himself, staring out into the night, his unspoken retort hanging thick in the air between them.

‘She’s no’ grown either!’

With a pang to her heart, she had watched him struggle before moving to him, wanting nothing more than to gather him into her arms and banish away all of his hurts.

A sliver of silver moonlight had caught against his curls when she had reached him, picking out the brilliant strands of roan and copper, highlighting the silver threads that linger at his temples. Tucking her arms about his waist and pressing a soft, unseen kiss against the sweep of his cheek, she had, for the umpteenth time, thanked whatever God was listening, for returning him to her. Aged and battered and bruised he may be but still hers and still, remarkably whole.

She had felt his exhale then, the tightening of his lungs against her hands, the rush of air breathed out in a slow, pained breath.

‘Aye,’ he’d replied after a long moment, turning in her arms to face her; his eyes that are shared by both his daughters wide and shining.

She had nodded and reached out a thumb to press away the crinkle of an age line that had pressed against his forehead, reaching to cup his cheek.

‘Aye, I ken that, mo ghraidh. It… It’s just… Seeing her, all grown up an’ talking about men an’… I fear that she’s growing old before her time, ye ken?’

‘I know,’ she had murmured back, holding his gaze, his eyes very deep and very blue in the dim light, memories of the little girl with the unravelled mane of auburn plaits and grass stains splattered against the hem of her frock who had run amok, claiming every inch of the estate as her own, rising up in the silence before them.

From the passageway, the patter of feet had broken the silence for a moment, the click of the bathroom door opening, the thud of it being pulled to, the air full of the hushed rasp of her husband’s breathing.

‘But we have to trust her judgement. Trust that she’ll come to us if anything goes wrong. D’you think you can do that?’

It had been a moment before he had replied, the look in his eyes deep and unreadable.

‘Aye’, he had said quietly, a slow smile catching at the corners of his mouth as he had bent his head to kiss her.

She sees William, who has shot through an unexpected growth spurt so that he is now all arms and legs with tawny eyes blazing out of a freckled face pulled taut over growing bones. His hair is a burnished crown of auburn curls against the pale, grey sky as he gazes up into the youthful face that is hewn forever in stone, looking far older than nine.

‘He’s a braw lad, a nighean.’

Jamie’s voice is a murmured smile that is brimming with pride against her cheek as he follows her gaze and she nods, not looking at him.

‘Minds me a bit o’ me when I was that age,’ he continues, watching the lad talk quietly to Jimmy Atkinson who is staying at the Old Lion with Morag and his bairns, pale faces lost in the crowd.

‘Does he?’

‘Aye,’ he murmurs in reply, eyes turning away from his son to fall on Mhairi Bruce, who is standing a little way apart from the crowd, her long, dark skirt catching in the breeze, hugging herself against the chill.

She still knows so little about this girl whom Brianna had invited home, a girl who looks far older than eighteen with her long, straight skirts and starched white blouses; a girl who wears her past like a cloak, her emerald eyes shuttered with secrets.

Overhead, the thunderheads are rolling over the hills, the last of the sun’s storm-tossed light gleaming against the shadows of the main street.

In the slowly growing crowd, she can just make out Jenny and Ian followed by the brood of younger Murray children, Jenny’s dark eyes softening as she catches Claire’s gaze, shifting their youngest, Caitlin, further up her hip and raising a hand in greeting.

From the clock tower, the bell tolls the quarter hour, hushing the crowd as if a whistle had been blown to silence them and she hears the quick, marching step of Jimmy coming up to greet Jamie, his salute sharp against the sky.

The poppy wreath is looped over his arm, jewels of scarlet pinned against the black backdrop, the light from Jamie’s medals pinned to his lapel glinting in the light.

His dark eyes shine with shared memories, the depths of his pupils glistening with names that Claire has heard her husband cry out in the dark of his nightmares, whimpered desperately like a catechism as he struggled through the worst of his memories.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Faith’s gaze, a soft smile catching at her eldest daughter’s lips, the names of the dead soft and unspoken between them.

‘Tiang gu, mo chariad,’ Jamie replies quietly, returning the salute and accepting the wreath.

Somewhere at the edge of the crowd, the wail of Aonghas’s Lindsay’s pipes cry out in the silence, the strains of Flowers of the Forest rising soft and eerie through the dying light.

The pipes melody rises and weeps and cries for the men that had been lost as Father Cameron steps up to address the silent crowd.

His voice is low and carrying, ringing over the square so that cloth caps are removed and heads bent, speaking of the young men who had gone so bravely and quietly from the lands that they loved, but rarely spoke of.

It had not been in them to speak of that love, but they had held it in their hearts regardless, held like a lit lamp whose flame burnt quiet and strong and true in their quest to fight and die in the defence of their country.

A shiver ripples down Claire’s spine at that, an unbidden sob catching in her throat as she sees Kirsty and Mhairi Fraser weeping quietly in Hector’s arms, his handsome face white and strained as he holds onto his Mam and sister watching Aonghas slowly step around the memorial, his pipes singing out in the stillness, the tune dancing through the village and leaping up over the moor. Joe’s ghost waits quietly beside them, the quirk of his quick, dark smile shivering in the silence as he slips away to join the others that had fallen with him.

Others that were little more than names now, but whose memories would live on in those that loved them, in those who had lost pieces of their hearts to the dark shadows of the German hills.

She sees Mhairi Bruce hug herself a little tighter against the chill, her pale face that is flushed with cold turned skywards, her eyes shining with the glimmer of unshed tears, lips pursed together, not looking at Brianna who moves towards her, a tentative hand reaching out to hold her own before slipping away.

Sees Albert nod quietly to Faith and bend to kiss her gently, dark eyes gleaming as they watch her disappear into the crowd before turning back to the memorial, face set and dark with memories.

‘Mam?’

The weight of William and Brianna’s hands clasping into her own takes her by surprise.

Faith comes quietly up beside them, the warmth of a calloused, work worn hand reaching gently to rest against Claire’s arm, her head burying itself against the pit of her shoulder blade; a soft, sad smile playing at the corner of her lips.

And then, out of nowhere, the bell begins to toll in the hour and Faith’s hand tightens against her shoulder.

Brianna and William’s eyes are fixed on the figure of their father, his crown of curls glowing with burnished fire against the grey, November light as he steps up to lay the wreath against the cold, dark foot of the stone.

His face is set and white in the stillness, eyes blazing with quiet dignity, the ghosts of his men rising for the last time around him.

And in the stillness, a lone voice rings out, letting the brave, quiet words of Binyon’s poem fill the air, tearing Claire’s heart open afresh.

As she stands there, the weight of her children’s hands clasped in her own, listening to the old, proud words as they ring out over the square, she watches Jamie step back and raise his head to the soldier who guarded the silent names of those who had been lost and give a silent nod.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye and aglow,

They were staunch until the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old,

Age shall not weary them, nor shall the years condemn,

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

Fin

99 notes · View notes

dweemeister · 6 years

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Braveheart (1995)

The summer of 1995 provided moviegoing audiences with a third Die Hard movie, Casper, batnipples, Disney’s problematic Pocahontas, Apollo 13, Waterworld, and one of the most understanding children’s films of all time in Babe. That is a busy summer to say the least. Amid that clutter, one of the most successful movies of that period could not possibly have been made now, let alone find the audience it did twenty-three years ago. Released by Paramount in North America and 20th Century Fox internationally, that film is Mel Gibson’s Braveheart, a thirteenth-century war epic about Scottish knight William Wallace (played by Gibson) taking arms against King Edward I of England in the First War of Scottish Independence. Braveheart was Gibson’s second directorial work after more than a decade as a figurehead for 1980s Australian cinema and presence in the Lethal Weapon series. This is a visually striking, technically accomplished film rife with homophobia, misogyny, and historical howlers that continues to sharply polarize viewers about its cinematic merits. Through the fires of these controversies, the extremely violent Braveheart has bludgeoned its way to becoming an iconic fixture of 1990s Hollywood.

It is 1280 in Scotland. As a child, William Wallace survives King Edward “Longshanks” (Patrick McGoohan) invasion of Scotland. Following Scottish defeat, Wallace is taken on a European journey by his uncle Argyle (Brian Cox). Years later, Wallace (Gibson as an adult; James Robinson as a child) will return to his village and marry childhood friend Murron MacClannough (Catherine McCormack as an adult; Mhari Calvey as a child). But Longshanks has granted his English nobles in Scotland right of the first night, and Wallace’s successful attempt to save Murron from rape eventually ends in her execution. Enraged, Wallace – assisted by his fellow villagers – massacres the English forces sent to his hometown and drives the remaining English military from Scotland. Longshanks will not take military defeat without response, ordering Prince Edward (Peter Hanly) to quash the rebellion. War and royal intrigue breaks out, leading to Edward’s wife, Isabella of France (Sophie Marceau), being sent to negotiate with Wallace and the two falling for each other far too quickly.

With that plot in mind, viewers should understand that the only historically accurate aspects of Braveheart are the names of the historical figures involved and place names – really, that’s it. The Scots wear kilts, despite the fact kilts would not be invented for another several hundred years. If one wants to understand the First Scottish War for Independence and the history surrounding this era, read a book instead. Screenwriter Randall Wallace admitted that his script was based less on history than on the epic poem The Actes and Deidis of the Illustre and Vallyeant Campioun Schir William Wallace, written by Blind Harry in the fifteenth century.

In its medieval swordplay, Braveheart has more to do with Spartacus (1960) than anything in a 1930s-40s 20th Century Fox or Warner Bros. swashbuckler. The film’s enormous battle scenes – shot in Ireland with over 1,500 members of the Irish Army Reserve participating on both sides of this cinematic conflict – are excellent collaborations in deploying men on foot and horseback smashing into each other on a grassy plain with a frantic camera attempting to make sense of the scrum. The use of 200-pound mechanical horses running on nitrogen cylinders even fooled an animal welfare organization that decided to investigate the film because of the effect’s realism. When not indulging in ill-advised slow-motion, these battles, perhaps too frequently placed into the film to the point they becoming fatiguing, are spectacular in their choreography. The collaborative effort between Gibson, cinematographer John Toll (1994′s Legends of the Fall, 1998′s The Thin Red Line), editor Steven Rosenblum (1989′s Glory, Legends of the Fall) and second unit crew members contributes to a blood-soaked, crashing symphony of mangled limbs and human brutality that no other film depicting medieval warfare has since equaled – especially the Battle of Stirling Bridge, which is horrifying in its impact despite the absence of the crucial, eponymous bridge. Many films since Braveheart portraying contemporary war likewise pale in comparison.

