I LOVE SAM AND CAIT

And while we're on the subject of 'husbands', 'fiancés', and 'boyfriends' (or, alternatively, 'wives', 'fiancées', and 'girlfriends'), I have to say that I genuinely don't understand how people can believe that any boyfriend, fiancé, or husband would be perfectly happy, calm, and accepting when welcoming home his girlfriend, fiancée, or wife after a long day at work spent doing things like this ⤵️⤵️⤵️

And please don't tell me that actors somehow have a different moral code, or a different sense of shame, propriety, and personal boundaries than the rest of us mere Earthlings. Or that their real-life partners are simply expected to adapt. Imagine someone expecting you to adapt to the fact that your partner, as part of their job, spends their workday doing things like this. Go on. Imagine it.

Exactly. Quite apart from that, I find it difficult to believe that, after a "workday" like that, people simply shake hands, say 'well, see you tomorrow', and go their separate ways. The human organism does not, in fact, work like that.

“Where d’ye think he is now?” Jenny said suddenly. “Ian, I mean.”

He glanced at the house, then at the new grave waiting, but of course that wasn’t Ian anymore. He was panicked for a moment, his earlier emptiness a moment, his earlier emptiness returning—but then it came to him, and, without surprise, he knew what it was Ian had said to him.

“On your right, man.” On his right. Guarding his weak side.

This is a wonderful and beautiful video that Diana Gabaldon shared on FB. I encourage you to watch it! If you can watch it without tears coming to your eyes, then you're stronger than me! 😭🫠💕❤️💕

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OUTLANDER (2026) 03 810 Dragonfly in Amber

The morning of the Kings Mountain Battle, Claire did not want to leave the bed. When she sighed and said, "Here we are…" his mind unexpectedly jumped to a sentence in the final part of another book Brianna had given him, a fiction he'd read, THE LORD OF THE RINGS. Here we are, at the end of all things. But they could pretend this was like any other morning, watching the sun rise. "Life on the Ridge will go on without us," Claire said, and it was the truth. They could hold this moment in time, like the wedding gift Claire once received from Hugh Munro, an insect suspended in a block of resinous amber. She was also telling the bees a lot of things he wanted to hear, but he would rather be in the here and now with his wife. Claire told him what the bees had been doing. Two bees were holding each other's feet while sleeping in a flower. He agreed it was sweet. It reminded him of a poem bit by William Butler Yeats:

Nine bean rows will I have there And a hive for the honey-bee And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

Isn't that what Claire wanted? A quiet country life with bees? Not alone, she said, and kissed him. "I don't think the quiet life was ever meant for us."

Jamie thought about the many times he'd been a madman where Claire was concerned. "I've lived longer than I thought I would. I have lived to see my grandchildren," he smiled, because they brought him great joy. "Not a blessing everyone receives." He so wanted to meet William's eventual wife and see his children. Perhaps Bree would have more bairns. He thought Heaven should allow him to know how his family is getting on, that God would let him have a wee look in.

"Being a ghost, may be quite interesting." He would love to haunt a few folk. A wee glance at Claire, because he wouldn't want to frighten her. Claire wondered about her parents, who she lost at an early age and never had a proper home because she traveled so much with her uncle Lam. She said she'd never lived long enough in one place to even have owned a common household vase. She'd seen one when she arrived in Scotland for the first time, but didn't buy it because the next morning she went to Craigh na Dun looking for forget-me-not flowers.

Jamie asked if Claire regretted finding the flowers and touching the stone. "Never. I have everything I never knew I wanted."

The rest was their history.

The only thing Jamie still wanted was to sleep in a flower while holding Claire's feet, he joked.

Now, granted, it would be trivially easy to argue that my brain has been permanently rewired by years of shipping and that I am therefore an unreliable narrator when it comes to These Matters. Even so, every single time - and I do mean every single time - I encounter one of these posts about the Main Heroine, my immediate reaction is sheer bewilderment. I simply cannot fathom the thought process that leads people to sincerely, earnestly, in the innocence of their hearts, believe that THIS WOMAN ⤵️⤵️⤵️

. . . looked at this man ⤵️⤵️⤵️

and said, 'Yes. Husband'. Him. That guy. That specific specimen.

The mind reels.

OUTLANDER (2026) 810 02 Written In My Own Heart's Blood Fraser's Ridge September 22, Anno Domini 1780

I, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, being of sound Mind, do hereby declare this is my Last Will and Testament.

Jamie wondered if saying he was sound of mind was a lie, yet he could not write anything else and be taken seriously. He wrote that all Property and Goods of which I die possessed were to be left to his wife, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser… minus the "Randall." Damned if he'd put HIS name in here.

Outside of Claire, he bequested various other things and sums of money:

To My Daughter, Brianna Ellen Fraser MacKenzie, I leave two thousand Acres of Land from the land Grant known as Fraser's Ridge.

To My Grandchildren, Jeremiah, Amanda, David, Germain, Joan, Felicite, Henri-Christian, and Frances, I leave each the Sum of one hundred pounds. I also leave my Books, to be divided among them under the supervision of Roger MacKenzie.

To My Beloved Sister, Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray, I leave our Mother's silver stag brooch.

To My Dear Nephew, Ian James Fitzgibbons Fraser Murray, who has been like a Son to me, I leave my tools and my weapons.

Jamie twinged again with deep grief for his son Fergus as he wrote, To Marsali Jane MacKimmie Fraser, I leave my fine quills, ink, and stationery.

Jamie paused after for a bit, then wrote, To my Son, my Natural Son, William James Fraser, also known as William Clarence Henry George Ransom, Ninth Earl of Ellesmere, three casks of my special whisky marked with JFS, and my Bible. May he find Succor and Wisdom in its Pages.

He sealed the Will with stamped wax to make it official.

Jamie hated writing the damned thing, but he didn't dare go to Kings Mountain without making disposition of his property. He couldn't risk it, in case what Frank wrote was true.

The expressions. The proximity. The AUDACITY.