nysalogs | open | your name is on a lot of quotes in this book

Who: Claire Fraser (

nineteenfortyfive) & you
What: May things, lots of moping Claire... forgive me.
When: May
Where: Olympia
Warning(s): General Outlander warnings.

I. THE MARKET

[Her marriage is in an unpleasant place and she doesn't know how to fix it. Percy is in stasis. Ramsay is back. Theon was, for a brief moment, back in stasis as well, but only returned in a worse state than he was. It's been a lot to contend with on top of being so recently tortured (her her hands remain in gloves as her nails grow back, the last of the damage left), and one afternoon as Claire's in the market, standing before a fruit stand, it all catches up to her.

For someone who urges others to confide in someone, anyone, often herself, she doesn't follow her own advice.

She pushes other shoppers out of the way as she suddenly finds it hard to breathe, hard to keep her eyes from welling with tears, and if she slams into anyone there's no apology as she stumbles out and away.

She stops when she comes to a fountain, gasping and sobbing, a hand clutching at her neck as if there's something suffocating her, chest heaving rapidly. No, nothing physical, just an overwhelming sense of sadness. A sadness that turns into more of a frustrated panic as she tries to calm herself, leaning over the water.]

II. THE TRAIN/FLONA COVE

[Percy did have an affinity for water.

Claire knows she can't watch over Theon 24/7. He needs to stand on his own, and he can, and so Claire takes some hours for herself and heads to the beach. She's always enjoyed train rides. Perhaps she's even in the mood for conversation with whoever happens to sit by her.

At the beach, instead of collapsing on the sand and considering letting the waves wash her away, she takes a stroll, skirts tied up over her knees so she can walk in the small waves without getting drenched.

Now and then she stops to pick up a shell. By the end of it, she's got a hefty collection held in her skirt, and dumps her prizes where she's left her shoes.

Well. Now what to do with them?]

III. STASIS

[She spends more time here than she'd ever admit. She makes it sound like her visits are brief. They're not. On leave from the Sanctuary, she's had a lot of time to simply be.

Today, she stands before her daughter's pod. What she'd give to be able to touch her red hair, or at least feel her skin, make sure it's warm. All she can so is press her hands against the glass.]

Sometimes I think you're luckier, in there. Though you'd probably throw a fit at me saying that. I know you'd rather be here, too. I know.

[[ooc: pls choose your flavor of sad mom, or hit me with a wildcard! Oooooor send me a PM if you'd like me to whip up a starter, and I'd be happy to.]]

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[His gaze falls upon the young woman sleeping within the casket of glass and metal, and his countenance acquires a look of pity. There he lingers a moment as if to better impress her features into his memory.]

May she soon awaken to join you. Until then, she is in the Lord's keeping.

[With a bow of his head, he returns his attention to the mother.]

[She can only hope one day Bree opens her eyes. She's not sure what lord besides the lord of this technology, the Natha, keep her safe, but dwelling on that too long leads to an overwhelming sense of helplessness.]

You said you were here to visit your own daughter? What's her name?

[Despite all that has befallen him, his faith in God has not once flagged in his time here. It was in the nadir of his life that God had found him, and from that encroaching darkness that He had saved his soul; and so, when darkness begins to gather again, such as now when his light lies dormant, he has only his trust in God. This is what pushes him through the day, and what holds him back from the brink of despair.]

She is called Cosette. She is not far from here.

Cosette. That's a sweet name. Might I accompany you?

[She's curious. For the most part, she's the only parent she knows, and so rarely these days can she talk with a fellow parent that understands how it feels to have your heart up in a stasis pod. Ned Stark did, to an extent, but he also had Jon and Sansa with him in Olympia.]

I would not mind having company.

[While once he might have politely declined, so valuing his privacy and each precious moment with Cosette, at present Jean Valjean finds it difficult to object to her offer. The silence of the sleeping masses has the tendency to amplify loneliness, and so he welcomes another living soul to help stave it off.]

When you are ready, madame.

[He inclines his head toward the young woman in the pod to indicate that Claire might spend a final moment bidding good bye, for now, to her daughter. He moves back to allow her space.]

[Claire's never been good at goodbyes, and that applies here in stasis, too. She looks in at the face that hasn't changed at all in the many months Claire's been here, then nods.]

I'm ready. How old is your daughter?

[Something she may be able to figure out once she sees her, but might as well make small talk.]

[When Claire is ready, Jean Valjean leads her along the row of pods all dimly washed in that ethereal blue light.]

Fourteen years of age.

[Even in this simple fact there creeps into his voice the warmth of fondness. Then, after a short walk and a turn down the next aisle, they have arrived at the place where he so often holds vigil.]

Here she is.

[Little more needs to be said as he rests his hand on the glass portal of the pod, as if he means to cup the face of the girl lying within. Cosette is a wisp of a girl still, a hard bud not yet blossomed, with loose blond curls and a sweet expression even in sleep.]

[Some years younger than Bree, then. Claire's not sure what she expects, but an angelic looking blond is not quite it. Then again, she doubts most would expect her daughter to be a redhead without meeting Jamie.]

Oh, she's beautiful. Does she get her hair from her mother?

[A smile touches his lips. A compliment given to a child is one given to the parent, as she as a mother must know.]

Her curls, I suppose.

[The color may come from the man who sired her and abandoned mother and child shortly thereafter, but he cannot say. His gaze drifts to the adjacent pod, wherein lies a woman whose hair is shorn and whose face is gaunt as if by the mark of illness. From the angle at which they presently stand, Jean Valjean's countenance is obscured as he considers this woman.]

[Claire laughs softly, touching her own mess of curls.]

My daughter has the most beautiful red curls as well, but she's always preferred her hair straight, even as a little girl. It's what's fashionable, where I'm from.

[It'd be a shame to flat-iron out Cosette's curls. Thankfully, fashion in Olympia seemed to be rather varied.]

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