! — at the source linkyou will find319medium gifs ( 268x151 ) of the british whiteactressKEIRA KNIGHTLEY,born in 1985, on her various period movies ATONEMENT (2007), PRIDE & PREJUDICE (2005), THE DUCHESS (2008) & PIRATES OF CARIBBEAN THE SAGA (2006-2007-2017). keep this in mind when using her as fc.!
tw: guns, kissing, drinking, body image.
IMPORTANT :each gif were made by me from scratch. feel free to use as you please, but do not claim as your own, and please, read and follow my rules before using.tysm for commission me & enjoy ♡
I thoroughly enjoyed season 6. Wouldn’t say it’s the best or my favorite but I think it was definitely better than the previous two seasons. What are your thoughts on the season overall or just this episode?
I thought Sam and Catriona’s performance was a lot better here than in the last episode. Some of y’all had some really well thought-out criticisms on my last post. What do y’all think?
“What advice does the cast have for Marsali and Fergus as they head to New Bern?”
Ah glad Outlander hasn’t completely forgot about them…I really hope they show up again at least for the last episode. They didn’t even include them in the family photo…again :(
“I thought of it,” she said, with a deep breath. “As soon as I realized. I wondered if you could do—something like that, here.”
“It wouldn’t be easy. It would be dangerous—and it would hurt. I don’t even have any laudanum; only whisky. But yes, I can do it—if you want me to.” I forced myself to sit still, watching her pace slowly back and forth before the hearth, hands folded behind her in thought.
“It would have to be surgical,” I said, unable to keep quiet. “I don’t have the right herbs—and they aren’t always reliable, in any case. At least surgery is…certain.” I laid the scalpel on the table; she should not be under any illusions as to what I was suggesting. She nodded at my words, but didn’t stop her pacing. Like Jamie, she always thought better while moving.
A trickle of sweat ran down my back, and I shivered. The fire was warm enough, but my fingers were still cold as ice. Christ, if she wanted it, would I even be able to do it? My hands had begun to tremble, with the strain of waiting.
She turned at last to look at me, eyes clear and appraising under thick, ruddy brows.
“Would you have done it? If you could?”
“If I could—?”
“You said once that you hated me, when you were pregnant. If you could have not been—”
“God, not you!” I blurted, horror-stricken. “Not you, ever. It—” I knotted my hands together, to still their trembling. “No,” I
said, as positively as I could. “Never.”
“You did say so,” she said, looking at me intently. “When you told me about Da.”
I rubbed a hand across my face, trying to focus my thoughts. Yes, I had told her that. Idiot.
“It was a horrible time. Terrible. We were starving, it was war—the world was coming apart at the seams.” Wasn’t
hers? “At the time, it seemed as though there was no hope; I had to leave Jamie, and the thought drove almost everything else out of my mind. But there was one other thing,” I said.
“What was that?”
“It wasn’t rape,” I said softly, meeting her eyes. “I loved your father.”
She nodded, her face a little pale.
“Yes. But it might be Roger’s. You did say that, didn’t you?”
“Yes. It might. Is the possibility enough for you?”
She laid a hand over her stomach, long fingers gently curved.
“Yeah. Well. It isn’t an it, to me. I don’t know who it is, but—” She stopped suddenly and glanced at me, looking
suddenly shy.
“I don’t know if this sounds—well…” She shrugged abruptly, dismissing doubt. “I had this sharp pain that woke me up
in the middle of the night, a few days…after. Quick, like somebody had stabbed me with a hatpin, but deep.” Her fingers curled inward, her fist pressing just above her pubic bone, on the right side.
“Implantation,” I said softly. “When the zygote takes root in the womb.” When that first, eternal link is formed between mother and child. When the small blind entity, unique in its union of egg and sperm, comes to anchor from the perilous voyage of beginning, home from its brief, free-floating existence in the body, and settles to its busy work of division, drawing sustenance from the flesh in which it embeds itself, in a connection that belongs to neither side, but to both. That link, which cannot be severed, either by birth or by death.
She nodded. “It was the strangest feeling. I was still half asleep, but I…well, I just knew all of a sudden that I wasn’t alone.” Her lips curved in a faint smile, reminiscent of wonder. “And I said to…it…” Her eyes rested on mine, still lit by the smile, “I said, ‘Oh, it’s you.’ And then I went back to sleep.”
Her other hand crossed the first, a barricade across her belly.
“I thought it was a dream. That was a long time before I knew. But I remember. It wasn’t a dream. I remember.”
