#queuely beloved.

Claire wasn't a psychic and, despite her reputation in some parts of the world, she wasn't a witch, either. She held no real powers other than the power of knowledge, and the unfortunate truths of history yet to happen. She didn't know this woman, but Claire didn't need to know someone to spot strife. Whoever this stranger was was clearly in dire straights and after spending what felt like a lifetime saving others, Claire refused to sit idle while another woman suffered.

"It's not heroics, it's called humanity." Her words were mumbled as she glanced around, trying to take note of anything askew, or any persons looking for trouble. Everything still seemed foreign to her, even after the weeks she'd spent finding a place to belong in the city. But, content that there was no immediate imminent danger, Claire held out her hand for the woman to take.

It was a bold choice. From the stranger's posture and appearance, Claire could only assume she wasn't well-accustomed to kindness. Asking the woman to trust her was like asking a feral cat to purr, or asking the grass to grow. The world was filled with cruelties, especially towards women, even in her own time. But, just because it was the norm, didn't mean Claire was eager to perpetuate such things.

"Can you walk?" She asked, her eyes scanning over the smaller woman with a nurse's gaze. Other than malnutrition and exhaustion, she didn't seem to be injured. Or at least not fatally, Claire noted. Frank had teased her once for trying to save the whole of humanity. She had reasoned it was her job as a nurse, her purpose as a human being to protect those who couldn't protect themselves, and after the war, her resolve to help others had only hardened.

“Sorry, I’m finished for the night.” She confessed with a tired smile. She’d been reading people’s palms for the past few hours and Claire thought she was going to go mad if she had to stare at calloused another hand. They all looked the same to her, life lines and love lines looked little more than crevices drawn across the skin. But she knew what people wanted to hear, and she knew how to be vague enough to be believable, so her readings became a hit. And it seemed a quick and easy way to make some money along her travels.

Claire hummed softly at the feeling of his hands against her face, the warmth of his touch easing any lingering tension in her limbs. Amidst the darkness, she could barely make out the lines of his features, but she shook her head in response.

She had promised herself she wouldn't come back here, that she wouldn't spend the rest of her life chasing a ghost the way Mrs. Graham had warned her about. She had sworn to put the past behind her and finally move on. And she had, for a time. She had become a doctor, a mother, a widow, but there were days she missed being a Sassenach, being Claire Fraser.

She told herself that it was this inherent, underlying longing that had drawn her back to Scotland. Even though she promised herself not to make the journey back to Craigh na Dun, she found herself back in the country that harbored her heart. She'd visited the moor, the shops she and Frank had perused on their visit to Inverness, and even made her way to Lallybroch--or what was left of it. Claire had said her goodbyes to the past and was intent on leaving the remnants of her broken heart behind, but such things were easier said than done.

It should've been easy to climb back into the car, to drive back down the Wakefield's house and pack her things to go home. And yet, the siren song of the stones still called to her like a hymn on the wind. She sat at the bottom of the grassy knoll, mere kilometers from where she'd last seen him. The car was in park and the rain was beginning to speckle the windshield. As the droplets began to fall around her, Claire made no effort to rush home, even though she was sure Bree would be wondering where she was soon enough. Instead, she sat within the confines of the vehicle and let the earth's tears rain down around her, hoping that it would drown out the sorrows in her own heart.

It was useless. She could've sat there for hours, waiting for a sign, waiting for something, and nothing would come. He was dead. The love of her life had died two hundred years ago in a bloody battle that she had been powerless to stop. Even with the knowledge of history on her side, she hadn't been able to save those she cared for and it would undoubtedly haunt her forever. What would Mrs. Graham say if she were still alive to see Claire acting so foolishly? What would Jamie think if he knew she still sought him out and waited to see his apparition at every turn?

She was just about to give in, to turn the key in the ignition and drive off when she felt a familiar buzzing in her fingertips. It was the storm, she told herself. It was the dark clouds rolling in and bringing an electrical current with it. But she knew this feeling all too well. Claire had only felt this sort of buzzing twice before and both times had brought mind-altering changes to life.

“Hold still, this might sting a bit.” She warned as she gently pressed the cloth to their wound with a firm and steady hand. It wasn’t a life threatening injury by any means, but the sting of the alcohol would certainly make it uncomfortable for a few moments. And maybe, she thought, knock a bit of sense into them. “Now, remind me: how, exactly, did you get hurt again?”

"I don't know. It was dark." She lied, shaking her head as she willed her heartbeat to slow. Ever since she'd touched shores, Claire had been making enemies. In her effort to save lives, she'd put her own at risk. The Comte wouldn't stop until he succeeded in killing her, she reasoned. Unless something were to befall him first. Unless she were able to right the wrongs she'd unknowingly made.

"Well... Just some brigands." Letting out a sigh, she tried to push the encounter out of her mind. They hadn't stolen anything of value and she'd managed to escape with only a few bumps and bruises. "I suspect they were hired to attack me. It seems I have a knack for making enemies."

“No one.” She replied, the falsehood slipping out faster than she could think better of it. Telling him the truth would only place him in the path of danger and that was something Claire couldn't bear to do. They were already at a disadvantage in this life, the last thing either of them needed was for Claire to share her misery. “No one to worry about, I mean. I'll be alright, I promise. Thank you for your concern."

“Shakespeare?” Claire nearly barked out a laugh. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. She’d traveled through time a handful of times, changed history once or twice, and broached near death nearly a dozen times—and yet a pirate reciting Shakespeare was undoubtedly one of the strangest things she could’ve imagined in this scenario. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a lover of the arts, Mr. Silver. Especially that one.” Wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, Claire shot him an amused expression. “I’d sooner expect Hamlet or Titus Andronicus than Romeo and Juliet. They seem better suited for a pirate’s tastes.”