Braveheart would be a disastrous film without John Toll’s cinematography, whether in action sequences or peaceful moments. The use of natural lighting and the on-location shooting in Ireland and Scotland appeals to Toll’s strengths for exterior shots, lending Braveheart a near-mythical angle amid large landscape shots blessed with eerie cloud covers and looming, verdant mountains. Toll makes Scotland a place of dreams – especially in the blue of twilight when the sun’s reds have retreated westward, welcoming the cool and comfort of the evening. This suits the film, as Gibson is not filming a historical drama. No computerized flourishes or too many swooping helicopter-aided vistas pry the viewer from the film. Toll’s camera for these landscapes and shots of the village (reportedly built by the production crew to Toll’s specifications) remain still or are gently heightened or lowered by crane shots. Close-ups are mercifully spare, reserved almost entirely for violent scenes.

The word “freedom” is tossed around with such promiscuity and depthlessness that Braveheart’s 178 minutes cannot be justified. Wallace’s screenplay touches lightly on the era’s politics, Wallace’s love life, and the ideas why Scotland should be independent from England. Political philosophy this is not. Look elsewhere for films of military leaders with a wracked conscience, psychologically impacted by the slaughter they have initiated. Instead, we are presented with anachronistic dialogue like this:

WILLIAM WALLACE: Before we let you leave, your commander must cross that field, present himself before this army, put his head between his legs, and kiss his own arse.

Sure, dude. If possible, maybe that commander might have a future as a contortionist.

Braveheart presents William Wallace as a man on a revenge-fueled mission who will consider all possible means to liberate his people – he has an irreverent sense of humor that makes given scenes a tonal mishmash. Wallace’s romantic interludes with Murron and Isabella? Gibson, McCormack, and Marceau, respectively, are all unconvincing – despite an enormous assist from Toll in these passionate scenes.

Casual homophobia is directed toward Prince Edward (later King Edward II), the son of Edward Longshanks (Edward I; who was a bellicose monarch, but becomes a cartoonish archetype in this film). Prince Edward is depicted as effeminate and gay, and his lover Philip (Stephen Billington) is killed by defenestration. The film further compounds this depiction by associating the Prince’s homosexuality to his ineffectual character – Longshanks constantly chastises his son’s lack of masculinity and Princess Isabella also disapproves of her husband for those qualities. This is not to say homophobia did not exist in the late thirteenth century, but that Gibson and Wallace are doubling down on the Prince, making him a punchline puppet of a leader because of who he is. Aggressive masculinity and sexual expressions inundate the battle scenes, too – swinging swords should be interpreted as one might think.

Women have almost zero agency in Braveheart, as they are depicted as sexual vessels to remain pure and chaste while the men fraternize and fornicate all they wish. Wallace’s campaign of violence begins not because the English lords have invoked right of the first night (prima noctis) for other women, but because prima noctis has been invoked for Murron (whose sexual faithfulness is idealized after her death in a pair of visions Wallace – who, by sleeping with Isabella, does not return that same faith – has). One of the few topics that women speak of throughout the film is sexual interest/satisfaction or lack thereof – Isabella’s only purpose in the film is to bang Wallace so that she can deliver an inflammatory piece of news to Longshanks on his deathbed.

Other than Toll, another craftsperson showcases their mastery in this film. That master is composer James Horner (Glory, 1997′s Titanic). 1995 proved to be a career year for Horner, having composed the scores for Apollo 13, Balto, and Casper. His second-best score of the year behind Apollo 13, Braveheart’s score is mostly devoid of the wanking masculinity described above, combining cultural elements that might seem inappropriate for a film about Scottish warriors – given the use of Japanese woodwinds in Legends of the Fall (a generational epic drama about a Montana ranching family), Horner’s instrumental appropriation knows no bounds, for good and ill. Along with the requisite bagpipes (rather than the Great Highland bagpipes that are generally associated to be “bagpipes”, Horner utilizes Uilleann pipes – Irish in origin, Uilleann pipes are softer and considered to produce a less harsh sound than Great Highland Bagpipes), this heavily orchestral score also benefits from a boys’ choir reminiscent of Casper, Horner’s affinity for Irish music, and quena (an Andean flute) for “The Secret Wedding”.

Three major motifs exist in Horner’s score: for Wallace, Murron, and Isabella. Wallace’s motif is first in the main title through the Uilleann pipes and will be the most-repeated theme in the film, fragmented up by percussion in the battle scenes, and often accompanied by strings in melodic unison (most heroically at 6:05 in “Freedom/The Execution Bannockburn”). Murron’s motif assumes melodramatic, (and very quickly afterwards) tragic connotations upon its most memorable appearance on quena in “The Secret Wedding”, chorally reprised at 3:10 in the “End Credits”. Dominating the final third of the film is Isabella’s motif, best outlined in “For the Love of a Princess” by the entire orchestra, and containing echoes of “The Ludlows” from Legends of the Fall. Credit the London Symphony Orchestra for providing a gorgeous recording, even if Horner’s score to Braveheart is not the most musically interesting effort of his career.

Producers Bruce Davey (Gibson’s longtime producer) and Alan Ladd, Jr. (son of legendary Paramount contracted actor Alan Ladd) navigated numerous obstacles at 20th Century Fox and Paramount to complete the film. This enormous, nearly three-hour production of a time period unfamiliar to North American moviegoers could not be produced at this scope today. A 2018 Braveheart would require even more major studios from various nations to finance the project, as epic films have all but disappeared from the multiplex because of their forbidding costs and lack of action star/superhero connections. Gibson’s ambition is staggering here. Yet Braveheart is let down by Gibson’s hypermasculinity and homophobia – reflective of his troublesome political dimensions.

The film’s cultural importance when it was released is unquestionable, but it remains to be seen how time will treat Gibson’s directorial breakout work. By being released in the mid-1990s, it is among the last Hollywood epic films largely untouched by excessive CGI – the effects are gruesome because they are practical. Though the characterizations are simplistic, Braveheart is an effective character piece for many, if not for this writer. Caught between the praises of fanboys of a certain demographic and those who loathe Gibson and/or Braveheart, I can neither adulate nor dismiss this movie outright. Bring on the insults on my manhood, but say it with a Scottish accent, would you kindly?

My rating: 6.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

#Braveheart #Mel Gibson #Sophie Marceau #Angus Macfadyen #Patrick McGoohan #Catherine McCormack #Brendan Gleeson #Peter Hanly #James Robinson #Mhairi Calvey #Andrew Weir #Randall Wallace #John Toll #Steven Rosenbaum #James Horner #Alan Ladd Jr.#Bruce Davey #TCM #My Movie Odyssey

2 notes · View notes

duneideannrpg · 3 years

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NOMBRES Y APELLIDOS ESCOCESES

A continuación, te compartimos un compilado de nombres comunes en Escocia. Esperamos puedan servirte como inspiración o recurso para la creación de tus personajes.

Adeen — Aeleen — Aelish — Aeveen — Aibhne — Aideen — Aife — Ailbe — Ailbhe — Aileen — Ailidh — Ailin — Ailis — Ailsa — Ainder — Aine — Aineen — Ainslin — Aislin — Aisling — Aislinn — Aiveen — Allison — Almath — Aluinn — Alva — Amabel — Anya — Aoife — Arienh — Ashling — Baibin — Baibre — Baine — Banva — Barabal — Bebhinn — Bebinn — Bedelia — Beibhinn — Berneen — Bethia — Beval — Bigseach — Bigshock — Blinna — Blinne — Boinn — Boonan — Boyne — Breanda — Breen — Breffany — Brenda — Brenna — Brianag — Brianna — Bride — Brieanne — Bronagh — Cadhla — Cahan — Cailin — Caireann — Cairenn — Caiside — Cait — Caitir — Caitlin — Caitriona — Caoilin — Caoilfhionn — Caoimhe — Carra — Casidhe — Cassidy — Catriona — Ceallach — Ceallsach — Ceana — Ceanag — Ceara — Ceilidh — Cerridwen — Chiara — Ciannait — Ciar — Ciara — Ciarda — Cinaed — Cinnie — Cleana — Cliodhna — Cliona — Clodagh — Cochran — Colleen — Cora — Corcair — Coreana — Correen — Cuach — Daireen — Dearshul — Debrinne — Deidra — Deirdre — Delaney — Delany — Demi — Derin — Dervla — Dinean — Doireann — Dolina — Doonshock — Doreen — Duinseach — Dunla — Dymphna — Eanna — Eabha — Eavan — Edana — Edea — Eibhlin — Eileen — Eilidh — Eimear — Eithne — Ellie — Elspeth — Elva — Emer — Enda — Enya — Eri — Erin — Eteen — Ethna — Eva — Evaleen — Faoiltiama — Fenella — Fial — Fina — Finneacht — Finola — Fiona — Fionnabair — Fionnuala — Fiontan — Flannery — Florence — Fraser — Gemma — Gogan — Gordania — Gormelia — Grainne — Grania — Grainne — Greer — Heather — Ide — Ina — Iona — Irial — Isla — Isobel — Jacobina — Jemma — Jenna — Jessie — Karen — Kathleen — Katriona — Kayleigh — Kayley — Keela — Keeley — Keelia — Keelin — Keely — Keer — Keeva — Keevshock — Keira — Kelly — Kennedi — Kennedy — Kennocha — Kentigerna — Kenzie — Kerry — Khora — Kiera — Kincaid — Kinteerrn — Kirsty — Kora — Krinoc — Kronshock — Laimhseach — Laoise — Laoiseach — Lasairiona — Laureen — Lauryn — Leenane — Liadain — Liadan — Liath — Life — Ligach — Lilias — Logan — Lonnog — Luighseach — Lysagh — Macha — Madailein — Madb — Maedbh — Maegan — Maelisa — Maen — Maeve — Magael — Maighdlin — Maire — Mairead — Malise — Mallaidh — Malvina — Maoliosa — Maura — Maureen — Meabh — Meadhbh — Meagan — Meagwin — Meara — Meaveen — Medbh — Megan — Meghan — Mhairi — Moira — Molly — Molmoria — Mora — Morag — Moraga — Mordag — Morna — Morrigan — Morven — Moya — Moyra — Moyreen — Muadhnait — Muireall — Muireann — Murail — Murdina — Murphy — Myfawny — Nainseadh — Naoise — Neamh — Neamhain — Neassa — Neve — Niamh — Niav — Noleen — Nora — Norah — Noreen — Nuala — Onora — Oona — Orla — Orlaith — Orna — Patricia — Pawrigeen — Proinseas — Quinn — Reagan — Redmond — Reeowna — Rhona — Riley — Riona — Rionach — Roan — Robyn — Roisin — Roshene — Rowan — Rynagh — Saidhbh — Sallain — Saoirse — Seana — Searlaid — Senga — Seonaid — Seosamhin — Shanna — Shannon — Shawn — Shawna — Shea — Sheena — Sheila — Sheridan — Shona — Shonah — Sibéal — Sidheag — Silagh — Silbhe — Síle — Sileas — Sinann — Sine — Sinead — Sineidin — Sinnead — Siobhan — Siofra — Siomha — Siomhaith — Siusan — Sive — Slaine — Slainte — Sloane — Sodelb — Sorca — Sorcha — Suanach — Suin — Sydoc — Talena — Tara — Teafa — Teagan — Tegan — Tiarnan — Tierney — Toireasa — Treasa — Tuileach — Una — Zara

