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Chapter Text

When I was a child, I’d sit for hours staring into open flames. Years later, my mother would tell me about how fire was bound to our family beyond what she thought normal; she went through the stones to prevent one whereas I came back to set everything ablaze. My grandmother believed we could not change the future, for she had tried to stop the horrors of wars before and failed not once but twice. She did believe, however, there was some significance to our presence in the past; how many lives would have ended sooner had she not intervened with all her knowledge and skill? How many families in the Ridge would’ve had it harder had my mother not helped them with her inventions? 

They were somewhat correct. No soul can prevent a river from flowing, regardless of how many rocks you throw in it, and it always comes back to rocks . Ripples were, after all, disturbances at best. If the circles of stone were ripples in history—a disruption of some sort, a gateway to happenstance, an opening to the depths of a flowing river—, should we be dragged away and drowned by its riptide? I had changed the future before. I watched as the flames rose, burning everything they could touch. Had I not been there to save my parents from the wrath of Stephen Bonnet, would it have happened anyway somehow? 

I did not dare to play God with the power bestowed upon me, but I did defy its hold on my own future and the future of those dear to me. Had I not been there when I did, would you have found me somewhere else? Somewhen else? My grandmother once told me she thought Time might be some sort of god while Memory was the Devil. How could anything stand against Time? Why, we have. All of us. Above all, Love each other deeply, because Love covers over a multitude of sins. I hope Peter was not mistaken. Love usually stood against a plethora of things, Time notwithstanding. Love had kept my grandmother in a century she didn’t belong. It brought my mother here and It made her stay. I can only hope Love can do us one more favour. For no amount of Time’s enough to keep me from what I want.

Chapter Text

North Carolina, 1780

The first time Jeremiah went through the stones, he was almost eleven. His mother had seemed restless for weeks, pacing the house while his Auntie Lizzie helped her with the voyage arrangements. Grannie was nervous as well, but she had put on that doctor expression that made him feel calmer whenever he was injured during his expeditions with Grandda and told him she’d be joining them. 

“Is Papa coming as well?” He remembered asking, looking up at Claire. He noticed his grandmother's expression waver subtly, but he was too young to understand why his father couldn't join them then. 

"Willie is on his way back from London, my dear. Your father needs to be here to welcome him when he arrives," she replied, running her fingers through her grandson's auburn hair. "Why don't you go fetch Grandda so he can help us? See if Germain and Joan can help you find him, will you? I believe he's helping Jo and Kezzie with the chimney, right, Lizzie?”

“Aye, Mistress,” Lizzie agreed, placing her pale hand on her swollen belly while smiling at him. “They must be finished by now, ye might find Himself halfway.”

Brianna's gaze met her son's and she smiled, walking over to him and bending down so they were at the same height. Her coppery hair was pulled back in a messy bun and she looked tired; her eyes were slightly reddened, as if she hadn't been able to sleep properly.

"Since you're leaving, could you please find your Papa and ask him to bring Mandy and David home?"

"Aye, Mama," he assured her, smiling as she kissed him on the tip of his nose. “Is he with Uncle Fergus?” 

“I think so,” she got up to her feet, smoothing out her skirts before placing another kiss at the top of his head. “Off you go, mister.”

Jemmy had known about the years since his Grandda taught him to count when he was four—of course, back then he could only count to ten, but his grandparents, Mama and Papa had shown him a piece of parchment paper with several numbers written in black ink. Years later, when he was ten, they sat down with him again and showed him the numbers again.

"Do you know what these are, Jem?" His father had asked, pointing to the first four-number combination.

“Years!” He answered promptly, glad to see the proud look on his father’s face.

“What year are we in, darling?” His mother had asked, sharing a preoccupied look with Grannie and Grandda. 

Jemmy pointed to one of the numbers. The Year of Our Lord, 1774. 

“Good job, buddy,” Brianna smiled and then they proceeded to tell him about circles of stones and time-travelling. Months after that conversation, he still wasn’t sure what all of that meant and, yet, he knew they’d told him the truth. Mandy and David were too young to understand, his Grannie had told him, but he was old enough to know about their history.

He also knew that John Grey wasn't his only father. There was another man, Roger Wakefield, who had been his mother's first love. His mother told him about the future, as best she could, talking about cars—which had apparently been the inspiration for his Vrooms—airplanes and telephones. At the age of ten, Jemmy couldn't understand the significance of that discovery, but he was looking forward to the journey they would soon take. When David was born, Grannie had started to worry about tiny, invisible soldiers she called viruses and germs, and after a lot of talking, Mama and Papa decided to go along with Claire's plan.

“You, Grannie and I will go on a journey together,” Brianna had told him a few weeks ago over dinner. His father looked quite preoccupied, staring at nothing in specific. “Do you remember the circle of stones we told you about? The one that can take us to different years?”

“Aye,” he raised his eyebrows, curious. “Are we going to a different year, Mama?”

Brianna had smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Yes, buddy,” she glanced at Mandy, who was too focused on her soup. “We’re going to visit a friend of Grannie’s. His name is Joe Abernathy.”

“Is he a blacksmith?”

“A blacksmith?”

“Grannie said she needs weapons to fight the wee soldiers,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Does he make swords?”

Brianna laughed and John smiled, albeit he looked as confused as Jemmy was. 

“No, Uncle Joe isn’t a blacksmith. He’s a doctor, like Grannie,” she answered. “Grannie wants him to vaccinate you. It’s something that will protect you from the wee soldiers.” 

“Oh,” he didn’t know what to make of that. “Shouldn’t we bring Mandy and David along then? And Germain, Joan, wee Félicité and the bairn inside Auntie Lizzie’s tummy?”

John laughed and Jemmy smiled at the sound. His father found it amusing whenever he spoke like his Grandda. “I feel like it is quite appropriate that he talks more like Jamie than me,” Papa had said once. “He looks like a Scot, might as well sound like one.”

“Your brother and sister are too young to travel with us,” his mother explained, also grinning. “And your cousins can’t go on this journey, but we will bring something to protect them.”

After that, Jemmy had been looking forward to finally going, but that feeling hadn’t been shared by anyone else in the Ridge. Grannie and Grandda were quiet during the journey to town whereas Mama and Papa were whispering to each other. Jemmy didn’t know how long it would take for them to travel through time, but he already missed his family. It was weird though, he’d always been able to feel Mandy and David’s presence wherever they were. He wondered whether he would be able to feel them where—or when —they were going. 

Auntie Marsali had kissed both his cheeks before they left for Wilmington and his Uncle Fergus wished him farewell with a blessing in French that caused his mother to smack him in the arm. Germain, who was rather annoyed that he couldn’t tag along, had avoided him for two days, but finally came to say goodbye and hugged Jemmy so tightly he nearly let out a cry. 

A few days after leaving their home in Fraser’s Ridge, the ship they’d boarded sailed towards Ocracoke and the tension seemed to vanish a little as his Grandda’s stomach started to regret the voyage. For as long as Jemmy could remember, he was always amazed to see his grandmother work on a patient. There was something soothing in the way she assessed their wounds or maladies, working almost in a trance as she prescribed pultrices, ointments, mended injuries and fixed broken bones. Even at that age, he knew his whole family felt the same way. His mother had been automatically drawn to his Grannie’s side, hands working in unison with her mother’s as they divided their attention between mixing some herbs in a wooden bowl and examining Grandda. His Papa was also around, even though Jamie seemed quite annoyed at the treatment he was receiving. 

“Dinna fash yourselves,” he mumbled, dodging Grannie’s hand when she reached to check his temperature. “Sassenach, I’m alright.”

“It’s been years since the last time you’ve been in a boat,” Claire said, ignoring his attempts to stay away from her grasp. “Has your stomach always been this sensitive?”

“Aye,” Jamie answered dryly. “I canna blame the poor thing, though.”

“‘Tis alright, Grandda,” he said, resting his hand on his grandfather’s forearm. “I feel a little bit sick as well.”

“Do ye, laddie?” Jamie, still slightly green, smiled at his grandson. “I didna think ye were since ye’ve been shaking wi’ excitement since we boarded.”

It was a lie. He was feeling elated—at least, that was the word his father had used when he explained how he felt. For the next couple of days, Jemmy helped Grannie tend Grandda until his stomach got accustomed with the rocking of the ship. Sooner than he expected, they reached the harbour in Ocracoke and the tension seemed to settle over them again, like a suffocating veil he couldn't see or let go of.

Some sailors helped them with their belongings—not much to carry around since his mother told him they wouldn’t be needing much—and John paid them a good some to wait in the harbour as they were not going to take long here. Grannie and Grandda hugged each other and kissed, making Jemmy let out a disgusted noise through his throat. Mama laughed before doing the same with his Papa, whispering something Jemmy couldn’t quite hear. 

When they finally left each other’s arms, John approached his son and bent down a little. 

“You mother and your Grannie are going to prepare themselves for the voyage,” he father announced, placing his big hand on Jemmy’s shoulder. “Would you like to join me on a walk meanwhile?”

Jemmy had never seen the beach before, but after days on a ship, he felt like the ocean was far more interesting when seen from another perspective. The sand was beautifully white and soft and the day was sunny enough to make him take off his coat and boots. It was a rather strange feeling, to touch so many tiny pieces of rock with his bare feet, but he loved the sensation. Papa had followed his lead, burying his toes in the sand in a not-very-lordling-like manner. 

The sun was high in the sky which meant it was probably lunch time, however, Jemmy was far from being hungry. After a few minutes of walking and talking about the island, John guided him towards a palm tree that casted a shadow big enough for them to sit down. 

“Maybe going for a walk was not my best idea,” John mentioned, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Jemmy grinned, feeling his shirt plastered against his back. “How are you feeling?”

“Elated,” he said, his heart filled with joy when he saw his father’s smile widen for a second before fading away. 

“Your mother told me the journey will be difficult,” Papa was worried, he knew that much, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what was causing his discomfort.

“I can do it.”

“I’m sure you can,” John sighed, his blue eyes piercing Jemmy’s green ones. “She will try to reach Roger. Your—”

“Other father,” he interrupted, raising his eyebrows. As acknowledgement washed over him, Jemmy stood up abruptly, unable to contain the surge of excitement. “Am I going to meet him? Is he with Grannie’s friend? Does he live in the future Fraser’s Ridge?”

There was a slight twitch of emotion behind his father’s eyes, but Jemmy was far too caught up in his own feelings to understand the discomfort his father must have felt seeing him so happy to meet Roger. 

“I must confess I do not know,” Papa admitted, looking away towards the ocean. “Your mother will try to find him, there’s no guarantee she will succeed.”

He felt his excitement waver. 

“Why, I’ll help her find him then.”

“I hope you do find Roger,” John muttered, his eyes sliding back to his son. “Has your Grannie explained what ‘biological’ is?”

“Aye,” Jemmy frowned. He loved watching Claire work, though it didn’t mean he understood even half of what she was doing or saying. “‘Twas something to do with ‘Aa’s and ‘Bb’s, was it not?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The thing Grannie calls ‘generic’.”

“Oh, genetics, ” John laughed. “Why, I’ll assume you’re correct. I haven’t grasped not even a quarter of what Claire has explained about future medicine and I’ve known her for almost two decades.”

“Grannie said children have their parents’... genetics,” Jemmy mumbled. “That’s how God selects the colours of the bairn’s eyes, hair, skin and whatnot.”

“I remember that much,” John agreed. “She also explained that genetics are passed to the bairns by their biological parents, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Aye.”

“You have your father’s eyes,” John told him, touching his face lovingly. “And your mother’s hair and temper. You’re taller than any other ten-year-old boy I’ve ever met—we have your Grandda to thank for that. After all these years, I’ve come to realise that being a Fraser is more of an ideology than genetics . Yet, I do not know how much of him was left in you and maybe I’ll never truly know. All I know is that you, Jeremiah Alexander Ian Fraser Grey, is my son as much as you’re his. Genetics, circles of stone and Time be damned if they think they can change that.”

“Nothing can change that, Papa,” Jemmy assured him. “Do you want to come with us?”

John smiled once again, but it didn’t erase the sadness in his eyes. 

“I would do anything to be able to follow you wherever, or whenever, you go. But as it seems, genetics has other plans,” John got to his feet, careful to pat the back of his britches to get rid of the sand before reaching for his son. “Shall we go? They’re waiting for us.”

