claire light

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Because I am the biggest SAP on this planet, here is a sappified version of the beautifully sappy dance scene from Trollhunters <3 (WATCH IT IF YOU HAVEN’T!!) I am a lost cause. I had a fun little Angor Rot epilogue to this set, maybe I will update it later :D More fanarty goodness to come, gotta hit some of the beloved trolls, hee hoo haa hee.

Look make whatever metaphorical shipping posts you want, but I feel obligated to point out: flowers are planted in darkness and grow towards daylight. And ~someone~ who has light-related powers and whose name means “light” is now the heir of the Day court. So idk. 👀

Fic: Breathing in the Half Light

Part 2 of my Heartlines AU series.

Part 1 Whiskey on a pink dress here

As always feedback is appreciated.

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Jamie lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. His ears rang from the noise of the club earlier. God. it had been an awful place. But there in the midst of his own personal room 101, he had met her. Claire. He held up his arm and he could make out the numbers on his wrist in the dim light. As soon as he had gotten home he had added it to his phone, written it on a piece of paper and stuck it to his fridge, written it into his day diary and added it to the ‘Useful numbers’ list he kept by the landline. He couldn’t bring himself to wash it off of his wrist though.

He turned over in bed. He wanted to call her, to message her. Connect with her somehow.

He turned again letting out a sigh. He was usually so rational. So logical. He tried to apply that now. “You’re just smitten because you’re so long out of the game. When was the last time you thought about courting a woman?” And that was true. He thought about Geneva. He’d met her when he was 25 and her sister Isobel was dating his friend John. They were running with the same crowd and she was fun and attractive. What had started as a fling based on physical attraction and mutual convenience had turned into a relationship as their shared network expanded and their lives became increasingly intertwined. If he was being honest, things probably would have run their course had he not been sent to Chicago for work. John and Isobel split up not long after and John moved to England. Other members of their social circle got married, got mortgages, had kids. The network that had brought and kept them together slowly unravelled. From Chicago he was sent to Sydney, Dubai and then Bogota. He and Geneva stayed together but their relationship consisted of a few days here, a fortnight’s holiday there. She expressed no interest in joining him on his travels and it never even occurred to him to ask her. Six years later he resigned from his job in order to take over the running of the family business. He’d had big plans for Lallybroch, both as a working farm and as a commercial venture. He returned to Scotland and to Geneva. She hinted heavily that she was nearly 30, that he was 33 and maybe they should think of settling down. Jamie being the dutiful and loyal man he was had duly proposed. Given the ease in which Geneva has arranged the wedding with a date only six months away, it was clear she had been thinking on this for a while. They married with great ado in Inverness, their reception held in an impossibly plush marquee. For once the Scottish weather cooperated. Such was the force of Geneva’s will.

Alas, it became apparent very quickly that their relationship had only survived the years through distance. Once thrown into each other’s company on a regular and continuous basis, the rot set in quickly. Jamie was a constant source of disappointment to her. After six months he’d moved out. Within 9 months he’d filed for divorce, when it became clear there was no relationship to attempt to salvage and quite likely never really had been.. Geneva had not taken it well and delayed at every opportunity. But with no shared assets there was only so long could stall things. Their final decree was made official two days after what would have been their second wedding anniversary.

He sat up in bed. For a long time he’d felt guilty about Geneva. Guilty he had let her down, guilty that he had, when he was honest with himself, never really loved her. He’d thought he was doing the right thing, but he’d probably made things worse. He’d accepted his lack of a relationship in the years since as his atonement for the mistakes he had made, for his personal failure to be able to give Geneva what she had wanted from him. Geneva had moved on. She was involved with a prominent property developer who drove a porsche and treated her like a queen. She still rang him though, usually when she was drunk. It always ended in her yelling at him about the years he’d stolen from her.