Adair — Alan — Alasdair — Alastair — Alban — Alec — Alexander — Alistair — Alistaire — Allen — Alpin — Andrew — Angus — Archibald — Archie — Arcill — Arran — Artain — Artair — Arth — Athol — Aulay — Auliffe — Baird — Barclay — Birk — Blaine — Blair — Blane — Boswell — Bothan — Boyd — Branduff — Broderick — Brodie — Bruce — Burgess — Callum — Calum — Cameron — Campbell — Caral — Carbry — Clyde — Coll — Colquhoun — Conlan — Cormack — Cormick — Cosmo — Cowan — Craig — Cramond — Crawford — Crinan — Crom — Dalziel — Danny — Denholm — Dennis — Dermid — Donald — Donnan — Donwald — Dothaw — Dougal — Douglas — Drostan — Druce — Dubne — Duff — Duncan — Durell — Durrell — Eadan — Elliot — Euan — Ewan — Fagan — Farquar — Farquard — Farquhar — Fergus — Ferguson — Fife — Fingal — Finlay — Forbes — Fraser — Frazier — Gavin — Geordie — Gillean — Gillis — Gleann — Glendon — Gordon — Gough — Graham — Grant — Greer — Gregor — Hamilton — Hamish — Iain — Ian — Innes — Iomhar — Ioseph — James — Jamie — Jock — Johnston — Keir — Keith — Kenneth — Kentigern — Kevoca — Kieran — Kiley — Kirk — Lachlan — Lachy — Laird — Lamont — Leith — Lenox — Leslie — Lochlyn — Logan — Lorne — Macaulay — Macauley — Macdonald — Macfarlane — Mackenzie — Magnus — Malachy — Malcolm — Manius — Mirren — Monance — Montgomery — Muir — Mungo — Munro — Murdoch — Murray — Nairne — Nectan — Neill — Nele — Nevin — Niven — Padruig — Ramsay — Ranald — Reece — Roban — Robbie — Roddy — Ronan — Rory — Ross — Ryan — Scott — Seathan — Shaun — Sholto — Sim — Sinclair — Sioltaich — Skene — Solas — Stewart — Stuart — Tavis — Tavish — Torcall — Tormod — Torquil — Uilleam — Wallace

A - B

Abercrombie — Abernathy — Abernethy — Acheson — Adair — Addair — Ahern — Aikman — Ainsley — Ainslie — Aird — Airlie — Aitchison — Aitken — Aitkin — Akin — Alan — Allender — Allfrey — Allison — Allphin — Alphin — Andrew — Andrews — Angis — Angus — Ankrom — Arbuckle — Archie — Ard — Ardis — Argo — Argyle — Armour — Armstrong — Arnot — Arnott — Atcheson — Aud — Auld

Bad — Bailie — Baillie — Baine — Baines — Baird — Bald — Baldon — Balentine — Balfour — Ballantine — Ballantyne — Ballentine — Bankhead — Bannerman — Barclay — Barland — Barr — Barrentine — Barrie — Barrington — Barris — Barron — Barrontine — Bartee — Bateson — Baughman — Bay — Beans — Beaton — Beattie — Beatty — Beaty — Begley — Belford — Bethune — Beveridge — Bickett — Bigger — Bigham — Binney — Bise — Bisset — Bissett — Blacketer — Blackstock — Blackwater — Blackwood — Blaie — Blair — Boan — Boig — Bonar — Borland — Boswell — Bothwell — Bower — Bowers — Bowie — Boyce — Boyd — Boydston — Boyes — Boyle — Boyter — Brandy — Brash — Brebner — Breckenridge — Bremner — Briar — Briggs — Brisbane — Broadie — Broady — Broddy — Brodie — Brody — Brough — Brownfield — Bruce — Brugh — Brunton — Bryars — Bryce — Bryden — Buchan — Buchanan — Buchannan — Buchannon — Buchanon — Buckalew — Buckelew — Bucklew — Buckoke — Budge — Buie — Buist — Bulloch — Buntin — Bunton — Burgess — Burgher — Burney — Burney — Burnsed — Burnside — Burress — Burrus — Burruss — Buttars — Butters — Byas

Caddell — Cadenhead — Caine — Cairns — Calderwood — Cambell — Cambron — Cameron — Cammack — Campbell — Campell — Canady — Cannaday — Cannady — Cannedy — Canup — Caraway — Cardew — Cargill — Cargle — Carlock — Carlow — Carmichael — Carmickle — Carnegie — Carothers — Carruthers — Carstarphen — Caruthers — Caskey — Cass — Castellaw — Castellow — Cathey — Cato — Catoe — Catto — Caulder — Caulfield — Cay — Center — Chalmers — Chattan — Chesnut — Chestnut — Cheves — Chisholm — Chism — Chisolm — Christeson — Christie — Christison — Christy — Cleghorn — Cleland — Clelland — Clemons — Clendenin — Clendening — Clendenon — Clennon — Clerk — Clingan — Clink — Clinkscales — Clugston — Clunes — Clyde — Clyne — Cobourn — Cochran — Cochrane — Cockburn — Cogburn — Coghill — Cohron — Coke — Collie — Colquhoun — Colter — Condie — Copeland — Copelin — Copland — Cormack — Corner — Corrie — Corson — Costella — Cothran — Coull — Coulter — Coupland — Coutts — Cowan — Cowie — Cowin — Crafford — Cragg — Craig — Craighead — Craigie — Crail — Cram — Cranor — Cranston — Crary — Crawford — Crays — Creach — Crear — Creason — Creech — Creighton — Cremar — Crerar — Crichton — Crinklaw — Crocket — Crockett — Croll — Cromartie — Cromie — Crookshanks — Crosbie — Cruickshank — Cruikshank — Crum — Crumm — Culbreath — Culbreth — Culley — Culton — Cumbie — Cumby — Cumings — Cumming — Cummings — Cummins — Cunningham — Curley — Currans — Currens — Cuthbert — Cuthbertson

D - E - F

Dais — Dalgleish — Dall — Dallas — Dalrymple — Dalziel — Dann — Dargie — Dashiell — David — Davie — Davisson — Davy — Deas — Deems — Dees — Delph — Dempster — Dendy — Denney — Denny — Densmore — Dewar — Dickie — Dingwall — Dinsmore — Dinwiddie — Divers — Docherty — Doctor — Doig — Dollar — Dollison — Don — Donald — Donaldson — Donat — Donelson — Dorward — Dougal — Douglas — Douglass — Doull — Dow — Downey — Downie — Drennan — Driscoll — Driskell — Drone — Drummond — Drummonds — Dryden — Drysdale — Ducan — Duffie — Dumbreck — Dunbar — Duncan — Duncanson — Dundas — Dundes — Dunkin — Dunlap — Dunlop — Dunmire — Dunning — Dunsmire — Dysart

Eadie — Eagleson — Eddie — Edie — Edington — Edison — Edmisten — Edmiston — Edmondson — Edmonston — Edmundson — Elgin — Elphinson — Ensley — Entrekin — Erskin — Erskine — Erving — Espey — Esplin — Espy — Ester — Ewan — Ewart

Fadden — Faddis — Fairbairn — Fairweather — Falconer — Fallen — Farish — Farland — Farney — Farquhar — Farquharson — Farrar — Farrish — Fate — Faulds — Feemster — Feimster — Fendley — Fentress — Fergerson — Fergeson — Fergurson — Fergus — Ferguson — Fergusson — Ferrier — Fettes — Fife — Figures — Findlay — Findley — Finlay — Finlayson — Finley — Finnie — Firth — Fleming — Flemming — Fletcher — Flett — Fobes — Forbes — Forbess — Forbis — Forbus — Forbush — Fordyce — Forgey — Forgie — Forres — Forsyth — Forsythe — Fraizer — Fraser — Frasier — Frasure — Frazee — Frazer — Frazier — Freel — Frew — Frizell — Frum — Fulton — Furgason — Furgerson — Furguson — Furlough — Fyfe — Fyffe

G - H

Gaddie — Galbraith — Galbreath — Gall — Gallacher — Gallaway — Galloway — Galt — Gammill — Garden — Garrick — Garrow — Garson — Gault — Gaunce — Gavin — Gaw — Geddes — Geddie — Geddis — Gemmill — Gibb — Gilbreath — Gilbreth — Gilchrest — Gilchrist — Gilcrease — Gilkerson — Gilkison — Gillan — Gillanders — Gillaspie — Gillespie — Gilley — Gillie — Gillies — Gilliland — Gillis — Gillison — Gillispie — Gilreath — Givens — Gladstone — Glasco — Glascoe — Glasgow — Glassford — Glen — Glendenning — Goldie — Goodlett — Goolsby — Gordan — Gorden — Gordon — Gosnell — Goudie — Goudy — Gough — Gourlay — Govan — Gow — Gowan — Gowans — Gowdy — Gracie — Graham — Graig — Grant — Greear — Greenlaw — Greer — Greg — Greig — Grier — Grieve — Grieves — Guffey — Guild — Guill — Gunn — Guthrie

