Well, here goes my first try. A fic for all you Diana Gabaldon fans. This
is the first fic I have ever written and if I can say it before all you
readers do, it's pretty weak. I do give it the fact that it is just the
prolog to a series of chapters that I hope get better as the story
advances.
James Fraser shivered as the frigid night air swirled about his bare chest. Glancing through the broken panes of the frosty glass, he searched the dimly lit woods for stray lobster-backs.
"Jamie!" s voice snarled from behind him, "Get back under this quilt, we're not going to survive the night if we don't save some body heat between us." Turning around Jamie shuffled on his knees to the frail form huddled in the corner of the burnt out shack.
"Claire." He cued, holding the shaking woman tight against his warming skin, "We will survive, but we need to find a break in the night watch to slip through." Shaking his auburn hair out of his ocean blue eyes, he left his terrified wife and turned once again to the broken window.
* * * * *
Swearing profoundly, Captain Jack Randall stomped his booted foot, spun, and marched back through the tightly woven fabric of his tent, abandoning the chaos of hundreds of soldiers camping for the night. Snorting at the mess that encompassed his miniscule work and living space, Jack plucked his ledger from a pile of shriveled papers and began marking off possible hiding places for his quarry.
"Sir, Mr. Jack, sir?" A timid voice questioned from behind the loose tent flap, "May I present Mr. Dougal MacKenzie?" a tall bearded Scot marched purposefully past the timid attendant and into the waiting belly of the English Army.
"Milord." Dougal slurred sarcastically, "I believe I may have information on a certain convict." Smugly Dougal stepped past the bewildered commander and helped himself to the half empty bottle of whisky sitting on the cluttered desk.
"Do you now." Randall stated more then asked recovering his poise, "And may I ask why you are obliged, no willing to share this information with the likes of me? You are a relation of his, a close one, are you not?" Dougal choked, and began to pound himself vigorously in the chest, attempting to force air back into his whisky doused lungs.
"Aye, Jamie is a relation of mine, and I've me own reasons for a wantin' him dead." He sputtered between gasps of breath. Randall sighed, and led the sputtering Scot to the cot in the corner.
* * * * *
Young John Jeremiah Alexander Fraser MacKenzie shivered as his father closed the worn leather book for the nigh and popped off the carpeted floor like a bottle rocket. Remembering he had just reached the dignified age of ten, he settled himself calmly on the freshly turned sheets of his twin bed before reaching up for a goodnight hug.
Keeping a grin off his face with the will power he hadn't known he possessed, Roger bent down, hugged his son, and walked slowly from the dark room to the warm embrace of his charming wife, Brianna.
James Fraser shivered as the frigid night air swirled about his bare chest. Glancing through the broken panes of the frosty glass, he searched the dimly lit woods for stray lobster-backs.
"Jamie!" s voice snarled from behind him, "Get back under this quilt, we're not going to survive the night if we don't save some body heat between us." Turning around Jamie shuffled on his knees to the frail form huddled in the corner of the burnt out shack.
"Claire." He cued, holding the shaking woman tight against his warming skin, "We will survive, but we need to find a break in the night watch to slip through." Shaking his auburn hair out of his ocean blue eyes, he left his terrified wife and turned once again to the broken window.
* * * * *
Swearing profoundly, Captain Jack Randall stomped his booted foot, spun, and marched back through the tightly woven fabric of his tent, abandoning the chaos of hundreds of soldiers camping for the night. Snorting at the mess that encompassed his miniscule work and living space, Jack plucked his ledger from a pile of shriveled papers and began marking off possible hiding places for his quarry.
"Sir, Mr. Jack, sir?" A timid voice questioned from behind the loose tent flap, "May I present Mr. Dougal MacKenzie?" a tall bearded Scot marched purposefully past the timid attendant and into the waiting belly of the English Army.
"Milord." Dougal slurred sarcastically, "I believe I may have information on a certain convict." Smugly Dougal stepped past the bewildered commander and helped himself to the half empty bottle of whisky sitting on the cluttered desk.
"Do you now." Randall stated more then asked recovering his poise, "And may I ask why you are obliged, no willing to share this information with the likes of me? You are a relation of his, a close one, are you not?" Dougal choked, and began to pound himself vigorously in the chest, attempting to force air back into his whisky doused lungs.
"Aye, Jamie is a relation of mine, and I've me own reasons for a wantin' him dead." He sputtered between gasps of breath. Randall sighed, and led the sputtering Scot to the cot in the corner.
* * * * *
Young John Jeremiah Alexander Fraser MacKenzie shivered as his father closed the worn leather book for the nigh and popped off the carpeted floor like a bottle rocket. Remembering he had just reached the dignified age of ten, he settled himself calmly on the freshly turned sheets of his twin bed before reaching up for a goodnight hug.
Keeping a grin off his face with the will power he hadn't known he possessed, Roger bent down, hugged his son, and walked slowly from the dark room to the warm embrace of his charming wife, Brianna.