***

Both Brianna and Claire had warned him about the violence he’d experience. They failed to mention, however, how terribly ill he would feel afterwards. Mama had given him a red gemstone, a ruby, and told him to hold on tight to it. Jemmy had nearly drowned once, when he was seven. He and Germain were with one of his Vrooms—the one which looked like a boat—by the riverbank when he ended up leaving his toy unattended for a little longer than he anticipated and the wooden boat floated away downstream. Germain tried to dissuade him, but Jemmy was already with his bum out into the fresh air and knee-deep in the cold water when he lost his footing and heard Germain swear in French.

“Jem! Putain! Jemmy!” He could hear his cousin screaming for help and tried to stand up to no avail. 

The sensation he experienced going through the stones was somewhat similar to what he felt being carried by the riptide; the terrifying disorientation of being pulled to so many directions you couldn’t quite tell which way was up and which one was down, the lack of air to fill his lungs—was it possible to have air in the gaps between Times?—, the cold, dark tendrils of dread curling around his neck as he desperately tried to survive the emptiness of the void. The sensation was similar, yet not entirely accurate. Before the void came the screams. 

He had never heard anything like it. Stones should not be able to produce such a blood chilling sound, it was not natural and he’d have backed away if the song they sang hadn’t lured him towards the middle of the four standing stones that formed the gateway in Ocracoke. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother falter and put her hands to her ears. He knew it was in vain, the call of the stones seemed to make something inside his chest vibrate as if it wanted to answer it. It came from the inside, that buzzing sound, as if thousands of bees swarmed around them. In between the screams, there were voices. He could hear them; whispering and shouting, the sound of gunshot and violence, a war trumpet, glimpses of time itself. He couldn’t see, not with his eyes anyway, but he knew he could reach out and touch one of those rifts in Time. He could go whenever he wanted. 

“Jem!” His mother’s voice came to him as a faint whisper, even though he knew she must have shouted to be heard over the deafening song of the stones. 

Mama , he thought, reaching out. He needed his mother. They were going to meet his other father, he couldn’t get lost in that void. 

His back hit the ground so hard he gasped for air, panicking when it took him five long seconds to actually be able to breath. Grannie was leaning over him, holding his head and saying something to his mother. He could see her lips moving, but heard no words. Unconsciousness touched the edges of his mind and he thought it’d be nice to let it consume him. Neither Brianna nor Claire had warned him about how tempting it would feel to go in any direction when crossing Time and he was terrified of the thought of how close he was to getting lost in that void. Was that Purgatory? Grandda would know. Or maybe Mrs. Bug. He saw his mother kneel beside him and wished he could tell her he was alright. Instead, his eyes rolled back and he let the comforting darkness wash away any remnants of the screaming terror. 

Chapter Text

North Carolina, 1982

It had taken him a couple of days to fully recover from the journey. Mama was visibly worried as she hadn’t left his side regardless of how many times he said he was feeling a lot better. It was Grannie’s preoccupied demeanour that made him uneasy, she was usually the one making sure everybody knew things were under control.

 Jemmy had been unconscious when the three of them were found by a group of fishermen who were passing by the island. They’d been gentle enough to take them to the town while his Grannie explained that they were tourists who had lost their group—she had Auntie Marsali sewn new clothes for them, nothing too elaborate so they wouldn’t draw any unwanted attention. 

Luckily enough, the coins and jewellery they had brought with them had been sufficiently shiny for them to trade the bag for enough money to buy a phone book. Luck also helped Grannie to find Joe Abernathy’s phone number and she warned him of their arrival. Jemmy didn’t understand most of what the women were talking about, but he followed around obediently while trying to absorb as much as he could. There were so many questions he wanted to ask and so much to take in, he saw his mother look strangely at him, as though she expected him to faint again.

They found an inn to stay at and, by the next evening, Grannie’s friend had arrived with an odd expression on his face. He was tall, but not as tall as Grandda, and his skin was very dark. He was a beautiful man, although he looked like he’d seen a ghost from Uncle Fergus’s stories. 

“Lady Jane—,” he said and Jemmy frowned.

“Lady Brianna ,” he corrected the man, making his mother and Claire laugh before both of them hugged the man tightly. 

“I can’t believe it’s actually you,” the man said, holding Grannie’s face between his hands. “Look at you! I thought I’d never see you again!” Then he turned to Brianna. “Bree, you’re a woman now! I mean, you have always been, but look at you!”

His eyes went down to Jemmy and he raised an eyebrow.

“And who’s the little fellow?”

Jemmy bowed formally, like his Papa had taught him.

“Jeremiah Alexander Ian Fraser Grey of Fraser’s Ridge,” he waited for the man to do the same and when he didn’t, Jemmy frowned even more. “‘Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, good sir.”

“Holy Cow,” Joe Abernathy mumbled, astonished. “He certainly is from the past, isn’t he? And a bloody Scot! So you did find your lover, Lady Jane? I’ve always wondered.”

“Joe,” Claire’s smile lightened up her entire face. “There’s so much we need to catch up with, but did you—”

“Of course I did,” he handed her the leather bag he was carrying. “It wasn't easy, you know. I’m lucky Eleanor owes me some favors, but I can only imagine what she’s thinking. A doctor stealing a ridiculously huge amount of vaccines. A black doctor at that. I’ll be lucky not to have my licence revoked.”

“I’m so sorry,” Grannie placed her hand on his shoulder. “You know I wouldn’t have asked if I had any other option.”

“Well, I’m assuming you intend to vaccinate the entire population of the eighteenth century.”

“I wish, but I think I’ll start with my grandchildren.”

“Good Lord, Bree!” He glanced at the red haired woman. “Things have been really interesting for you in the past, huh?”

Brianna flushed.

“Jemmy is mine,” she explained. “And I have two more children. The rest of them are for my brother’s kids.”

“You have a brother ?”

“We adopted Fergus the first time I… crossed.”

“He lived in a brothel,” Jemmy added. 

“Jeremiah!”

“Oh, did he?” Joe seemed amused. “Well, I didn’t have time to research how many diseases were going around back then, but I got you the ones I thought you’d deem important. I don’t recommend administering them all at once though. We don’t know how their DNA works compared to ours.”

“I’ve always wondered,” Claire agreed. “There’s no way for me to be sure.”

“If only we had time to run a couple of blood tests—”

“Let’s not demote my child to a lab rat, okay?” Brianna put her hand protectively on Jem’s left shoulder. 

Joe convinced Grannie and his mother to go to a hotel and, albeit he didn’t know what that meant at the time, he was glad to find out that a hotel was just a fancier inn. There he had the displeasure of being vaccinated many times. Uncle Joe and Grannie talked for long hours before deciding which of the vaccines they’d administer and how long they’d take between shots. In the end, Jemmy learned his torture wouldn’t be over at least for another month. He took eight of them, holding back a cry every time the needle went in. As both doctors and his mother expected, he got really sick afterwards. 

“It’s alright, darling,” Grannie assured him, resting her hand on his forehead. “It’s just a side effect. Your immune system is learning how to fight with the tiny soldiers.”

Why, they’re losing the fight then, he thought. He still felt sick to his stomach because of the journey through the stones and the vaccines didn’t help him feel any better. He felt terribly ill for almost two weeks before Uncle Joe came to sit beside him. 

“Bree and Claire went for a walk,” he said, grinning when Jemmy sniffed the air. “It was hard to convince them to leave you alone for a second, but I thought it was time to introduce you to one of the best things of the twentieth century.”

Uncle Joe raised his hands and Jemmy watched him unwrap some sort of sandwich, placing it on the child’s lap before raising his brows. 

“It’s called a cheeseburger,” he explained. “It’s not healthy, but I don’t think you can get high cholesterol living on a farm. At least not unless you’re predisposed. Anyway, I think you’ll like it.”

In fact, he loved it. He had never had anything like it and it seemed to lift his spirits quite a bit. 

“Aye, I like it very much,” he answered with his mouth full. “Much obliged, Uncle Joe.”

“Not a problem, kiddo,” the man laughed. “I don’t know how you can live without a McDonald’s at every corner.”

“Oh, I know Mr. McDonald,” Jemmy held back a burp. “A very nice auld man.”

That made the doctor laugh even harder. 

When his mother and grandmother came back from their walk, they talked with Uncle Joe about their next step. Uncle Joe offered to pay for the tickets to Scotland, but Grannie seemed adamant. 

“We’ve abused far too much of your kindness, Joe,” she said. “There’s no way I’ll trouble you even more.”

“Lady Jane,” Joe sighed. The three of them sat around the round table, sipping a black, sparkling liquid. Jemmy had tried it, but the extremely sweet taste made him want to vomit again. Instead, he was sitting in an armchair watching images and sounds come out of a big, sturdy box Mama had called a television. She had answered every question he had and, somehow, many others seemed to come to him every minute. There were things called telephones, cars and airplanes—he had already heard about those back in the Ridge—, now, however, he’d been bewitched by things like showers, televisions, radios, lightbulbs and a scented mist people used to make themselves sweat less called deodorant. “Money is not a problem. How do you intend to get to Scotland? Are you gonna offer them a handful of shillings?”

“You’ve already gotten us fake passports and you’ve stolen from the hospital,” he heard Grannie mutter.

“So you’re okay with a felony, but draw a line at plane tickets.”

“Uncle Joe,” Brianna intervened. “We really appreciate it, but Mama is right. You’ve been paying the hotel, our food and clothes. You’ve helped us a lot.”

“Let’s say you manage to get enough money to buy not one, but three plane tickets to Scotland. Are you planning to go back through the circle of stones there?”

“No,” both women said in unison.

“Not fancying a journey by ship back to the Colonies?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, then you’ll need to come back here.”

“Well, yes.”

“How are you planning to do that?”

“Why,” Claire sounded tired. “We can’t cross whenever we please. There are specific dates. We came during Beltane, May 1st. The next auspicious date is Litha, between June 19th and June 23rd.”

“You intend to stay in Scotland this whole time?”

“Jem’s father is in Scotland,” Brianna answered, her voice barely a whisper. Jemmy felt her gaze on him and pretended to pay attention to the black rat wearing britches on the television. “He’s from this time.”

Silence hung over them for so long that it took all of Jemmy's strength not to look in that direction.

“When I think your family can’t get any more complicated,” Uncle Joe said at last. “Does he know you’re coming?”

“No.”

“Jamie has been sending money to his sister in Lallybroch,” Grannie explained. “There’s a cave there where he used to live during the years we were… apart. He oriented her to store the money there. We’ll use part of the money to get back to the States and another part to buy gemstones.”

“Gemstones?”

“We need them to cross.”

“Holy Cow, Lady Jane!” Joe laughed. “That’s a fucking expensive magic wormhole.”

***

His first time inside a Vroom was exhilarating, to say the least. It was way faster than a horse and also very noisy. Three days after that conversation, Joe Abernathy had once more convinced Claire and Brianna to do as he said. They agreed to let him pay for the tickets only if they could repay him once they came back to the United States. After that, they were taken to a place Mama called the airport and he gasped when he saw how big an airplane really was. 

“This Vroom flies like a bird?” He’d asked, incapable of even fathoming such an outlandish idea. 

“It does,” his Grannie smiled at him. “How are you holding up, darling?”

“I’m alright. Just seasick, like Grandda,” he assured her, even though there were no seas around. “I miss him though. And Papa,” then he looked at his mother and added. “I miss Mandy and David too, they miss us very much.”

“I’m sure they do, buddy,” Brianna’s eyes were shiny when she kissed him on the top of his head. “I miss them too.” 

As it turned out, that Vroom was, indeed, capable of flying. He watched, amazed as the clouds passed by the small circular windows to his left. A very gentle lady—his mother later explained she was a flight attendant and that her job was to care for the passengers of the flight—had brought him water and something to eat and he was pleased to realise his discomfort had been nearly vanquished. He knew better than to ask any questions, Mama had promised to answer all of them when they were alone, yet he couldn’t help but wonder how something so big could fly like a bird. 

He knew the journey from the Colonies to Scotland took months, therefore he assumed they’d need a place for the airplane to rest before continuing. To his utter astonishment, they landed hours later and he even heard an auld lady complaining about how long it took for them to get there. 

