Work Text:
Standing before the mirror, I examined my new figure and sighed. Only a few months into my pregnancy, I was still baffled by the tiny movements in my womb. So, too, by the wordless conversations, late at night, between myself and a life that was not my wholly own. With the turning of the season, I had seen my body gradually bloom, transforming day by day to accommodate something far greater than just myself. Still mine, of course, but simply more than it once had been.
And though the child inside me had grown to become something in its own right – now a concrete presence, constantly struggling against my skin and the seams of my clothes – we were more shrouded in mystery than ever before.
It was a paradox, really. I felt at once the person I had been and the unknown someone I would become. I felt stripped of my former identity but startlingly more complete as each day passed. Who was I, and who were they? Was there even a distinction between the two of us, mother and child, bound as we were?
I placed a hand against my chest, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. The morning sickness had been unrelenting, and I’d spent most sunrises with my head submerged in a chamber pot. I ate my breakfast with reddened eyes, exhausted even before the streets filled with the frosted carriages. Working at the L'Hopital had been another matter altogether, as the hours of tending took their own tolls on my body. In truth, I felt perpetually depleted.
Most women spoke fondly of pregnancy and were more than happy to recount their own experiences over afternoon tea. But as with most things, the distance between past and present lent an air of romanticism to even the most uncomfortable of circumstances. Their night sweats and aching backs were displayed behind rose-colored glass, and I found myself almost swept away by the nostalgia in their voices. Almost.
“You’ll be positively glowing!” they had also assured me. And while I’d been told this same thing by countless others, I had yet to see myself radiate anything beyond a sickly greenish hue. I could only nod, and idly wonder if their memories were jaded or if something was simply wrong with me.
I hated that these changes bothered me to the extent that they did. And I hated, too, the fact that these concerns for my vanity increased with each passing day. I was grateful, of course, and excited for a life of motherhood. Boy or girl, red hair or brown – a child was a welcome blessing after the gruesome events of the past year. But still. Thoughts of my physical appearance weighed more heavily on my mind than I cared to admit, and I couldn’t shake the insecurities that accompanied my vanishing waistline.
Seeing my distress, Jamie rose from the bed and poured a cupful of water.
“Here, Sassenach,” he said, offering the cup and coming to stand behind me. “It willna be cold, but it’ll help.”
Jamie wore his guilt on his sleeve – as he always did when I was bent double by the child he’d given me. No matter how many times I had smoothed the worry between his brows, I knew he felt responsible for any suffering I endured. He was always alert, ready to comfort and serve at the moment’s notice. And while this certainly had its advantages, it only exacerbated my own feelings of guilt for requiring such round-the-clock care.
Nodding, I gulped the water down and felt the queasiness begin to settle.
“Ahhh,” I exhaled. I laced my fingers through his, bringing his knuckles to my lips in silent gratitude.
As I studied our reflections in the mirror, I realized then that I was not the only one haunted by the specter of impending parenthood. Despite his freshly shaven face, Jamie looked older, and the nausea that had subsided just moments ago returned in a rush of vertigo.
“Oh, Jamie,” I cried, “what are we going to do?”
He chuckled, nuzzling my neck. “What d’ye mean, Sassenach?” He kissed my jawline and brought his hands around me. “If yer speaking of today,” he continued, “then I plan to tell Charles to bugger off wi’ his invitation. My wife has need of me.” One hand moved downwards between my thighs, and my need for balance was subsumed by a far more primal one. I hummed, leaning back into him and enjoying the coolness of his skin.
“Indeed, she does,” I purred. “Though Charles might argue his crown is more important.”
“Perhaps,” Jamie said, “but an unsatisfied, pregnant wife is far more dangerous than an angry king; Stuart, Hanover, or otherwise.”
“A menace to society, am I?”
“Aye, Sassenach – my downfall.” He rubbed against me, lips now tickling my shoulders. Without warning, I felt a powerful blow to my ribs, and the air left my lungs in a strangled, hacking cough. Immediately, Jamie was at my elbows, keeping me steady. Again, I sensed his guilt in the way he handled me – firm but afraid, like my bones were porcelain.
I felt suddenly too self-conscious for that kind of closeness, as my newfound curves and creases shouted beneath his touch. I shrugged him away, but even this small movement brought the differences between my past and present self into further clarity. I was more graceless, a stranger in my own body – and overwhelmingly embarrassed.
