scottish quotes


He’d felt the whole of it an illusion. Had waked on the field, convinced he was dead, relieved it was over, the pain, the heartbreak, the struggle. Then had truly waked, to find Jack Randall lying dead on top of him, the captain’s dead weight having cut off circulation to his wounded leg and saved him from bleeding to death—one final ill turn, one last indignity.

– The Scottish Prisoner, Chapter 8

  • America: I shot a moose!
  • Scotland: You shot a mouse? You don't shoot a mouse, you'd blast a hole in the floor you gun loving maniac!
  • -Later-
  • Scotland: Canada? What is that?
  • Canada: Oh, that's a moose.
  • Scotland: If that's a Canadian mouse, I don't want to see one of your rats!

It was a fine day. A sky you could fall into, and never mind how far. The copper beeches near the house had gone to gold and rust, and a sweet, nippy little breeze whirled the fallen leaves round in skittish circles. Jamie remembered another day with air like blue wine, and Claire in it. 

Lord, that she may be safe. She and the child. For an odd moment, he felt as though he stood outside himself, outside time, sensing Claire’s hand warm on his arm, her smile as she looked at Willie— red-faced, tearstained, and obviously miserable, but still his bonnie wee lad.

The Scottish Prisoner

Would Bree and Roger ever go back [to Lallybroch]? I wondered suddenly. She’d mentioned it, when the notion of their leaving became fact and they had begun to plan. 

“It’s vacant,” she’d said, eyes fixed on the twentieth-century-style shirt she was making. “For sale. Or it was, when Roger went there a few years— ago?” She looked up with a wry smile; it wasn’t really possible to discuss time in any customary way. “I’d like the kids to live there, maybe. But we’ll just have to see how … things work out.”

She’d glanced then at Mandy, asleep in her cradle, faintly blue around the lips. 

“It will work out fine,” I’d said firmly. “Everything will be just fine.” 

Lord, I prayed now silently, that they might be safe!

An Echo in the Bone


“The games are always, repeat always, being played. But nobody plays the games like me. Detective Sergeant Bruce Robertson, soon to be Detective Inspector Bruce Robertson. You just have to be the best, and I usually am. Same rules apply.”

- Filth (2013) Dir. Jon S. Baird

But now he felt the perfection of the tiny bones of William’s spine through his clothes, smooth as marbles under his fingers, smelled the scent of him, rich with the incense of innocence and the faint tang of shit and clean linen. And thought his heart would break with love.

Scottish Prisoner, Chapter 39

However, the figure of the Devil that featured in much of the documentary material associated with Scottish witchcraft is a much more complex being and indeed was rarely red-skinned or horned. Demonic figures may well have been most frequently male and they often wore black, but they could also wear other colours, some of which were symbolic of spiritual beliefs, notably that of fairies or ‘good neighbours’. The figures could be old or young, handsome or ugly, or grim or gentlemanly in appearance. The demon might wear a hat or bonnet, a shawl or hood, or carry a staff. He could offer food, drink or some other relatively small-scale rewards. The demonic figure could appear in female form, albeit quite rarely, or take the form of an animal. Finally, he could take a more ethereal guise and appear as a spirit – sometimes as a ghost or angel.
—  Joyce Miller, “Men in Black: Appearances of the Devil in Early Modern Scottish Witchcraft Discourse,” Witchcraft and Belief in Early Modern Scotland. (Palgrave Macmillan). pp. 144-145

anonymous asked:

I've been reading The Scottish Prisoner over the past few days and I really enjoyed the parts with Jamie and Willie. Men + babies will be the death of me and makes me kinda super mad that DG didn't have Jamie see Willie grow up. Do you think they will include some of it in S3?

I really hope they do. There are some better Jamie and Willie scenes in The Scottish Prisoner than there are in Voyager. And it is one of the bright spots in the 20 years when Jamie lives without Claire. One of my favorites is Jamie introducing Willie to the horses and remember his father doing the same with him. 

Relief washed through him, as the wide eyes stared into his face. His guilty conscience had convinced him that William was an exact small replica of himself, whose resemblance would be noted at once by anyone who saw them together. But William’s round face and snub nose bore not the slightest likeness to his own features. While the child’s eyes could be called blue, they were pale, an indeterminate shade between gray and blue, the color of a clouded sky. 

That was all he had time to take in, as he turned without hesitation to settle the little boy on the horse’s back. As he guided the chubby hands to grasp the saddle’s edge, though, talking in a conversational tone that soothed horse and child together, he saw that William’s hair was—thank God!—not at all red. A soft middling brown, cut in a pudding-bowl style like one of Cromwell’s Roundhead soldiers. True, there was a reddish cast to it in the sunlight, but, after all, Geneva’s hair had been a rich chestnut. 

He looks like his mother, he thought, and sent a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving toward the Blessed Virgin. 

“Now, then, Willie,” said Lord Dunsany, patting the boy’s back. “Just you hold on tight. MacKenzie will take you round the paddock.” 

Willie looked very dubious at this proposal, and his chin drew back into the neck of his smock. “Mo!” he said, and, letting go the saddle, swung his fat little leg awkwardly to the rear, plainly intending to get off, though the ground was some feet below him. 

Jamie grabbed him before he could fall. 

“Mo!” Willie repeated, struggling to get down. “Momomomomo!” 

“He means ‘no,’ ” the nurse murmured, not displeased, and reached for the boy. “I said he was too young. Here, poppet, you come to Nanny Elspeth. We’ll go back to the nursery and have our nice tea.” 

“Mo!” Willie said shrilly, and capriciously flung himself round, burrowing into Jamie’s chest. 

