#william fraser

Rowan hadn’t planned on coming to Scotland anytime soon, but after her mother’s death, she had decided to be more adventurous—actually to check things off her bucket list.

Traveling alone wasn’t always ideal, but she buried herself in the history around her, finding it fascinating. She was enjoying the nice weather; the past couple of days had been rainy. The sun was out, and she was exploring the stones at Craigh na Dun.

The closer she got, the louder some sort of buzzing became. She stared at one particularly tall stone and suddenly felt a wave of vertigo. Instinctively, she placed a hand on the stone to steady herself.

Instead, she felt herself tumble, landing hard on the ground behind her. Her head spun, and she felt like she was about to be sick. But the buzzing had abruptly stopped.

She tried to rise but swayed, letting out a groan as she clutched her head.

Unbeknownst to her, a young man was coming up the hill, grumbling to himself about how unfair it was that his cousin had won the woman he loved—and how he was now doomed to an eternity of misery. Dramatically, of course, thanks to the whiskey in his stomach.

She heard a voice and scrambled to her feet, brushing dirt from her leggings and checking her phone. No service. And, of course, the screen was cracked—just her luck.

She saw the man approaching and called out, “Hey! Do you have any service?”

He looked at her in confusion. She was dressed oddly—strange clothing for the hills, a cloak that seemed out of place, and trousers. Even her speech sounded off.

When he continued to stare, she huffed and planted her hands on her hips.

“I know you fucking heard me!” she snapped, irritated as the world still spun around her.

He blinked, glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. But when she swayed once more and tumbled, he rushed forward to catch her. She was deadweight in his arms as he struggled to keep them both from tumbling down the hill. Not knowing what else to do, he held her against himself, taking in her features.

There was some kind of gem on the side of her nose—and when he brushed at it, he realized it went through her nose. Her ears bore more earrings than he had ever seen, and he frowned slightly, certain for a moment her hair held a trace of faded blue—but when he looked again, it was gone, as if it had never been there at all.

He wondered briefly if he had stumbled upon a fae. It was the only way to explain how unnatural she seemed—and yet, now that he looked closer, how utterly captivating she was.

She began to stir with a mumble. When her eyes finally opened, he noticed they were as green as emeralds.

She blinked before meeting his dark eyes, studying him with quiet curiosity. He was left speechless.

“Are ye alright?” he asked, still uncertain as she blinked at him.

“Honestly… I feel like the world is spinning far too fast right now,” Rowan muttered, her voice laced with dizziness.

He studied her closely. “Where did ye come from?” he asked as she groaned, trying to sit up.

“Just now? Or… in general?” she asked, wincing. “Because I was up here before you came. I was exploring the stones, heard this buzzing noise, and next thing I know, I wake up with no service and a cracked phone screen.”

“Phone… screen?”

He had no idea what she meant, and when he asked, she looked at him with a mixture of confusion and exasperation.

Then her eyes roamed his clothing. His outfit—it wasn’t at all like the modern garb people wore back home. It reminded her of the traditional clothing in the paintings and statues she’d seen at the museum the other day.

“Are you a… reenactor?” she asked, furrowing her brows. He tilted his head, clearly puzzled.

“No? I do no' know what that is. What is your name, lass?”

“Rowan Hayes. And you?” she asked, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips.

“Murtagh FitzGibbons Fraser,” he said, and her smile widened into a grin.

“Well… isn’t that a Scottish-as-hell name,” she chuckled.

“Ye are in Scotland, lass,” he replied, confused.

“That we are,” she said with a sigh, finally sitting up fully. “It’s still quite different from the States.”

Over the next couple of days, she traveled with Murtagh. For some reason, he kept calling her a fae, and she had come to realize—it was 1715. The shock of somehow traveling through time was still settling in.

Adapting to the era's lifestyle was… frustrating. Rowan was expected to wear a dress and far too many layers, which she found confining and uncomfortable. She couldn’t help but feel envious of what Murtagh was allowed to wear. When she mentioned it, he asked curiously, “Do all the fae lasses wear trousers?”

She laughed. “Only the clever ones,” she teased.

Rowan quickly decided that letting him think she was one of the fae folk was far easier than telling him the truth: that she was from 2020—hundreds of years in the future.

The most difficult part of being in the 18th century was the role women were expected to play. Rowan found it endlessly frustrating when most men—anyone beyond Murtagh—told her to mind her place.

She nearly punched one particular man before Murtagh and his cousin—whom she’d learned was Brian—pulled her back, urging her under their breath to watch who she was speaking to.

It turned out it was Dougal MacKenzie, the War Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie—and very much not a man to provoke.

But Rowan had never been particularly good at backing down.

What truly shocked him, however, was when she snapped at him in flawless Irish Gaelic, telling him—in no uncertain terms—to kiss her ass. Of course, that was pretty much the extent of her Gaelic knowledge.

It was close enough to Scottish that Dougal spun around, eyes wide in surprise. For a moment, it looked like things might turn dangerous—until his sister called out, pulling his attention away.

Only then did the tension ease.

Brian stared at Rowan in open shock, while Murtagh muttered under his breath that she might truly be one of the fae.

Over the next few years, she and Murtagh grew closer, finding a quiet sense of comfort in one another. What had begun as cautious companionship slowly became something steadier—something neither of them questioned too closely.

Rowan went years without telling him the truth about where she came from. It was easier that way. Safer.

Until one day, by accident, he walked in on her as she was changing.

He froze.

Down the length of her spine was a series of markings—perfectly shaped, impossibly precise. The phases of the moon, etched into her skin in a way no hand of his time could have managed.

He stared, unable to look away.

“…what is that?”

Either it was a mark of a witch… or he had proof she was fae after all.

Rowan went still beneath his gaze, eyes wide.

She wasn’t sure how to explain it. Every time she tried to speak, the words seemed to catch in her throat, refusing to come.

“Are ye truly one of the fae folk?” he asked softly.

Her brows furrowed—and then she let out a short, disbelieving snort.

He still thought she was fae.

Honestly, that might have been easier than the truth. Rowan could’ve leaned into it, let Murtagh keep believing. But she was tired—tired of half-truths, of letting him fill in the gaps himself.

“No,” she said finally. “And before you ask—no, I’m not a witch either.”

With a small sigh, she pulled her chemise fully over her head, covering the tattoo he’d seen.

If he only knew… she had more.

With a sigh, she motioned to a stool. She began pacing, trying to figure out how to explain it without him thinking her insane.

“The stones… You know, that story about the woman? The one who traveled?”

Murtagh leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, trying not to notice how her chemise was practically sheer in the firelight.

“What of it?” he asked, his gaze darting anywhere but her, silently praying she didn’t notice the effect she had on him—and hoping she would either cover herself more or step out of the teasing glow of the firelight.

“Well… turns out there’s some truth to it,” she said, watching his face shift into one of disbelief. “Okay, shit… let me think of how to prove it.”

She racked her brain for any event she could mention—but the only thing that came to mind was the Jacobite Rebellion, which wouldn’t happen for another few decades. Everything else she thought of was far in the future. Explaining her past—her actual time—was proving trickier than she expected.

Then she remembered the tattoo on her side: the B-17. Perhaps a plane tattoo would be sufficient evidence.

She lifted her chemise slightly. Murtagh’s eyes widened, momentarily caught off guard by the small pair of pants she wore beneath—but when he realized what she was showing, he let out a low whistle and stared at the tattoo instead.