Haddow — Haggart — Haig — Hairston — Haliburton — Halladay — Halliburton — Hamilton — Hamiton — Haney — Haning — Hanna — Hannah — Hannay — Hanning — Hardie — Hardison — Hardy — Harg — Harkness — Harvie — Hastie — Haston — Hasty — Hawthorn — Hawthorne — Hay — Headen — Headrick — Heggan — Heggie — Heird — Henderson — Hendley — Hendrie — Hendry — Henery — Henning — Hepburn — Hepworth — Herriot — Hillin — Hilson — Hindman — Hislop — Hoag — Hobbie — Hodo — Hoge — Hoggan — Hosack — Hosick — Hou — Houston — Howey — Howie — Hoy — Huggard — Hughey — Huie — Hume — Huskey — Huston — Hutcherson — Hutcheson — Hyland — Hyndman — Hyslop

I - J - K - L

Imlay — Imrie — Inch — Inglis — Innerarity — Innes — Innis — Irons — Irvin — Irvine — Irving

Jack — Jamerson — Jamieson — Jamison — Jardine — Jarvie — Jebb — Jelly — Jemison — Jessieman — Joass — Joel — Johnston — Johnstone — Jollie — Joss

Kanady — Kea — Kee — Keir — Keith — Kellen — Kellis — Kellman — Kellogg — Kelso — Kelsoe — Kelson — Kelton — Kenebrew — Kenmore — Kenndy — Kennebrew — Kennedy — Kenneth — Kennison — Keough — Keown — Kerr — Kersey — Kershaw — Keyes — Keys — Kiddy — Kier — Kilbride — Kilcrease — Kilgore — Kilgour — Killeen — Kimsey — Kimzey — Kinard — Kincade — Kincaid — Kincaide — Kindrick — Kinghorn — Kinion — Kinkade — Kinloch — Kinnaird — Kinnard — Kinnear — Kinnebrew — Kinner — Kinnick — Kinnon — Kinzie — Kirk — Kirkland — Kirksey — Kirkwood — Kissack — Kneeland — Knox — Kyles — Kynynmound

Lagan — Laidlaw — Laing — Laird — Lairmore — Lamon — Lamond — Lamont — Landreth — Lang — Lange — Lapsley — Larimer — Larimore — Latta — Lattea — Lauder — Lauderdale — Laughary — Laury — Lawrie — Lawther — Leap — Leas — Lease — Leath — Ledgerwood — Ledingham — Leese — Leishman — Leitch — Leith — Lemen — Lemmons — Lennox — Lenox — Lesley — Leslie — Liddle — Liggett — Lillie — Lindsay — Lindsey — Linear — Lingo — Liston — Livingstone — Loan — Loar — Loch — Lochhead — Lochridge — Lockaby — Lockard — Lockart — Lockerby — Lockhart — Logan — Loggins — Longmore — Loran — Lorimer — Lory — Lothian — Louden — Loudon — Lough — Lougheed — Louthan — Lowery — Lowrey — Lowrie — Lowrimore — Lowry — Lumsden — Lusk — Lyall — Lyalls — Lymon — Lynd — Lynne

M’Clellan — M’Clelland — Maben — Mabon — Macadam — Macalester — MacAllister — MacArthur — Macartney — Macaulay — Macauley — MacBeth — MacCallum — MacCuaig — MacDonald — MacDonnell — MacDougall — MacDowell — MacDuff — MacFarland — MacGregor — Macgrieusich — Machlin — MacInnes — MacInnis — MacIntosh — MacIntyre — Mackall — MacKay — Mackenzie — MacKinnon — Mackintosh — Macky — MacLachlan — MacLaren — MacLean — MacLennan — MacLeod — MacLulich — MacLullich — MacMaster — MacMillan — MacNaughton — MacNeil — MacNeill — MacPhail — MacPherson — MacQueen — MacRae — MacWilliams — Madison — Madlock — Maginnis — Magoon — Magruder — Maguire — Mains — Mairs — Maitland — Malcolm — Malcom — Maloch — Malpass — Manderson — Mantooth — Marchbanks — Marr — Marrs — Mathers — Matheson — Mathewson — Mathie — Mathieson — Mathison — Matthes — Mattie — Maule — Maxton — Mayne — Mayse — McAdam — McAdams — McAlexander — McAlister — McAllen — McAlley — McAllister — McAlpin — McAlpine — McAndrew — McAra — McArdle — McArthur — McAulay — McAuliffe — McBain — McBane — McBath — McBay — McBean — McBeth — McBride — McBroom — McBurney — McCaig — McCaleb — McCall — McCalla — McCalley — McCallister — McCallum — McCambridge — McCampbell — McCanse — McCant — McCants — McCardel — McCargo — McCartney — McCarver — McCarville — McCaskill — McCaslin — McCaul — McCauley — McCausland — McCaw — McChriston — McChrystal — McClaran — McClard — McClaren — McClatchey — McClean — McClear — McCleary — McCleese — McClellan — McClelland — McClenon — McClernand — McCline — McClintic — McClintick — McClintock — McClinton — McClish — McCloe — McCloud — McClugh — McClung — McClure — McColl — McCollom — McCollough — McCollum — McComas — McComb — McCombs — McConico — McCool — McCorkle — McCormic — McCormick — McCorvey — McCosh — McCosker — McCotter — McCown — McCrae — McCranie — McCright — McCroy — McCrum — McCrystal — McCuaig — McCubbin — McCuin — McCuistion — McCuiston — McCulla — McCullah — McCulloch — McCullom — McCullough — McCully — McCure — McCurtis — McCutchen — McCutcheon — McDade — McDonald — McDonalds — McDonel — McDonell — McDonnell — McDougal — McDougall — McDougle — McDuff — McDuffey — McDuffie — McDuffy — McEachern — McEachin — McEachran — McElfresh — McElveen — McEntire — McEntyre — McEwan — McEwen — McEwing — McFadden — McFadyen — McFall — McFarlain — McFarlan — McFarland — McFarlane — McFarlin — McFate — McFatridge — McFee — McField — McGarr — McGee — McGeorge — McGhee — McGhie — McGibbon — McGibbons — McGillis — McGillivray — McGilvery — McGilvray — McGirr — McGlashen — McGlasson — McGlothlin — McGlown — McGonigal — McGowing — McGray — McGregor — McGrew — McGrory — McGruder — McGuffey — McGuffie — McGuigan — McGuire — McHardy — McHargue — McHughes — McIe — McInnes — McIntire — McIntosh — McIntyre — McIsaac — McIver — McIvor — McJarrow — McJokkie — McKain — McKamey — McKamie — McKay — McKeag — McKean — McKechie — McKechnie — McKee — McKeever — McKeithan — McKell — McKellar — McKelvie — McKendrick — McKendry — McKenrick — McKenzie — McKeown — McKern — McKesson — McKiddy — McKie — McKillop — McKinlackour — McKinley — McKinnon — McKinny — McKinsey — McKinzie — McKinzy — McKisic — McKissack — McKown — McLachlan — McLagan — McLaine — McLaren — McLarty — McLauchlin — McLaurin — McLay — McLean — McLees — McLeish — McLemore — McLennan — McLennon — McLeod — McLoud — McLucas — McLure — McMackin — McMains — McMakin — McManus — McMartin — McMaser — McMasters — McMath — McMeen — McMichael — McMillan — McMillen — McMillian — McMinn — McMorran — McMorris — McMurdie — McMurray — McMurry — McMurtrey — McMurtrie — McMurtry — McNab — McNabb — McNair — McNary — McNatt — McNaught — McNaughton — McNeal — McNeff — McNichol — McNichols — McNiel — McNinch — McNish — McNitt — McPhail — McPhatter — McPhaul — McPhee — McPheron — McPherson — McPhilips — McQuarrie — McQueen — McQuhollaster — McQuiston — McQuown — McRae — McRaith — McRaney — McRay — McRea — McSparren — McSwain — McSween — McTaggart — McTammany — McTurk — McVicar — McVicker — McWain — McWaters — McWatters — McWhan — McWherter — McWhirt — McWhirter — McWhirtle — McWhorter — McWilliams — McZeal — Mearns — Meikle — Meiklejohn — Meldrum — Melendy — Melrose — Melville — Melvin — Menzie — Menzies — Merrow — Methven — Methvin — Mey — Michie — Mickle — Middlemas — Middlemiss — Mike — Mikell — Milholland — Mill — Millan — Millar — Millwee — Milroy — Minges — Minto — Mode — Moffat — Moffatt — Moffet — Moffett — Moffitt — Moir — Mollison — Moncrief — Moncrieff — Moncur — Monroe — Monteith — Montgomery — Montieth — Montrose — Monzie — Moodie — Moorehead — Moorhead — Moorman — Mor — Moredock — Morehead — Morison — Morrison — Morthland — Mortland — Mosman — Mossey — Mossman — Motherwell — Moultrie — Moyes — Muir — Muirhead — Mull — Muncie — Muncrief — Mundell — Mundie — Mundy — Munro — Munroe — Murchie — Murchison — Murdaugh — Murdoch — Murrah — Murray — Murry — Mustard — Mutch — Myron

N - O - P - Q - R

Nair — Nairn — Naismith — Nall — Napier — Narron — Nathaniel — Nay — Near — Negus — Neil — Nesbit — Nesbitt — Nesmith — Ness — Newkirk — Niblack — Niblock — Nicholson — Nickols — Nicol — Nicoll — Nicolson — Niel — Nimmo — Nisbet — Nisbett — Nish — Niven — Noles

Ocheltree — Officer — Offutt — Ogg — Ogilvie — Oglesbee — Oglesby — Ogletree — Orahood — Orem — Ormiston — Orrick — Orrock — Orso —