He picked up his phone. 2:34am. Should he text? Should he wait for morning? Was he being too keen? Truth be told he had forgotten what it truly meant to want a woman. He’d been with Geneva for years and yet he’d never truly wanted her. Fancied her, yes. Liked her even, but this feeling he had now, for this strange woman that he’d spoken to for only a handful of minutes stirred him more than he had ever known.

He opened iMessages.

“Hi. Jamie here. From the club”

He deleted it. Too sad and needy.

“Hi, hope you were able to make your escape. I was forced to go out of the window and shimmy down the drain pipe. Any chance I could replace that whiskey I spilt all over you sometime? I promise I’ll buy you the good stuff!”

He took a deep breath and pressed send. He was shocked when his phone lit up only minutes later.

“Was forced to change identity and enter witness protection but escape plan successful. Operative escaped with only moderate loss of dignity”

He laughed out loud. It sounded strange in his empty apa. His phone flashed again.

“Operation whiskey is a go. How about tomorrow? 7pm, Taps near the hospital?”

He wasted no time in replying.

“Is affirmative. Rendezvous is set”.

He placed his phone down on the side table and lay on his back. He started at the ceiling and thought about her face. Tomorrow he would find out what colour her eyes were.

So this is an Outlander AU I’ve been playing around with ever since I watched Arrival. It’s a bit, err, weird so I wanted to see if people would have an interest in it before I dive in completely! 


PROLOGUE

October 26, 2018

Weird dreams since it all began. Everything—so vivid. Shadows exist there, and have discernable shapes. I can do more than sense a presence behind my back; I can see it in the shifting, shadowy bodies approaching. Light, all this light.

In my dreams, there is so much of the old life. Strawberries, as big as child’s fist, that I can smell and touch and taste. Little seeds on my mouth; crunchy. I think of sand as I bite, and then it’s there, it’s all there: a beach where the water isn’t frozen. Watergate Bay, I think, in late July. I stand on the shore, watching the waves roil, when a sweat bee lands on my arm.

I don’t swat at her, just let her suck the honey right out of me. (People cry over daffodils these days, but I say fuck the daffodils. I’d weep if I saw a bee.)

There are faces in my dreams, too. And though I canna remember them when I wake, I know there is a woman. Sometimes a kid appears—the woman’s? I have no idea—but she’s got spider legs and freckles like you wouldna believe. She laughs and she laughs, a paintbrush in her hand, and she is forever laughing, this girl, a beautiful, bird-like laugh and —

They do make me think, these dreams. All I do is wonder:

What are these dreams, and who are these people?

What will happen to all the kids and that little girl with the legs and the freckles and the laugh?

What will happen to me or to that strange woman?

What will happen to any of us?

     

It is so dark, Jenny. The whole world’s gone dark.

Your brother,

Jamie


CHAPTER ONE

April 16, 2018

Eleven days ago, human existence divided into two parts: Before Darkness and After Darkness. The latter, pessimists will argue, is ignorant and misleading. Who is to say, they ask, that there will be an After? Who is to say that this isn’t the state of our lives, our world, our humanity for the rest of eternity? Darkness, darkness, and more darkness.

It’s funny: the line between B.D. and A.D. is a meager span of eight and a half minutes. Or, if you want to be precise—to make the time sound shorter, like we couldn’t have seen it coming—a matter of 510 seconds. That is how long it took for our planet to realize it no longer had its mother, the Sun, to offer her steadfast care of yellow light and warm hugs. For those 510 seconds, us earthly billions scurried like ants, oblivious to the growing shadow of the palm that was slowly, slowly descending.

Smash—darkness.

No more sun.

B.D. becomes A.D.

I could tell, ye ken? I could tell something wasna right. Felt a chill right down my spine, I did.

This is a quote from a farmer in the Shetland Isles whose potato crop, in just a few short months, will die out. Travelers will sink their teeth into the greening skin, desperate for a taste of an uncanned vegetable. The solanine that poisons their insides in exchange for this token of the B.D. world.

