"Dinna weep, a leannan, dinna be troubled," he murmured. "It's all right, m' annsachd; it's all right." "I'm all right; everything's all right. I'm just-happy," she said. She took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. "What does that mean-a leannan? And the other thing you said?" "You'll not have the Gaelic, then?" he asked, and shook his head. "No, of course she wouldna have been taught," he murmured, as though to himself. "I'll learn," she said firmly, giving her nose a last wipe. "A leannan?" A slight smile reappeared on his face as he looked at her. "It means my darling, " he said softly. "M' annsachd-my blessing." The words hung in the air between them, shimmering like the leaves. They stood still, both stricken suddenly with shyness by the endearment, unable to look away from each other, unable to find more words.

He stepped closer to the cliff and saw it; an opening near the base of the cliff, a split in the rock, perhaps a cave. A chill ran over him that had nothing to do with the cold night wind. His fingers closed tightly over the small round hardness of the gems. He heard nothing; was it open? If so…

Escape. It would be that. Escape to when, though? And how? The words of Geilie’s spell chanted in his mind. Garnets rest in love about my neck; I will be faithful.

Faithful. To try that avenue of escape was to abandon Brianna. And hasn’t she abandoned you?

“No, I’m damned if she has!” he whispered to himself. There was some reason for what she’d done, he knew it.

She’s found her parents; she’ll be safe enough. “And for this reason, a woman shall leave her parents, and cleave to her husband.” Safety wasn’t what mattered; love was. If he’d cared for safety, he wouldn’t have crossed that desperate void to begin with.

“Babies are soft. Anyone looking at them can see the tender, fragile skin and know it for the rose-leaf softness that invites a finger's touch. But when you live with them and love them, you feel the softness going inward, the round-cheeked flesh wobbly as custard, the boneless splay of the tiny hands. Their joints are melted rubber, and even when you kiss them hard, in the passion of loving their existence, your lips sink down and seem never to find bone. Holding them against you, they melt and mold, as though they might at any moment flow back into your body" 

-  “Dragonfly in Amber” by Diana Gabaldon