The rain had not stopped since dawn. It fell in silver curtains across the highlands, hissing softly against stone and heather. The world smelled of wet earth and smoke of endings and quiet beginnings.
I watched from the shadow of the stable arch, unseen, as Jamie Fraser led his horse toward the gate. His shoulder was still bandaged from the last skirmish the one that might have ended him, had I not whispered to the wind in time.
A single word, a shift of sound and the Redcoat's musket misfired.
A breath of fate, redirected.
Jamie lived. And I, once again, remained a ghost tethered to the edge of his story.
Now, as he stood there brushing rain from his curls, I saw weariness in his movements the kind that comes not from battle, but from the slow grind of surviving.
Claire had been tending to him these past days, I knew. Her presence calmed the household, though whispers followed her everywhere the Sassenach with the healing hands. I had seen her once through the thin veil, kneeling beside Jamie in the surgery, murmuring comfort as she stitched his wound. The way his gaze softened when he looked at her made the air itself hum.
They were moving closer the fated pair their hearts caught in a quiet orbit. And I, the shadow between them, both protector and exile, could only watch.
That night, the hall was filled with laughter and drink. The men of the clan toasted after a long ride, their joy echoing against the ancient walls of Leoch. I lingered in the rafters where the firelight could not reach, my presence thin as mist.
Jamie sat apart near the fire, his injured arm resting against the chair. I could feel his thoughts ripple like smoke the unspoken weight of survival, of wondering why he still lived when others had not.
Then, slowly, he began to speak.
Not to anyone, not really but to the flickering flames.
"Dinna ken what sort o' luck follows me," he said softly, his voice roughened by fatigue. "Should've been dead more times than I can count. But each time, something… someone… turns the tide."
He reached for his flask, paused, then chuckled under his breath.
"A guardian angel, maybe. Or a ghost wi' a fondness for stubborn fools."
I froze.
His words brushed against me like a hand through light. He felt me. Not in full not enough to name but enough to know that something walked beside him unseen.
"Whoever ye are," he murmured, glancing toward the darkened beams above, "my thanks. I'll no forget."
I closed my eyes, heart twisting.
The urge to answer rose like a tide to tell him he was never meant to die, that I had sworn before the stones to keep him safe so the world could turn as it must.
But I could not break the silence. Not yet.
Instead, I moved closer, letting the faintest shimmer of my presence touch the edge of his awareness a flicker in the firelight, a warmth across his skin like a passing breath.
Jamie stilled. His blue eyes flicked up, sharp and searching, but unafraid.
"Aye," he whispered, almost smiling. "Ye're real, then."
The smallest of smiles found me too, though he could not see it.
He lifted his flask in a quiet toast.
"Then here's to ye, shadow-guardian. May ye keep me from foolishness, though I've nae doubt ye've your hands full wi' that."
The men laughed elsewhere, unaware of the sacred stillness that settled between us. I stayed until the fire burned low, the moment suspended like a heartbeat outside of time.
As the hall emptied and Jamie drifted into sleep by the embers, I lingered at the edge of the light. The air shimmered faintly around him a weave of destiny strong and golden, stitched now with Claire's thread.
But even fate, I knew, needed its quiet protectors.
I reached out not to touch, but to bless. A whisper through the veil.
"You're not alone, mo chridhe."
And somewhere between waking and dreaming, I saw him turn, his lips forming a name he did not yet know.
Mine.
By dawn, I was gone again, carried by mist and memory. But his words stayed with me, unknown guardian.
Unknown, yes. But not unseen.
For in the quiet places of the world, where time folds upon itself, love and duty wear the same face, and sometimes, even ghosts find solace in being remembered.