“It’s called a plane,” she explained. “Like a carriage, but in the sky. This one is like the one my Pop flew during the war… in the 1940s. But see, I’m from 2020—the future.”

He reached a finger out as if to trace the ink, then hesitated, his last shred of modesty forcing him to pull back and look up at her.

“Plane?” he asked, incredulous.

She nodded. “The earliest event I can point to is 1745—there will be a rebellion, called the Jacobite Rebellion. And it will go horribly wrong for the Scots.”

His brows furrowed as he took in her words.

She let out a breath, frustration slipping through. “And now you think I’m insane,” she muttered.

There was a pause.

“If I say I believe ye…” he began slowly, studying her in that careful, searching way of his, “would ye tell me more of this… plane?”

There was something in his voice—not quite certainty, not quite doubt. Awe, perhaps. Curiosity.

She blinked at him, caught off guard by the question. And then she noticed it—that slightly uneasy, almost entertained look on his face, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or lean closer.

She laughed, but the sound faded when he suddenly went still.

“Why did ye no' say anything before?”

Rowan let out a breath, rubbing a hand over her face. “Oh, I don’t know—‘Hello, my name is Rowan, and I’m from centuries into the future. Nice to meet you,” she said dryly.

He considered that for a moment… then gave a small, understanding nod.

“Fair enough.”

He sat up straighter then, studying her more intently now—not with suspicion, but something closer to curiosity.

Rowan blinked—and then her eyes lit up.

“Wait! I know how I can prove it.”

Before he could respond, she turned and rushed to the chest at the foot of her bed, dropping to her knees and digging through it. After a moment, she pulled out her phone—the one she hadn’t touched in over a year.

She hesitated, almost expecting it not to work.

But when she pressed the button, the screen flickered to life.

“…huh.”

Without wasting time, she opened the camera and turned back toward him.

“Murtagh—don’t move.”

“What—”

The flash went off.

He jerked back, eyes wide, nearly knocking the stool over in the process.

“What in God’s name—”

Rowan turned the screen toward him.

He stared.

Then stared harder.

And very nearly fell off the stool.

“That’s… that’s you,” she said, unable to keep the small grin from her face. “It’s called a cell phone. It has a camera—like an instant portrait.”

She tapped the screen again, then opened her music, letting the first song from a random playlist play.

The sound filled the room—clear, layered, unlike anything he’d ever heard.

Murtagh froze. His eyes widened even further, gaze snapping between the device and her face.

“What magic is—”

“Not magic,” she cut in gently. “Technology.”

He looked at her with such open fascination that she couldn’t help but smile.

She spent the next few hours telling him about the future—small things at first, then more as she grew comfortable. Though in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of butterfly effect she might be causing.

Still… having someone she could finally speak to about it all—truly speak to—was a relief she hadn’t realized she’d needed.

After a while, Murtagh went quiet.

“Do ye have someone back in your time… missing ye?” he asked.

The question caught her off guard. There was something in his voice—something careful, almost vulnerable—that made her pause.

She shook her head. “No.”

A small shrug followed, though her tone softened. “I was never really anyone’s first choice.”

She let out a quiet breath, glancing away for a moment. “And honestly… after two failed relationships, I just said screw it. I wasn’t going to force myself to settle for anyone.”

“Any man that let ye slip away is a fool,” he muttered, his gaze lingering on her.

She smiled—and before she could think better of it, she leaned forward and kissed him.

His eyes widened in surprise, but only for a moment before his hand came up, pulling her closer. There was something almost reverent in the way he held her—like he couldn’t quite believe she had chosen him.

She shifted, settling in his lap, her fingers curling into his dark hair as she smiled against his lips.

This time, when he kissed her back, there was no hesitation. Only quiet certainty.

When she pulled away, they were both left gasping for air—but neither could stop smiling at the other.

“For what it’s worth,” she said breathlessly, “I would’ve chosen you over your cousin. He’s charming, sure—but I think I enjoy your cynicism and sass more.”

She laughed, and he rolled his eyes—only to pull her back in for another kiss.

“My sass?” he scoffed against her lips. “Ye cannae be serious. Ye have far more.”

She gasped in mock horror, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“I do not—”

After that moment, they became even more inseparable.

He had publicly announced he was courting her—which had her snickering at first—but there was something about the way he said it, steady and certain, that made her chest tighten.

And behind closed doors…

There was no mistaking how he felt.

He would draw her close, pressing her back against whatever surface was nearest, his restraint slipping just enough to leave her breathless and wanting more. And he never left her waiting long.

It was only a matter of time before he asked for her hand.

Neither of them had much patience for formalities. Instead, they returned to the stones where they had first met and quietly handfasted there, binding themselves to one another in their own way.

Their vows were simple.

To love one another—no matter the century.

Rowan’s fingers tightened around his as she spoke, her voice softer than usual, but steady. “I traveled centuries into the past… and somehow found you,” she said, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at her lips. “And I’ve never been happier.”

Something in Murtagh’s expression shifted, the weight of her words settling deep.

“I’m glad ye did,” he answered quietly. “And that ye chose me.”

His thumb brushed over her hand, grounding, certain.

“Because I feel like the luckiest man alive for it.”

For a moment, the world seemed to be still around them.

Then, as their hands remained bound, he leaned in and kissed her—gentle, unhurried, full of quiet certainty.

When he pulled back, a small smile touched his lips.

“My beautiful fae wife,” he murmured.

She snickered softly, warmth bright in her eyes.

“And you,” she said, leaning in just enough to brush her nose against his, “are my stubborn Scotsman.”

He did not yet have a home to offer her—not one that was truly theirs—but that night, beneath the open sky, it did not seem to matter.

He held her close under the stars, the world around them falling away until there was only the two of them.

He did not mind that she had not come to him untouched. When she explained that, in her time, things were different, he accepted it without hesitation. And when she told him she was choosing him—truly choosing him—he answered with nothing more than a quiet grin and a kiss.

Nor did it trouble him when she told him she could never give him children.

What fascinated him more was her explanation—that it had been her choice. That in her time, a healer could ensure such a thing. It was a concept entirely foreign to him.

But in the end, it did not change anything.

“I never thought much of being a father,” he admitted simply. “And I’ve no need for it now.”

His hand found hers, steady and sure.

“As long as I have ye… It’s enough.”

When word of their handfasting reached Glenna FitzGibbons, the two of them found themselves standing in a church by the end of the week.

Rowan was… uneasy.

She had never been a practicing Catholic—beyond being baptized, she had rarely set foot inside a church. Yet here she was, standing under the scrutiny of a priest who was none too pleased with her.

Especially when she very deliberately avoided the line about obeying her husband.

Murtagh, however, only grinned, leaning in just enough to murmur, “I’d expect nothing less.”

Once the ceremony was complete, the tension gave way to celebration. A grand feast followed, full of music and laughter, and before long, the newly married couple found themselves swept onto the dance floor.

They spun and laughed together, the world narrowing to nothing but the rhythm and each other.

For once, Rowan didn’t have a care in the world.

And in that moment, neither did Murtagh.

At one point, she spun a bit too fast and stumbled into Brian, who only laughed before catching her hands and sending her back into the dance with a grin.

Murtagh watched, his expression tightening for just a moment—something unreadable flickering there.

Rowan caught it immediately.

And, of course, she made a face at him.

Brian spun her again, and she stuck her tongue out at her husband like a child daring him to scold her.

Murtagh huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as a group of older women nearby muttered that she was far too wild for her age.

But she was his wife now.

And he wouldn’t have her any other way.