Paden — Paisley — Panton — Pasley — Pate — Paterson — Patillo — Paton — Pattillo — Pattison — Pattullo — Paull — Peasley — Peden — Peebles — Peeples — Penman — Persley — Peterkin — Petree — Petrey — Petrie — Petry — Pettigrew — Pettry — Petty — Phaup — Phenix — Philp — Phoenix — Pinckney — Pinkerton — Pinkney — Pitcairn — Pittenger — Poet — Polk — Pollock — Polson — Porteous — Porterfield — Postley — Pou — Presley — Pressley — Pressly — Primrose — Prindle — Pringle — Provan — Pullar — Puller — Purdie — Purvis

Quaintance — Quiggin — Quintance

Rabb — Rabren — Raburn — Rae — Raeburn — Raeside — Rainey — Raitt — Ramage — Ramsay — Ramsey — Rankin — Rankins — Ranney — Rasco — Rattray — Raulston — Raver — Rayborn — Rayburn — Reaper — Redden — Reddick — Reddy — Redhead — Ree — Reedy — Reid — Reidhead — Reith — Renfrew — Renfro — Renfroe — Renfrow — Renick — Rennie — Renton — Renwick — Reoch — Reyburn — Richey — Richie — Richison — Rickey — Ridlon — Risk — Ritchey — Ritchie — Robertson — Robeson — Robison — Rodan — Rodger — Rodick — Rollo — Ronald — Rosegrant — Ross — Rosse — Roswell — Rough — Rought — Roy — Rule — Rushford — Rusk — Rutherford — Ruthven

S - T

Safley — Sailor — Sandercock — Sanders — Sanderson — Sangster — Saucer — Saunders — Sauser — Scobee — Scobie — Scott — Scroggs — Selfridge — Selkirk — Semple — Senter — Service — Shadden — Shand — Shands — Shankland — Shanklin — Shatto — Shaw — Shawn — Shearer — Shedden — Shehorn — Shina — Shorey — Shortridge — Sim — Simson — Sinclair — Sinton — Sittal — Skeen — Skeens — Skelley — Skirvin — Slider — Sloss — Smail — Smelley — Smiley — Smylie — Snedden — Snodgrass — Somerville — Sommerville — Souter — Southers — Speedy — Spence — Spittel — Sprvill — St. Claire — Stalker — Starrett — Steen — Stennis — Sterling — Steuart — Steven — Steward — Stewart — Stirling — Stitt — Stoddart — Storer — Storie — Storment — Stormont — Strachan — Strang — Strawn — Stronach — Struthers — Stuart — Sturrock — Stwart — Summerville — Sumrall — Sutherland — Sutherlin — Suthers — Swapp — Swinton — Sword

Taggart — Tait — Tannahill — Tannehill — Tarrence — Tassie — Tawse — Teare — Teasdale — Tedford — Telfair — Telfer — Telford — Thom — Thomaston — Thorburn — Thrift — Tilford — Tillery — Tindal — Tisdale — Toller — Tolmie — Torbert — Torrance — Torrence — Torrens — Torry — Tosh — Touch — Tough — Towers — Trail — Tullis — Tulloch — Tullock — Tullos — Turnbull — Twaddle — Tweed — Tweedie — Twentyman — Twitty — Tylor — Tyre — Tyree

U - V - W - Y - Z

Urey — Urquhart — Usher — Ussher

Vail — Vaill — Vass — Veach — Veatch — Veitch — Venters — Verner — Vert — Vessy — Vingoe

Waddell — Waddy — Waldie — Waldrep — Waldrip — Waldrup — Walkup — Wallace — Waltrip — Wardlaw — Wardlow — Wardrip — Wardrop — Wark — Warnock — Wason — Watchman — Waugh — Weddell — Wedell — Weems — Weir — Wemyss — Wham — Whan — Whary — Whearty — Whimster — Whitehill — Whitelaw — Wier — Wight — Wigton — Wilkie — Willison — Wims — Winton — Wishart — Woodburn — Woodside — Wyllie

Yawn — Yeats — Yelton — Yule

Zuill

Recurso tomado de: Marwen

#recursos

187 notes · View notes

nightlymantras · 6 years

Text

This came into my head since I'm spending too much time watching some Marvel movies. Enjoy.

Avengers characters as Dragon age companions.

Steve Rogers - Alistair.

Good hearted young men who don't shy away from combat, they can be really wary of people and take a long time to trust them; once they set their mind onto something, there's no back down. They become quite popular among people, but only trust few close friends. They are awkward at flirting and people often miss their sense of humor.

Bucky Barnes - Fenris.

Those could switch places almost seamlessly. Both ended being used as killing machines, having their bodies mutilated and minds wiped, still, they try their best to break free and adapt in a world they don't really know. They have their brooding moments and run away when confronted with help when they don't know what to make of, but both have a sense of humor quite easy to miss. Would rather not be at war, but will help people in need and kill evil ones.

Tony Stark - Varric Tethras.

The rich guys from the group; easygoing, charming fellas that might seem superficial at first, but that couldn't be further from the truth. They are both very well connected and quite crafty in their own ways. Both do their best to help people around and hide with jokes the heavy emotional baggage they carry.

Natasha Romanoff - Leliana.

The red-haired women well versed in deception, infiltration and sabotage, they are unpredictable, have similar skill set and appearance. They have a very tough and mysterious past full of betrayals and manipulations that made them very hard to trust others; they try to make good, though their methods can be quite brutal. Can become emotionally completely closed off to people later in life.

Wanda Maximoff - Velanna.

Very powerful women driven by revenge for harm done against their birthplaces. They both lost their family and have a hard time adapting to a new place and people, both try to defeat their soon to be teammates.

Clint Barton - Nathaniel Howe.

Master assassins and archers, both have a past full of ups and downs but ultimately try to do right in a messy situation. They both have an impulsive an playful side that is easy to miss in the heat of missions.

Hulk - Shale.

Gigants with a rage problem you never know if they're going to punch you. Don't piss them off.

Pietro Maximoff - Mhairi.

That one companion we never get to spend much time with because they die before joining. RIP.

Couldn't think one for Hulk and Bruce.

#the avengers #dragon age #steve rogers #bucky barnes #tony stark #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #clint barton #hulk #pietro maximoff #alistair #fenris #varric tethras #lelianna #velanna #nathaniel howe #shale #mhairi #my writing

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ania-xox-blog · 7 years

Note

I love Michael Bruce

Well, Mhairi won’t be happy x

1 note · View note

book-warehouse-broadway · 5 years

Photo

Some of our most anticipated books of July!

July 2

Don't You Forget About Me - Mhairi McFarlane

The Gifted School - Bruce Holsinger

The Jungle (Graphic Novel) - Upton Sinclair

The Mountain Master of Sha Tin - Ian Hamilton

The Pigeon HAS to Go to School! - Mo Willems

Wanderers - Chuck Wendig

Whiskey When We're Dry - John Larison

July 9

The Bookish Life of Nina Hill - Abbi Waxman

The Falcon of Sparta - Conn Iggulden

Hope Rides Again - Andrew Shaffer

If You See Me, Don't Say Hi - Neel Patel

Small Spaces - Katherine Arden

So Much Life Left Over - Louis de Bernieres

July 16

The Diary of a Bookseller - Shaun Bythell

If You Want to Make God Laugh - Bianca Marais

The Nickel Boys - Colson Whitehead

A Quality of Light - Richard Wagamese

Raised in Captivity - Chuck Klosterman

The Second-Worst Restaurant in France - Alexander McCall Smith

July 23

Because Internet - Gretchen McCulloch

A Conspiracy of Truths - Alexandra Rowland

Gods of Jade and Shadow - Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Killing It - Camas Davis

July 30

An Absolutely Remarkable Thing - Hank Green

Force of Nature - Jane Harper

Fresh Ink - Lamar Giles

Hippie - Paulo Coelho

The Incendiaries - R O Kwon

My Sister, the Serial Killer - Oyinkan Braithwaite

The Prisoner in the Castle - Susan Elia MacNeal

Someone We Know - Shari Lapena

Two Girls Down - Louisa Luna

The Witch Elm - Tana French

#books #booklr #bookstores #upcoming releases #indies

0 notes

scotianostra · 1 year

Text

Happy Birthday Scottish actor Angus Macfadyen born 21st September 1963 in Glasgow.

MacFadyen had a nomadic upbringing; thanks to his father’s job with the World Health Organization, he spent his childhood and adolescence in places no less diverse than Africa, Australia, France, the Philippines, Singapore, and Denmark. He went on to attend the University of Edinburgh and received theatrical training at the Central School of Speech and Drama. MacFadyen got his professional start on the Edinburgh stage, appearing in a number of productions at the famed Fringe Festival.

Breaking into television in the early ‘90s, Angus appeared in a number of series for the BBC, including an acclaimed adaptation of David Leavitt’s The Lost Language of Cranes. Following the critical and commercial success of Braveheart, the actor got a rudimentary dose of recognition across the Atlantic, but remained largely unknown outside of the U.K. He starred with Gabriel Byrne and Bill Campbell in the World War II drama The Brylcreem Boys in 1996, playing a German pilot being held captive in neutral Ireland. Until 1998, when he portrayed Peter Lawford in the made-for-cable The Rat Pack, MacFadyen’s other screen appearances tended to be in films that were widely ignored by audiences and critics alike.

He has played Orson Welles in Tim Robbins’ 1999 film, Cradle Will Rock, Philip in the BBC’s production of The Lost Language of Cranes, Dupont in Equilibrium and Jeff Denlon in the Saw series of films

Some of you might remember Angus in the excellent Takin’ Over the Asylum which also starred two great actors in Ken Stott and David Tennant. We last say him on the big screen in very underrated The Lost City of Z

Angus reprised his role of The Bruce last year in Robert the Bruce, among the co-stars, playing his wife Elizabeth de Burgh is Mhairi Calvey, who aged just 5 was ‘Young Murron’ in Braveheart. While I enjoyed the film, I thought that maybe the role of The Bruce was maybe better suited to a younger actor, but it was his “baby”, and he strived for years to get the film made.

He also appeared in the TV series Strange Angel, about a rocket scientist in 1940s Los Angeles is secretly the disciple of occultist Aleister Crowley, played by our man. I have yet to see this, but must look it up. The series was canceled after two seasons.

Angus is currently part of the Outlander cast playing a Redcoat Brigadier-General, he has no less than five projects on the burner at the moment, the pic of which, for us Scots is probably a movie called The Last Redemption, which also satrs the popular James Cosmo.