“Now, now,” his grandfather soothed, reaching for him. “Come to me, lad, we’ll go and—” 


Jamie put a hand over the child’s mouth, stilling the racket momentarily. 

“We’ll go and speak to the horses, aye?” he said firmly, and hoisted the child up onto his shoulders before Willie could make up his mind to shriek some more. Diverted by this splendid new perch, Willie crowed and grabbed Jamie’s hair. Not waiting to hear any objections, Jamie took hold of the chubby knees wrapped round his ears and headed for the stable. 

“Now, this sweet auld lad is Deacon,” he said, squatting down to bring Willie to eye level with the old gelding, who lifted his nose, nostrils flaring with interest. “We call him Deke. Can ye say that? Deke?” 

Willie squealed and pulled on Jamie’s hair but didn’t jerk away, and after a moment, urged on by his grandfather, put out a hand and ventured a hasty pat. “Deke,” he said, and laughed, charmed. “Deke!” 

Jamie was careful to visit only those horses of age and temperament to deal well with a two-year-old child, but he was pleased—as was Lord Dunsany—to see that William wasn’t afraid of the enormous animals. Jamie kept as careful an eye on the old man as he did on the child; his lordship’s color was bad, his hands skeletal, and Jamie could hear the air whistle in his lungs when he breathed. In spite of everything, he rather liked Dunsany and hoped the baronet wasn’t about to die in the stable aisle. 

“Oh, there’s my lovely Phil,” said Dunsany, breaking into a smile as they came up to one of the loose boxes. At his voice, Philemon, a beautiful eight-year-old dark bay, lifted his head and gazed at them for a moment with a soft-lashed, open look before putting his head down again, nibbling up some spilled oats from the floor. 

Dunsany fumbled with the latch, and Jamie hastily reached to open the door. The horse didn’t object to their coming into the box, merely shifting his huge rump a bit to one side, tail swishing. 

“Now, ye must never go behind a horse,” Jamie told William. “If ye startle them, they might kick, aye?” The little boy’s soft chestnut hair whorled up in a cowlick at his crown. He nodded solemnly but then struggled to get down. 

Jamie glanced at Dunsany, who nodded, then he set William carefully on the floor, ready to snatch him up again if he shrieked or made a rumpus. But William stood stock still, mouth a little open, watching in fascination as the huge head came close to him, soft lips nibbling at the grain, and with the oddest sense of dislocation, Jamie suddenly felt himself on the floor of a stable, hearing the deep slobbering crunch of a horse’s chewing just beside him, seeing the huge, glassy hooves, smelling hay and oats and the wonderful pungent scent of the horse’s warm hide. There had been the feeling of someone behind him, he’d been aware of the man’s big legs in their woolen hose and he heard his father laugh and say something above him, but all he’d had eyes for was the horse, that massive, beautiful, gentle creature, so amazing that he’d wanted to embrace it. 

William did embrace it. Entranced, he toddled forward and hugged Philemon’s head in an access of pure love. The horse’s long-lashed eyes widened in surprise and he blew out air through his nose, ruffling the child’s clothes, but did no more than bob his head a bit, lifting Willie a few inches into the air, then setting him gently down as he resumed his eating. 

William laughed, a giggle of pure delight, and Jamie and Lord Dunsany looked at each other and smiled, then glanced aside, each embarrassed. 

Later, Jamie watched them go, William insisting upon walking, his grandfather limping behind the sturdy little form like an aged black crane, leaning heavily on his walking stick, the two of them washed in the pale gold of the soft spring sun.

[I]n the British Isles, and particularly in Scotland, it was believed that metals, especially iron, steel, and silver, repelled malevolent spiritual creatures, such as fairies and spirits. For this reason, needles were stuck into children’s caps; iron nails were hammered into the front board of beds; newborns supped their first drinks from silver spoons or coins to prevent abduction from fairies; and other metal objects such as reaping-hooks were placed under beds or beneath windows.
—  Ceri Houlbrook, “The wishing-tree of Isle Maree: The evolution of a Scottish folkloric practice” in The Materiality of Magic: An Artifactual Investigation Into Ritual Practices and Popular Beliefs edited by Ceri Houlbrook and Natalie Armitage (2015)

March 13th 1996: Dunblane massacre

On this day in 1996, 20 years ago, at Dunblane Primary School in Scotland, a gunman killed 17 people. The perpetrator, 43 year old Thomas Hamilton, was armed with four handguns and killed 16 children and one adult before committing suicide. Hamilton, an unemployed former shopkeeper and Scout leader, entered the school gymnasium and fired on a class of 5 and 6 year olds. He killed 16 children and their teacher, Gwen Mayor, while injuring many more. Hamilton then shot at other classrooms, before returning to the gym where he killed himself. The shooter’s motives remain unknown, but it had been reported that Hamilton was a paedophile. Future world-renowned tennis player Andy Murray attended Dunblane school and was present during the shootings. In the aftermath of the shootings, a campaign was mounted for stricter gun control laws in Britain, and in 1997 two Firearms Acts were passed which banned private ownership of handguns in the United Kingdom. 20 years on, we remember the victims, and the fortitude and determination of the victims’ families in ensuring legislation was passed to prevent such a tragedy from happening again.

“What really incensed me was that, until he came into the gymnasium and took his first shot at me, everything he had was legal. This should never have been able to happen.”
- Eileen Harrild, a teacher at Dunblane

I saw the new moon late yestreen 
Wi’ the auld moon in her arm

@fleshwerks‘ absolutely s t u n n i n g Solas x Pangara Lavellan tarot card

I think my spirit has been absorbed into the aether of this GORGEOUS art. Look at these moons and lovers and this is where my heart has gone: colors, eyes, embrace. Love!