The bus to Inverness—because apparently there were Vrooms that were big enough to carry many people, but not too good as to fly—left at half past two and Jemmy, despite being tired, kept gazing at the moving landscape, watching trees pass by them so fast they became a blur. Mama was sitting next to him and he could see she was nervous. He had a strange feeling at the bottom of his tummy as well, but he knew it was because of the imminent rendezvous with his other father. Jemmy would be lying if he said he wasn’t impatient, first he had a terrible reaction to the so called vaccines and now he had to wait for God knows how long before finding Roger. On a second thought, he did agree with the auld lady from the airplane, it was taking them quite a long time to get there. 

“‘Tis alright, Mama,” he held her hand with his small one. “We shall find him.”

That didn’t seem to calm her nearly as much as he had expected. 

“It’s a shot in the dark, honey,” she muttered. “I don’t know if he’d stay in the Reverend’s house.”

Once they arrived in Inverness, his grandmother said she’d give them time and looked at Brianna as though she wanted to say something else. Then, Grannie bent down and hugged him tightly. 

“Take care of your Mama, will you?” She asked, pulling back a little to look him in the eye. 

“Aye.”

“Good,” she got up to her feet. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He thought they would need to ask around to see if anyone there knew of a Roger Wakefield, but Brianna held his hand and pulled him through the streets, not once stopping to ask for directions. She took him to a farther part of town, under the constant threat of rain. The sky was grey, despite the sultry day, and the strange noises Jemmy had been hearing since his first day in the future seemed to subside considerably as they got farther and farther away from the centre of the town.

It took him a while to realise that his mother had taken him to a large, well-kept garden. There were daisies and yellow lilies everywhere, and the house that stretched out before them was nothing like the cabins they owned at Fraser's Ridge. The house was huge, with thick stone walls and windows that were ajar. Two steps, also made of stone, gave access to a solid dark wooden door. Unlike the other houses Jemmy had observed, this one didn't have a car parked out front.

“Does he live here?” Jemmy asked, feeling like he might get sick again. His face must’ve been greenish because his mother leaned down toward him. 

“We don’t have to do it,” she said. “If you don’t want to, we can go back.”

Jemmy fought the urge to nod. He’d always known he had another father, someone his mother loved before she married his Papa. His older brother, Willie, wasn’t his father’s biological son either and, yet, both of them loved John very much. 

“Will ye go in with me?” he asked. He hated to sound so scared and childish, he needed to be brave like Papa. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she forced a smile, squeezing his hand gently before taking a step forward. 

***

The woman who opened the door recognized Brianna immediately. She was short and stocky, with long, straight brown hair. She wore a thick dark green wool coat and a beige skirt that reached her knee—scandalous, Jemmy thought. Even his mothers trousers seemed more appropriate. The woman’s nose was long and her lips were thin, her eyes seemed to want to pop out when she saw them standing in the doorway.

“Brianna?” She looked oddly shocked and also disconcerted.

“Fiona, it’s so nice to see you again”, his mother took a step toward the woman, who backed away with that expression of disbelief on her face. 

“What are ye doing here?”

Brianna shifted her weight from one leg to the other, now visibly uncomfortable.

“I didn't mean to come unannounced,” she explained. “But I wasn’t sure whether Roger was still living here.”

Acknowledgment seemed to hit her hard and the woman raised a hand to her forehead.

“Does he know ye were coming?” She asked, dismissing the question shortly after. “No, of course not. He wouldna have left for the sermon if he did. Aye, I’m sorry! I’m being very rude, aren’t I? I’m so sorry. It’s just that I’ve never thought I’d see you again!”

That seemed to calm his mother’s nerves a bit. He secretly shared the feeling of relief. His father wasn’t there. He wasn’t far, but he still had some time before facing him. 

Fiona seemed to notice his presence and her eyes darted down. It took her a full second to gasp.

“Holy Mother of God! It’s you. You have his eyes.”

After a rather awkward introduction, Jemmy and Brianna learned that Fiona was Roger’s wife. He’d just left to go to the church, but Fiona used the house’s telephone to call him asking him to come back immediately. Jemmy didn’t know how much she’d told his father and he wished she had already warned him about his presence there. He didn’t want to be a surprise, even though that was exactly what he was. Would he be an unwanted one? 

Fiona, as he had come to notice, was one of those people who chatted a lot when they were undeniably nervous. She made them coffee and offered some biscuits, which Jemmy promptly accepted, before sitting down and blurting out dozens of questions. 

How long had they been here? A couple of weeks. How had they come back? Through a circle of stones in the United States. How was Jemmy feeling after such a harsh journey? He had felt terrible for a couple of days, but being vaccinated proved to be the worst part so far. Had they come alone? No, Claire had gone to find something they’ve hidden for her two hundred years ago. How long were they planning to stay? 

That question came with a hint of forced casualness. 

“We can’t go back before Litha next month,” Brianna explained. 

“Oh, so ye are staying here in Scotland until June?”

Brianna shook her head. 

“I wouldn’t dare to go through the stones at Craigh na Dun again,” she shivered. “The last thing I want is to be on a ship for months. No, we’re going back to the States soon. It’s… closer, I guess.”

“Aye,” Fiona agreed. “Ye came all this way to say ‘hi’ then.”

Brianna straightened up slightly, not losing her composure.

“Well, this isn’t a trip I can take every now and then so I figured I would take this opportunity to check up on him and—”

“Torn his heart apart once again.”

“Fiona—”

“Roger was devastated when he came back,” Fiona continued and Jemmy resisted the urge to throw his coffee at her. He knew his mother wouldn’t want him to be rude. “He followed ye two hundred years in the past and ye turned your back on him.” Jemmy’s head snapped up abruptly. “He gave up on everything for ye and ye gave up on him.”

“Fiona, I’d appreciate it if you kept your biased opinions to yourself.”

“My father can travel through the stones?” Both women looked at him.

“Ye haven’t told the lad?”

“It’s not my tale to tell.”

“Told me what?”

“Jemmy—”

“Your father went after both of you,” Fiona’s gaze went from Brianna to him. “He went back in time to find yer mother and found her marrit to another man.”

“Roger needed to be here,” Brianna stood up, furious. “I told him he needed to be here. Jemmy would need him here. I never said he couldn’t visit us.”

“Could you blame him for not wanting to go back? I reckon ye didn’t love him anymore. I respect that. Ye told him so before you left and he followed you anyway. That’s on him. Still, I can never forgive ye for what you’ve done to him.”

“You don’t have to forgive me for anything,” Brianna sounded outraged. “This was a mistake. Jemmy, let’s go.”

“You made my father leave us,” he got up as well, eyes burning with tears. 

“He needed to be here, honey,” his mother closed the distance between them in two strides, reaching down to take him by the shoulders. “The night you were born, there was someone in our house. You know what happened.”

“The fire—”

“Yes, the fire. Papa and I were in the house when the fire started. Someone saved us. Someone who met Roger here, in the future,” she gave a disgusted look towards Fiona. “Roger knew he had to be here otherwise we would have died. Me, Papa and you. He stayed here to save you. ”

“He could’ve visited,” he whispered, his voice barely audible because of the lump in his throat.

“Oh, buddy. You know how terrible it is to go through the stones.”

Jemmy freed himself from his mother's hands, clenching his little fists.

“Papa said he’d do anything to be here with us. He’d go through the stones for me!”

“Yer father is a better man than I am, lad,” the husky, gravelly voice came from behind them and Jemmy turned on his heel to see the tall figure in front of the door. Roger MacKenzie was as tall as Grandda, but his hair was short and dark, plastered to his head from the torrential rain outside. Brianna made a strangled noise and Fiona sighed in resignation. The man's eyes, however, were fixed on the boy. At that moment, Jemmy understood what his father had said that morning in Ocracoke. Fiona had recognized him the same way.

Jemmy had his father's eyes.

Chapter Text

His anger vanished as quickly as it had flourished, leaving him with that empty sensation at the bottom of his stomach. He felt as it rose to his chest, going all the way to his throat and forming an even bigger lump. Jemmy had always known he had two fathers—so did his mother, which made him feel strangely good about it—, but that also meant he had always wondered why Roger never wanted to be a part of his life. He’s from far away, buddy , Brianna used to tell him. Later on, he understood the distance between him and his biological father could never be covered. That made everything easier, he didn’t choose not to be part of Jem’s life, he couldn’t be.

Except, however, that distance had been covered. Jemmy was there and Roger was there, at the same time. To learn that, if his father had wanted, they could’ve met before made Jemmy want to leave. You have your mother’s temper , Grannie used to tell him whenever he got mad at Germain. And she got it from your Grandda. 

Instead of running away or throwing a tantrum, he swallowed the lump in his throat and inhaled deeply through his nose before bowing respectfully; one leg extended at a forty-five degree angle, one hand against his stomach and the other raised backwards. Roger MacKenzie might be his biological father, as Grannie had explained, but John Grey had raised him as the son of a lord and he would behave as such. 

“‘Tis pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Father,” he hated how shaky his voice sounded in his ears, but he held his pose for a few more seconds until he had the courage to lift his green eyes to Roger's direction again.

He feared his father would mock him or, somehow even worse, pity his inadequate manners for that century. Instead, Roger bowed as well. 

“It is a pleasure, indeed”, he added, eyes still fixed on Jemmy. “Ye’ve grown quite a bit, haven’t ye?”

Anger, sadness and, most of all, joy came rushing through the little boy’s body and he let go of his manners, running towards his father’s embrace. 

***

Later that night, Jemmy felt the mattress sink slightly and his mother's hand stroked his red hair affectionately. It hadn’t been easy for her to face the consequences of the choice she had made more than ten years ago, but he was thankful for the opportunity she was giving him. It was a strange situation, albeit he was already accustomed to some strangeness since he could remember. He opened his eyes and found Brianna’s gaze upon him. 

“Are ye alright, Mama?”

She laughed through her nose.

“I’m the one who should be asking you that.”

Jemmy shifted under the covers, sliding to the right and leaving a space for his mother to lie down beside him. It had been Roger's idea for him to sleep there—that way they could spend more time together when they woke up—but Jemmy had asked his mother to stay there with him, much to his stepmother's displeasure. He was old enough to recognize when Brianna was uncomfortable, but felt all his nervousness vanish when she had nodded. She called the inn they’d rented to ask them to warn Grannie about their decision to spend the night at the MacKenzie’s. Jemmy felt the urge to sigh in relief.

Brianna took the space next to her son, still wearing the same clothes Uncle Joe had provided them in the States. Her hair was pulled back in a bun and she released it before covering herself with the quilt. 

“Father’s wife doesna like us, does she?” He asked, staring at the wooden beams in the ceiling.

Brianna sighed.

“Fiona’s a good woman,” she replied after a while. “She’s kind and clever and she’s always loved your father.” 

“Were ye friends?”

“I wouldn’t say friends ,” she placed her hand on his cheek. “I met her almost twelve years ago. Your Grannie brought me to Scotland when she heard the Reverend, Roger’s guardian, had passed away. I met Fiona and your father that day. It was before I learned about the circle of stones and time-traveling. Before I learned about my biological father.”

“Father,” he still didn’t know how to call Roger. ‘Father’ seemed extremely formal and unaffectionate, but John was Papa and nothing else sounded appropriate. “Did he help ye find Grandda?”

“He did, yes,” Brianna agreed. “He was there for me when your Grannie went through the stones to find Jamie.”

“‘Twas when you fell in love wi’ each other?” He wanted to know.

His mother took a long time to answer that one, so much so that Jemmy propped himself up on his elbow to see if she had fallen asleep. 

“Yes,” she finally answered. “I guess you’re right. I was feeling lonely and Roger was the only friend I had who understood what I was going through. He knew about Jamie and about the stones, so it felt easy to love him.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you stop loving him?”

Brianna's brown eyes stared at him for a brief second, as if she'd been taken aback by that question.

“When you grow up in a burning house you get used to thinking the whole world is on fire. But it isn’t. I loved Daddy, my other father, Frank. But he wasn’t the right man for Grannie. Her heart belonged to Jamie. I hadn’t met John at that time, but I knew my heart did not belong to Roger. It’s a strange thing… to be in love. It’s even stranger to know you don’t love someone the way they love you. I could never go back to a burning house, so I left.”