Ellen stepped up beside him then, little William perched on her hip, not yet two years old.

Murtagh glanced at them—at the life he had once thought he wanted.

He had made his peace with his cousin marrying the woman he believed he loved.

But standing there now, watching Rowan laugh as she spun across the floor—untamed, bright, entirely herself—

He realized something quietly, without bitterness.

He had never truly loved Ellen.

Only the idea of someone like her.

With a dramatic spin out of Brian’s grasp, she shot her husband a wink before reaching for Ellen’s hand and pulling her onto the dance floor.

Little William giggled as Rowan scooped him up, spinning quickly. His laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained, as the two women laughed and turned together, the boy squealing with delight between them.

Brian watched with a grin, shaking his head.

“Only a matter of time before ye two have one of yer own, I assume?” he said lightly.

Murtagh’s expression stilled for a fraction of a second.

He knew—of course he knew—that no one else did. They didn’t know she couldn’t have children… and they certainly didn’t know it had been her choice.

“About that,” he said after a moment, his tone even, “she cannae have any.”

Brian’s grin faded, sympathy creeping into his expression—but Murtagh lifted a hand slightly, stopping it before it could take hold.

“We’re both content with it,” he added simply. “Means we’ll spoil any cousins ye and Ellen give us all the more.”

Brian studied him for a moment, uncertain.

Murtagh’s gaze drifted back to Rowan—watching her laugh as she spun with Ellen and the child in her arms, entirely at ease.

“She’s happy,” he said, quieter now, but no less certain. “Never wanted any of her own.”

A small breath left him, something softer settling in his expression.

“And truth be told… neither did I.”

Finally, after a couple more dances, Rowan came stumbling off the floor, a dizzy smile spread across her face.

“I see why you liked her—Ellen is amazing,” she admitted, a little breathless. “But I’m glad it didn’t work out… because that means you’re all mine, grumpy.”

She laughed, tugging him down into a quick kiss.

Murtagh huffed a quiet laugh against her lips—but it caught, turning into a sharp inhale when she leaned closer, her voice dropping just enough for only him to hear.

“When can we leave?” she murmured, a teasing lilt to her tone. “I’ve got plans for my husband.”

His grip on her tightened slightly, eyes darkening as he looked down at her.

“Do ye now?” he muttered.

“I do,” she grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “And it involves far less clothing…”

She watched the shift in him—the way his jaw tightened, the way he had to steady himself—clearly biting back his reaction.

Rowan only smiled wider.

That was all it took. Murtagh’s hand found hers, gripping firmly, and before she could protest, he was pulling her away from the party.

Her laughter rang out, head thrown back, as some guests shot disapproving looks while others hooted and cheered at their boldness.

By the time they found a secluded corner, hidden from prying eyes, the air between them was electric. His hands went immediately for the laces of her bodice, tugging at them with a sense of urgency that made her pulse race.

Rowan grinned, her breath catching as he lifted her effortlessly in his arms.

This man—her husband, her choice, the one who made her heart hammer—was entirely, unapologetically hers now.

She let herself revel in the sensation—the heat of him pressed against her, the thrill of stolen moments that belonged only to them.

When his eyes fell on her bare chest, a low growl escaped him. He lowered his face, worshiping her with reverent, hungry attention.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging at the twine that held it in place, and he didn’t miss a beat, smirking up at her as he pressed kisses along her pulse point.

Rowan gasped, biting her lip at the sudden, sharp pleasure, and he met her eyes, dark with desire.

“Ye best let me hear ye,” he murmured, voice rough, leaving no room for denial.

He undressed her slowly, a faint grin tugging at his lips as he took her in.

His gaze lingered—not hurried, not careless—as though he meant to remember every detail.

When he reached her side, his fingers brushed over the familiar shape of the plane, tracing the ink with quiet reverence. Even now, it still struck him—that the woman before him was from another time entirely… and yet, she was his wife.

His hand drifted further, pausing when he noticed something new.

Delicate script curved along her ribs.

He traced the words gently, sounding them out in his mind as best he could.

“Don’t compromise yourself. You are all you’ve got.”

“A reminder,” she murmured softly.

He glanced up at her, something thoughtful settling in his expression before his fingers continued their slow path. It suited her. More than suited her—it was her.

And the more he looked, the more he realized…there were more.

A small star at her foot.

Strange markings—runes, perhaps—at her wrist.

More at the back of her neck.

And, of course, the phases of the moon along her spine.

Six marks in all.

Six things she had deemed worthy of carrying with her always.

He exhaled quietly, something like awe in it.

Rowan smiled faintly at his expression. “Some people, where I’m from… they cover themselves in it. Head to toe.”

That drew a low, almost disbelieving sound from him, his thumb brushing once more over the script at her ribs.

“Aye?” he murmured. “And here I thought ye already carried enough stories on your skin.”

She reached for his shirt, slowly pulling it over his head, her nails dragging lightly along his skin. The reaction was immediate—he drew in a sharp breath, a shiver running through him at her touch.

There was something different about this moment.

Not their first time—but the first time as husband and wife.

Something settled between them. Deeper. Certain.

After removing his tartan, he set it carefully on the ground—just as he had the first time they’d come together.

A quiet, familiar ritual.

Then he turned back to her, his expression softening as he lowered her down, cradling her as though she were something precious—something irreplaceable.

His hand came up to her face, thumb brushing along her cheek, grounding them both in the moment.

“Mine,” he murmured—not possessive, but certain.

Rowan smiled faintly, her hand finding his, guiding it back to her.

“Yours,” she echoed softly.

Her lips met his as he gripped her thighs and wrapped her legs around his waist. She ground against him, making him let out a mix of a moan and whimper, which only encouraged her to do it again.

Murtagh’s thumb found the small bundle between her thighs and gently began rubbing it just enough to have her whimpering against his neck.

Watching such a fierce woman falling apart in his arms was intoxicating.

“My beautiful fae wife.” He muttered against her lips just as he slid a finger into her. The moan she let out brought a smirk to his lips. He was the one causing those beautiful noises.

It didn’t take long for her to come crashing down with a scream of his name and a strain of begging for more.

When he slid into her, his eyes rolled back. Surely this woman was made for him; he fit perfectly. With a shift of his hips, Murtagh pulled her on top and gripped her hips.

She pulled back the strands of hair falling across her face in waves, combing them into her fingers as she moved. He watched as she rode him with such precision that he stuttered in his thrusts for a moment, nearly coming undone right then.

“Murrrrtagh,” her name coming out of her lips as a moan, was all he needed to flip them so she was under him. Swinging one of her legs over his shoulder, he watched as her mouth fell open and her eyes rolled back before she frantically gripped his forearms, desperately trying to anchor herself.

He gripped her hands and held them above her head, which made her whimper loudly, and her eyes flew open to meet his.

Her legs moved to wrap around his hips, and with a few more thrusts, she came with a scream, and he followed shortly after.

Letting go of her hands, he cradled her face, and his thumbs brushed along her jaw with a soft, loving smile.

“I love you, Rowan.” He whispered before gently kissing her lips. She gave him a smile before pulling him close and curling into his chest with a breathless sigh.

Time went by, and the two were still as in love as they had been during their handfasting.

They now had a small stone cottage of their own, just outside where Brian and Ellen had built a home. Speaking of them, the couple already had two children, with another on the way.

Ellen was ready to burst, and Rowan joked, “You’re probably giving birth to a six-foot-tall baby this time!”

