Gentle He Would Be, Denied

"sassenach." He Had Called Me That From The First; The Gaelic Word For Outlander, A Stranger. An Englishman. First In Jest, Then In Affection.

It's A Good Country For Myths. Things Seem To Take Root Here.

The Overseer Wouldna Speak To Me Of Ian, But He Told Me Other Things That Would Curl Your Hair, If It Wasna Already Curled Up Like Sheep's Wool." He Glanced At Me, And A Half-smile Lit His Face, Inspite Of His Obvious Perturbation. "judging By The State Of Your Hair, Sassenach, I Should Say That It's Going To Rain Verra Soon Now.

At Last I Took One Big, Callused Hand And Slid Forward So I Knelt On The Boards Between His Knees. I Laid My Head Against His Chest, And Felt His Breath Stir My Hair. I Had No Words, But I Had Made My Choice. "'whither Thou Goest,'" I Said. "'i Will Go; And Where Thou Lodgest, I Will Lodge: Thy People Shall Be My People, And Thy God My God: Where Thou Diest, Will I Die, And There Will I Be Buried.' Be It Scottish Hill Or Southern Forest. You Do What You Have To; I'll Be There.

If She Was Broken, She Would Slash Him With Her Jagged Edges, Reckless As A Drunkard With A Shattered Bottle.