مقطع مترجم من رواية رحّالة Voyager الكتاب الثالث من سلسلة الدخيلة Outlander للكاتبة الامريكية ديانا غابالدون .
هذا المقطع لم يتم تصويره في المسلسل التلفزيوني . تم قطعه من الموسم الثالث ثم أعيد تقديمه في بداية الموسم السادس مع بعض التغييرات .
عن حال جيمي فريزر في معتقل اردسمير، ترجمة ( صبا نعمة ) خاص لمدونة اوتلاندر بالعربي ( ارجو ذكر المصدر عند نقل المادة )
ملاحظات :
1/ أضغط على الصورة لتكبيرها
2/ النص الذي تمت ترجمته متوفر في التعليق الاول
3/ لمعرفة كيف تم تقديم المقطع المترجم في المسلسل أضغط على الرابط التالي :
أم
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ردحذفHe wondered where they came from, these gifts that shaped a man’s nature. From God?
ردحذفWas it like the descent of the Paraclete, and the tongues of fire that came to rest on the apostles?
He remembered the picture in the Bible in his mother’s parlor, the apostles all crowned with fire, and looking fair daft with the shock of it, standing about like a crowd of beeswax candles, lit for a party. He smiled to himself at the memory, and closed his eyes. The candle shadows wavered red on his lids. Claire, his own Claire—who knew what had sent her to him, had thrust her into a life she had surely not been born to? And yet she had known what to do, what she was meant to be, despite that. Not everyone was so fortunate as to know their gift. There was a cautious shuffling in the darkness beside him. He opened his eyes and saw no more than a shape, but knew nonetheless who it was. “How are ye, Angus?
” he said softly in Gaelic. The youngster knelt awkwardly by him, and took his hand. “I am all right. But you—sir, I mean … I—I’m sorry ” Was it experience or instinct that made him tighten his own hand in reassurance? “I am all right, too,” he said. “Lay ye down, wee Angus, and take your rest.” The shape bent its head in an oddly formal gesture, and pressed a kiss on the back of his hand. “I—may I stay by ye, sir?” His hand weighed a ton, but he lifted it nonetheless and laid it on the young man’s head. Then it slipped away, but he felt Angus’s tension relax, as the comfort flowed from his touch. He had been born a leader, then bent and shaped further to fit such a destiny. But what of a man who had not been born to the role he was required to fill? John Grey, for one. Charles Stuart for another. For the first time in ten years, from this strange distance, he could find it in himself to forgive that feeble man who had once been his friend. Having so often paid the price exacted by his own gift, he could at last see the more terrible doom of having been born a king, without the gift of kingship.