#scotland #scottish #actor #cinema #theatre #television #Braveheart #robert the bruce

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brwc · 5 years

Text

BRWC Tweet:

15 years after she was attacked, Mhairi Calvey (Robert the Bruce, Braveheart) comes face to face with the perpetrator again – in the wilderness. Julianne Block’s nail-biting 3 Lives premieres on DVD and Digital this August from High Octane Pictures.

— brwc (@brwc) July 3, 2019

#brwc #Twitter

0 notes

gistehemli351183-blog · 5 years

Link

mystery stories for teens : Give the Dark My Love | Teen

Listen to Give the Dark My Love new releases mystery stories for teens on your iPhone, iPad, or Android. Get any Teen BOOKS AUDIO FREE during your Free Trial

Written By: Beth Revis Narrated By: Bruce Mann, Mhairi Morrison Publisher: Listening Library (Audio) Date: September 2018 Duration: 12 hours 20 minutes

#Give the Dark My Love #Give the Dark My Love Audiobook

0 notes

last100munros · 7 years

Text

#243 Am Bàsteir and two repeats

Route: From Sligachan up Bruach na Frithe, skirt round the tooth, up Am Bàsteir, up west ridge of Sgùrr nan Gillean via the West Ridge, down ‘tourist route'

Height: 958m, 934m, 964m

Date: 6 May 2017

Time to summit: 2h 53mins, 5h 10mins, 7hr 42mins

Total time: 11h 04mins

With: Dominic, Benenice, Andrew B, Bruce, Aileen, Simon L, Jim, Ila, Ilze, Mhairi, Simon O, Andy M, Richard, Craig, Chimed, Louise, Stephen

Weather: Sunshine, quite warm, some wind at times, occasional clouds

Notes: Me and Dom were the last to leave, taking the 8:30 for a 9 start too literally, but caught up with the others while they were waiting for some of the group at the campsite. The views up to the ridge were tantalising - it was another day of perfect weather. We walked a short way along the road and then turned onto the path that goes through to Glen Brittle. As we were such a big group we got quite strung out along this, but people did wait at various points. It was a reasonable walk in along the well-made path but fairly easy going.

When we reached a high point on the path we turned towards to the ridge, and started to go more steeply up. Just below the corie we had a bit of a stop while people filled up their bottles, and then continued on. This way up Bruach na Frithe started off up steep slopes with a bit of a covering of grass. There were excellent views over to Raasay and as we climbed higher south along the ridge. There was a worn path to follow so finding the way was very easy and the weather couldn’t have been better really. Continuing on it got increasingly rocky with some bits where you had to use your hands occasionally but still with a reasonable path to go along. After not too long and without any real difficulty we made it to the top - I felt slightly sorry for the other people there to have such a bit group descend upon them!

We stopped for a while and most people had something to eat. Louise and Stephen headed down from here to go swimming and the rest of us continued on towards Am Basteir. We headed along the ridge along a scree-y path. Some people went up over Sgùrr an Fionn Choire on the way - some of us started up there but decided it seemed a little tricky. We followed the route on the north side of the ridge past the Tooth and round the base of the summit of Am Bastier. This was pretty loose and scree-y but not too bad really. It was then a short climb along scree zig-zags to get back onto the ridge. We paused slightly before heading up the ridge towards the summit, with people putting helmets on.

It was a nice scramble along to the Bad Step - a short, steep nic to climb down. Simon L was down on the other side before you could blink but the rest of us tied into a rope to climb/be lowered down by Jim. The people without harnesses went first, and then those of with harnesses took our turn - with such a big group this took quite a long time! I might have been fine climbing down without a rope (I had become quite worried about this bit reading route descriptions in the preceding week) but given we were carrying it was good to have it there. Once down it was a short way up the ridge to the summit where the fantastic views continued. By the time I got to the top quite a few of the group were already climbing back up the Bad Step and we followed them after not too long, the climb back up being fairly easy, especially with a rope.

Back at the col we’d come up to about half the group decided to make their way down, but me, Dom, Berenice, Andrew B, Simon, L, Aileen, Jim, Bruce and Ila carried on to the West ridge of Sgùrr nan Gillean. A path contoured around to the base of several chimneys where we met some guys who’d been trying to get up (without a rope) for a while, but who decided to turn back. Jim decided that it was sensible for us to go up a slightly harder (Diff) chimney - the middle one of the three - which was better than the easier route when you got to the top. Simon tied on and began to lead up the chimney putting in a couple of slings and making it look very easy. Jim followed taking another rope with him so we had two lines to save on time. He made it look a little bit harder, and Dom, who followed next a bit harder still, especially a boulder that was blocking the way out, which I also found a bit tricky to get around. Ila and Bruce didn’t have harnesses and Ila decided it was best to go down, but we fashioned some sort of chest harness for Bruce to use. I was the last one to go up. It was quite a nice route to climb although my boot lace came undone and I had to tie it half way up the route!

Eventually we were all up on the ridge crest and the rest of the route was then a fairly easy scramble, including making our way through a hole in the rocks. Once on the top - Berenice’s 200th Munro - we were all smiles, enjoying the view and Simon’s malteaser tiffin. Skirting the edge of Am Bastier we could see two figures who we wondered if they were Paul and Dave who were doing the whole traverse (it was!). Regretting that we had to go down, we started to descend. The route to go wasn’t entirely obvious, but we knew we wanted to keep vaguely on the south side of the crest to avoid some steep climbs. I’m not sure how successfully we managed to do this - there were quite a few down climbs - but it was reasonably good fun and we could do it so it didn’t matter too much.

After a while we made it down to where we turned off the ridge where we met Ila who’d come all the way round to meet us. We now followed a bouldery route down into the corie, and after a slightly flatter section, down some steeper zig-zags. Once we got onto flatter ground and an easy path Bruce and Jim headed speedily off towards the Sligachan Inn, while the rest of us took a more leisurely pace. It was still quite a way back to the bunkhouse so we stopped for something to eat, and then continued on enjoying the evening sunshine and the views across to the Red Cullin. With slightly sore feet we eventually made it back in time to enjoy the tasty lasagna that Mhairi had prepared!

#cullin #munro #munros #munrobagging #dmc #dundee mountain club #hiking #mountains #scrambling #climbing #skye #sunnyscotland #am bastier #sgurr nan gillean #bruach na frithe

0 notes

phoenixflames12 · 6 years

Text

I Heard My Country Calling

A/N: This takes place in my WW2 AU that began with An Endless Night and takes place about three months after The Rose Garden. The title for this chapter comes from this recording of ‘I Vow To Thee My Country’ that keeps a version of the original first verse which is no longer sung.

Brianna arrives in Glasgow to begin her course at the Art School and tries to carve out a new life for herself and finds a a new friend along the way

As ever, a thousand thanks go to @momwendy for all that she is and all the love that she has poured into this chapter!

Catch up on all of Vergangenheit on AO3 here

September 1946

Glasgow

The September light is soft and dappled from an unexpected shower, raindrops clinging against the grass like diamonds as Brianna makes her way through Kelvingrove Park, the wind rippling through her plaits as she peddles along the river.

After a week of inductions, of sitting in strange, gabled lecture halls listening to tutors and course convenors, surrounded by foreign breath breathed by foreign bodies, of sitting up late sketching by lamplight, watching the flame in the oil lamp flicker, casting strange shapes against the paisley patterned wallpaper in her room, listening the rumble of traffic against the cobbles as her pencil flew across the paper, a loose lock of hair curled against her index finger as she tried to conjure all that she missed about the Highlands and home, she is glad to be outside.

The leather satchel, a parting present from the entire family, that is embossed with her initials, is strapped securely to her back. It is full of paper and her Grandmother’s battered and treasured enamel box of colouring pencils, each one a snub of the brightest colour. Alongside them lie the set of charcoal pencils that her Da had pressed into her hands at the station, his fingers that she loves so much trembling slightly as they had gripped her own.

Tucked away deep in the bottom of the lining are the two letters that she had found on the mahogany trestle table in the hallway just as she was leaving for her lecture.

10th September 1946

Lallybroch, Scotland

‘Dear Bree,

We miss you.

I miss you.

I hope that there’s enough tae keep ye out of trouble in Glasgow! Da’s askin’ Father Cameron if Albert and I can start tae get the banns read for our wedding. If I thought that I had butterflies in my stomach when he proposed, I certainly do now. I miss hearing ye shuffle and fuss in the night and seeing that familiar chink of light under your door when you’re reading or drawing late. I come into the kitchen or the library after a shift, or go up the back stairs to your room, expecting to hear your laugh and am hit afresh with the knowledge that you’re 169 miles away.

Will ye come to the wedding? Will the University let ye come? I couldna bear to be married wi’out you.

Mo ghaul agus mo bheannachdan uile, pluithair beag,

Faith

The memory of the familiar Gaelic blessing that Faith had whispered fiercely in her ear in the crush and noise of the departing train sends sharp prickles of salt stabbing at Brianna’s eyelids and she gropes for a handkerchief, forcing herself to take a steadying, gulping breath as she shifts to the other letter, written on the soft, barely blue paper that she remembers stealing to sketch on when she was small.

‘Enough,’ she mutters to herself, slipping off the bicycle to wheel it to the sun-dappled shadows of the great, wizened, beech tree that sheltered the fountain from the rest of the park.

Slowly, she pushes herself further up against the trunk, tucking her legs under her, the knurled weight of the trunk a strange comfort against her spine.

A small, choked sob pulses in her throat when she sees her father’s firm, determined hand scrawled across the page, the small, cramped letters written by a man who was born left handed but, by the whims of vain masters, was forced to write with his right.

10th September 1946

Lallybroch, Scotland

My dearest Brianna,

Just a brief line to wish ye well in Glasgow. Remember tae smile, keep your head up and remember that we at home are so proud of you and all that you have accomplished.

Your Mam and I took William, Kenny Lindsay, Albert and Bran out blackberry picking yesterday when Faith was at the hospital. The sun was a beautiful shadowed gold over the hedgerows down by the Home Farm and we scrumped more than we picked, coming home with purple mouths to which your Mother gave us all a fair scolding!