This same farmer—the man who claims he felt the cold finger of imminent doom—will meet an ironic death: hypothermia, in his own bed. It will be 43 below on that day, a temperature even his warm-blooded wife, long in the ground, would have blanched it. There will be no one to mourn him, save the travelers eating the toxic potatoes, and even they will fall not long after.

His son lives in Stirling with his own wife, and he will not know of his father’s death when it happens, but deduce its occurrence from the prolonged silence. Silence, in the A.D., is none of the things it once could have been. Not anger or disinterest or dementia. Only death—the certainty that something wasna right.

But this is months away yet, and so the son, named Ian Murray, has no reason to assume the frozen corpse of his farmer father. As of this moment, it has been eleven days since the sun vanished, and outside Ian’s home is one of the hundreds of Sites. He flocks there, as everyone within the vicinity does, to see the strange phenomenon at the Killin stone circle. It floats over the rocks that no one—not even Ian, who lives just three sloping hills away—ever paid much mind in the B.D.

But now: crowds surrounding them. Children on parents’ shoulders, sound booms and camera crews, iPhones perpetually raised and Instagram filters debated.

Mayfair or Ludwig? Which d’ye reckon will make it brighter? I need my cousin in Wisconsin to see this.”

“She’s already seen it, ye clotheid. This shit’s all over the news!”

And it is. Every broadcaster all over the world has come to Britain, Ireland, Brittany, England, Scotland, Bulgaria, Israel, and Poland, setting up camp by every ancient stone circle now glowing with—

“Light!” people cheer.

“Light!” people hiss.

“Light!” people cry. And they cry and cry and cry. Has anything ever been more beautiful than this, they ask? These perfect lights—the only natural light left in the entire A.D. world—dancing above the standing stones?

“Like fairies.”

Bigger than fairies.”

Eventually, the parties of gawkers are broken up and ushered back to their homes. They trudge through the all-consuming dark, seeing almost nothing, but hearing the chatter of hope and fear buzzing around them. They cannot do anything except sit in front of their televisions or their radios, waiting for answers that will arrive when it is nearly too late. Their screens already black, the electricity out entirely. Everyone huddled close under flickering candlelight, still whispering, whispering:

“What are the Orbs?”

“Where do the Orbs come from?”

“Why are they here?”

And so on the evening the Orbs first appear, Ian and his wife return from Killin circle, trying (and failing) to make sense of these lights that have appeared in their recently lightless world. They sit at their rickety IKEA table, listening to their children in the living room—“Is this the end of the world?” one of their daughters asks—before they finally call the wife’s brother. No one in the Murray household has the foresight to understand that the bulbs above their heads, the sound of Doctor Who, and the cell phone they are dialing might eventually disappear.

“Jamie,” Ian says into the receiver, “Jamie?”

And Jamie Fraser, having been brutally awoken that morning, rubs his face and thinks, Aye, that’s me all right. The badge swinging from his neck proclaims himself so: Dr. James Fraser, Solar Astronomer.

“Jamie, what the Devil is going on?” This, from Jenny, Ian’s wife, who is convinced that the Orbs are a government hoax. Those damn bastards, she keeps muttering, those damn bastards.

Jamie is leaning against a tree, feeling the weight of his badge and, thus, his responsibility dragging him to the ground. He has been avoiding the glare of the floodlights, which are now shining so brightly on the uniformed men and his impossible task. He does not want to get used to them, this artificial light. Wants to forget them so that, when such forgetfulness becomes necessary, they are impossible for him to miss.

“I’ve no idea.”

“D’ye think it’s aliens or some sort?”

“Dinna be daft, Ian, this has the English written all over it. Those damn bastards.”

“We’ve only been here since this morning, Jenny. We willna ken any answers for a while.”

