Work Text:
Year 2743
We are the Librarians. We read, study, scrutinize, and explore… the past. We master history.
With the unlimited possibilities the future provides, we are no longer in the dark regarding history or the events lost to time. The past is no longer dead, grey, or grim. We travel into it. We exist there. We see every detail that was once forgotten. We live the moments. We feel what people felt, see what they saw, hear what they heard.
Of course, there are limitations. We do not interact with people. And we certainly do not change the past… except in exceptional cases.
You see, we have something called the POA—Possible Outcome Analyzer—which precisely determines the effects of a potential change. If the impact is minor, almost imperceptible in the grand scheme of history, a Librarian may be assigned a task to alter it. Always for the benefit of humanity. We strive to lessen suffering. To bring peace, hope, and, perhaps, something more.
Altering the past without triggering catastrophic ripples is an art. That’s why we are also called Time Engineers—our work is precise. We must construct a stable, self-contained shift that achieves the desired effect but does not fracture the timeline into uncontrollable branches. That is where the POA comes in. You input your design, and it calculates the outcome.
Simple. In theory.
I spent months studying Scotland—names, dates, stories, everything. I traveled to the Highlands of the 18th century countless times. It became one of my favorite historical landscapes.
And then, I came across a name.
James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.
I uploaded it into the biography extractor and… I hesitated.
Pain. Loss. Love. Loyalty. Strength. So much suffering. So much goodness.
As the events of his life flickered through my mind, I stopped at one. Wentworth Prison.
My soul wept.
But I am a Librarian. It is my duty to make things right.
For weeks, I constructed an alternative reality—one where Wentworth would not break him.
I occupied an entire POA for days, running simulation after simulation, testing every possible angle. Some of my colleagues grumbled. I barely slept. I barely ate.
But at last, the framework was set. The script was clear. The simulation was stable.
I stepped into the Time Gate.
Year 1743
Wentworth Prison. Castle Gates.
Traveling through time is not dangerous. At least, not in the way people imagine.
You do not get “stuck” in the past. Once your designated window closes, you simply cease to exist in that moment. Time corrects itself.
But what happens in that window?
We cannot turn invisible. We do not have magic tricks. Success depends entirely on intelligence, precision, and physical ability.
I materialized inside the castle.
At that exact moment, Randall and Jamie were below, locked in a brutal conversation.
"I'm here to help you. Don't fight me."
Then, Jack Randall left.
Darkness. Silence. The sound of ragged breathing from inside the cell.
I moved carefully, descending the steps, the cold stone biting through my suit.
Jamie Fraser lay motionless on the floor. He did not hear me at first—but then he felt me.
His head shot up. His fevered blue eyes met mine.
"Who… who are ye?" he whispered.
I hadn’t bothered to disguise myself. My travel suit must have looked utterly absurd to a Highlander.
I knelt, keeping my gaze steady, pressing a finger to my lips. Silence.
Then, I reached into my belt and pulled out the lock cutters.
Snap.
The lock broke clean.
The iron door swung open.
For a moment, he did not move.
He simply stared at me—his mouth slightly open, as if he were seeing a ghost.
I spoke quickly, my accent deliberately English, to help him understand.
"We need to get you out, Jamie."
I extended my hand.
He blinked. Disoriented. Bleeding. Not trusting his own senses.
"Am I dying?" he rasped. "How do ye ken my name?"
"You’re not dying. But if you don’t move, you will be."
That did it.
His survival instinct kicked in. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself to his feet.
And then we ran.
We had precisely five minutes before the guards came back.
Jamie stumbled—badly wounded, half-delirious—but he ran.
The tunnels beneath Wentworth were the only option. No patrols. No torches. No witnesses.
We reached the damp, narrow passageway, the air thick with moisture. Jamie braced himself against the wall, his breaths shallow, his fingers trembling.
"I can’t go on like this," he muttered, staring at his mangled hand.
I had accounted for this.
"Sit."
He hesitated.
"Jamie, sit down."
Reluctantly, he obeyed. I reached into my suit and pulled out a small medical device.
"This will help."
"A charm?" he scoffed. Still skeptical. Still in pain.
"Something like that."
I placed the device against his broken fingers. A faint hum vibrated through the air, and for a moment, his whole body tensed. His breath hitched as warmth flooded the damaged tissue. His fingers straightened. The swelling faded. The pain… lessened.
He flexed his hand, his expression unreadable.
"A healer," he murmured. "Ye must be an angel."
I smiled softly.
"I’m no angel, Jamie."
For the first time, he smiled. A small, tired, lopsided smile.
We sat there for a moment, the distant echoes of the prison fading.
Then, I stood.
"You need to leave this place. Go as far from here as you can."
Jamie got to his feet, swaying slightly, but there was strength in his stance.
"Aye," he nodded, studying me intently. "And you? What happens to ye?"
"We won’t see each other again."
His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. Then something else. Understanding.
"But… why? Why would ye do this for me?"
It was easy.
"Because you suffered enough."
His breath hitched slightly.
"Ye saved my life… and I dinna even ken yer name." His voice was rough, unsteady.
I offered a small, sad smile. "That doesn’t matter."
Jamie stepped forward, his gaze never leaving mine.
"It matters to me."
"Then just remember this," I whispered. "I was glad to be here… to see you. Even just this once."
His eyes softened, something unspoken passing between us.
"I'll never forget ye," he said, the promise firm in his voice.
And then—
I disappeared.
————————
In the years to come, whenever the wind whispered through the glens or the stars burned bright over the Highlands, he would remember.
A woman from nowhere.
A pair of emerald eyes.
A touch that healed.
A voice that was there—and then gone.
A ghost in time.
And sometimes, he would wonder…
Had she ever been real at all?