Chapter Text
Thig crioch air an t-saoghal ach mairidh ceol agus gaol
The world may come to an end, but love and music will endure
(as quoted by Diana Gabaldon in Written in My Own Heart's Blood)
Strange, the things she’d remember.
The black marks left by rubber soles on the worn-out flooring. Light rain tapping on the window, as she sat heavily on the last step of the stairs. A little star engraved in the blue wall of the stairwell, probably carved with a key or a pin by an unknown visitor.
When the call came in, she almost missed it. She was running down the stairs, about to meet Geillis for a quick cup of tea in the break room before starting the day, and picked up just before the answering machine took over.
The voice was muffled, superficially compassionate. It didn’t take more than one or two minutes. It was only after she hung up that Claire’s breathing suddenly closed down.
She’d known the day would come. She’d thought she’d be ready. Burying her head in her forearms, tight against her knees, she took a deep, shaking breath. There’s been a mistake, she wanted to argue. See, the thing is, we were going to visit him this afternoon, Jamie and I- I told him we’d come, told him yesterday as I left, and he even nodded, looked straight at me for once, and he was doing so well and he knew so he can’t have- he can’t be-
“Are ye alright, hen? What’s wrong?”
Footsteps behind her, a light hand on her shoulder, and Geillis was sitting on the same step, a concerned expression clouding her bright green eyes. Claire shook her head, rubbing her palms on her jeans, trying to steady her breathing.
“The Heathers called.” Her voice was far away, oddly detached. “It’s... Lamb is… he’s...”
Geillis let out a small gasp. Claire opened her mouth to finish, but her chest was so constricted she thought she would choke. Her mouth, her throat, her eyes, her heart; everything felt paper-dry.
“Oh, Claire.” With a sure hand, her friend rubbed her back and talked to her in a low, soothing voice, gathering her hair at the nape of her neck. She knew better than to hug her and burst into tears. “Listen to me, listen. Take a deep breath… Aye, that’s it. Another one.” Geillis’s words were grounding her, and the weight lifted, just a little. “Here’s what we’re going to do: ye’ll go to yer office, and ask Mary to cover yer patients today. Okay?”
“I can’t, I have a group session with-”
“Dinna fash, we’ll have a wee chat with Alex, I’m sure he’ll agree to reschedule. If not, I’ll deal with him. Let’s go.”
Going into doctor mode, Claire spent the next half an hour making phone calls, while Geillis sorted out the administrative details with the department's head. After what felt like an eternity, her friend walked her to the exit, and stopped in front of the sliding doors.
“I’d come wi’ ye, hen, but…”
“It’s fine, Geil. You just finished your shift, you must be knackered. Go home and get some rest.”
“Me? Ye ken I have the stamina of a 19-year old.” Her friend let out a weak laugh. “Nah, I’d come, but ye’re in good hands now, I think.”
Geillis tilted her head slightly, gesturing towards the parking lot, and on the other side of the sliding doors, Claire noticed a tall silhouette crowned in fire and light, leaning against the hood of her car. She swirled back to face her friend, mouth gaping.
“Aye, aye, ye can blame me later.” She hugged her, a little too tight, and whispered in her ear, “I’ll call ye. Now go- the lad’s waiting.”
In a haze, Claire crossed the hospital hallway, adjusting the strap of her handbag on her shoulder. She passed the front door, gulping the moisture-laden air in short, shallow breaths; it would rain again soon. Step after step, she let herself be pulled into Jamie’s orbit like an incandescent comet passing a very large planet, adrift in the cold darkness of outer space. He stood up, very slowly, and opened his arms to her- and without a conscious thought, she buried her face against his chest, suddenly bone-tired, enveloped in the warmth of his rock-solid body. The car park was quiet, and they didn’t talk until raindrops started to fall again.
“I thought you were meeting with Ned?” Her voice was muffled against his jacket.
“Aye. I rescheduled,” he replied matter-of-factly.
She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but found that she couldn’t. Her body felt sore, her insides stretched and bruised, every bone tight under her skin, and she wanted nothing more than to go home, close the shutters, slip into bed, and fall asleep with Jamie’s light breath in her neck and his arms around her waist. Instead, she pulled back to look at him, and they exchanged a silent nod.
“Let’s go.”
***
Sitting in the Heathers’ main room, Jamie was waiting. It had been a while since he’d last felt that peculiar sensation of having a cotton ball stuck in his throat and a tight band wrapped around his rib cage- he hadn’t missed it. The light smell of sanitizer and hospital food was taking him back to different days, different losses. The first had marked the end of his childhood, abruptly, without warning. The second time, he’d been able to say goodbye- way too soon, but he had learned to be grateful for it. The third time, he’d received the news of becoming an orphan in silence, with a tight jaw and clenched fists, and had turned his life around, driven by an unspeakable urgency. Death after death after death, he’d thought he’d lose his mind and he’d survived, carried by those who needed him.
This time, the loss wasn’t his- and yet he felt it, deep in his bones. He would be strong for Claire, would do anything to spare her. For her sake, he would walk down that path gladly, go through that gruesome process all over again. But the path was hers to take- he knew he could only follow a few steps behind, and carry some of her burden.
God, how pale she had looked upon entering the room.
“I’m not ready.”
He’d held her tight, his heart breaking a little.
“Ye’ll never be, a nighean. My brave lioness.” As he kissed them, her knuckles had felt so frail and cold against his lips. “I ken ye dinna want to go in there. Ye dinna have to- but ye have to ask yerself: if ye don’t, will ye maybe regret it later?”
She’d made a small, strangled noise, between fear and agreement.
