Your Face Is My Heart Sassenach, And

But A Man Is Not Forgotten, As Long As There Are Two People Left Under The Sky. One, To Tell The Story; The Other, To Hear It.

What A Mystery Blood Was -- How Did A Tiny Gesture, A Tome Of Voice, Endure Through Generations Like The Harder Verities Of Flesh? He Had Seen It Again And Again, Watching His Nieces And Nephews Grow, And Accepted Without Thought The Ehoes Of Parent And Grandparent That Appeared For Brief Moments. The Shadow Of A Face Looking Back Through The Years -- That Vanished Again Into The Face That Was Now.

This Was Nonsense, He Thought. The Need Of Her Was A Physical Thing, Like The Thirsty Of A Sailor Becalmed For Weeks On The Sea. He'd Felt The Need Before, Often, Often, In Their Years Apart. But Why Now? She Was Safe; He Knew Where She Was - Was It Only The Exhaustion Of The Past Weeks And Days, Or Perhaps The Weakness Of Creeping Age That Made His Bones Ache, As Though She Had In Fact Been Torn From His Body, As God Had Made Eve From Adam's Rib?

And If Your Life Is A Suitable Exchange For My Honor, Why Is My Honor Not A Suitable Exchange For Your Life?

Am I A Man? To Want You So Badly That Nothing Else Matters? To See You, And Know I Would Sacrifice Honor Or Family Or Life Itself To Lie Wi' You, Even Though Ye'd Left Me?