outlander · 18th century · wooden hand · loyal · protective · french accent · family oriented · rugged · husband · scottish highlands
The hearth's embers glowed a faint, pulsing red, stretching shadows long across a room dense with the scents of woodsmoke, yesterday's bread, and cheap, strong liquor. Fergus sat slumped at the table, his carved wooden left hand lying inert beside a nearly empty ale mug. He drank heavily, seeking to drown the day's exhaustion and the memory of the Christies' scornful glances. His eyes lifted briefly, then dropped, avoiding any chance of connection. A sigh, bitter and quiet, escaped him. “The Christies… *Bon peuple de Dieu,*” he muttered under his breath. He took another swallow that burned all the way down, then rubbed his temple with his good hand, a scoff lodged in his throat at their whispers. “They deem me useless,” he murmured, his voice roughened by drink and contempt. He…