Young William was five now and positively buzzing with excitement about the new baby. In absolute confidence, he told Rowan that he secretly hoped for a brother, not another sister like Jenny, who was three.

Rowan crouched to meet his wide-eyed gaze. “Even if it’s another sister,” she said with a smile, “you’ll still have tons of fun with a new sibling. You can teach them all sorts of things.”

William’s face brightened at that, clearly pleased with the idea.

Ellen laughed, shaking her head. “Feels like it already. And this one… couldn’t stay in one place if it tried.”

The two children were darting around the yard, playing tag with Rowan, who laughed as she snatched Jenny up. Just then, Ellen gripped her stomach with a hiss.

“Oh…It’s time,” she panted.

Rowan’s eyes went wide. Brian and Murtagh weren’t there—they’d left early that morning for a hunt.

“Now? Shit. Okay… um, William, take your sister and go play inside,” she said, glancing at the kids.

Turning back to Ellen, who was flushed and trying to steady her breathing, Rowan muttered half to herself, “I don’t do so well with blood. There’s going to be blood. And… ugh, I still haven’t recovered from seeing a birth in ninth-grade health class…”

Thankfully, the family cook, Moria, was well-versed in childbirth, having children and grandchildren of her own. Rowan, on the other hand, felt ready to faint just from knowing Ellen was in labor.

But when Ellen, in a wave of pain, grabbed her hand and begged her to stay, Rowan bit her lip. She wanted to be supportive—really—but also wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Still, she stayed, determined to be there for her friend.

Hours passed, and Ellen was still deep in labor. Rowan’s hand had gone numb from being gripped so tightly with each contraction.

“Ellen… I know you’re definitely doing worse than me, but I think I’m going to be sick,” Rowan whimpered.

Ellen managed a laugh between contractions, shaking her head. “Rowan, ye’ll survive. Just keep squeezin’ my hand—and maybe breathe, lass.”

“You have a fucking cannonball coming—nope. There is nothing beautiful about this, and you willingly—I think you’re insane. I love you and Brian, I truly do, but this is repulsive.”

“Tha repulsive—ohh—thing is yer godchild,” Ellen gasped, laughing before crying out in pain from another contraction.

“Way to make me feel guilty. I take it back—I hate you,” Rowan snorted, just as Ellen let out one more scream followed by a loud, piercing cry.

Moria cleaned off the newborn before handing him to Rowan.

“Hold him, dearie. Ellen, ye need to push again for the afterbirth,” Moria instructed, and Rowan cradled the tiny boy in her arms, gagging slightly as Ellen dealt with the next stage.

“You’re lucky you’re already cute, buddy. Otherwise, we’d be in trouble,” she muttered to the baby.

Once Ellen was finally cleaned up a bit, she held her son close.

“James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser,” Ellen announced with a grin.

“Yeah… I’m just calling my little godson Jamie,” Rowan said, snorting as Ellen laughed in response.

That night, as Brian and Murtagh sat by the fire, toasting the birth of little Jamie, Rowan slid in next to her husband and fixed Brian with a pointed glare.

“If your wife has any more children, you’re going to be the one whose hand goes numb from Ellen squeezing it,” she warned.

“Fair enough,” Brian said with a laugh, raising his glass in mock surrender.

“I can confirm,” Rowan added, smirking, “that I have no regrets about not being able to have children… after what I just saw.”

Murtagh nearly choked on his drink, then burst into laughter.

“That bad?” he asked between chuckles.

With a sharp look from Rowan, he quickly held up his hands. “Say no more,” he muttered, still laughing.

Little Jamie grew to be quite fond of Rowan over the next few months, and she of her godson. There were times when only she could get the infant to stop crying.

She would help give his mother a break by singing songs from her time to the boy. His favorite was Soldier, Poet, King. She would often rock him to sleep, humming the verses softly.

But lately, she had been feeling more exhausted than usual. Even after a full night’s rest, her limbs felt heavy, and carrying Jamie left her unusually winded. Her clothes seemed tighter around her waist, and she sometimes felt a dull, persistent ache low in her belly that wouldn’t go away. At times, she noticed her stomach bloating for no reason, and she found herself needing to eat less—though her appetite hadn’t changed. Rowan brushed it off at first as overexertion—after all, chasing after William and Jenny, managing the household, and helping Ellen was a full-time job—but the nagging thought persisted: she knew she couldn’t be pregnant. The possibility that it could be something far more serious began to creep into her mind, and she wasn’t sure what she would do if it was.

As each week went by, Rowan noticed more and more that something was seriously wrong. Her waist felt tighter, and the dull ache in her lower belly was becoming more persistent. Even after a full night’s sleep, her limbs felt heavy, and carrying little Jamie left her unusually winded. She felt fuller more quickly during meals, though she hadn’t eaten any less, and there were moments of pressure in her bladder that had her rushing to the chamber more often than usual. Sometimes her back ached, and a subtle swelling in her ankles made her uneasy.

She knew that medicine here was nearly pointless. As much as she didn’t want to consider it, the thought began to crystallize: she would have to return to her own time for any real chance at treatment. But the idea of leaving Murtagh—or her new friends and family—made her chest ache in a way that no ailment ever had.

Eventually, Ellen noticed when she was playing with William and Jenny, and she suddenly fell to her knees, breathless.

Rowan forced a laugh, brushing dirt from her knees and trying to push herself upright. “I… I’m fine, really. Just a bit winded from all the chaos.”

Ellen’s sharp eyes didn’t waver. “Rowan, I’ve known ye long enough to know when something’s off. How long have ye been like this? Months?”

Rowan hesitated, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. “It’s nothing, Ellen. Truly. Just… fatigue, I suppose.”

Ellen stepped closer, lowering her voice so only Rowan could hear. “We both know ye’re no fool. This isn’t just tiredness. Ye need to stop pretending and tell me what’s wrong.”

Her chest tightened, and the words Rowan had been holding back clawed at her throat. She wanted to protect Murtagh, her new family, even Ellen, from the fear that had begun to settle in her. But Ellen’s gaze was unwavering, steady, and insistent, and Rowan realized she could no longer dodge the truth—at least not completely.

“I… I’ve been feeling worse over the past few months,” Rowan admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I get… short of breath, my stomach aches, and I just feel… heavy. I thought maybe I was overdoing it, but…” She trailed off, swallowing hard, unwilling yet to name the real fear.

Ellen’s hand found hers, squeezing gently but firmly. “Then we’ll face it together. No lies, Rowan. I won’t let ye do this alone.”

Rowan’s heart ached at the offer, knowing the truth of her situation was far more complicated than anyone there could truly comprehend. But for the first time in months, she felt a sliver of relief—not from the illness itself, but from not having to hide from someone who cared.

But that night, she woke in a sweat, sharp pain tearing through her abdomen. She barely had time to sit up before she was violently sick, her body shaking uncontrollably.

Murtagh bolted upright in bed, heart pounding, panic flooding his chest. “Rowan?” he whispered, voice tight with fear. He reached for her, only to see her doubled over, sobbing, tears mixing with sweat, trembling from the intensity of her illness.

“Murrrrtagh…” she gasped, barely able to speak, clutching at the sheets for support. Every breath was a struggle, every movement sending another wave of pain through her.

He gripped her shoulders gently but firmly, trying to steady her shaking frame. “Shh… I’ve got ye,” he murmured, his voice raw with worry. “You’re no' alone, Rowan. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Her vision blurred, and she buried her face against his chest, trembling, feeling utterly helpless in a way she never had before. Murtagh’s hands tightened protectively around her, his mind racing with fear, knowing something was very, very wrong.