“Actually,” I said, looking to the floor, “maybe not today, Jamie.”
But my husband was adamant. He drew me back, and I reluctantly stepped into his embrace. He pressed himself closer, and I knew he could feel the echoes of our child, shifting and rumbling between us like a storm.
“Sassenach,” he began, “d’ye mean to break my heart?”
Confused, I met his eyes full-on. Amber met sapphire with such intensity that I shivered in his arms.
“I’ve seen the way ye look at yerself.” He pushed a wayward curl behind my ear, and his index finger followed the curve of my cheek. “Can ye no’ see how beautiful ye are, standing here wi’ me and the bairn?”
“Beautiful?” I croaked. “Look at me, Jamie!”
I knew what he would see. My face was bloated, my skin still splotchy from an hour of vomiting. My shoes were barely able to contain my swollen feet. Could he sense the creeping shame too? The wounded pride I had tried so hard to hide?
“I’m practically repulsive. I’m –”
But I stopped short, thrown by Jamie’s expression. There was no anger, per se, but frustrated disbelief – and a twinge of betrayal, too.
“How can ye say such a thing, Claire?”
His use of my real name was like a knife in my side, and I felt suddenly guilty for whatever error I had made. He spun me around, forcing me to look at our reflections in the mirror. Once more, I was confronted by the demons squatting in my husband’s eyes and the small, lurking shadow of their creator.
What are we going to do? I thought again, recalling the childish naiveté of our life before Wentworth. I yearned for it, knowing all the while that such innocence had been laid to rest long ago.
“D’ye not see what I see?” Jamie asked, the softness returning to his voice.
I snorted.
“I see a very tired, slow, and fat – ”
Jamie quickly covered my mouth, stifling the rest of my sentence with his palm. He held the insults there, cupping them like squirming insects, and shook them away with the flick of his wrist.
“No. Dinna say that word, Sassenach. I willna tolerate it coming from you.”
“You asked!” I said, oddly defensive of this negative critique of myself. “I was merely making an observation.”
“Aye,” he replied, “a foolish one. Yer eyes are closed to the truth, mo ghràidh. For ye only see what has been lost – and not what has been gained.”
"Well, I wouldn't say that, exactly..."
He walked over to the window and sat in the chair just in front of it. He rested his elbows on his knees, watching me intently – still standing rather dumbfounded just a few feet away – without a care for the sounds of life above and below. He lifted his hand, tracing my silhouette in the air with his fingers.
“I’ve never seen ye like this, Sassenach,” he said in awe. “Every piece of ye shines and sings when I hold ye. Even on a cloudy day, I wake up wi’ the sun in my bed. Even when it’s quiet and dark, I can hear the light in yer voice.”
Jamie gestured to the sky, a canvas of blue heralding the coming of spring. The flower on our windowsill had only just begun to blossom, reaching slowly up as if to shake the hands of angels.
“Outside, the world is still asleep. People dinna want to leave their homes, waiting for the final breath of winter. But God! Sassenach, you are so alive. Warm and burning – and alive.”
Despite my misgivings, my anxiety began to ease, and I felt myself drawn towards him.
“And when I come to ye as ye come to me now…When the bairn moves inside ye and moves against me, it’s as though I ken the entire world. Sadness and joy, past and future. Even God and the Devil himself. Every question I’ve ever had is answered in your body.”
“Oh, Jamie,” I said softly, fighting tears. His eyes were level with the swell of my belly now, so reverent in the way they memorized the new lines and shapes of me.
Jamie sank from the chair to the floor, on his knees. When he put his forehead to my stomach, I held him there and tried to trap the minutes between my fingers. I never wanted our baby, this man, or this moment to leave my hands.
“I love you,” I breathed, lightly kissing the top of his skull.
Another kick in the gut – but this one, more gentle. It sent a wave of emotion through me that broke the dam I’d built in my eyes and set free every single one of my fears.
“What are we going to do?” I worried again, though I felt a calmness overtaking me.
“Shh,” Jamie soothed. “dinna worry about tomorrow, Sassenach.” Through fabric and skin, he kissed our child, and I felt the flames inside me ignite beneath his lips. “We’ll live forever now.”
I sighed as he lifted my skirts, worshiping my thighs with his hands and his tongue.
“Mo bandia; mo anam.” he whispered, his breath hot against me.
My goddess; my soul.
“Burn for me.”