Writings from the Wood

“Var -- Varka,” you dropped your voice to a whisper, leaning forward. He matched your movement, ducking his head towards yours as his smile grew. “What are you saying?”

“My heart,” he whispered, almost conspiratorily. Your heads were so close together you could smell the ale on his breath, and the musk of his sweat from the day’s training sessions with the knights. “If you want it, it’s yours,” he repeated, nodding as he sat back up and took a long swig of his drink.

Confessing his love? You gaped at the man you had known for years. The man you had jokingly flirted back and forth with since you were teenagers. The man who had disappeared on an expedition for five years and had just returned to Mondstadt. 

“I … I … Varka,” you stuttered, shaking your head. You were too drunk for this. Too drunk to be confessing long held feelings for each other over drinks. You steeled yourself, still unbelieving. “Varka, you’re drunk.”

He laughed, heartily, his gaze not leaving yours. “I don’t have to be drunk to know how much I love you.” He held your gaze, setting aside his drink and turning to you fully. He squared his shoulders, dropped the cocky grin you knew all too well, and leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands clasped in front of him. 

You had short circuited. Your thoughts were flying a mile a minute. It felt as if the air in the room had been sucked out through the open window. 

He reached over and placed a hand over yours on the table, gently saying your name. “You don’t -” he started, swallowing thickly as his sure gaze faltered for a moment. “You don’t have to say it back.”

You shook your head and scoffed, wanting to slap him across his handsome cheek. “You don’t know how long I have wanted to hear those words from your mouth,” you started, leaning forward. 

Varka straightened a bit, his smile growing as you pushed onto your elbows on the table. “Oh?”

“Do you know how hard it was watching you leave for that expedition, knowing you would probably die out there? Knowing I’d most likely never see you again?” Your voice was rising, but still hushed enough that the patrons across the bar didn’t hear. “I’ve loved you for years, and … and …”

His smile was wide as he stared at you. The blush had crept into your cheeks, darkening your complexion. Tears threatened to spill over your lashes, although the smile you wore was growing. 

You tossed your hands up, slumping back in your seat and looking around the room. “You’re an idiot, Varka. And I love you so much.”

His chuckle filled the space between you, his smile widening. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He stood, and held a hand out to you. “Let me walk you home?”

You stood, and briefly shot a glance over his shoulder at the other patrons. You grabbed the front of his coat and pulled him down. For years you had wondered what kissing him would be like. He hesitated briefly, but relaxed into the chaste kiss, hands finding your waist. 

Pulling back, you looked up at his flushed face. You nodded, composing yourself as you took a half step back. “Let’s get out of here,” you repeated his words, brushing your sweaty palms on your skirts. 

You glared at him. "Please? I've been stuck at camp for weeks! No-one needs to know!" 

He shook his head, grabbing your elbow and turning you back towards your wagon. "You've got a head injury, Miss Grimshaw will have both of our heads if you leave this camp."

You huffed, sighing in resignation as you reached your tent, plopping down on your cot. "Fine. I'll stay." As Arthur started away, nodding in agreement, you added, "But I'm gonna complain!"

Arthur waved his hand in the air, turning only slightly back towards you. "Go ahead!"

***

Three days later, and you still hadn't been able to convince Miss Grimshaw or Dutch to let you leave the camp. Hosea hadn't been around for a few weeks, having been visiting with Bessie back home. A part of you wished you had gone with him -- it had been forever since you last saw Bessie, and being cooped up in their cabin was a better punishment than being guarded by Arthur Morgan. 

True to your word, you had complained. For three whole days whenever you crossed paths with Arthur, you complained that he wasn't letting you do anything without being watched as if you were a prisoner. After the first few hours, though, the complaints turned more to jests, and Arthur ended up laughing at most of them, applauding your increasingly creative wording.

Finally, you eventually just gave up. Resigning yourself to sit in camp and nurse the head wound and twisted wrist until they were fully healed, which hadn't taken nearly as long as you thought Arthur assumed it would.

 Arthur found you sitting under a tree, nose stuck in your book and a fresh chain of daisies decorating your hair. You had found the shaded spot just a few paces from camp early that morning, and decided if you weren't able to go into town, you'd spend the day by yourself. 

As you heard Arthur approach, you looked up. "What?" you asked, a little harsher than you intended.

Arthur paused, looking back towards the camp before sighing. "I'm heading into town. If you wanna go meet that Nathaniel fella," he started, crossing his arms as he trailed off. "But no guns," he added with a pointed finger.

Your face lit up as you closed your book and you scrambled to your feet, brushing the grass from your skirts. "Really? You'll take me into town?"

Arthur nodded. "Miss Grimshaw said it was okay."

