Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
27th Jan 2014 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutJUNE10th #thelongroadhome
Dimly, Ian realized that his feet were no longer keeping to the road; he was stumbling over clumps of grass, stubbing his moccasin-clad toes on rocks. He looked back, to find his path—he saw it, plain, a wavering line of black…why was it wavering?
He didn’t want silence, after all. He wanted Rachel’s voice, no matter what she might say to him.
It came to him dimly that he couldn’t go any farther. He was aware of a faint sense of surprise, but not afraid.
He didn’t remember falling, but found himself on the ground, his hot cheek pressed against the cool prickle of pine needles. Laboriously, he got to his knees and scraped away the thick layer of fallen needles. Then he was lying with his body on damp earth, the blanket of needles half-pulled over him; he could do no more, and said a brief prayer to the tree, that it might protect him through the night.
And as he fell headlong into darkness, he did hear Rachel’s voice, in memory.
“_Thy life’s journey lies along its own path, Ian,” she said, “and I cannot share thy journey…but I can walk beside thee. And I will._”
His last thought was that he hoped she’d still mean it when he told her what he’d done.