Did you hear/see? STARZ released exactly sixty seconds of Season 5 behind-the-scenes video. Just a few sips to quench our thirst:
So I’m here to overanalyze this thing for you and reallllly make it last…rationing out every last drop in this ever-stretching desert we affectionately know as Droughtlander. Ready?
Warning: Contains possible spoilers. All commentary is pure speculation! All excerpts are taken from Diana Gabaldon’s The Fiery Cross.
Okay, first thing’s first…
This is adorable. Cute
men baby, gorgeous family, lovely costumes, great wigs…full approval.
I had not sought what had happened to me, had fought against it, had had no choice. Except that, in the end, one always has a choice. I had made mine, and everything had followed from it.
Bree, Roger, Jemmy. Any children that might be born to them in the future. All of them were here, in one way or another, because of what I had chosen to do, that far-off day on Craigh na Dun.
Brianna teaching Roger how to shoot!
It was a beautiful gun, more than five feet long, but so perfectly balanced you could rest it across your outstretched arm without a wobble—which Brianna was doing, by way of demonstration.
“See?” she said, pulling her arm in and sweeping the stock up to her shoulder in one fluid movement. “That’s the balance point; you want to put your left hand right there, grab the stock by the trigger with your right, and butt it back into your shoulder. Snug it in, really solidly. There’s some kick to it.” She bumped the burled walnut stock gently into the socket of her buckskinned shoulder in illustration, then lowered the gun and handed it to Roger, with a somewhat more tender caution than she showed when handing him her infant child, he noted wryly. On the other hand, so far as he could tell, Jemmy was much more indestructible than the gun.
She showed him, hesitant at first, reluctant to correct him. He bit his own tongue, though, and imitated her carefully, following the smooth flow of the steps from ripping the cartridge open with his teeth to priming, loading, ramming, and checking, annoyed at his own novice awkwardness but secretly fascinated—and more than slightly aroused—by the casual ferocity of her movements.
Fergus with Germain? I’m not sure…this wee noodle may be too old; Germain is two at the Gathering, and this little cutie looks closer to four.
“Fergus!” Marsali screamed. Germain’s father, hearing his name, turned round from his conversation, just in time to see his son trip over a rock and fly headlong. A born acrobat, the little boy made no move to save himself, but collapsed gracefully, rolling into a ball like a hedgehog as he struck the grassy slope on one shoulder. He rolled like a cannonball through the ranks of soldiers, shot off the edge of a rocky shelf, and plopped with a splash into the creek.
Archie and Murdina Bug? (I also see that Roger and baby cuteness in the corner).
“Your servant, Mr. Bug,” Roger said politely, slightly startled to observe that the large bony hand gripping his was missing its first two fingers.
“Ump,” Mr. Bug replied, his manner indicating that he reciprocated the sentiment sincerely. He might have intended to expand on the subject, but when he opened his mouth, a high-pitched feminine voice, a little cracked with age, seemed to emerge from it.
“It’s that kind, sir, of Mr. Fraser, and I’m sure as he’ll have nay reason to regret it, indeed he’ll not, as I said to him myself. I canna tell ye what a blessing it is, and us not sure where our next bite was comin’ from or how to keep a roof above our heads! I said to Arch, I said, now we must just trust in Christ and Our Lady, and if we mun starve, we shall do it in a state of grace, and Arch, he says to me …”
A small, round woman, threadbare and elderly as her husband, but likewise neatly mended, emerged into view, still talking. Short as she was, Roger hadn’t seen her, hidden behind the voluminous skirts of her husband’s ancient coat.
“Mistress Bug,” Duncan whispered to him, unnecessarily.
Tryon’s men showing up at the Gathering? I assume the Battle of Alamance will be a fairly large-scale production.
This was a Gathering of Highlanders, many of them exiled to the Colonies in the wake of the Stuart Rising, and had Archie Hayes chosen to take official notice of what was said over the cups of ale and whisky passed round the fires the night before … but then, he had but forty soldiers with him, and whatever his own opinions of King George and that monarch’s possible damnation, he kept them wisely to himself.
Brianna and Jemmy baby snuggles!
She was a beautiful woman, but not inclined to fuss over her looks. In fact, [Roger] had narrowly stopped her cutting off most of her glorious red mane out of impatience at it dangling in the gravy and Jemmy yanking on it. Maybe a ribbon was practical. Or a decorated comb? More likely a pair of handcuffs for the wean.
Murtagh, sans silver fox wig. No matter…he’s delicious no matter how you slice it.
No quotes for Murtagh, obviously, since his character didn’t live to see The Fiery Cross. But let’s assume/hope for the best…
To Jamie’s relief, the wedding went off with no further difficulties. The ceremony—conducted in French—took place in Jocasta’s small sitting room upstairs, attended only by the bridal pair, the priest, himself and Claire as witnesses, and Brianna and her young man. Jemmy had been present, too, but scarcely counted, as he had slept through the service.
Marsali, probably being awesome. Lizzie, likely making flirty faces at everyone at the Gathering. Both adorable.
As I came out of the trees, I saw that Marsali and Lizzie were making a small fuss of the bashful young soldier who had fished Germain out of the creek. Fergus stood close to the fire, wisps of steam rising from his wet garments, muttering in French as he rubbed Germain’s head briskly with a towel, one-handed. His hook was braced against the little boy’s shoulder to keep him steady, and the blond head wobbled back and forth, Germain’s face quite tranquil, in complete disregard of his father’s scolding.
Hey there, extras!
Folks at the Gathering? Ridge inhabitants? Isn’t Fraser’s Ridge supposed to be a bustling North Carolina mountain metropolis by this point? Complete with large parties and people getting drunk on cherry bounce?
Half the partygoers had gone home to be firstfooted; those who would not leave ’til morning split into several groups. The younger people returned to the barn to dance—or to seek a bit of privacy among the hay bales—the older ones sat to talk of memories by the hearth, and those who had overindulged in dance or whisky curled up in any convenient corner—and quite a few inconvenient ones—to sleep.
Is that Fergus down there cradling Baby Joan?
He lifted the blanket slightly, exposing tiny Joan’s sleeping face, and smiled—as people always did—at sight of her comical quiff of brown hair, which came to a point like a Kewpie doll’s.
Gah- these two cuties. Do I spy a ring on Brianna’s hand?
[Roger] would have liked to put his own ring on her finger when they made their vows, but she had insisted that the cabochon ruby that had belonged to her grandfather would do fine; it fit her hand perfectly, and there was no need to spend money on another ring. She was a pragmatic person, Bree was—sometimes dismayingly so, in contrast to his own romantic streak.
Aww…you crazy kids. We love you, too.
“I love you,” I said sincerely, and he laughed.
“I love ye too, Sassenach,” he said, and gently touched my foot.
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