Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
20th Jun 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutMarch25th #Warpaint
“Can ye maybe draw a wee arrow, uncle? Across my forehead.” He drew a finger from left to right, showing where.
“I can, aye.” Jamie’s head was bent over the paint dishes, hand hovering. “Did ye not tell me once the white is for peace, though?”
“Aye, should ye be going to parley or trade, ye use a good deal of white. But it’s for the mourning, too—so if ye go to avenge someone, ye’d maybe wear white.”
Jamie’s head came up at that, staring at him.
“This one’s no for vengeance,” Ian said. “It’s for Flying Arrow. The dead man whose place I took, when I was adopted.” He spoke as casually as he could, but he felt his uncle tighten and look down. Neither one of them was ever going to forget that day of parting, when he’d gone to the Kahnyen’kehaka, and both of them had thought it was forever. He leaned over and put a hand on Jamie’s arm.
“That day, ye said to me, ‘_Cuimnich_,’ uncle Jamie. And I did.” Remember.
“So did I, Ian,” Jamie said softly, and drew the arrow on his forehead, his touch like a priest’s on Ash Wednesday, marking him with the sign of the Cross. “So did we all. Is that it?”
Ian touched the green stripe gingerly, to be sure it was dry enough.
“Aye, I think so. Ken Brianna made me the paints? I was thinking of her, but then I thought I maybe shouldna take her with me, that way.”
He felt Jamie’s breath on his skin as his uncle gave a small snort and then sat back.
“Ye always carry your women wi’ ye into battle, Ian Òg. They’re the root of your strength, man.”