Jemmy didn’t say anything. Maybe because he couldn’t fully comprehend what his mother meant, but mostly because he knew she was being honest. He had been angry before, when he thought she’d kept him from his biological father. Now he knew she was trying her best. 

“Are you mad at me, buddy?”

“Nay,” he answered. “But, Mama, I do think we ought to stop burning houses at some point.”

At that, Brianna laughed and Jemmy knew they would be alright. He had two fathers, yes, but he also had an amazing mother and, no matter what came their way, she’d always be there for him.

Chapter Text

Inverness, 1996

It had been raining since dawn, which was bread-and-butter to the population of Scotland. Dark clouds gathered in the sky, like a dense, heavy mass pouring out its restlessness constantly on the land below. Roger was on the ground at Jemmy's feet, his knees sunk in the mud and his arms filthy up to the elbow. He swore under his breath, no longer as vigorous as when he'd started digging. The shovel shaft, long forgotten on the ground, still seemed to mock them, as if it had snapped in half just to spite them. Jemmy's fingers gripped the umbrella's handle tighter and he looked around, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he waited for the raging spirits of the Scottish clansmen to arrive to put an end to that sacrilege.

“Da,” he murmured, peering over his left shoulder. “Hurry up! We’ll get caught.” 

“Nonsense,” Roger grumbled, still digging with his bare hands. “If anyone is stupid enough to come here in this weather—” he cursed again, this time in Gaelic, before continuing. “Then we deserve to be caught red handed.”

Jemmy wasn’t worried about the living. His mother was a scientist, an engineer. He was not superstitious, not in the slightest. He was also not a child. He’d turned twenty-four a few months earlier and fought pirates in burning houses. A few ghosts should not scare him. However, there was some sort of sombre energy surrounding Culloden Moor that made every bone in his body shiver, neither from the cold nor the drenched clothes. He held the umbrella a little higher, trying his best to protect his father from the rain—even though both of them were wetter than a catfish. It was wrong, plain and simple. They shouldn’t be disturbing the graves of so many tortured souls, but Roger was determined. 

“Da,” he tried again. “Are ye sure—?”

“Found it!”

Jemmy went around to face his father, whose slippery fingers fought hard to lift a shoe size wooden box.

“What is it?” He asked, eyeing the box with suspicion. 

“A box,” Roger answered automatically, not bothering to look up. Jemmy bit his tongue, smothering his urge to make a snarky comment. 

“Aye,” he agreed, using his free hand to get his red hair away from his eyes. “Any idea what’s inside?”

Roger made that Scottish noise his Grandda unabashedly used every now and then, which probably meant he did not have the faintest clue.

Jemmy had arrived back in the twentieth century a couple of months ago, only to find his father nearly drowning in old notes and diaries from his own father, Reverend Wakefield. Fiona—who seemed a lot more welcoming towards her husband’s time-travelling son as the years went by—told him that Roger had found a note the Reverend left in one of his many diaries along with an old piece of the local newspaper. At first glance, Roger thought it was merely part of the Reverend’s research of Claire Randall’s disappearance since the piece he had cut out was a picture of Claire in the hospital. He’d seen that same picture before and so had Claire and Brianna when they came to Scotland twenty six years ago. 

“It was the note that made me uneasy,” he had told Jemmy once they were alone. “My father was a curious man. Whatever Claire told him, it must have made the historian in him crazy.”

“What’s it say?”

“Coordinates,” Roger took a sip from his tea. “And two dates. October 31st, 1996. November 1st, 1950.” 

***

The coordinates, they discovered after two days of research, pointed to the place where Scottish history had taken one of its hardest blows: Culloden Moor. Jemmy had never visited the place before that day, there was no reason for doing so. His Grandda was alive—different timelines, but still alive—and so were Uncle Ian, Auntie Jenny and his mother’s cousins. Scotland had lost far too much because of that battle, but Jemmy hadn’t. It made him feel selfish, but he was glad that site held almost no meaning to his life.

Back at the Wakefield’s, he drew himself a bath and soaked until the cold had left his bones and his fingers were so wrinkled he feared they would never go back to normal. For him, bathing was a lot more than just getting rid of filth, it was one of the few moments he could focus entirely on himself. Time-travelling was as much a blessing as it was a curse. He never felt present , whether he was in the Past or the Present itself. He missed Mama and Papa and his siblings. Luckily enough, Samhain was approaching quite fast and he’d be able to see them again. 

A hard knock on the bathroom door made him jump, his heart racing in his chest. 

“Jem!” It was his Da, excitement making his voice sound almost childlike. “Jemmy, come down at once! Ye won’t believe what’s in the box!”

He cursed under his breath with such a fierceness that would make his mother mad and his grandmother proud. He sank his head up to his nose in the warm water, exhaling through his nostrils and waiting for the once disturbed silence to descend on him again.

“Jeremiah!” Another knock hard enough to make the door shake. 

“Aye,” he yelled, feeling like a teenager again. “I heard ye the first time, Da. I’m coming.” 

He heard the sound of Roger’s steps going down the set of stairs and counted until sixty before whining one more time and finally getting out of the bathtub. The air in the bathroom was heavy with steam from the bath; Jemmy reached for the towels and dried his upper body before stepping completely out of the tub. He walked over to the mirror and ran one hand over the blurry surface, analysing his reflection as part of his daily ritual. He wasn't conceited, not more than the usual at least, but his eyes were always searching for any indication that his comings and goings through the veil of time had done some sort of permanent damage to his genetic signature.

He wasn't quite sure what to expect, but nothing felt different. He was still six feet tall, broad shoulders covered in freckles that ran down the coppery hairs on his chest. There were muscles there that he didn’t have before spending time in the Aphrodite , even after two years since the incident at Mount Josiah. There was also a small scar on his flat stomach where Uncle Joe had operated on him when he had appendicitis. No one thought he would survive, but he was a Fraser. Stubborn enough to beat Death herself. 

His hair, like his mother and grandfather's, was still red, thick and curly, short enough to look good in the twentieth century and yet long enough to fall into his eyes. Speaking of them, the two emerald-like circles stared at him through the reflection as he heard his name being called again. 

“I said I’m coming!”

He found dry clothes—a white button-down shirt, a dark green wool sweater, loose jeans and brown socks—outside the bathroom door and dressed as quickly as his bad mood would allow. Not bothering to find shoes, he took the stairs two at a time and headed toward Roger's office. 

The walls of said office, according to legend, had been covered in flowery wallpaper, but no sign of this interior design choice could be seen behind the many bookcases crammed with historical documents, old books with yellowing pages, crumbling parchment paper and artefacts that belonged in a museum. The rough wooden floor had been covered in thick, dark carpet that had coffee stains on it, despite Fiona's efforts to make the place minimally habitable. Historians, as Roger himself had said, had a bad habit of forgetting about the real world and living in the past. Jemmy wondered if the coffee stains were somehow part of the history of the place.

Da was sitting in a high-backed brown leather chair behind an immense dark oak desk, which was also overfilled with books and other pieces of parchment paper. In the middle of the desk was the open wooden box, all its contents arranged around it.  More paper , Jemmy thought bitterly.

“Sit down, sit down,” Roger told him, not moving his eyes from the tiny notebook he had in hands. “Ye won’t believe it!”

“The Reverend had nowhere else to cram wi’ paper, therefore he decided to dig holes in historical sites to store his findings?” He tried, raising a brow.

Roger laughed, too absorbed in his discovery to notice the sarcasm.

“He had been researching,” he said, finally meeting his son’s eyes. Jemmy sat down, wondering how long it would take for him to be dismissed. He loved history. He lived history, for Christ’s sake! When he was ten, he spent hours listening to Roger’s lectures about many different periods and dynasties. Once he was back with his family in the familiar eighteenth century, he missed the way his Da would go in a trance when talking about something that happened many years ago. When he went through the stones again, at sixteen, and once again at twenty one, he’d always go straight to his father’s home in Inverness, ready to learn as much as possible. However, ever since he had saved his parents from that fire two years ago, Jemmy began to realise that he didn't need to learn about history. He could see it with his own eyes if he wished. As though he could read his mind, Roger continued: “I think it’s time for us to try.”

That caught his attention, making him straighten up and lean forward. The old chair creaked under his weight.

“Are ye being serious?” 

“Aye.”

“Why now though?”

Roger handed him the notebook. The pages were yellow and the handwriting was hard to understand, smudged around the edges as if the pen was leaking more ink than necessary. 

“The Reverend had been researching more than just disappearances,” Roger explained as Jemmy’s eyes went through the pages. “He was also curious about ‘appearances’ and how they were explained. The folk blamed the fairies, of course. There are stories, from when I was a lad and even longer than that. People going into the woods and never coming back. Wee wicked children going missing after playing around mystical places. Women taken by the fairies to have their beauty drained and their wombs stolen.”

“People disappear all the time,” Jemmy said, looking up to find his father’s back. Roger had gone into one of his trances. 

“Aye, indeed,” he agreed. “But people don’t tend to appear , at least not as often.” 

“And the Reverend found one of these ‘appearances’?”

“He thought so,” Roger turned to face him. “October 31st. A young man was found at the bottom of a hill, wearing old-fashioned clothes and speaking a strange language. The Reverend assumed that strange language was, in fact, English from the sixteenth century.”

“Craigh na Dun?”

Roger nodded. “The family who found him was curious about another case of a woman who had been taken by the fairies and had come back, a couple of years earlier.” 

“Grannie,” Jemmy whispered, feeling his stomach drop.

“They thought he was an actor, most likely shooting a movie about Queen Elizabeth, but they could barely understand what he said and then they tried to take him to the hospital.”

Roger placed a piece of paper in front of him. It was from the Inverness Gazette, dated November 2nd, 1950. A young man, approximately thirty-five years old, was found wandering around the stone circle of Craigh na Dun two days after attacking a couple of tourists at the same location. The tourist, who tried to help him get in their car to go to the nearest hospital, said he became crazy and violent and punched the husband, Conrad Morton, before running away on foot. 

“He must’ve been terrified,” Jemmy’s finger touched the picture of the man lightly. He had a round head and big eyes, with dark hair long enough to frame his face. He looked frightened. Was it anywhere near what his grandmother felt the first time she crossed? She didn’t know what was happening or when she was. Somehow, it must’ve been worse. Grannie had told him how scared and disoriented she’d been the first time, but she managed to understand quickly what was going on, even if she found it hard to believe. He remembered how overwhelming it was, to go to the Future, and he had his mother with him all along, someone from that time. He couldn’t even fathom how frightening it would be for someone who crossed by accident. 

“They never figured out who he was,” Roger continued. “No family, no dental records. He kept praying and warding off demons while being interrogated by the police department. The sheriff at the time said the man believed he was in hell.”

“He prayed in Latin ?”

“Aye, of course,” Roger sat down again. “It must’ve been a terrifying sight, I assume. A mad and violent man, found near a fairy circle, speaking auld English and apparently cursing in Latin. I wonder what the word ‘demon’ sounded like back in his time. ‘Twas probably very similar to how we say it nowadays.”

“What happened to him?”

“Why, what do ye think happened? He was arrested because people didn’t know what to do with him. They couldn’t keep him though, as he didn’t seem right in the head, so they sent him away to a psychiatric ward in Edinburgh.”

Jemmy felt a shiver go up his spine. 

“The Reverend was intrigued and reached out to him. He was not the only one,” his Da raised his furry brows, taking the notebook from his hands before going through the pages. When he found what he was looking for, he handed it to Jemmy again. “Here. November 7th, 1950. He wrote about a tall red headed young Scot who, apparently, was also quite interested in that specific mad man.”

Jemmy sighed. 

“There are many tall red headed young Scots out there.”

“Aye,” Roger agreed. “But I don’t know many tall red headed young Scots who can disappear without leaving any trace of their existence behind. Not unless they time-travel.”

“People disappear all the time,” he repeated. “What happened after that? What happened to the man?”

“Don’t know,” his Da admitted. “I can’t understand half of what’s written. I need time.”

“Ye seemed to have read quite a lot already, Da.”

Roger laughed.

“Ye take bloody long baths, that’s why.”

“What do we do now?”

“What do ye want to do, lad?”

Jemmy had seen that film before. 

“Samhain is in two days,” he murmured. “D’ye want to know what happened?”

“Do ye?”