"Because she doesn't know about Nate," you smirked, grabbing your book and starting back to camp. "Come on, Arthur! I'll buy you a candy stick for your troubles!"

***

Pulling the buckboard into the town of Armadillo, Arthur rolled his eyes, watching as you practically jumped from the wagon before it had even stopped. "One hour!" he hollered after you as you started down the street, almost skipping into the arms of a young man at the corner. 

"What are you doing?" Dutch's voice came from behind and Arthur spun as he jumped from the wagon, tinged with a laugh. 

"Gettin' supplies. Miss Grimshaw wanted some new fabric, and sewing needles," Arthur answered truthfully, stepping onto the wooden sidewalk.

Dutch nodded, wrapping an arm around the young man's shoulders and guiding him down the street. "You're toeing a line I don't think you want to be toeing."

"What?" 

Dutch chuckled. "Our young Miss Harlow is in love with another. As are you," he laughed, poking a finger into Arthur's chest. "But I've seen those looks."

Arthur scoffed. "She's like a kid sister," Arthur started, pushing away from Dutch's side with a look of disgust. "Just hate that kid she's running with."

Dutch nodded, walking in silence for a moment as they reached the general store. "You know, what? I've got just the idea."

"What is it?" Arthur paused, looking to Dutch with a look of hesitation, stepping aside as patrons stepped out of the general store. 

"You and John," Dutch started, tapping his chin, and guiding Arthur into the store, "Maybe this young fella is what we need in our camp. Another member of this rag tag group."

A bark of laughter came from Arthur before he could control himself. "You want me to work with him? We know nothin' 'bout him!"

"Yeah!" Dutch smiled, slapping his hand against Arthur's shoulder as he went to step around a display of apples. "Just to see how he does!"

"Sure," Arthur nodded, gaze roving over the shelves in front of him.

***

You smiled as Nathaniel and Arthur rode into camp, whooping and hollering in excitement. Even before they had dismounted, you could feel their excitement radiating over the small camp. 

Nathaniel practically ran from his horse, arms wrapping around you and lifting you off your feet with a small spin and kiss. "My, my, my! I have only dreamed of this much money!" He set you back down on your feet and looked at the bag he was holding, eyes wide and smile bright.

Arthur whooped as John rode up as well, tossing the last bag of cash to Dutch to sort out. "Better than expected!"

"Well, Mister Prescott," Dutch smiled, patting a hand against Nathaniel's shoulder. "You've done well!" Dutch placed a wad of cash in Nate's hand. "For your troubles!"

Nathaniel laughed aloud, seeing the amount Dutch had cut for him. "Man, I could get used to this!"

Hosea smiled, thumbing through the cash beside Arthur. "Best in a while. Good job, boys."

You smiled, taking your share as Arthur counted out cash from his bag. "Thank you," you nodded before being scooped back into Nate's embrace, arm around your shoulder.

"Come on," Nate smiled. "We're celebrating!"

***

"Dutch! Arthur! Hosea!" 

Your frantic voice cut through the early morning quiet of the camp. The morning fog just beginning to lift. Dutch had moved the camp away from Armadillo and into the forests of West Elizabeth. The reprieve from the desert heat was welcome, and it offered a more secure location for base camp.

Hosea ran up as you pulled on your horse's reins, practically jumping from the saddle. "What happened? Are you okay?" he asked, holding a hand out to steady you as you landed on your feet.

Tears streamed down your face as you grabbed Hosea's arm. "Nathaniel! He's -- He's been arrested!"

Dutch was running up, Arthur, John, and Miss Grimshaw following, leaving their breakfast and coffee on the tables. "What's happened?"

"Nathaniel!" you started, tears flowing more freely as you grabbed your skirts in fear and frustration. "He was playin' cards in Armadillo ... and somehow was talkin' 'bout the robbery! The sheriff arrested him! They say he's gonna hang!"

"He talked about the robbery?" Dutch asked, stepping forward, voice firm yet laced with genuine concern. "Now calm down a little. What exactly did he say?"

You took a few calming breaths, trying not to hyperventilate. "He said ..." you started, meeting Dutch's gaze. Your lip quivered, tears flowing freely as you stood there. "He said he did it himself," you finished, voice softer as the meaning behind your words sunk in. You knew Dutch and how he ran this forming gang. If someone was taking the blame for a robbery, Dutch, unless provoked to save his friend's life, would probably not do much. "Oh, no, Dutch! They're gonna hang him!" 

Arhtur and John shared a look. "We can't risk a prison break," Arthur started. "If he's takin' the fall ..."

"What do you think?" John asked, turning as Miss Grimshaw wrapped an arm around you.  