She spent the rest of the night sobbing into his arms. For the first time since meeting her, Murtagh felt truly helpless.

Morning came far too quickly.

Rowan sat at the table with Murtagh, Ellen, and Brian, her hands wrapped tightly around a cup she hadn’t touched. Her eyes were red, her face pale.

Murtagh stood just behind her, a steady presence—but even he could see it now. There was no healer who could fix this. Not here. Not in this time.

Brian shifted uneasily. “We could send for the Beaton,” he offered.

Murtagh shook his head before Rowan could even respond.

“Rowan… maybe ye should go back home,” he said quietly.

Her breath hitched, and tears immediately filled her eyes. She knew exactly what he meant.

Brian frowned, looking between them. “To the cottage? Or the colonies? What good would that do?”

Murtagh only shook his head again, his jaw tightening.

He wished—God, how he wished—he could tell them the truth. That Rowan wasn’t meant for this time. That the only place she had a chance of surviving… was centuries away from all of them.

Rowan’s grip on the cup tightened slightly as she stared down at it, her mind racing.

She couldn’t keep this from them much longer.

“No… ye mean something else,” Ellen whispered, her voice unsteady. “Why do I feel ye mean somewhere I cannae follow?”

Rowan’s breath caught, her gaze dropping to her hands. “This is not how I wanted to tell you,” she said softly. “But…it’s not somewhere.” She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look up. “It’s somewhen.”

Brian stared at her, confusion written plainly across his face. “I dinnae understand…”

“It’s true.”

Murtagh’s voice was steady as he stepped closer, placing a gentle, grounding hand on Rowan’s shoulder.

“She traveled through the stones.”

Brian let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “Through the stones?” he repeated. “That’s…that’s tales for children and old women.”

“Aye,” Murtagh said quietly. “That’s what I thought as well.”

Brian looked between them, searching for reason, for something that made sense. “And ye expect me to believe she’s come from…what? Another time?”

Rowan didn’t speak. She simply held his gaze, her eyes tired, rimmed red from the night before—but steady.

“I have no reason to lie about this,” she said softly. “Not about something like this.”

Brian frowned, still uncertain. “But how could anyone—”

“She’s no' anyone.”

Murtagh’s voice was firm now.

Brian fell silent.

Ellen, who had been watching Rowan closely, finally stepped forward. Slowly, gently, she reached for Rowan’s hand and took it in her own.

Her grip was warm. Steady.

“I dinnae understand it,” Ellen admitted, her voice quiet but sure. “Not truly.”

Rowan’s breath hitched slightly.

“But I ken ye,” Ellen continued, squeezing her hand. “And I ken ye wouldnae speak such things lightly. Not like this.”

Tears welled in Rowan’s eyes again, but she blinked them back.

“So if ye say this is the truth…” Ellen went on, her voice softening, “then I believe ye.”

Brian looked at his wife, then back at Rowan, still struggling—but the certainty in Ellen’s face gave him pause.

“…and this is why ye must leave?” Ellen asked gently.

Rowan nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s the only place I might survive.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Ellen’s grip tightened. “Then we’ll no' waste time questioning it,” she said, her tone shifting with quiet resolve. “We’ll see ye safely there.”

Rowan let out a broken breath, overwhelmed—not by fear this time, but by the unwavering support in front of her.

Murtagh’s hand remained on her shoulder, solid and unyielding.

He said nothing.

But he didn’t have to.

He wasn’t letting her face this alone.

Over the next few days, Ellen helped Rowan prepare, quietly gathering what little she could take. Brian, in turn, stayed close to Murtagh, offering what comfort he could, knowing how heavy this was for his cousin. If Rowan had even the smallest chance of surviving, then he would hold onto that hope—for both of them.

Each night, Murtagh held her close, as if letting go even for a moment would make it real. He whispered how much he loved her, over and over, like a promise he was trying to carve into time itself.

He did not hide his tears.

They fell freely as he told her how beautiful she was—his fae wife—and how she had changed his life in ways he never thought possible.

“I only want what’s best for ye,” he murmured against her hair one night, his voice breaking.

But his heart was being torn apart all the same.

Because no matter how much he wanted to be strong for her…

He knew she would have to face whatever came next alone.

Finally, the day came for her to return to the stones—to her time.

She hugged William and Jenny close, pressing kisses to their heads before pulling them tight against her. Then she took little Jamie into her arms, holding him as if she could memorize the weight of him.

“I’ll miss you, my little king,” she whispered. “You’ll do so many great things… and have far more adventures without me.”

The boy cooed, his tiny hand tangling in her hair, and she let out a small, broken laugh before carefully handing him back to Ellen.

Ellen pulled her into a tight embrace. “I will miss ye,” she said tearfully.

Brian followed, wrapping Rowan in a firm hug. “We’ll take care of him. I promise.” He glanced toward Murtagh, who stood just behind her, his expression carefully held together.

Murtagh stepped forward then, taking her hand gently and helping her into the wagon.

The ride to the stones felt both endless… and far too short.

When they finally arrived, Rowan stepped down, her breath catching as the familiar buzzing filled the air. The sound alone brought tears to her eyes.

“Murtagh… I’m scared,” she whispered.

He reached up, tilting her chin gently so she would look at him. His own eyes were glassy, filled with unshed tears.

“Ye are one of the strongest lasses I know,” he said softly. “But I am too. I’m scared… imagining life without my fae wife.”

His voice faltered, but he pressed on, his hand tightening around hers.

“But if saying goodbye means ye might live another day…”

He swallowed hard, his forehead resting briefly against hers.

“I love ye. For eternity… and a day.”

She cradled his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing along his cheeks as if she could memorize every detail—every line, every shadow—so she could hold onto him when she needed him most but could not have him by her side.

“I promise,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “once I can… I’ll find you again. Whether it’s in this time, or another… or even another life.”

Her breath hitched, tears slipping free as she held his gaze.

“And I will never love another the way I’ve loved you.”

Murtagh’s hand came up to cover hers, holding it against his face as if he could keep her there just a moment longer.

He let out a slow, unsteady breath before running his fingers gently through her hair, a faint, broken smile touching his lips.

“Nor will I,” he murmured. “I will never love again.”

His voice grew firmer despite the tears in his eyes.

“I swear to ye… I will no' take another wife.”

He reached down and tore a small strip from his tartan, tying it carefully around her wrist. His fingers lingered there for a moment before he lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her pulse.

“So ye’ll always have a piece of me.”

Rowan’s breath hitched, but she nodded, her fingers trembling as she slipped one of her silver rings free and placed it gently into his palm.

“So you can have something of me. It’s not much… but also this.”

She reached into her pocket, pulling out a small silver locket and pressing it into his hand. Inside was a miniature—her likeness, delicately painted by Ellen.

His throat tightened as he looked at it.

“Aye…” he murmured, closing his fingers around it. “I have ye.”

He glanced at her once more, committing her to memory—just as she had done to him.

Then, with a quiet, steady breath, he took her hand and guided it toward the stone.

Their fingers lingered together for one final moment.

A sad, fleeting smile passed between them.

And then—

She was gone.

Vanished as though she had never been there at all.

Murtagh stood frozen, his hand still pressed to the cold stone where hers had been only a heartbeat before.

The silence was deafening.

Slowly, his fingers curled inward.

The ring.

The locket.

Still there.

Still real.

A broken breath escaped him as tears fell freely, his grip tightening around the small pieces she had left behind.