Jemmy sighed again and then smiled. He’d made his decision the moment his Dad had told him it was time. The feeling was bittersweet, though. He would finally do something he’d been wanting to do since forever and never had the courage. Yet, that meant he couldn’t go home. Not for a while, at least. He prayed his parents would forgive him.   

“Aye, ye know me. Meddling since a wee lad.”

Mama and Papa would have to wait. He had a mystery in his hands. 

Chapter Text

Inverness, 1950

From all the things he expected upon emerging from the circle of stones in Craigh na Dun in the 1950’s, being arrested as soon as he set foot in the snow covered bottom of the hill was not one of them. In hindsight, he should’ve known the police would still be going over the location, trying to find some sort of hint to the John Doe’s identity. It was supposed to be November 1st,  after all. Still twenty-four hours before they actually found the man wandering around and trying to get back through the stones. At least he hoped he wasn’t too early again or, even worse, too late. 

Jemmy knew he didn’t match the description provided by the Morton’s, but neither of the two police officers seemed to care much for that detail. Instead, the taller one, with broad shoulders and an even bigger stomach, grabbed him by the wrists and Jemmy had to fight the urge to free himself with a punch in the other man’s wide side, like his Grandda had taught him. 

The other officer looked like he was rather bored, which he knew to be a lie since nothing slightly fun ever happened in Inverness since his Grannie’s disappearance and reappearance in the 1940’s. He was short and skinny, with a big moustache covering his mouth as he spoke in that monotone voice Jemmy had seen in movies. The line, however, was different from what he expected. 

“Ye do not have to say anything, but it may harm yer defence if ye do not mention when questioned something which ye later rely on in court. Anything ye do say may be given in evidence.”

There was a small part of him that proved to be concerned about how that unfortunate situation would unfold; would he be convicted of a crime he didn’t commit? Was there a crime to be committed? The answer to the first question was no, probably not. He would find a way to the Reverend, that was how these things usually worked. No matter how desperately one tried to change the Future, it was, more often than not, set in stone. The other part of him, on the other hand, was absolutely annoyed. 

They drove in silence, except for the wheezing sound that the bigger officer made every time he breathed. Jemmy could hardly ever stay awake while inside a moving automobile. There was something about the way the car jolted slightly that made him want to sleep almost instantly. In that situation, however, he did his best to focus on the landscape outside, leaning his head toward the window and touching his forehead against the freezing glass.

For the most part, he didn’t have a plan. The majority of the Reverends notes were illegible, either because of the ink he used or because of the water that managed to soak some of the contents from the box when Roger lifted it up. They knew they didn’t have much time though. The man, who was never actually named or identified, died a month after being admitted to the Psychiatric Ward of Edinburgh. They came up with a theory of how he died, but he didn’t have the time to check its validity with Uncle Joe before going to the circle of stones himself. Samhain came and with it the decision to cross as hastily as he had.  

Crossing had been challenging. The reason Jemmy had failed to notice the police officers was because his head felt like it was about to explode, as if he'd been on a roller coaster and his brain was still pounding against his skull, not knowing which direction to go. Mama had a theory about how the stones worked. She was a woman of science, just like his grandmother. Both his Papa and Da, oddly enough, believed in the power of chance. They didn't dare call it magic—Da was still the son of a Reverend and Papa was as much of a Christian as anyone else born in the eighteenth century—but that was what made the most sense to them. Either way, Jemmy knew that whether it was science or magic, those stones had a voice like the sirens from the auld tales. They sang, whispered and screamed, trying to lure him toward the rift between time and space. 

His eyes felt heavy, but he forced them to stay open whilst he continued thinking. He had walked through the circles of Ocracoke and Craigh na Dun nearly a dozen times, and each time he thought his body would crumble to pieces and he would turn to dust in the void between times. He knew the only thing keeping him from exploding into a thousand pieces were the gemstones he carried with him whenever he needed to cross. Uncle Joe had said that kind of voyage was pretty expensive, and now he understood why.

It was Roger who had explained to him the theory that the circles of stone were not just a doorway that only opened from one side to the other. 

“What if they’re more like a lift?” He had said when they discovered the newspaper from 1770’s Virginia reporting the fire that would destroy Mount Josiah. “I believe ye can choose where to go, if you’re powerful enough to drown the voices around ye.”

Jemmy was powerful. His Grannie believed the ability to cross was related to genetics and maybe she was correct. He was the son of two time-travellers, his entire existence challenged the concept of Time.

Once, two years ago, he had chosen to save his parents and ended up in 1768, twenty-four years before his own birth. He was a couple of years too early, of course, but he spent his first week unconscious in a hut, being watched by the pirates he’d later kill to save his parents. Now, when he chose to find the Reverend, Time and Space bent themselves under the pressure of his will once again and opened the gate to what would be, hopefully, 1950. Perhaps he’d never know how he did it, but his mind reached for the correct year and he could only hope his essence would follow. 

Feeling quite drowsy, he leaned forward. Something hot and wet ran down his upper lip, but Jemmy just blinked to bring the officers into focus again.

“What day is today?” He asked, feeling a weird lump in his throat. 

“November 1st,” said the skinnier officer, not looking back. “Did ye hit yer head rolling down the hill, lad?”

“What year?”

They laughed, ignoring his question. 

“What year?” He insisted, feeling something running down his chin. He held the sleeve of his button-down and rubbed it on his face, trying to get rid of what he thought was snot. His eyes caught a glimpse of dark red before his brain had time to register the dark edges around his vision. 

It would happen sooner or later, he always thought. No gemstone could protect him forever. 

“I’m going to—” he whispered before his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his body jolted against the seat belt starting to convulse.

Chapter Text

The lights that blinded him were too bright and white and definitely uninviting. Jemmy had been in a hospital before—when he was thirteen and had just gone through the stones again to visit his Da—his appendix had tried to kill him, and he decided he infinitely preferred Grannie’s cosy, spacious office. The second thing he noticed after opening his eyes, besides the depressing lighting, was the pastel green wallpaper. He was no expert in the art of healing, but it was hard to imagine a more discouraging environment for a patient.

I’m in a hospital , he thought matter-of-factly. Why am I in a bloody hospital? 

It was only when he tried to get up that panic set in, rushing towards his heart through his veins as if his blood had frozen and thickened. His arms were heavy as they had never been before and he gasped, hearing something beep to his left. Was he tied up? No, he was in a hospital. Those people healed others, like Grannie. He tried to speak, his lips parting with some difficulty as if they were glued together, but his voice seemed to die halfway. His heart pounded against his chest, about to fight its way through his dry throat. The beeping beside him grew louder and he tried again, making a hoarse noise that could barely be considered a cry for help. 

His whole body ached as though he were still carrying barrels into the Aphrodite and his skin seemed to tingle with that uncomfortable feeling left over from the crossing. When was the last time he'd felt that way? Four years ago, when he'd fought the suffocating tendrils of Time in order to get to the year he'd save his parents from the monstrous Stephen Bonnet.

Painfully, Jemmy sat up and threw the quilts away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet touched the cold floor and, with a brusque tug, he ripped out the IV tube that was lodged in the inside of his forearm. He was surprised, even though he shouldn't have been, when his knees didn't support his body weight and he dropped to the ground, arms flung forward in search of something to hold on to and break his fall. Whatever he found fell to the floor with him, making a noise loud enough to attract the attention of the entire hospital. He cursed in Gaelic, his voice sounding strange to his ears; hoarse and broken, not used in days. 

With all his dignity thrown out the window, he stayed there, on all fours on the floor as the world spun rapidly before his eyes. Two people rushed into the room, probably nurses, yelling something he couldn't hear in his shock as two pairs of strong hands lifted him off the floor, dragging him toward the bed. One of the knots in his green hospital gown had come undone, and Jemmy was quite aware, amid the chaos he'd wreaked in a few seconds, that he had his buttocks out in the open.

He was carefully sat back on the bed and tried to look at his benefactors, but the world still seemed to spin too fast for him to force himself to focus on the faces before him.

“Told ye we should’ve handcuffed him to the bed,” said a male voice. Jemmy recognized him almost immediately. It was Mr. Fat Officer. 

“Then he would’ve made a bigger mess,” the other voice was also male, but English rather than Scottish. “You can wait in the hallway, I’ll call you if he’s well enough to talk.”

“He could be dangerous.”

“He can barely stand,” insisted the second man. “You’ve been following me like a vulture for the past week, scaring patients, guarding his door like a hell hound and I’ve let you do your job. Now, let me do mine. Out.”

The officer humphed, but did as he was told. 

Jemmy blinked a few times, almost sighing in relief as the world began to come into focus again. The man before him was not very tall, but he had strong arms and a posture that commanded authority. His skin was as dark as his hair. He was wearing a white shirt and pants and a name tag that was too far away for Jemmy to read it. With all the calm in the world, the nurse bent down to lift the heart monitor that Jemmy had dropped in his attempt to walk out the front door.

“I apologise,” he hoarsely whispered.

The nurse glanced in his direction and muttered something that Jemmy interpreted as a "don't worry about it" turning his attention back to the device. Once the monitor was back on, the man turned and walked toward him, standing on tiptoe to take his head in his hands and gently turn it around.

“Did you hit your head?” He asked, letting go of him and looking him in the eye. “Any tenderness?”

“Nay,” Jemmy immediately replied, surprised at how easily the accent came back to him. He was still in Scotland—at least he hoped he was—, but his accent only got thicker like his Grandda’s when he was angry or nervous. “I’ve been told I have a thick skull. ‘Tis a family thing.”

The nurse, Francis —now Jemmy could read his name tag—, raised an eyebrow. 

“Why, I’ve seen worse family things ,” he said, getting hold of Jemmy’s hand. The gesture had been casual, just the routine procedure to check his heartbeat, but Jemmy felt his heart speed up slightly. That nurse was very handsome.

“Aye? Such as?” He mumbled, looking away. 

“Heart diseases, diabetes, cancer.”

“Oh!”

“Your heartbeat is—”

“I wasna expecting to fall,” he promptly answered.

Francis smiled. 

“Why, I wasna expecting you to try to get up either,” he admitted. “An effing stupid idea, if you ask me. You’ve been unconscious for almost a week and—”

“A week?” Jemmy blinked. Damned be those fucking stones. “What day is today?”

“November 6th.”

Bloody fucking hell.

“What year?” he asked, starting to get up again. 

Francis' hands pressed his shoulders down, not letting him up. 

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”

“Tell me the year,” Jemmy’s expression must’ve been quite convincing because Francis rolled his eyes and let go of him. 

“The year of our Lord, 1950,” his voice was full of derision, but Jemmy blew out the air he'd been holding through his nose.

“I must leave at once,” this time he knew what to expect, so he stood careful not to put his whole weight in only one leg. Francis took a step back, but didn’t get out of his way. 

“Hold on a second, mate,” he placed his hand in Jemmy’s chest, probably to keep him stable rather than to push him back. “You’re not going anywhere. You had a bloody cardiac arrest in the back of a police car and spent the last five days unconscious. You’ll need to do a lot more than just ask me politely, which you haven’t done at all by the way.” 

“Ye can’t keep me here.”

“Oh, but I can. Wandering around the hills where a man was assaulted, being arrested with no identification whatsoever and having a cardiac arrest that nearly put you in a coma? I can do a lot more than just keep you here. In fact, if you’d rather have this conversation with our friend Officer Douglas, I’d be happy to bring him in.” 

“Am I going to die?” He asked, plain and simple. 

Francis seemed horrified. 

“What? No! We don’t know what caused the cardiac arrest, but all of your exams came back fine. You’re as healthy as a bull.” 

And also as stubborn as one. He knew what caused his heart to stop. He’d need a fucking bigger gemstone next time.

“Then ye need to do me a favour.”

“I do not need—”

“Call Reverend Wakefield,” he demanded. “Tell him I ken Claire Randall. Tell him I have the answers for his questions.”

***

Francis did, in fact, what he asked him to do. He promised he’d call the Reverend first thing in the morning—it was late at night therefore no visitors would be allowed—and also assured him he would also tell Officer Douglas that Jemmy had been given some sedatives and was sound asleep. 

“Why would ye do that?” he’d asked genuinely curious. Francis seemed like a good man and a quite headstrong nurse, but lying to the authorities also felt like a stretch. 

