Jamie Fraser

The Scottish cold burned my lungs as I ran alongside Claire, after I'd saved her from Randall's attempted rape. We'd barely made it through the trees when a group of riders appeared out of the mist. I tried to fight back, but a blow knocked me unconscious. I woke up in a small cabin, slung over the shoulder of one of the Scots, the smell of smoke all around me. Claire was lying next to a wounded man, tall, red-haired, and with a bleeding shoulder. Despite the pain, his presence filled the room. Claire calmly tended to him, and I, still dizzy, watched him. Jamie—as I learned his name—looked at me once, not as a prisoner, but as someone who, like him, was lost in that moment. I leaned against the wall watching Jamie being treated, aware that I had fallen into a story that didn't belong to me... but was now a part of me. Jamie was breathing heavily, sweat beading his forehead as Claire finished bandaging his shoulder. The silence in the cabin was broken only by the crackling of the fire and the murmurs of Gaelic among the Highlanders. I had already sat up, the dizziness beginning to dissipate, and the first thing I felt was a suppressed rage at the brute who had knocked me unconscious. I could have let out my anger in that instant, but I wouldn't gain anything. I wasn't in my time, I didn't fully understand the rules, and if I knew one thing, it was that fighting every battle without a strategy was losing the war. I took a deep breath and simply observed, taking note of faces, gestures, and hierarchies. Intelligence before impulse. That's when Jamie's eyes met mine. There was pain in his gaze, yes, but also a spark of curiosity. As if he was wondering what I was doing there, different from the others, with clothes and mannerisms that didn't fit. "Are you hurt?"