Dutch sighed, running a hand over his beard in thought before turning back to you. "Arthur, John, head into Armadillo, find out when the hanging is," the two young men nodded, jogging off to their horses without another word. "Susan, dear, will you get a plate of food ready? Some coffee as well," he added, before taking your arm with a nod to Hosea. 

"What are you doing? Are you going to try to rescue him?" you asked, your naivety taking over. "He can still make it back to camp, right? He'll be okay?"

Dutch nodded, guiding you to the table just inside his tent. Hosea followed, running a hand over his chin in deep thought as he stood in the opening of the tent. "Arthur and John will get the information, but I can't promise anything."

Hiccuping with your sobs, you stared up at Dutch. "Please, Dutch! I love him! Don't let them hang him!"

***

Arthur held his hat in his hand as he stepped up to your wagon. The evening was cool, and the setting sun set the surrounding forest afire with golden rays of light. You had been hunched over a book on your cot most of the day, your eyes red from crying, and food still untouched as you waited for John and Arthur to return with any kind of news. 

Arthur cleared his throat as he approached, leaning against the edge of the wagon. "Spoke to Nathaniel."

You perked up a bit, setting aside the book and standing from your seat, folding your hands nervously in anticipation. "What'd he say?"

Arthur took a deep breath, fiddling with the edge of his hat. "Sheriff arrested him for starting a fight over his story about the robbery," he started. "Then he found the wanted poster."

Your eyes widened as Arthur pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Unfolding it, he handed it to you. "There's nothing we can do. Federal Marshals are going after him, and if he's in a jail cell ... I can't get him out."

You bit your lip as you looked down to the etching of Nathaniel's face on the paper. "Wanted dead or alive," you read aloud. "He ... he never told me about this. Murder?"

Arthur nodded, taking a deep breath. "A rich young woman in California three years ago. Marshal says Prescott's been on the run since."

You hiccuped on a sob, folding the paper and handing it back to Arthur. No tears were falling anymore, but you looked straight at Arthur and steeled yourself. "He murdered a young woman." For a moment, you stood in silence, before looking up and meeting Arthur's gaze. "He ain't a good man, is he, Arthur?"

"Don't seem it," Arthur sighed. "I'm sorry."

You sighed, moving to climb from the wagon. Arthur held a hand out to you as you did, letting you down easily. "Thank you."

Arthur replaced his hat. "You wanna see him?"

You sighed, wrapping your arms around yourself. "No."

Arthur nodded. "Thought you might. If you want it, he did write you a note," he added, pulling a smaller piece of paper from his pocket. 

Sanctuary definitely lived up to its name. Nate had built walls around the most prone areas of the small island, guard posts and walkways constructed atop the walls, and enough turrets that you were surprised the sound of their mechanical whirring didn’t drown out the sound of the bustling little town.

“Would that be all?” Codsworth, the Mister Handy, you had seen following Nate around, spun to face you, a bottle of purified water in its claw. 

You nodded, dropping a handful of caps into the jar as payment for the water. “Yes,” you answered. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure!”

Sitting down on a bench just outside the makeshift open air market, you watched the townspeople 

Sanctuary had grown into a formidable settlement beneath the Minutemen and Nate’s guidance. The rotted and rusted out pre-war homes that stood offered a practical and sturdy skeleton to build around. 

There was a working farm, enough fresh produce to feed everyone in town, as well as all the caravans and passing provisioners. There were enough beds for everyone, with warm, real mattresses and clean (to post-war standards) linens and pillows. The armory and workshops in the center of town were open for everyone to use, except Nate’s private home, of course. The small town all agreed The General’s place was his and his alone.

Nate, you came to find out, was usually found within one of two buildings when not on patrol or up on the guard posts - The General’s House, or the makeshift tavern that had been built on an old house foundation at the opening of the cul-de-sac. 

Today, he was bent over a pool table on the second floor of the tavern. Travis’s voice came through from the radio tuned to Diamond City’s station, and the overhead ceiling fan circled lazily. It seemed so normal, so mundane. You couldn’t believe a single man had rebuilt the Minutemen and a whole town to this degree.

“Hope I’m not disturbing anything,” you spoke up as you stepped onto the second floor landing. “Surprised you found a quiet area to yourself.”

Nate chuckled but didn’t look up as he leaned closer to the map, pencil in hand. You froze, turning back to the pool table, “Unless you want to be alone and kicked everyone out?”

Nate chuckled again, leaning on his elbow, bent at the waist, and practically laying on the pool table as he marked a spot on the map. “No, I didn’t kick anyone out.” He made a few more pencil marks before standing back up. “It’s empty up here in the daytime. Wait till sundown, and everyone will be up here.”

“Gotcha,” you nodded, mentally jotting that note down. “What’re you working on?”