At that, Francis simply shrugged. 

“He’s been a thorn in my side for five days,” he smiled mischievously. “I try really hard to be a good person, but if you make my job difficult I’ll make sure to return the favour tenfold.”

Jemmy decided he liked the man and tried his best to follow his orders—because they were orders, he wouldn’t dare to think otherwise—to lay down and rest . He would need all his strength now. He had been asleep for five whole days since he crossed, which was less than the last time and yet far too long. What would happen if he tried to cross again? Would his heart stop for good? That was exactly what his mother feared, that crossing over and over again would end up causing some sort of damage to his mind or body. It was scary, knowing that his heart had stopped for what? Minutes? Seconds? Dying was dreadful enough, but dying in between Times was more than he could handle. 

It took him quite some time to fall asleep, his mind tormented with the terrible possibilities of his endeavour. The next morning, however, he woke to see Francis checking in on him with a much larger shadow behind him. Officer Douglas noticed his open eyes and smiled presumptuously, walking towards Jemmy’s bed. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” his eyes were too small for his face. “Ready to answer some questions?”

Jemmy’s glance went involuntarily towards Francis, who didn’t even bother to hide his irritation.

“Eyes on me, pretty boy,” Douglas snapped his fingers before his eyes. “What’s yer name?”

“Jeremy. Jeremy Armstrong.”

It wasn’t a lie, at least not entirely. Where the hell was the Reverend? Had Francis called him already? 

“And what were ye doing at the hill that morning, Jeremy?” 

“Would ye believe me if I told ye ‘twas the fairies?” he answered drily. 

“Ye think that’s funny?” Douglas’ smug smile disappeared. “A woman was kidnapped in those hills a few years ago, a couple was assaulted there the day before we found ye.”

“I was curious,” Jemmy decided for a half-truth. “Everybody knows about the woman, Claire Randall.” The name seemed to catch Francis' attention, but he said nothing. If he hadn’t recognized Claire’s name before, now he certainly did. “‘Twas a stupid idea. I thought that if I wandered there alone I would find something interesting. Perhaps the fairies would even take me wi’ them.”

Douglas frowned. “Aye? Why ye?”

Jemmy shrugged. 

“Ye said it yourself,” he tried not to sound petulant. “I’m a pretty boy.”

He knew he was playing with fire, but he had been doing that his entire life. 

“I am going to take ye for questioning at the station,” Douglas concluded, patting down his bege shirt, probably looking for his handcuffs. “We’ll see if ye are so clever after a few nights behind bars.”

“Officer,” Francis took a step forward. He’d been so quiet up to that moment that Jemmy nearly forgot he was there. “Jeremy can’t go anywhere yet. He must remain under observation for a couple more days before he can leave.”

“Do not test my patience, mate, ” the policeman didn’t even look back. “You’ll do as I say.”

Jemmy straightened up. There was no chance of winning a fight against this man, not in the current state he was in. Still, he wasn't willing to waste time in prison.

“Look, Officer—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the voice came from the door and the three men inside the room turned to look at the auld man by the entrance. Jemmy had never met his other grandfather, Papa’s father, and his Grandda was far too strong to look auld. The Reverend, on the other hand, was exactly like a sixty-year-old man should look like. He wasn’t frail, not even close, but he was short and narrow shouldered, with grey hair and a smile in his thin lips. His eyes had that same intense curiosity he was so familiar with. There was something in the way the Reverend stood there that reminded him of Da. It was only then that Jemmy realised he was meeting his other grandfather. “I’ve heard you wanted to talk to me.”

“Reverend Wakefield,” Officer Douglas greeted him, obviously confused. “Did something happen? I’ll be with ye in a second.”

The Reverend made a casual gesture with his hand, ending the matter before it even began.

“Everything’s fine, Bryan, don’t you worry,” he assured Douglas. “I’m not here for you though. This young man and I have much catching up to do.” 

“Ye know this fellow?”

“Why, yes,” answered the auld man. “He’s a friend of a friend.”

Oddly enough, Douglas took that as the ultimate vote of confidence and the matter was settled. No one would ever question a man of God.

The Officer left, claiming he’d still need to ask a few questions but that they were simply routine procedure. Francis soon followed, still visibly annoyed at so many people getting in the way of him doing his job. Once he was alone with the Reverend, Jemmy realised the predicament of his situation. 

“Ye didna have to lie for me,” he said, laying down again. “I appreciate it though.”

The Reverend approached, sitting in the armchair near his bed. 

“But I haven’t lied, have I?” He smiled and Jemmy saw the glow in his eyes again. He was the blueprint for the historian his father would one day become. It all started with him. “Your friend said you know someone I’m acquainted with.”

“Claire Randall.”

“Quite a formidable woman, that Mrs. Randall. What’s your name?”

“Jeremiah,” Jemmy whispered and he saw the Reverend frown. “Ye can call me Jemmy.”

“Why, Jemmy, I have many questions.”

“I have the answers.”

That was everything Reginald Wakefield needed to hear. For a man of Faith, he lied quite easily. Neither the police department nor the staff from Saint John’s Hospital in Inverness questioned him when he said Jemmy was a family friend and that he’d be staying with him for the next couple of weeks. In reality, everyone seemed ready to be rid of the big inconvenience that had been Jemmy’s presence there. If Francis knew the auld man was lying he didn’t say a thing to his superiors, just barked a series of orders and made him promise to follow them once he got to the Wakefield’s. 

“Aye,” Jemmy agreed for the thousandth time. “I promise.”

“If you show up at our door nearly dead again I’ll make sure you never wake up, Jeremy, ” He knew. 

“I’ll miss ye too.”

“Bloody cocky bastard.”

Jemmy left the hospital with the Reverend twenty-four hours later, completely unaware of how hard it would be to keep that promise. 

Chapter Text

Saint-Germain-en-Laye, 1794

For several months, Brianna had known something was wrong. There was that strange, almost primal feeling in the pit of her stomach that made her spend more time than usual in her sunroom, looking out at the gardens at the front of the property through the huge windows. Day and night, her easel lay untouched, with a fresh canvas that bore only a few uncertain brushstrokes. Her husband, who had always respected her space and who understood that an artist could not be interrupted while creating a work of art, visited her frequently, bringing her tea and cookies to ensure she was eating regularly.

She knew John was concerned as well, but neither of them dared name the reason they were both losing sleep. It had been almost six months. This wasn't the first time their son Jeremiah had promised to return on a specific date and ended up arriving a few months later. Gambling with the circles of stone was not an exact science and Brianna was sure her son didn’t take that responsibility idly, but never had he been so late . 

That night, Brianna didn't turn around at the sound of the French doors opening. Twilight had come and gone, giving way to the stars and full moon in the night sky. She had smiled politely and had a brief conversation with two servants who had come to light the candles and the chandelier so she could work. John had been worried that they might think their mistress was becoming deranged, and as much as she thought she really was getting a few screws loose, she tried her best to fulfil her duties.

John's hands rested gently on her shoulders, moving up and down the curve of her pale neck. Brianna knew he could feel the tension there, but they hadn't needed words for a long time to understand what the other was feeling. Her husband pulled her to him and she closed her eyes, feeling the heat of his chest against her back. There was no place in the world more comfortable than John's arms.

"I told Adélaïde to prepare his bedchambers," John murmured, his lips close to her right ear. "Édouard took a carriage to town. Germain went with him. They shall wait there for a few days.”

“Beltane was a week ago,” Brianna turned, wrapping her arms around her husband's waist. “If he’d crossed, he would’ve been here by now.” 

She felt her husband's lips on the top of her head. "Mandy and David can feel him somewhere. But not here. Not in this time."

“We must be thankful nonetheless,” John said. “Jem’s out there somewhere. He ought to come back eventually, but we should cherish the fact that we know he’s still out there.”

"I should have gone after him by now," Brianna whispered. John's fingers, long and delicate, cupped her chin tenderly and lifted her head so she could look him in the eye.

"Should he not be back by the next fire festival, I will take you to Craigh na Dun myself and wait there until you bring our son back safe and sound.”

Brianna stood on her tiptoes and John bent down slightly to kiss her. It was slow at first, just touching lips for a few seconds. When they pulled away, Brianna's gaze was locked on John's and she saw reflected there all the despair she also felt. He pulled her by the waist, pressing their bodies together as if he wanted their atoms to fuse together. Brianna would have laughed at the thought—both because the idea wasn't so far-fetched and also because she knew John still didn't understand the concept of atoms, protons, and electrons—but the way they had to hold on to each other so tightly to keep from falling apart made her pull him closer as well. 

John had just caught her bottom lip between his teeth when the doors swung open and they broke apart like two teenagers caught in a lewd act.

" Monsieur Armstrong" Bernard, one of the servants, looked like he was about to faint. His dark hair was dishevelled and his face was red as a tomato, either from the rush or the embarrassment of the moment he'd just interrupted Brianna couldn't tell. As though he’d just remembered his position, he bowed awkwardly. “ Madame. ”

"Bernard," John straightened. The passing years had made him immune to the not-so-rare occasions when employees caught him with his hands on his wife. “Are you alright? You seem rather agitated. Did something happen?” 

Brianna seemed rather agitated. She was probably as red as the poor boy.

“ Pardon , milord, ” the young man looked like he was having trouble maintaining his composure as he panted. “I beg your pardon, but you ordered me to come and fetch you had I had word from monsieur Germain.”

Brianna's head snapped back toward her husband. She saw John's back tense and her fingers sought out his almost instinctively.

"They must have arrived in Paris in the early afternoon," John muttered dubiously. “Have they come back already?”

“Have they found my son?” Brianna let go of John's hand and took a step toward the young man.

Bernard, who seemed to be more composed, shook his head. "Pardon, milady , but the messenger made no mention of monsieur Jem."

Her heart sank.

"Messenger?" John put his arm around his wife's back and Brianna buried her face in his chest, trying desperately to control the tears that threatened to roll down her face. Six months. Six months had passed since Jemmy had decided to visit Roger Wakefield in the future. “Has Germain sent this messenger?”

“ Oui, milord.”

“For Christ’s sake, boy!” John's irritated tone made her chest quiver. “Tell us what happened at once! We have no time for foolishness.”

Brianna couldn't see the young man, but John never lost his decorum, especially with someone employed to take care of the household. She knew Bernard must have looked terrified. 

“ Monsieur Germain hasn’t found monsieur Jem,” the boy said, his voice almost breaking. “The carriage broke halfway. Monsieur Germain travelled the rest of the way on foot and managed to find help.”

“Why, prepare the horses. Have someone see that they’ve reached the city unharmed.”

“I took the liberty to give that order myself, milord ,” admitted the young man, blushing again. He was the eldest son of the steward, although too young to replace his arthritic father. “I’ve had Antoine prepare the horses. He’s waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“You, milord. Monsieur Germain found a man who said he’s acquainted with milady. ”

Brianna pulled away from her husband, bringing one hand to her face to get rid of the tears that dared to well up in her eyes.

“A man?” She asked, frowning. “What man?”

It was a silly question. She knew exactly who it was. The lump that formed in her throat seemed to get even tighter and Brianna had to lean on John, fearing she wouldn't be able to stand on her own legs. John called her name, taking her by the arms and pulling her to him, but Brianna was too frightened to respond. She knew something was wrong, she'd felt it for months. Jemmy would never be away from home that long without warning. Something had happened. Something bad.

“Take me to him,” she ordered when she found the strength to speak. “Take me to Roger.”

Chapter Text

The roads to Paris were, on any given day, treacherous at best. So late at night, however, it was almost as if they were asking a group of assailants to jump on them. Brianna didn't care. She was wearing her riding britches and her red hair was tied tightly at the back of her neck. She could feel the cold kiss of a blade against her calf, where she'd stuck the dirk her Da had given her.

They rode in silence, all six of them. Bernard had been clever enough to have more horses prepared as he imagined they’d reach the city faster if they rode instead of inside a carriage. Three of their best men, Jean-Batipste, Fabien and Antoine went along, all three of them with pistols to their sides. The messenger went along, with the promise of double the amount he’d been paid should he guide them to Roger. 

Her mount was faster than theirs. John had given her that mare on their tenth wedding anniversary and Brianna had never seen a more determined beast.

"She has your temper," John had commented, a few seconds before being chased by the mare in question until Antoine, the stableman, managed to get a hold of her.