“Weel, where are ye?” Ian asks. “Are ye here? In Stirling?” And Jamie, against his will, looks at the Orb over the clefted rock. It dims, brightens, then dims again. No discernable pattern in its behavior, though Jamie feels as though it is calling to him. Close your eyes. Listen.

“Today’s been such a blur, I—I honestly canna remember. I woke up wi’ a man banging on my door in Glasgow, and then I was in a helicopter on my way here.”

“Christ,” Ian says.

Jamie looks off into the distance, at the small but blinking city, and imagines it several months from now. A ghost town, perhaps. A crater of an even deeper blackness where the signs of life he is watching now have dwindled into nothing. How long though? How long will it last without the sun?

“We’re stationed no’ far from Inverness, but I’m no’ sure what stone circle this is.”

“As long as it isna Stonehenge,” Jenny replies, bursting with a knowledge gleaned from the Killin crowd. “Two people dead there. A sacrificial ritual before the police arrived.”

Jamie almost laughs at the idiocy of it all, but then a stern voice takes his attention. It crackles from a walkie-talkie carried by one of the army bigwigs.

Craig Na Dun? Craig Na Dun, are you there? They’ve found two more Sites in the Orkneys. Over.

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25 Days of Outlander - Dec 14 - Favorite Scene That Wasn’t in the Book
I’m not sure I’m ready to go to war again.

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4.19.17 //
gays in a church

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I thought ye were dead, mo duinne,” he said, so softly I could hardly hear him above the rustling of the arbor. “I saw ye there—on the ground, at the last. God! Ye were so white, and your skirts all soaked wi’ blood…I tried to go to ye, Claire, so soon as I saw—I ran to ye, but it was then the Guard took me.”He swallowed hard; I could feel the tremor pass down him, through the long curve of his backbone. “I fought them…I fought, and aye I pleaded…but they wouldna stay, and they carried me awa’ wi’ them. And they put me in a cell, and left me there…thinking ye were dead, Claire; knowing that I’d killed you.

The fine tremor went on, and I knew he was weeping, though I could not see his face above me. How long had he sat alone in the dark of the Bastille, alone but for the scent of blood and the empty husk of vengeance?

It’s all right,” I said, and pressed my hand harder against his chest, as though to still the hasty beating of his heart. “Jamie, it’s all right. It…it wasn’t your fault.”“I tried to bash my head against the wall—only to stop thinking,” he said, nearly in a whisper. “So they tied me, hand and foot. And next day, de Rohan found me, and told me that ye lived, though likely not for long.”He was silent then, but I could feel the pain inside him, sharp as crystal spears of ice.

Claire,” he murmured at last. “I am sorry.” I am sorry. The words were those of the note he had left me, before the world shattered. But now I understood them.
 - Ch.28 The Coming of Light , Dragonfly in Amber

loraetandotherstuff  asked:

Imagine if Claire met Jamie during WWII, they fell in love. Then "ghost Jamie" in the first episode was real Jamie and the story begins with Frank asking Claire at the fireplace who could that be... Sorry for my English

The Fallen Soldier:

As the lights flickered, Claire turned, her eyes wide as darkness surrounded her. Frank had yet to return from his adventures with the reverend and the suddenness of the storm had her on edge.

As the black began to dull, an inky grey replacing the immediate onyx, Claire blinked and set about lighting the candles Mrs Baird had sporadically scattered about the room. An orange glow began to illuminate her rented chamber as she curled her hand around the visible wick, allowing the waxen end to set alight.

Able to see once more she picked her brush from the dressing table, turning the fragile tortoiseshell handle over in her hands. A glint of red caught her eye as her fingers shook, the memories of her last night in France before her return to Britain.

“Just one day more, you goddamn bloody *bastard*!” She cursed, her hiss echoing around the small interior as she fought with herself, begging the tears away as she slammed the brush back down again. Unable to bring herself to de-tangle her curls, Claire flopped helplessly onto the bed, the visions returning.

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