She was gone from his world—

…but not from him.

Tears fell freely as the truth settled in—she was truly gone. It felt as though a piece of him had been torn away, leaving something hollow in its place.

But if she could find help in her own time… if she could survive…

Then he would bear it.

He would endure the heartbreak, the loneliness—every aching moment without her—if it meant she lived.

Meanwhile, Rowan found herself on the hills alone. She wanted to reach back for the stones and return, but the sharp pain in her abdomen made her realize she had to get better first.

A few weeks had passed since she returned and saw a doctor. They had confirmed what she already feared—something had been wrong.

Cancer.

The word still didn’t feel real.

There was a bitter irony in it, too. She had made the choice years ago to remove her tubes, to take control of her own future… and yet it was her ovaries that had betrayed her in the end.

Now, her best option was chemotherapy.

And that was how she found herself here—alone, afraid, sitting in a sterile room that felt nothing like the life she had left behind.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she held her phone, staring at the photo on the screen.

Murtagh stood behind her in it, his arms wrapped around her, his gaze fixed on her with nothing but love and quiet devotion.

Her thumb brushed over his image.

“I made it back,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Just like I promised.”

But the victory felt hollow without him there to see it.

Time passed, and Murtagh felt lonelier than ever.

He watched as Brian and Ellen’s children grew—watched as little Jamie took his first unsteady steps, laughing as he toddled across the room.

Murtagh couldn’t help but think about how Rowan would have been, had she been there.

She would have spoiled the boy rotten.

The thought brought a faint, bittersweet smile to his lips… before it faded just as quickly.

More often than not, his mind drifted elsewhere—to her.

Was she safe?

Was she better?

Was she even alive?

The not knowing gnawed at him, settling deep in his chest and refusing to ease.

Brian did his best to console him, offering quiet reassurances and steady company.

But it was Ellen who understood in a way no one else could.

She had lost Rowan, too.

The two of them would sit for hours, speaking softly by the fire, sharing stories—little moments, laughter, the things Rowan had said or done that lingered long after she was gone.

Keeping her alive in the only way they could.

After what felt like years of chemotherapy—and finally a full hysterectomy to remove the cancer that had spread—Rowan was told she was now cancer-free. Relief washed over her, though she wished Murtagh could be by her side to hear those words.

She held the strip of tartan in her fingers, smiling softly, when an idea struck her. She found a resin jeweler who agreed to create a custom piece, embedding a small fragment of the tartan in a ring.

Once the ring was complete, she clutched it tightly, a piece of him always with her. And with that, her focus turned to her next mission: finding possible points in time where Murtagh might be, so that if she ever returned to the past, she could track him down and find him again.

Over the years, Murtagh had kept his promise—but he had also carried far too much grief. He thought he had suffered enough losing Rowan, yet life had continued to take from him: young William, Ellen, and her unborn child, and even Brian in the passing decades. And through it all, he still did not know how Rowan had fared over the years.

Now, he sat across from Claire and Jamie, listening as Claire tried to explain that she was from the future. His thoughts immediately went to Rowan—the woman he never stopped thinking about, never stopped loving.

“It must sound crazy,” Claire began, hesitantly.

Murtagh held up a hand, silencing her. “What year?” he asked, his voice steady but intense, surprising her.

“1945,” she said softly.

“That was when they had B-17s, no?” The look of shock on Claire’s face confirmed he was not joking.

“She said her Pop—he flew them.”

“Who?” Jamie asked, confusion wrinkling his brow.

“Rowan,” Murtagh said quietly, almost to himself. “Ye probably cannae remember her. She was yer godmother… the one who sang to ye as a bairn.”

“She was my wife, my beautiful fae wife. Who came through the stones—from 2020.”

“What happened to her?” Claire asked softly, her eyes wide with concern.

Murtagh gave her a sad, distant smile.

“She was sick. And no Beaton could help her. She had to return to her time. Only I have no idea if she even survived. She had bouts of sickness, couldn’t eat without getting ill, was exhausted even after a full night’s rest, and suffered stomach pains that left her crying.”

As he went into more detail, describing the fatigue, the pains, and the way she had clung to hope, Claire’s eyes widened.

“That sounds like cancer,” she said, her voice tight as she glanced between Jamie and Murtagh. “Which can be fatal. I don’t know what treatment is available in her time, but often in mine it is deadly. I am sorry, Murtagh.”

He shook his head slowly, holding onto the memory of her determination.

“She seemed hopeful that her odds in the future were good… so I have hope,” he said, a faint, bittersweet smile touching his lips.

Finally, Rowan was ready to return. She would find Murtagh, no matter what it took.

She packed carefully, tucking worn notebooks between her clothing. Years of research filled their pages—Jacobite prisoner records, shipping manifests, old maps, timelines painstakingly pieced together from scraps of history. She had tracked every mention of Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser she could find, from France to Culloden, from Ardsmuir Prison to vague records of transports bound for the colonies.

The trail always ended the same way.

Murtagh vanished.

Still, she had built herself a plan. If she could determine the year she arrived in, she would know where to search next.

The stones called to her.

Her pulse thundered as she approached them, emotion swelling painfully in her chest. Six years had passed since she had last touched the ancient rock—six years since she had left Murtagh behind.

Six years since she had survived cancer.

The familiar pull seized her the moment her hand met stone, tearing the breath from her lungs—and then the world vanished.

The familiar sight of Lallybroch brought a sharp, breathless feeling to Rowan’s chest.

Her small stone cottage stood exactly where she remembered it, tucked against the rise of the hill as though time itself had simply forgotten to touch it. The sight nearly stopped her in her tracks.

For one impossible moment, hope surged through her.

But when she stepped inside, she found it silent and untouched — cold hearth, dust settled across the table, the blankets folded exactly as she had once left them. Frozen in time. Empty.

The ache that settled in her chest was sharp enough to steal her breath.

So she turned back toward the main house.

Toward Lallybroch.

Now, standing at the front door, she hesitated for only a moment before knocking once—then twice.

The door opened to a dark-haired woman.

Rowan froze.

The resemblance was immediate. Something in the set of her face, the strength in her gaze, the familiar shape of her features—

Brian.

Her breath caught.

“Oh my God…” she whispered before she could stop herself. “Jenny?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion, studying her with open suspicion.

“Can ah help ye?” she asked carefully.

Rowan’s voice trembled as realization struck fully through her. “It’s me… Rowan.”

A pause.

Then, more urgently, “Do you remember me?”

The woman’s expression shifted instantly—confusion giving way to shock as she searched Rowan’s face like she was trying to pull a memory forward through decades of time.

Because Rowan looked wrong for someone who should have been a memory.

And yet…

Familiar.

“Surely no'—ye look so young!” Jenny said, gripping her chest in shock. “How?”

Rowan let out a faint, breathless laugh that didn’t quite land. “Good family bloodline and pure luck, I assume.” Her expression softened as urgency pushed through again. “Your parents? Your brothers—Murtagh?”

She had no real sense of how long she had been gone in this time, but Jenny had clearly grown, and time had done its work.

Jenny hesitated only a moment before stepping aside. “Maybe ye best come in.”

Rowan followed her into the familiar sitting room. It hit her like a ghost—everything was almost the same, yet not. The weight of years lived in the worn edges of furniture, in the absence of voices that should have been there.

Jenny sat across from her, hands clasped tightly together.

“My parents… they are gone,” she said quietly. “Same for Willie. And wee little Robert.”

Rowan went still.