Jean Grey—as she called her, for the mare had coppery hair as red as her owner—seemed to feel the eagerness with which Brianna leaned forward and launched ahead with all her might, raising a cloud of dust behind them and making John mouth commands while making his brown stallion keep his pace.

It took a few hours for the lights of Paris to become visible in the distance and then another half hour for them to find the inn where the messenger received his payment and disappeared into the shadows of the city.

Even in the twentieth century, Brianna hated Paris. Tourists flocking to take a picture of the Eiffel Tower, the smell of cigarettes in the air and the rudeness of the French had always bothered her. In 1794, things were even worse. The city stank of piss and vomit. The lack of basic sanitation had always been one of the biggest problems for her in living in the past, but it was even more unbearable in cities like Wilmington and Paris. The streets were narrow and poorly lit, and she knew they shouldn't be out there long. There were worse things than pickpockets sneaking around the alleys of that godforsaken place.

“Dine as you see fit,” John told the men. “Gamble if you must, but stay sharp. We might not stay here long.”

Brianna's heart seemed to flutter dangerously inside her chest. She had avoided thinking too much about what Roger's presence in the eighteenth century meant, but standing there, with only a wooden door between them, she couldn't shake the icy hand that had taken hold of her heart. Roger was there, in the past, and Jemmy wasn't with him.

John kissed the top of her head and held her hand before opening the door. By this time of night, most of the candles had gone out, though the fireplace was still slowly burning the last batch of wood. Her eyes found him in an instant; he looked older, not because of the years that had passed, but because of weariness. Roger wasn't the only one still there, a group of young men playing cards and laughing loudly as they drained mugs of cheap ale. Still, he was the only one sitting alone.

"Roger," the name felt awkward on her lips, as if it belonged in a language she no longer knew.

He looked up and Brianna felt her heart sink once more. Those were Jemmy's eyes.

"You haven't aged a day," he said, sliding his index finger along the rim of the mug. “Neither have you, Lord John.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Wakefield,” John said politely, although his whole body seemed to tense up.

“Is it, eh?”

Brianna sat on the wooden bench while John remained standing. Her eyes scanned the figure before them, as if she could barely recognize him. He was still Roger, of course. The same green eyes and broad shoulders, but his dark hair was dirty and dishevelled. He was also thinner and the beard made him look unkempt. The black circles around his eyes made her want to take his hand in hers, but she held back.

“Where’s he?” she asked at once and Roger laughed. 

“You can feel it, can’t ye?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “There’s something wrong.”

Brianna held her breath and mentally thanked herself for being seated. John's hand, always comforting, felt almost like a dead weight on her shoulder. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, opening them again when John spoke.

“Jemmy was supposed to have come back on Samhain last year,” his voice was barely a whisper. “He’s been late before, as it’s expected of someone treading such treacherous waters as the veils of time, but never has he been negligent with telling us about his comings and goings.”

“We were expecting to see him again soon since Beltane just passed by,” Brianna continued, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. 

“I went through Craigh na Dun on Beltane,” said Roger, taking a long sip of his ale. “Jem told me ye had moved to a small chatêau in the outskirts of Paris, but we never sat down with a map. ‘Tis was a blessing to find those two up to their knees in mud with a broken wheel.”

“Germain and Édouard? Where are they?”

“Sound asleep, I reckon,” Roger looked up to the stairs that lead to what she assumed was the second floor. “I helped them fix the carriage and the little one with the big head told me his lordship would repay me greatly. Imagine my surprise when he said he served a Lord John Something who happened to be marrit to an ill-tempered Lady Brianna Something.”

“Where is he?” Brianna’s voice grew louder and some heads turned in their direction briefly. “Roger, where’s my son?”

A shadow seemed to cross his face.

“I’ve not seen him since Samhain,” Roger admitted and Brianna covered her mouth with her hand. “I had hoped… I thought he might’ve come home to ye.”

“Something went wrong,” Brianna whispered, pushing the bench abruptly when she stood up. The young men swore in French and the woman who she assumed was the innkeeper came from behind a thick wooden door carrying a broomstick with her.

“ Je suis désolé, madame,” John flashed one of his diplomatic smiles, and although the woman didn't look happy, she left them alone under the threat of kicking them out if they woke anyone. Turning to his wife and Roger Mac, he let his smile fade. “Jeremiah could’ve gone to visit his grandparents. It’s been years since he saw Jamie and Claire.”

“We would’ve gotten word from Fraser’s Ridge,” Brianna braced herself, suddenly feeling extremely cold. “He would’ve sent us a letter. Or Mama. Or Da. No, something happened. I can feel it. I’ve been feeling it for months and I’ve tried to convince myself I was being crazy and paranoid and overprotective.”

“I can feel it too,” Roger said, looking down. 

“What happened?” Brianna leaned forward, placing both her palms on the rough surface of the table. “Did he mention anything about going somewhere else? Did you give him a gemstone to make the journey back?”

“Bree—” Roger didn’t look at her. 

“Maybe he got lost,” she continued rambling, now pacing back and forth. “He told us he could channel the voices from the stones, that he could use them to guide him. That’s how he managed to save us from Stephen Bonnet years ago. Maybe he—”

“Brianna,” Roger raised his voice enough to make her look at him. 

Next to her, John’s gaze burned with fury.

“What have you done, Wakefield?” 

Brianna watched as Roger closed his eyes for a moment, jumping on the bench as John's fists hit the wood hard. From the kitchen, the innkeeper yelled in French, knocking something over on the way to where they were. The group of youths stood up, cursing like sailors.

"I swear to God, Roger Wakefield, if you put my son in harm's way—" John began, unable to finish the sentence through his anger.

It was only then that Brianna recognized Roger's expression for what it really was. It wasn't fear. It was guilt.

“Enough!” Said a voice in English with a very strong accent. 

A French woman with a broomstick in her hand and hatred in her eyes was a terrifying sight to anyone, and the commotion that had caused them to be thrown out of the inn put an end to the conversation. In the midst of the shouting, several guests had descended cursing in different languages and, among them, Germain Fraser and Édouard LeFou had rushed downstairs, not quite understanding what was happening and with their hair matted with sleep. With nowhere to stay and with their nerves on edge, everyone decided to risk going back to the chatêau. 

Almost like opposite poles of a magnet, Brianna's hand found John's and he closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers.

"I apologise," he whispered, still not opening his eyes. "I shouldn't have... I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't," she agreed, using her free hand to stroke his cheek. He'd shaved that morning, but she could feel the roughness of his five o'clock shadow. 

“I must confess I’m riddled with fear,” he admitted, not daring to look at her. They’d been through so much together. She had almost lost him years ago when he was captured by Stephen Bonnet and even beaten up he never wavered. Her husband was a strong man, but his urge to protect his family was as much of his downfall as it was hers. “No matter what happened, I can’t reach him. I can’t protect my son.”

“We’ll figure it out”, she promised him. “Together.”

***

The journey back had not been the most comfortable.

Almost as if following protocol, Brianna and John descended from their mounts and muttered orders to the servants, ensuring everyone had something to do before they went to sleep. Germain, who had been yawning the entire way, bid his Auntie and Uncle good night and climbed into one of the guest rooms without even batting an eyelash. 

Roger, who had been silent the entire ride, took a good look at the stone structure that towered majestically before him. Brianna knew that look. She had been raised by a historian since she was a little girl.

"I'll have someone fetch us some tea," John announced, looking at his wife for a long moment. “Should I have it taken to your sunroom, my dear?”

“That’d be lovely,” Brianna agreed. 

Once alone, she guided Roger through the halls of the chateau, pausing every now and then to allow him to take in everything he was seeing. The dark wood floor had been polished the week before, and the walls were covered in tapestries and pictures she'd painted over the years. At the end of the hall, a portrait of the entire family lay over a smooth stone fireplace.

“Ye had other children,” it wasn’t a question. 

“You knew that already,” Brianna answered, opening the doors to her sunroom. 

“Aye,” Roger agreed. “Never thought I’d see any of them, though. They look a lot like ye.”

Brianna gestured for Roger to sit in one of the armchairs and did the same in another, facing him. Quickly, she released her red hair and took a deep breath.

“Mandy’s the most clever girl I’ve met,” she said after a pause. “She’s nineteen.”

“And the lad?”

“David,” she couldn’t help but smile. “David’s thirteen, although he acts all lordly and pretends he’s a grown man. He reminds me of Jemmy when he was his age. They’re a lot like their…”

Roger laughed through his nose. 

“Ye can say it,” he told her. “Jemmy is a lot like his father. John’s an honourable man, I’m thankful that Jeremiah took after him.”

At that, Brianna nodded, not knowing what to say.

“Jemmy told me ye moved from the Colonies, but he never said why,” Roger continued, bless his soul. 

“Mama told Da what would happen during the next years,” that was a topic they could talk about without making her feel odd. “The American Revolution and how the British army would end up on the losing side. She had enough of that, so they chose to rebel.”

“Sounds a lot like Claire,” Roger laughed. 

“Jamie was never very fond of the Red Coats,” she went on. “But John… He’d been a British soldier. He still had friends in the army. It’s no easy task to know what happens in the future and see people you hold dear march to their deaths.”

“It must’ve been rough.”

“It was,” Brianna could remember how much. John could barely sleep, no matter what Claire did, his afflictions were internal. He would do anything to protect his family, but that had a heavy toll on his soul. “He could never fight against them. I would never ask him that.”

“‘Tis hard the things a man must do for his family,” Roger didn’t look at her. “I respect him for that.”

“I talked with Mama,” Brianna muttered. “Fergus and Marsali had recently moved to France. My brother has inherited a great sum and a chatêau from his, until then unknown, father, the Comte of St. Germain.”

“Is this the chatêau?”

Brianna shifted in her chair uncomfortably.

“Well, kind of the chatêau next door.”

Roger raised his thick eyebrows.

“John’s got a lot of money,” she said simply. “It made sense to live close to each other. Jemmy and Germain are inseparable.”

“Aye, I’ve heard stories.”

Brianna smiled.

“Well, living through it was ten times worse, I promise.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

She held her breath for a second until Roger continued.

“I’d assume it’d be quite difficult to move overseas being a deserter.”

“It would be,” she agreed. “If we had kept our last name.”

Roger leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and resting his chin in his hands.

“‘Tis easier than faking your own death,” he commented. 

“Although not that exciting,” Brianna shrugged. “Fergus and Marsali kept the Fraser name. It was based on a French name, anyway. Frasier . We go by Armstrong now.”

The doors opened again and two servants brought in two silver trays with slices of cake, sweet rolls and cups of steaming tea. John entered a moment later, crossing the sunroom to stand beside his wife. His hand, warm and protective, rested on her shoulder.

With a brief bow, the servants left and Roger reached for a cup.

“What were you discussing about?” John asked, too casually to fool anyone. 

“Oh, ye know,” Roger took a bit of a sweet roll. “‘Tis been some time. A lot of catching up to do.”

Brianna leaned forward. 

“Roger, where’s Jemmy?”

The Scotsman stopped chewing, as if the sweet roll had suddenly gone bad.

“I dinna ken,” he admitted. “I last saw him during Samhain. We were going through the Reverend’s notebooks and we found… I found some notes about Claire.”

When no one said anything, he continued. 

“What do you know about the circles of stones?” He asked them, eyes fixed on her. 

“As much as you do, I think.”

Roger nodded. 

“Mama and I have theories…” Brianna got up and strode across the room, heading toward a large shelf of books. Her eyes scanned the spines of the books until she found what she was looking for. With a tug, she brought the notebook to Roger, who took it, brows arched. “My notes are mostly too messy to understand, but I think there’s some science behind it. Think about it, you can’t move mass from a place to another without causing some repercussions. Are you familiar with the first law of thermodynamics?”

“Somewhat familiar, I dare say.”

“It says energy cannot be created nor destroyed,” Brianna started pacing back and forth one more time. “I don’t believe someone could simply appear in another year without it causing some serious problems in the weaving of Time. I mean, we’re talking about timelines here, yes, but also space. I can’t take you from one year to another without causing a massive shift in the fabric of time and space.”

“We’ve always thought of it as a gateway,” he said, going through Brianna’s notes. If there was an ounce of question to whether she had a brain for maths, she could see it melt in his eyes. “People from the present—and that’s on quotes—could travel to determined parts of the past.”