“Talk to him- or sit by him,” he’d whispered in her hair. “Do what ye must. And then, I’ll take ye home.”
***
As it turned out, planning a funeral involved dozens and dozens of questions. Claire made every decision as she went along, wondering whether everyone truly expected her to have an opinion to begin with- with or without makeup? pine or oak? chrome handles or gold-painted ones? live music or taped?- until Jamie took over, seeing her dangerously close to screeching with hysterical laughter, throwing her teacup in the face of the funeral director, or both, simultaneously.
For a week, she functioned on autopilot, filing paperwork, arranging a meeting with the notary, making phone calls, eating Jamie’s food, watching TV in Jamie’s arms, lying sleepless in Jamie’s bed until his alarm went off.
And now that she was about to address the small crowd gathered in the funeral parlor, sleepwalking on the edge of a cliff, she realised Jamie had been right: she would never be ready. She unfolded the sheet of paper, and prayed for strength to whoever might be listening.
“Thank you all for coming. I...” She cleared her voice, cursing under her breath. “My uncle used to say that a man isn’t truly dead until he’s forgotten.” Her gaze turned to Jamie, towering a head above the rest of the audience, silently nodding in encouragement. With a steadier voice, she continued. “I think that’s one of the reasons he dedicated his entire life to the study of ancient civilisations- he believed it was his duty to tell their stories, respectfully and with integrity. Because their lives were worth remembering.”
She retraced up Lamb’s life journey, his childhood in Oxford, his adventures with Henry, his travels, his excavations in Egypt, his brilliant career and later years at Glasgow university. She paused and swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat and bracing herself for the hardest part.
“Most of you will remember Quentin Beauchamp as a friend, a colleague, a professor, a mentor, a neighbour, a fellow bingo player, a patient. To me, he was…” As her voice cracked, she shifted nervously, looking up only to see Jamie with his eyes fixed on her, encouraging her to take a long, deep breath. “He was so many things we never even tried to define. He was the man who taught himself how to braid a little girl’s hair when he didn’t have a clue; who thought I must learn how to dig a pit latrine on my seventh birthday; who gave me the most awkward period talk you can imagine…”
A rustle of quiet laughter went over the crowd like a light breeze over barley, providing a welcome respite. She thought she’d seen Geillis wipe a tear and wink at her.
“He was the man who didn’t celebrate birthdays, but who never forgot to buy me sugarcane juice on his way from Giza.” She smiled weakly, remembering the old grey Peugeot 405 honking in front of the building. “The man who woke me up at dawn because he knew I loved to sit on the rooftop with a cup of tea, and watch flocks of pigeons take off and soar above the city.”
She closed her eyes, almost hearing the flapping of wings around her, the whistles of the pigeon breeders and Lamb’s amused huffing and puffing as they climbed up the stairs.
“He was a brilliant mind and a teacher of all things.” Her voice cracked again, and the cold settled upon her heart. “He never spoke of love, but made sure he didn’t need to. He was my family, and I’ll miss him forever.”
Claire folded the sheet of paper and walked back to her seat, wiping her icy palms on her skirt, feeling suddenly lightheaded. As she sat next to Jamie, he wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, warm lips brushing her temple.
“Ye did well, mo chridhe.”
Feeling her heartbeat in her throat and fighting the urge to leave the room, she noticed that Jenny and Ian had stood up, looking grave and solemn, and remembered she had asked them to play something to end the service. As truly thankful as she was for their support, she’d agreed to their choice of song without a second thought, assuming it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. She had been wrong: the music soothed her, and seemed to have the same effect on the crowd.
The Murrays had opted for an 18th century tune arranged with grace and skill, the fiddle graciously wrapping itself around the wooden flute. It was a lament filled with longing and sadness and hope, as only a Scottish song could be. Groping blindly, Claire squeezed Jamie’s hand, knuckles turning white; as the melody filled the room, she felt something snap inside of her, and tears finally ran down her face.
***
Silently closing the bathroom door behind him, Jamie turned around and felt his breath catch at the sight of her.
Laying on her back with her right cheek resting against the pillow, an arm tucked underneath it, Claire looked so unguarded that it made his heart ache. Her hair was spread across the grey linen, cascading on her shoulders, revealing the whiteness of her neck between a river of curls the colour of oak, hazel and ash.
Gone heavier as sleep took over, her left hand was now resting on the duvet, the small fingers weighing on the cover of a novel she’d been reading. It was the day after the funeral, and Jamie had reluctantly spent the evening at work, making her promise to text him regularly. She hated going to sleep on her own, but the reception given on the previous day had lasted much longer than they’d anticipated, and she was exhausted. With a sigh, he noticed the shadows under her eyes, the eyebrows creased in a permanent frown of worry.
He moved to her side of the bed and carefully reached for the book to put it aside, not wanting to wake her before turning off the little glowing lamp, but her fingers twitched ever so slightly, and she let out a long, deep breath. Sitting on the side of the bed, he bent his head to kiss her briefly.
“I’m sorry, mo nighean donn, I didna mean to wake ye.”
In the semi-darkness, the amber eyes were fixed on him, filled with love, sadness, and something he couldn’t quite identify.
“You didn’t. Not really.” With a sigh, she pushed herself up and stacked the pillows behind her back. “I was waiting for you.”
She touched the side of his jaw before turning towards the bedside table, and he felt the hairs on his forearm bristle. There was something about her- a current beneath the surface, a live wire humming with agitation.
“You know I had a notary appointment today.” As he nodded, she handed him a thick brown envelope and ran a hand across her face. “Lamb left me this. I think I have to go back-… back to Egypt.”