It still feels strange thinking of you in Glasgow, in a city where the green spaces have to fight for same space as the tenements. Thinking of you without the wind in your hair or the vast expanse of the moor at your feet, is no’ something that I ever thought possible. Can ye bear it, d’ye think?

For my first few months in Edinburgh, I thought that I couldna bear it at all and yearned for home, for the heather, for the curlew’s call, for the sharp scent of peat fires more than I thought possible. If I ken ye at all mo chuisle, I ken that ye will do the same, but I also know that you will make the best of it and I am so proud of you for that.

‘Oh, Da’, she sniffs, blinking back the sudden screen of tears that blur her vision, dragging the sleeve of her coat back across her face, turning her streaming eyes back to the letter.

The preparations for Faith’s wedding are in their infancy and I am being drowned with questions about dresses and guest lists and the reception to such an extent that I feel like a change of career will now be necessary!

Pray for me, mo nighean ruaidh, as I do for you.

Mo ghaul agus mo bheannachdan uile,

Your loving father,

Da.’

The park stretches out wide before her, a great expanse of unexplored knocks and crannies, but she finds that she can’t look at it.

Can’t see any of it without being reminded of her last night at home, less than a month ago.

Her Mother had cooked her favourite supper of a savoury pie with the delicious treat of fresh hard-boiled eggs glistening within the mincemeat and vegetables, the achingly familiar Oak table scrubbed and weighed down with treats from the depths of the Lallybroch larder.

‘Just for you, smudge,’ Claire had whispered, holding out her palm full of that sweet butter pastry that she has not tasted for so long, a small, conspiratorial smile lighting her lips when Brianna had slipped into the kitchen and seen her at the table, her apron and the knife-scarred wood coated with flour as she had pinched out the roses and thistles with the tips of her fingers for the decorations.

‘Thank you,’ she had whispered, moving close to drink in the peaty pungent scent of the garden, cinnamon, mint and lavender that cling to her mother like a second skin.

Claire had pulled her closer, burying her nose in her hair, her eyes burning with something that Brianna couldn’t read as she pushed her away, so that they held each other at arms’ length, her mother reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

‘You’ll do just fine, little love,’ she had murmured then; a soft, tremulous smile catching at her lips.

‘Will I?’

The question had been barely a breath and yet hearing the words fall from her lips, crashing into the silence had made the knot in her stomach that had been building every time she’d thought about going away for too long, tightens.

Claire had nodded bravely and tried to smile, pulling her into a tight embrace, her lips lingering in a soft, chaste kiss deep in the depths of her hair.

‘You will. You are so brave, my darling, Braver than you know.’

And then, later, when the lamps had been trimmed low and the candles had been lit, casting the dining room with its’ array of Fraser family portraits into sharp, dark shadows, her father had raised his glass to her from the head of the table, blue eyes blazing with simple, unaffected adoration, the light of the candles casting his crown of auburn curls into a halo of fire.

Her heart had almost burst with pride and broken with the pain of love and parting as the sweet, old Gaelic words of the parting blessing had been spoken by her father, Claire, Faith and William and then repeated in English by her father and Albert, had filled the room.

‘Ma tha obair an-còmhnaidh ann airson do làmhan a dhèanamh.

Ma bhios do sporan daonnan a 'cumail bonn no dhà.

Ma bhios a 'ghrian an-còmhnaidh a' deàrrsadh air a 'phìos uinneig agad.

Bi cinnteach gum bi bogha-bogha a 'leantainn gach uisge.

Bidh làmh charaid daonnan faisg ort agus

Gu bheil Dhia a 'lìonadh do chridhe le aoibhneas a bhith gad bhrosnachadh.’

Later, when the night had swept itself over the moors and the word was hushed in the soft serenity of sleep, those words had returned to haunt her.

She had lain awake in her room that had been hers since before she can remember, listening to the comforting creak of the pipes above her head, the whisper of the trees and her grandmother’s rose briar against the window.

Had memorised through eyes that ached and stung with exhaustion the shadowed cracks on the ceiling, the way the moonlight puddled through cracks in the shutters onto the bare, wooden floorboards.

Had clenched her fists in silent agony until her fingers ached and tears smarted against her eyelids, willing and yet unable to let the pain cease.

And then, listening to the grandfather clock on the landing chime in midnight- the witching hour which was neither day nor night, she had given up and slipped out of bed, sucking in a breath as her bare feet fell against the cold floorboards.

Stubbing her toes multiple times against the chair beside her bed, she had groped out into the passage, toes instinctively curling away from the chill of the blue velvet carpet, feeling for the cool, dark wood of the small staircase leading down to the second floor.

There had been a chink of light under her sister’s door and she was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, her cold, pained heart yearning for the touch of another.

‘Faith? Faith are ye awake?’

Her voice had sounded queer and small to her ears as she had knocked once and listened to the rustle of bedclothes and a sleepy, disgruntled sigh in answer, before taking her cue and pushing the door open.

‘I am now.’

A tousled halo of blazing hair had peered out from under the piles of blankets that Faith had taken to bed, her face white, eyes widening, expression softening at the sight of her little sister.

‘What is it, Bree? Can ye no’ sleep, a pluithair?’

And Brianna had shaken her head mutely and Faith had nodded, drawing the covers back.

‘Get into bed, then, mo chuisle. I’ll warm ye.’

They had lain in silence for a long moment, listening to the steady, sleep-filled rhythm of each other’s breathing, Faith’s arm tucked around Brianna’s shoulder, her sister’s nose nestled deep in her shoulder.

‘What if… What if I’m terrible at it?’

The question had hung in the silence for a moment before Brianna had even known that she was asking it, the words small and caught and broken in the soft, companionable dark.

‘Terrible at what?’

Faith had pulled her closer, tucking the sheets around her tightly, as if they were bairns once more and not grown-up, facing the strange and perilous path towards adulthood.

‘Ye won’t be,’ she said at last, her voice a low, fierce murmur somewhere in the pit of Brianna’s shoulder blades.

‘Ye’ve got a real talent. Ye can conjure up so much wi’ your pens and your pencils and I’m a wee bit jealous of it myself, actually.’

She had felt the smile in her sister’s voice then and felt a small crack of warmth light in her own heart as she had twisted round to face Faith, her sister’s face flickering in and out of the incremental lamplight.

‘Jealous? You? Ye havena got a jealous bone in your body!’

Faith had smiled a little shyly at her outrage and dipped her head, murmuring something that Brianna had not been able to catch.

‘What?’

She had snuggled closer, listening to the rise and fall of her sisters’ lungs from beneath her nightgown, the comforting thud of her heart pressed up against her ear. Far out on the moor, a vixens’ scream pierces the night and somewhere far away, some unsuspecting rabbit or vole dies for its’ carelessness.

‘Ye dinna ken that,’ Faith had murmured quietly, nestling her chin on the top of Brianna’s head.

‘Don’t I?’

‘I can be jealous Bree. I just… I’ve learnt not tae show it, that’s all,’ she had paused then and with a pang to her heart, Brianna had heard the hitch in her breathing, the sobbing breath choked back into oblivion.

‘When we were both in school together for that short time and ye… Ye streaked ahead an’ I… It was all I could do not tae rage at ye, but kenning that it was your destiny tae do well, tae always be in the light, whilst I, a puir sparrow in comparison…’

‘Oh Faith, ye canna think such things!’

Fumbling in the dark, she had latched her arms around her elder sister’s neck and pulled her close, drinking in the sharp, sleep filled scent of her, yearning with all her heart that now was not the last time she would smell it.

Faith had sniffed masterfully then and returned the embrace, their tears mingling freely in the dark.

‘Ye’ll be just fine, mo chuisle,’ she had murmured quietly, the words almost lost in her sister’s hair, and Brianna had had to choke back another sob of reproach.

I won’t.

I can’t.

‘Ye can,’ by the guttering lamplight, Faith’s face had been lit with a tremulous, quavering smile, one that Brianna could do nothing but return, her eyes aching with impending sleep.

‘Promise me one thing,’ she had murmured, the words almost lost as she snuggled down against their shared pillow.

‘Anything,’ Faith’s voice had been a whisper in the dark, mingled with the creak of the bedsprings as she had settled herself down.

‘Write tae me. Please,’ slowly Brianna had propped herself onto her elbow and held her sister’s gaze with what was left of the light, twin cat eyes blazing into each other.

‘Every day, if ye wish.’

The weight of a hand on her shoulder.

She shifts, feeling the hard knobs of tree bark press painfully into the small of her back.

‘Excuse me… Miss… I think you dropped this… I didna want it to blow away…’

She blinks rapidly, the word swimming into focus in a haze of brown and blue and green.

Gleaming emerald eyes burn out of pale face framed by a mop of dark curls, a pert, snub nose that is smattered with a bloom of late summer freckles and soft, full lips.

The eyes soften a little as Brianna struggles into wakefulness, the grip on her shoulder lessening.

A long fingered, unadorned hand is holding out the leather satchel to her and she takes it, nodding distractedly as she flips the clasp open, fingers skimming over the quires of good, weighted watercolour paper that had been a present from William- bought with months of saved sweetie money and some help from their parents and falling with a thankful exhale against the hard edges of Ellen Mackenzie Fraser’s box of colouring pencils.

‘Thank you,’ Brianna breathes, listening to her heart slow in its’ panicked thunder through her ears, taking in the long, straight skirt in a dark, moss green that reminds her so much of the Highland moorland grasses that she has to bite her lip to stop the ever-ready tears from pricking against the corners of her eyes.

When will every little thing stop reminding her of home and what she’s left behind?

‘Mhairi,’ the girl nods and smiles, showing an endearing gap between her two front teeth as she holds a hand out, which Brianna takes, feeling the soft, warn callouses of a scholar rub against her palm in a firm grip.

‘Second year, studying English Literature, though I’d rather be reading Classics,’ she pauses, on the verge of saying more, but then grimaces slightly; a soft smile flickering across her lips as she sizes Brianna up.

She is hiding something, but Brianna cannot work out what.

The intensity of her gaze as it rakes up to the tumbled auburn mane of her hair, taking in her height with the smallest quirk of an eyebrow, makes Brianna want to turn away, but something, some silent, indescribable thing, tells her that she must not.

‘Brianna,’ she replies, returning the smile and the handshake. ‘I’m in my first term at the Art School and…’

‘Bri-anna,’ Mhairi replies, testing the syllables against her tongue, Brianna’s name made strange by the soft Edinburgh brogue.