“Robert?” she repeated softly. “Oh… your parents had another?” Her voice faltered. “What happened to him?”

Jenny’s gaze dropped.

Rowan slowly sank into her seat, as though her legs had given out beneath her. “It’s been so long,” she said quietly. “I got caught up for years in the colonies. I tried to come back, but… circumstances prevented it.”

Her fingers tightened in her lap.

“I didn’t know…” Rowan whispered. “I missed so much over the years, and I am sorry.”

Jenny studied her for a long moment, the initial shock settling into something more thoughtful.

“If anyone knows Murtagh’s whereabouts,” she said slowly, “it would be Jamie.”

Rowan’s head lifted immediately. “Little Jamie?”

Jenny nodded. “Aye. Though ye’d best stop callin’ him that to his face—he’s no’ been little in a long while.”

A faint, almost disbelieving breath of laughter escaped Rowan before nerves took it over again.

“Where is he?” she asked quickly. “Is he still here? At Lallybroch?”

Jenny shook her head. “No. He’s in Edinburgh most of the time now. Has a printshop there.”

Rowan’s mind snapped into motion at once, urgency rising again like a tide.

“A printshop…” she repeated. “Of course.”

Jenny frowned slightly. “Ye’re determined to find Murtagh then?”

“Yes,” Rowan said without hesitation. “I’ve spent years trying to trace him forward from Ardsmuir. Every fragment I could find ends the same way—he was transported, and then nothing. I need to know if he survived it.”

Jenny’s expression softened, though confusion still lingered in her eyes.

“Then ye’ll be wantin’ Jamie,” she said again, more firmly this time. “If anyone has heard anything from the colonies… it’ll be him.”

Rowan nodded, already reaching for her resolve again, even as exhaustion tugged at the edges of it.

“Then I’ll go to him,” she said quietly. “Straight away.”

“Be advised, Jamie is in hiding; he goes by Alex MacKenzie. But tell him aye sent ye if ye must.”

Rowan nodded slowly, committing the name to memory. “Alex MacKenzie…”

She rose from her seat, hesitation flickering across her face for the first time since she’d arrived. “Thank you, Jenny. I wish I could stay to catch up, but—”

Jenny cut her off gently, though her eyes were still searching Rowan’s face like she was trying to understand something she couldn’t quite grasp.

“Go,” she said. “Aye ken how important it is to find Murtagh to ye.”

Rowan’s expression softened with gratitude. “It always was,” she admitted quietly. “And it still is.”

For a brief moment, neither of them moved.

Something unspoken lingered between them—years lost, lives changed, grief that couldn’t be neatly explained.

Then Jenny stepped forward and, without ceremony, pulled Rowan into a firm embrace.

Rowan froze for half a heartbeat… then slowly returned it.

“Find what ye’re lookin’ for,” Jenny murmured.

Rowan swallowed hard. “I’ll try.”

When they parted, Rowan hesitated only once more at the door.

Then she was gone—already moving again, already chasing the only name that mattered.

Alex MacKenzie.

She finally made it to Edinburgh and stepped into the printshop, the bell above the door chiming softly behind her.

Ink, paper, and warm dust filled the air.

Near the printing press stood a tall redheaded man speaking with a brunette woman. Their conversation paused as Rowan stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” she said, steadying her breath, “but I am looking for Mister MacKenzie?”

The man turned at once.

A friendly, open expression crossed his face as he nodded. “Aye, that is me,” he said easily. “What can I do fer ye?”

Rowan hesitated.

For a moment, all the carefully built certainty she had carried from the stones, through Scotland, through Jenny’s house, through every step of this journey, threatened to fracture.

Because this was not the boy she remembered.

This was a man shaped by years she had not lived through.

Still, she lifted her chin.

And then, almost unconsciously, something slipped from her lips.

Soft. Half-memory. Half-prayer.

“There will come a soldier…” she murmured.

The words weren’t spoken loudly.

But they stopped him cold.

Jamie—Alex MacKenzie—went utterly still.

The woman beside him glanced between them, confused, but Jamie didn’t seem to notice her anymore.

Rowan’s gaze stayed fixed on him now, her voice barely above a breath as the memory pulled her under.

“…who carries a mighty sword…”

His expression changed.

Not recognition of a stranger.

Recognition of a memory.

A child in Lallybroch.

A small boy curled up half-asleep while she rocked him near the hearth, singing nonsense about soldiers and poets and kings he couldn’t possibly understand.

Jamie’s breath hitched.

Rowan faltered slightly, realizing too late what she had done.

But she didn’t stop.

Not now that it had started coming back.

“…he will tear your city down…”

Her voice broke slightly on the last word.

Jamie took a step forward.

Slow.

Uncertain.

Like he was afraid that if he moved too quickly, the memory would vanish.

Rowan finally looked up fully at him, eyes shining.

“I used to sing it to you,” she whispered.

The room seemed to tighten around them.

Because Jamie was no longer looking at a stranger in his printshop.

He was looking at someone he had somehow lost but couldn’t quite place.

“My godfather sang it to me…” he muttered, almost to himself, as if testing the words for weight.

Rowan let out a small, teary laugh before she could stop it.

“He did?” she whispered, something soft and aching breaking through her voice. “I sang it to you when you were little—late at night when you couldn’t sleep. And when your poor mother was beyond exhausted.”

Her gaze didn’t leave his face.

“But after I was gone…” Her voice wavered slightly. “He kept singing it to you?”

Jamie’s expression shifted again.

Something unsettled flickered behind his eyes.

“You’re much taller than when I left,” Rowan murmured suddenly, almost disbelieving. Her voice cracked slightly with emotion. “You were still a little baby… I missed so much…”

She blinked quickly, trying to steady herself.

It was then that the brunette woman finally spoke.

“Rowan?” she asked gently. “That is your name, is it not?”

Rowan turned slightly, as if remembering for the first time that she wasn’t alone in the room.

She gave a small, teary nod. “Yes.”

The woman studied her carefully, something thoughtful in her expression now, rather than confusion.

Jamie didn’t take his eyes off Rowan.

She turned back to him, and this time there was no hesitation left in her voice.

“I am your godmother,” she said softly.

Silence fell so completely it felt like the entire printshop had stopped breathing.

Jamie went still.

Completely still.

Not disbelief now—but recognition finally snapping into place, sharp and overwhelming.

His mouth parted slightly, but no words came at first.

Because suddenly everything made sense in fragments: the song Murtagh sang but always sounded like it belonged to someone else, the strange ache in stories his godfather told him, and the feeling that someone important had been missing from every version of his life.

And now she was standing right in front of him.

Alive.

Unchanged in the way that made no sense at all.

“…Rowan?” he said at last, voice barely steady.

And this time it wasn’t a question of identity.

It was the sound of someone realizing a ghost had just walked back into the world.

He stepped forward hesitantly, as if afraid she might vanish the moment he touched her.

Then he reached her.

And wrapped his arms around her.

Rowan stiffened for only a heartbeat—just long enough for shock to catch up with instinct—before she broke completely.

The breath she had been holding since the stones, since Jenny, since every step that had led her here, came out of her in a shuddering exhale as she clutched onto him.

Jamie held her firmly, steadying her as her shoulders trembled.

It wasn’t just her godson.

It wasn’t just a reunion.

For him, it was the closest thing he had to Murtagh standing in front of him again—an echo of the man who had raised him, protected him, and filled in the gaps where family should have been.

And for Rowan, it was everything she had lost colliding all at once.

Years. Time. Distance. Silence.