“That's fairly incorrect,” she laughed, looking at John in search of reassurance. He looked at her blankly. 

“Aye,” Roger agreed. “Gillian Edgars crossed in 1968 whereas yer mother did it in 1945. Somehow they managed to find each other in 1743. Nevertheless, Gillian most certainly came from Claire’s future back then.”

“But then it wouldn’t make sense,” she frowned and John sighed beside her. 

“As though any of this nonsense had ever made any sort of sense at all,” he murmured. 

“I’m sorry,” Brianna touched his arm. “I’m rambling again.”

“You certainly are,” John agreed, smiling at her. “But please, do go on. I quite enjoy watching that beautiful brain of yours working.”

She didn’t dare look at Roger, but he surely could see her cheeks reddened. 

“Anyway,” she cleared her throat. “Thinking that there is a past, present and future coexisting at the same time is obnoxious. If there’s a future already happening then what we were living before crossing was not the so-called present. It was the past already.”

“Aye,” Roger closed her notebook. “I doesna make sense if ye think that the stream of time is linear. The term timeline is rather limited. I see it more like a time circle.”

“Walk me through it.”

“Why, if you think about it, time can’t be measured, not truly. We developed machinery and scales to tell time, but we have no control over how the stream flows.”

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

“God be merciful then,” John leaned forward and got hold of his tea. 

“Think of it as a river. If you throw rocks at a river, ye may cause a disturbance. ‘Twill have some effect, that's for certain, but it won’t change the course of the river. It keeps going until you change its course.” Roger opened her notebook again. “D’ye have a pencil?”

Brianna pointed at the mug full of paintbrushes on the table next to his armchair. Roger grabbed a piece of charcoal and started drawing. Brianna exchanged looks with her husband who just sighed. She stood up, going behind Roger’s chair to see what he was drawing.

“See, if you think of it as a linear river, ye’ll never be able to change its course.”

“We have tools to change the course of a river though.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “However, we dinna have tools to change time. Claire tried twice and failed. Jemmy told me the fire that burned your parents house in Fraser’s Ridge was nothing but a hoax.”

“So I failed as well.”

“Only because there wasna anything there to change, but yes.”

“Failures notwithstanding, Jem did change things,” she raised her eyes to meet John’s. “Had he not come back to save us from Bonnet, we would not have been here now.”

“Aye, he did. But Jeremiah is different.”

“How so?”

“There’s a reason why some people manage to go through the stones while others don’t. I guess they get lost in the void and then, somehow just go back to where they started. The Reverend thought, and I must agree with him, that one could navigate through time.”

“Like an—”

“Lift,” he shook his head approvingly. “If you get into a lift and do nothing, someone will eventually press the button for ye. Once the floor is chosen, all there’s left to do is step out.”

“But how do we choose what button to press?” She’d have a massive headache later, she knew it. Her gaze drifted towards John, who looked at them with an immense grief in his eyes. She wanted to go to him and ask what happened, but Roger went on talking.

“Just like in a lift, ye need a reason to go to another floor. Claire didna know Jamie when she went through the stones the first time, but I think she was brought here because she was meant to find him. You came here because you wanted to save them. What stronger reason to create havoc than love?”

Brianna closed her eyes for a second. “So Mama’s love for Jamie was what brought her here. And my love for her… for them, brought me here.”

“Aye.”

“Gillian Edgars?”

“She was verra passionate about Scotland.”

“Alright. And Jemmy came back to save us. It still doesn’t explain how we can go back and forth.”

“Once ye learn what button to press, it’s easy to make a habit of it.”

“I fear I must interrupt you,” John’s tone was dry. “I have grasped very little of everything you’ve said and yet, one question remains unanswered. How exactly does it affect my son? Has Jemmy… pressed the wrong button?”

Brianna felt her face burn with embarrassment. She had gotten so wrapped up in that conversation that she had completely forgotten the purpose. 

“I found some notes in one of the Reverends old boxes,” Roger shifted uncomfortably. “After Claire, he just couldn’t put the matter to rest. There was another disappearance, or better yet, an appearance in 1950.”

“Someone from the future?” 

“From the past. A man wearing what the Reverend assumed to be garments from the fifteen hundreds.”

“How could he have possibly gone to 1950?”

“Perhaps he pressed the wrong button. Or perhaps someone else pressed it for him. Either way, he didn’t have time to figure it out. He died a month later. Jemmy and I assumed his DNA collapsed because it wasn’t ready to handle the changes.”

“What does this have to do with Jemmy?” Brianna asked. 

“You said Jemmy is different,” John's hands were gripping the arm of the chair so tightly his knuckles were white. “I ask you again, Wakefield, what have you done?”

The blood seemed to freeze in Brianna's veins, sliding slowly and almost painfully. The dots connected in her brain and she clenched her fists, finally allowing herself to understand what had happened.

“He gave him permission to test out the buttons,” she said before punching her son’s biological father in the face.

Chapter Text

“I am fairly certain it’s not broken.”

In the privacy of their bedchambers, John was on his knees in front of her, her aching hand in his. For the thousandth time, he touched her fingers gently, glancing up occasionally to see any trace of pain on her face. He had taken off his riding coat, his white shirt was untucked, making him look more like a bad-tempered rebel than the lord he was, and he was barefoot. 

“How do you know?” Brianna inquired, smiling mischievously. She’d told him her hand still throbbed a little, though it felt much better. “You’re not a physician.”

“Certainly not,” he agreed, lifting her hand so he could kiss her red knuckles. “Although I spent many years living next to one. You learn a trick or two.”

“What a clever man,” she laughed through her nose. 

“I also had many fingers broken by an outlaw,” he said matter-of-factly. “Had your hand been broken, you’d be screaming obscenities.”

“I would never do such a thing,” Brianna pretended to be offended. “I was brought up around nuns!”

“You were also brought up around Claire.”

She smiled. ‘You do have a point.”

“Most of the time I do.”

John placed her hand carefully in her lap and began tugging on the brown leather boot she was wearing. He knew she watched as he took her foot in his hands and massaged the soles with his thumbs slowly and vigorously.

"This feels nice," she whispered, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. John repeated the process with the other boot and foot until Brianna straightened, leaning forward and reaching her hands carefully to the collar of his shirt. A small smile formed on his lips and John lifted his arms, allowing her to undress him.

No matter how many times he saw her, Brianna was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon. With her thick, curled red hair loose in a coppery waterfall over her shoulders, she looked almost like a fairy from ancient tales. Devilish and, at the same time, angelic. 

Her cat-like brown eyes looked at him with that lustful glint he recognized so well and he stood up, feeling his cock begin to ache against the fabric of his britches. Brianna's eyes skimmed over his body, going from his eyes to his hairy chest and flat stomach, getting lost briefly in the trail of hair that led to the contour of his erection. 

Absent-mindedly, she brought her good hand up to the laces of his pants, pulling them slowly as she raised her eyes to look at him. Her fingers brushed his cock halfway and he clenched his jaw, not daring to hand her what she wanted so badly.

His wife liked to be in control. There was nothing John liked more than depriving her of that while he made love to her. Carefully but firmly, he took her wrist and pulled her hand away from the laces. Instead of letting her dictate what was to come, he knelt down again and, with one finger, undid the lace on the riding britches she wore. Brianna bit her lip, propping herself up on her elbows so he could remove the garment more easily.

They had known each other well enough for many years to know what to expect from each other. Once removed, the pants flew to the wooden floor and John gazed at the beauty in front of him. Brianna had had three children. Her body had given him so much more than just pleasure, it had also given him a joy he couldn't measure.

He hadn't understood much of what Brianna and Roger had said about the stone circles, but John understood what needed to be done. With a steady hand, he grabbed her left ankle and knelt, kissing the pale skin there. Slowly, he intensified the caresses, nibbling and kissing her calf and moving up toward her inner thighs.

"You're punishing me," she muttered through a gasp. "That's not fair."

“Have you done anything worth punishment?” He asked, using both hands to spread her legs. From between them, he looked up at her inquisitively.

“I never took you for the jealous type, my lor… Ah!” He bit her harder, near the groyne.

“Tell me, Brianna,” he started, licking the same spot where he’d just marked her. “Is there a reason for jealousy?”

“You know there isn’t.”

“I do know,” he nodded, his nose brushing the auburn hairs as he inhaled deeply. “Then tell me why I had the urge to fuck you mindlessly in front of him just to show him how loudly you can ask me to go deeper. Harder. Can he hear us now? Can he hear you beg?”

Brianna moaned softly, clearing her throat before answering.

“I don’t beg,” she said defiantly.

“Tonight you will, I assure you,” John brought two fingers to his mouth, the middle and ring finger, and lubricated them well before tracing the outline of her labia with his free hand. 

“John—”

“Mind your tongue,” he warned her. “You will speak when spoken to. Do not dare to open your mouth unless it’s to beg or suck me dry.”

John suppressed a smile as he realised how wet she was. Brianna was a woman of many appetites, and luckily for her, he knew exactly how to satisfy her every craving. His fingers slid inside her with extreme ease and Brianna gasped loudly, giving him the opportunity to get a good amount of skin from her thigh between his teeth.

After so many years, John knew the wet warmth inside her all too well. If he closed his eyes, he could almost taste her. Masterfully, he moved his fingers inside her, seeking the spot that made her growl desperately. Deftly, he moved his fingers in and out of her, using his free hand to pull her to the edge of the huge bed. Leaning down, he buried his nose in the red hairs, allowing himself to taste Brianna on his tongue.

Her good hand grabbed him by her hair, guiding him along a path he already knew. While some of his fingers were busy massaging her insides, the others undid the lace on his britches and John, as subtle as possible, stuck his cock out and began to stroke it vigorously. His thumb slid along the tip, spreading his pleasure over the velvety, slightly purplish skin. A man should know his responsibilities and the biggest one was his family. 

“John, please!”

He swallowed, removing his fingers from inside her abruptly. Brianna whimpered, closing her legs as if she wanted to preserve the heat before the empty feeling washed over her. 

“I shall fuck you like never before,” he warned her. Hastily, he shrugged off his pants and tossed them across the room. His cock throbbed painfully, thirsty to have his needs assuaged by the heat emanating from between his wife's legs. “You are mine, Brianna Grey. I’ll possess your soul as you did mine.”

Little did he know about thermodynamics and yet he cared not. He had created much more than energy with that woman. When he entered her he knew what he would ask for once he came undone. Each thrust was a silent prayer, every moan an urge to God himself. 

Forgive me, Father, for I am a selfish bastard.

Let my seed quicken in her belly, let me give her one more child.

***

The sky was already clearing when they finally finished. The marks John had left on Brianna's thighs and arms were already starting to turn purple. A few spots on his back still burned where her nails had ripped through the skin enough to draw blood. As a matter-of-fact, she had begged loudly.

They lay there, nestled against each other, breathing in sync as the day brightened even more outside. John's fingers traced carelessly down Brianna's back, making the hairs on her body stand on end. Only after a few minutes did he realise he was writing names on her skin.

"Your head is elsewhere," she murmured, playing with the dark hairs on his chest. "Your head has been somewhere else the whole time."

John didn't answer her right away, making her stand up slightly to look at him.

“You must go with him,” it wasn’t a question. “You must bring Jemmy back to us.”

Brianna looked at him for what seemed to be an eternity. It was not enough. No amount of time would ever be enough.

“It’s best if I take Mandy with me,” she whispered and his heart ached. How much should he have to lose to have everything back again? “Our children’s connection is our best bet. They know Jemmy is alive somewhere. Somewhen. Maybe she can somehow help us find him.”

He nodded, burying his pain deep inside him. 

“Do as you must, but I’ll promise you something.”

Her brown eyes stared at him and he knew she could see his soul. Could she see hers as well? They were one after all. 

“Our family is rather… unorthodox. But the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Roger is right. Love is worth all the havoc we have created. Jeremiah is my son as much as he is Roger’s. Though once again I cannot accompany you on the journey that lies ahead, I'll do everything to make sure our home is here to welcome you back.”

“What promise do you make, John?”

John got hold of her hand and kissed each finger, then he kissed the ring he gave her on their wedding day. 

“When you do come back, I shall give you another child.”