‘I… I was named after my grandfather, or so my parents tell me,’ Brianna smiles, her heart slowly warming to this new girl with the feather-dark hair and piercing eyes.

The older girl nods.

‘And this is your first time in the big city, by the looks of things? Ye poor wee lass.’ The wide, strange eyes look past her, taking in the heavy clouds, thick with the promise of rain gathering over the tenement blocks of Finneston, something unreadable falling into place when Brianna catches her eyes again.

‘Where are ye staying, out o’ interest?’

‘West Regent Street, with family.’

It is a half-truth at least, for Catherine and Hugh Murray with their fifteen-year-old twins, Archie and Fred, strapping, dark haired boys of twelve at the local Grammar school in Garnethill, are her uncle’s family, distant Murray cousins whom she knows by sight from massed family gatherings like her first communion, or William’s christening.

‘D’ye want to come back tae mine for some tea? It’s across the river in Kelvinbridge, so it’s no’ far. There should be a dip of tea left in the caddie and my landlady lets me take her day-old scones when her old besoms from the WI havena polished off the lot.’

She laughs, a short, free laugh and reaches for Brianna’s hand, tucking it securely under her arm.

It is a laugh that catches on the wind and Brianna smiles, gathering up her things and finding her bicycle.

Together, Brianna wheeling her bicycle between them, they walk in companionable silence through the slowly dying light along the river.

‘It’s no’ much, but it’s home.’

The flare of an oil lamp flaring into life throws a long, thin hallway that is cluttered with trestle tables that are almost toppling over with papers and envelopes in various stages of being read into a soft, amber glow. The passageway holds the strong odour of paint fumes that Brianna has come to associate with the studio rooms at the Art School which does not completely mask the musk of boiled cabbage and burnt metal.

She had chained her bicycle to the railing outside the flat and followed Mhairi up the long, winding staircase. Clutching her satchel to her chest, she had passed strange, dark doors that concealed lives which she has no knowledge of until they had reached one of deep, dark blue with a tarnished brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head with wide, grinning jaws.

From along the passageway, the sound of a door slamming itself shut and a foreign exclamation of frustration cuts through the silence.

Peeling off her coat and taking Brianna’s, Mhairi laughs and, standing on tip toe to hang them on the carved, mahogany peg calls out, ‘it’ll be all right in the end Antoni!’

A scuffle at the door and a dishevelled, thin faced, dark haired young man with round glasses perched on the end of his nose, pokes his head out, hazel eyes blazing as he glares at her.

Brianna can just make out paint stains splattering across the fingers that cling to the door and the white dart of his collar is crumpled with what could be charcoal.

‘Już nigdy nie będzie tak samo! Zniszczyłem to!’

‘No, you havena! I bet ye half a crown it’ll be just as good, if not better than your last!’

Mhairi rolls her eyes at Brianna who watches the dark head disappear with a noise of disgust and the door slam shut with such force that the lamps cocooned in their soft, brass bowls rattle ominously.

‘So dramatic,’ the older girl mutters with a smile, steering her through another door into a small, barely furnished room, the walls papered with a soft, pink and blue paisley pattern against a pale background. A small bay window looks out over the street, a window box full of mint and lavender sparking a flash of colour against the dark red sandstone.

‘He’s Polish. Fled from the Nazis in ’35 an’ came to Glasgow to seek his fortune as an artist. My landlady took him in because she’s half Jewish and then her man… Weel… Perch yourself where ye can. D’ye want tea? There should be some left over…’

Brianna nods silently, reaching for the older girls’ hand for a brief moment. She gives it slowly, joined skin squeezing in unspoken, acknowledged understanding before Brianna turns from her to take in her surroundings.

A small, wooden bookshelf sits above the bed and Brianna sees with a smile titles that she has seen in her Da’s study- Homer’s Odyssey, Virgil’s Aneid as well as the dark, imposing morocco bound leather cover of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina as well as books that she treasures herself. Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, Mary Shelley’s Frankensteinand George Eliot’s Middlemarch- old favourites that she thinks of as close friends.

A mirror hung in a carved, dark wood frame sits on a plain dressing table where a glass backed hairbrush sits beside a Delft painted ewer and looped around a flourished corner, is the glint of the beaded metal necklace of armed forces’ dog tags.

Bruce. J. R

Wing Commander

Service No. 430067

Feeling like a thief in the night, Brianna moves slowly to the table, easing the paper gently from the frame. It is good quality photographic paper that is faded with age and exposure, that crinkles between her fingers.

It shows a young man in a pilot’s uniform standing to attention at the camera. His face is set and pale, with high cheekbones and a mop of dark hair just visible under his peaked cap. His nose is hooked above a small, handlebar moustache and his eyes, Brianna thinks, are kind.

‘My Da’, Mhairi’s voice is a murmur at her shoulder that makes her jump, a small sad smile flicking at her lips when Brianna turns wide eyes to her.

‘RAF. Died in a direct hit over the North Sea in ’40. They… They told me that his body was never recovered.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Brianna murmurs; the dull ache of shared pain throbbing through her heart.

Remembers seeing her Mother sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, the glint of something metal peeping through a closed fist. The carved frame that houses her parents’ wedding photograph sat on the table beside an undrunk thimble of whisky, her Da standing straight and tall and proud in his Fraser tartan, beaming out of the frame, the smile that she had missed so much crinkling at the corner of his lips.

Remembers the weight of questions that her ten-year-old self had not had the words to ask burning on her tongue as she had seen those bright whisky coloured eyes glow out of a pale, haunted face as if seeing her for the first time.

It had been late in the evening, well past her bedtime and the lamps in the kitchen and the hallway had burnt low in their wicks.

‘Brianna? What are you doing up, mo chuisle?’

Her Mother’s voice had sounded hoarse and strange, strangled with after-sobs.

‘I…’

She remembers biting her lip, curling bare toes against the chill of the carpet in the passageway.

‘I couldna sleep, Mam. I…I keep dreaming… Keep seeing…’

‘I know,’ Claire had murmured, reaching out a hand to her and drawing her close. She had smelt of mint and baked bread and sleep and Brianna had buried closer, futilely trying to stem the tears that had finally burst their boundaries and flowed in silent, unchecked anguish down her cheeks.

‘Don’t be,’ Mhairi says quietly, chancing a glance to her; those intense, green eyes glimmering with something that could be tears, or just a flicker of the dying light streaming in through the window.

‘My Da was in the Army. He doesn’t talk about it much, but… He was a POW for 5 years and… He’s back now, but he’s not the same. My family… We… It…’

Even as she says them, the words feel selfish, an agonising reminder to Mhairi of all that she has lost and all that Brianna has gained.

‘Aye, I suppose it wouldn’t be,’ Mhairi’s tone is thoughtful as she presses a chipped tea cup into Brianna’s hands and shoves a pile of papers off the bed that cascade to the floor in a flurry of tight, blue handwriting, patting the paisley coloured coverlet invitingly.

‘Not that I’d know,’ she says quietly, blowing on her tea and dipping her gaze away from Brianna.

‘I’m an only child myself. Mam ran off with a good-for-nothing wastrel when I was born and left her sister, Aunt Margery tae bring me up. Poor old dear,’ a small, black laugh echoes through the room at that and Brianna feels a shiver that has nothing to with the chilled evening air ripple down her spine.

To be left.

To be left and unloved, to be…

She can’t imagine it.

Can’t imagine being left alone with Faith and Willie, or worst of all, on her own, without someone who loved her with the wholeheartedness of her parents.

‘Didna… Didn’t… Didn’t she love ye?’

Her voice sounds impossibly small in the silence.

‘Love me? Oh, I’ve no doubt that she loved me in her own way, but…’

The strange, green eyes are shuttered and distant, gazing inward at memories that Brianna is not privy to, her voice a sad, bitter laugh.

‘But?’

Tentatively, Brianna reaches out to grip Mhairi’s hand, wanting to hold her, to bring some sort comfort to this vivacious girl who has been so dealt such a rotten hand in life.

‘But nothing,’ she sighs, raking a hand through her hair, carding out her curls, a small, quick smile flickering across her lips.

‘It’s not for ye to worry about. She was my Mother and if she wanted tae run off wi’ a wastrel an’ forget that she even had a bairn, then that was her loss and no’ mine. Aunt Margery always said that she was a flighty thing, even as a hen. Perhaps having a babbie wasna for her.’

‘But your Da, surely…’

Her tea has long grown cold and she rests the cup on her lap, trying to process what she’s just heard.

‘Da was in the RAF. Flying, being wi’ his men, being in the air was his life, his reason to exist, if ye will. He didna want his wings to be clipped for the sake of a squalling, red faced thing.’

A small, choked breath hitches in Brianna’s throat at that.

Mhairi shakes her head, a bleak laugh cascading from her throat as she glances at the faded photograph.

‘Though they sent me his dog tags, when he didna return. That’s something, I suppose.’

‘Aye,’ Brianna replies quietly, squeezing the older girls’ hand lightly in her own.

‘I suppose it is.’

Gaelic and Polish translations

‘Ma tha obair an-còmhnaidh ann airson do làmhan a dhèanamh.

Ma bhios do sporan daonnan a 'cumail bonn no dhà.

Ma bhios a 'ghrian an-còmhnaidh a' deàrrsadh air a 'phìos uinneig agad.

Bi cinnteach gum bi bogha-bogha a 'leantainn gach uisge.

Bidh làmh charaid daonnan faisg ort agus

Gu bheil Dhia a 'lìonadh do chridhe le aoibhneas a bhith gad bhrosnachadh.’ =

‘May there always be work for you to do,

May your purse always hold a coin or two,

May the sun always shine upon your window pane,

May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain,

May the hand of a friend always be near you and may God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you’

‘Już nigdy nie będzie tak samo! Zniszczyłem to!’= ‘It will never be the same again! I have ruined it!’

‘Mo ghaul agus mo bheannachdan uile, pluithair beag’ = All my love and blessings, little sister

#mine #writing #fanfiction #outlander #ww2 au #brianna randall #mhairi bruce #faith fraser #jamie fraser #claire beecham #albert peterson #william #blood of my blood #thoughts?

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