She buried her face against his shoulder, and for a moment, she wasn’t standing in a printshop in Edinburgh at all—she was back in Lallybroch, back in a life that still had pieces of itself intact.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, though she wasn’t even sure what she was apologizing for anymore. “I’m so sorry, Jamie…”

Jamie tightened his grip slightly, his voice rough when he finally spoke.

“Dinnae,” he said quietly. “Dinnae apologize.”

Because he could feel it now—the way she was shaking, the way she was holding on like letting go might undo her completely.

And all he could think was that Murtagh had been right about her.

She had come back.

Just not when any of them could have ever expected.

“Do you know where he is?” she asked, pulling back just enough to look at him, hope breaking through the exhaustion in her eyes.

Jamie hesitated, his hands still resting lightly on her shoulders.

“He is in the colonies…” he said carefully. “At least that was where they said they were sending him.”

Rowan exhaled slowly, the words settling into her like both relief and fear at once.

So he had lived that far.

That was enough—for now.

She gave a small, shaky nod. “Right,” she whispered. “That’s… more than I had before.”

Jamie studied her for a moment, his expression tightening with something like guilt.

“There were rumors over the years,” he added quietly. “Nothing certain. Men scattered after Ardsmuir. Some said Carolina, others further inland. But nothing I could ever swear to.”

Rowan swallowed, forcing herself to stay steady.

“I’ll find him,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “I’ve come too far not to.”

Jamie’s grip on her shoulders tightened slightly, grounding her.

“Aye,” he said softly. “And now ye dinnae have to do it alone. I’ll help ye—and my wife.”

Rowan blinked slightly, still trying to steady her breathing. “Your wife?”

Jamie nodded once, a faint softness entering his expression at the mention of her.

“Claire,” he said.

Rowan let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh. “You’re married,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly in disbelief. “Of course you are. I really did miss far too much.”

She spent months saving and planning for the journey to the colonies. Jamie had agreed to go with her, insisting she would not make the voyage alone.

But their departure was delayed when word came of Young Ian.

What began as a search for passage became something else entirely—first Jamaica, then danger, then survival, as they moved through one crisis after another to bring the boy home.

Only after Ian was found and the storm of those events had settled did the plan return to what it had always been.

The colonies.

And Murtagh.

They had arrived in North Carolina after months at sea, and something in Rowan told her—quietly, insistently—that she was closer than she had ever been.

It was confirmed only days later when Young Ian returned in a temper, complaining that a blacksmith had tried to charge him twenty-one shillings for a broken bit.

Rowan wasn’t entirely sure who was more furious.

Jamie Fraser, or herself.

Which was how she ended up marching alongside them toward the blacksmith, jaw tight, hands already curled into determined fists, very much ready to give the man a piece of her mind.

After everything she had endured to get here—after stones, time, illness, and loss—she had no patience left for greed.

Jamie had been the one to shout at the blacksmith before she had the chance, his voice sharp and already brimming with indignation as he demanded an explanation for the extortion.

Rowan barely registered the exchange.

Not until the man turned.

And then she froze.

The breath caught in her throat so suddenly it hurt.

Because it wasn’t just a blacksmith standing there.

It was the familiar set of his shoulders. The weathered face. The stubborn tilt of his jaw that had once softened only when he thought no one was watching.

“Murtagh…”

The name slipped out of her before she could stop it—barely more than a broken sound.

The man’s head snapped up at once.

Their eyes met.

And for a heartbeat, the world stopped moving.

Tears welled in her eyes as she recognized him—aged beyond what she remembered, hardened by years she hadn’t lived beside him, but still unmistakably him. Still the same familiar brown eyes she had looked into each night for years, the ones etched so deeply into her memory they had never faded.

“Rowan?” he whispered.

His voice broke slightly on her name.

“My sweet fae wife?”

That did it.

Rowan made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and crossed the space between them in an instant, barely aware of Jamie or Ian or anything else around her.

She collided into him, arms wrapping around his waist as if letting go had never been an option.

Murtagh staggered slightly at the force of it, then caught her just as quickly, one hand splaying across her back like he was afraid she might disappear again if he didn’t hold her tightly enough.

“Ye have nae aged a day…” he murmured into her hair, voice thick with disbelief and something like reverence.

Rowan shook her head against his chest, unable to speak for a moment, just holding on—breathing him in, grounding herself in the reality of him.

“Don’t,” she finally managed, pulling back just enough to look at him, tears spilling freely now. “Don’t you dare start saying things like that when you’ve clearly been fighting the entire world without me.”

A broken laugh escaped him at that.

And for the first time in years—decades, in his eyes, it reached his face fully.

Behind them, the world slowly returned to motion.

But neither of them noticed yet.

Murtagh, still staring at her in utter disbelief, finally seemed to register the man beside them.

Jamie.

Another ghost of his past.

“Ye both here?” he muttered, almost dazed. “Surely I am dreamin’…”

Rowan didn’t give him time to think it through any further.

Rising onto her toes, she cupped his face and kissed him—hard, desperate, as if six years and an entire lifetime could be undone in a single moment.

When she finally pulled back just enough to breathe, her forehead rested briefly against his.

“Then I don’t wish for you—or me—to ever wake,” she whispered.

Murtagh’s hands came up at once, cradling her face just as he had done years ago, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like she had never left.

Like he had never stopped waiting.

Behind them, Jamie stood frozen—watching the two of them as time folded in on itself all over again.

Epilogue

Rowan was curled against Murtagh’s side by the fire as he brushed his fingers through her hair with a quiet, absent tenderness, like it was something he had been doing his entire life.

For her, it had been six years apart. For him, it had been decades of grief, distance, and unanswered questions. And yet, in the warmth of the firelight and the steady rhythm of his hand in her hair, it felt—impossibly—like no time had passed at all.

Rowan finally told him everything.

About the illness she had faced in her own time. The months of fear and treatment. The strange, relentless battle she had called cancer. How she had thought she might not survive long enough to find her way back to him at all.

And, quieter still, how she had kept him with her through all of it.

“The portrait,” she said softly, fingertips brushing the edge of his sleeve, “on my phone… I used to look at it when I was afraid. It made me feel like I could keep going.”

Murtagh went still at that, his arm tightening around her slightly.

Then he reached into his coat and drew out the small locket she had once given him—worn now with age and time—but still carefully preserved. He opened it with reverent hands.

“I kept yours too,” he said simply. “Every day I wore it, I remembered I had somethin’ worth waitin’ for.”

Rowan’s throat tightened as she looked at it.

Inside, her face stared back at her—faded slightly with time, but unmistakably her. A version of her that had crossed centuries and loss and still remained.

They sat in silence for a long moment after that, the fire crackling softly between them, as though it too understood there was nothing left that needed to be rushed.

Eventually, Murtagh let out a low, quiet laugh.

“I suppose I’m an old man now,” he murmured.

Rowan tilted her head up to look at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “And I suppose I should be looking at you differently because of that, hmm, oh ancient one?”

“Aye,” he said, amused. “Show some respect.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re as handsome as the day I met you.”

His expression softened at that—something warm and deeply familiar settling in his eyes.

“And you,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair back from her face, “have not aged a day, my beautiful fae wife.”

Rowan’s smile faded only into something gentler, more fragile.

“Maybe the stones have a sense of humor, or maybe I really am one of the fae,” she whispered.

Murtagh didn’t answer immediately.

He just pulled her closer, tilting her chin up to kiss her gently.

And this time, neither of them let go.