I remembered, too.
I looked down and saw beneath my hands not the wooden tabletop nor gleaming blade, but the opal skin and perfect
sleeping face of my first child, Faith, with slanted eyes that never opened on the light of earth.
Looked up into the same eyes, open now and filled with knowledge. I saw that baby, too, my second daughter, filled
with bloody life, pink and crumpled, flushed with fury at the indignities of birth, so different from the calm stillness of the first—and just as magnificent in her perfection.
Two miracles I had been given, carried beneath my heart, born of my body, held in my arms, separated from me and part of me forever. I knew much too well that neither death nor time nor distance ever altered such a bond—because I had been altered by it, once and forever changed by that mysterious connection.
“Yes, I understand,” I said. And then said, “Oh, but Bree!” as the knowledge of what her decision would mean to her flooded in on me anew.
She was watching me, brows drawn down, lines of trouble in her face, and it occurred to me belatedly that she might.
take my exhortations as the expression of my own regrets.
Appalled at the thought that she might think I had not wanted her, or had ever wished she had not been, I dropped the
blade and reached out across the table to her.
“Bree,” I said, seized with panic at the thought. “Brianna. I love you. Do you believe I love you?”
She nodded without speaking, and stretched out a hand toward me. I grasped it like a lifeline, like the cord that had
once joined us.
She closed her eyes, and for the first time I saw the glitter of tears that clung to the delicate, thick curve of her lashes. “I’ve always known that, Mama,” she whispered. Her fingers tightened around mine; I saw her other hand press flat
Put your trust in God, and pray for guidance. And when in doubt, eat.” A Franciscan monk had once given me that advice, and on the whole, I had found it useful. I picked out a jar of black currant jam, a small round goat cheese, and a bottle of elderflower wine, to go with the meal.
Jamie was talking quietly when I came back. I finished my preparations, letting the deep lilt of his voice soothe me, as well as Brianna.
“I used to think of you, when ye were small,” Jamie was saying to Bree, his voice very soft. “When I lived in the cave; I would imagine that I held ye in my arms, a wee babe. I would hold ye so, against my heart, and sing to ye there, watching the stars go by overhead.”
“What would you sing?” Brianna’s voice was low, too, barely audible above the crackle of the fire. I could see her hand, resting on his shoulder. Her index finger touched a long, bright strand of his hair, tentatively stroking its softness.
“Old songs. Lullabies I could remember, that my mother sang to me, the same that my sister Jenny would sing to her bairns.”
She sighed, a long, slow sound.
“Sing to me now, please, Da.”
He hesitated, but then tilted his head toward hers and began to chant softly, an odd tuneless song in Gaelic. Jamie
was tone-deaf; the song wavered oddly up and down, bearing no resemblance to music, but the rhythm of the words was a comfort to the ear.
I caught most of the words; a fisher’s song, naming the fish of loch and sea, telling the child what he would bring home to her for food. A hunter’s song, naming birds and beasts of prey, feathers for beauty and furs for warmth, meat to last the winter. It was a father’s song—a soft litany of providence and protection.
I moved quietly around the room, taking down the pewter plates and wooden bowls for supper, coming back to cut bread and spread it with butter.
“Do you know something, Da?” Bree asked softly. “What’s that?” he said, momentarily suspending his song.
You can’t sing.”
There was a soft exhalation of laughter and the rustle of cloth as he shifted to make them both more comfortable. “Aye, that’s true. Shall I stop, then?”
“No.” She snuggled closer, tucking her head into the curve of his shoulder.
He resumed his tuneless crooning, only to interrupt himself a few moments later.
“D’ye ken something yourself, a leannan?”
Her eyes were closed, her lashes casting deep shadows on her cheeks, but I saw her lips curve in a smile.
“What’s that, Da?”
“Ye weigh as much as a full-grown deer.”
“Shall I get off, then?” she asked, not moving.
“Of course not.”
She reached up and touched his cheek.
“Mi gradhaich a thu, athair,” she whispered. My love to you, Father.
He gathered her tightly against him, bent his head and kissed her forehead. The fire struck a knot of pitch and blazed
up suddenly behind the settle, limning their faces in gold and black. His features were harsh-cut and bold; hers, a more delicate echo of his heavy, clean-edged bones. Both stubborn, both strong. And both, thank God, mine.
The humans have held fascination with circles, attributing meaning where they are found from the eternal rotation of the planets around the sun, to move the clock hands, to a simple wedding band.I know full well just how to circle can affect one’s life or death…