He sighed, looking down to the map. “Mapping out my provisioners’ routes,” he answered. “The Pip-Boy can keep track in the most basic of terms, but not road by road.”

You nodded along, noticing that the Pip-Boy he usually wore was on the table behind him, turned off. “Problems with provisioners?”

“Yeah,” he answered, brow furrowed. After a moment of silence, he waved you over, motioning to the map. “How familiar are you with Quincy and the surrounding area?”

“Born and raised,” you answered. 

Nate chuckled, “Same. How well do you know Raider hideouts in the area?”

“Fine, I guess,” you shrugged.. “They’ve been mostly in the same holes. Why?”

He looked up, stepping around the pool table to stand across from you, “This route,” he started, following a pencil mark with his finger, “Is constantly getting hit.” 

You stepped up and looked down to the map. It was old, probably pre-war and found in some ruin somewhere, the paper slightly yellowed and fragile. The creases and folds were worn thin, the ink faded and barely legible. 

Nate had used a pencil and crossed out a wide area of the coast between University Point and Quincy, and in bold, all-caps, wrote ‘WATERLINE’. Evidently, the water had risen in the 200 years since the map was printed. 

“Uh,” you droned, “I’ve noticed that they’ve been trying to get back into the Quarry,” you started, pointing to Quincy Quarries on the map. “Don’t know how they ever lost that place. Keep getting hit passing through.”

“Good,” Nate nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Means my defenses are holding up.”

You met his gaze, a quizzical look on your face. “Your defenses?”

He nodded. “Cleared out the quarry a while ago. Found an unfinished vault. One of my newest settlements.” 

“Think you should think about some patrols in that area, then,” you hummed. “Pissed off some Raiders with that one.”

Nate’s lips squished to the side in thought, staring down at the map. “I think I’ve got a better idea,” he started as he reached to roll the map up. “You heading out anytime soon?”

You shook your head. “No. No caravans need an extra hand right now.”

“Wanna tag along, then?”

You froze. Did he just ask you to travel with him? He had his inner circle of companions he trusted to watch his back, and up until today, you thought you hadn’t been included in that circle. You met his eye as he started to strap the Pip-Boy back to his wrist, “‘scuse me?”

Nate chuckled. “I know you can handle a gun. Offer’s on the table. You’ll get half of all caps I scrounge up.”

You barked out a shocked laugh. “This how you hire all your guards?”

Nate chuckled. “Leaving in an hour, if you’re comin’,” he nodded, stepping past you and heading downstairs.

***

A sharp whistle broke you out of your thoughts, and you turned as Nate strode up to the bridge just outside Sanctuary, Dogmeat following close behind. “So, you comin’?” he asked, adjusting the strap of the pack he wore on his back. 

You watched, pressing your hand against the wound in your upper arm harder, trying to staunch the bleeding. The raiders behind the leader seemed to know something their leader didn’t, and were anxiously flicking their gazes from Nate to their boss and back.

“He’s not just some fuckin’ vault dweller. He’s … He’s Nuka’s Overboss!” one of the raiders behind the leader spoke up, looking nervously over to Nate.

“Heard all about ‘im,” another piped up, voice jittery with the effects of Jet. “Killed Colter without breakin’ a sweat!”

Your brow furrowed as you tried to lean around Nate to get a look at his face. He stood stock still, rifle held across his chest, trigger finger resting against the barrel. His shoulders were squared, gaze hard as he stared at the Raider leader.

“There ain’t enough caps in the world!”

The boss scoffed, turning back to Nate and taking a step forward. “He’s just some vault dweller protectin’ his farm.”

Nate smirked, head lifting just slightly as he watched the Raider. “I’d listen to them if I were you,” he started. “They’re probably the smartest Raiders I’ve dealt with this far East. What do they call you? Bloodshed?”

The Raider’s gaze hardened as he turned on Nate. “It’s Blood Knuckle, and you –”

“Ah, yes,” Nate nodded, cutting the Raider off as he raised his fist, showing off the rather impressive, blood-stained Power Fist he wore - a testament to his name. “I got it.”

You watched as Nate took a deep, exaggerated breath, shoulders bouncing as he relaxed out of his stance. “Well, I mean, you can try to fight,” Nate started, and you watched as almost a pleased smile spread across his features. “You’re not going to win. Your boys know it. I know it.”

The rest of the Raider gang were standing, weapons held in front of them, but all clearly itching to get as far away as possible, you noted. Your own gun was resting in your lap, ready to fight if needed.

“Some Vault dweller, Raider wanna-be ain’t scarin’ me!” Knuckle started, taking another threatening step towards Nate. “Wasn’t scared of Colter, ain’t scared of you.”

Nate watched him take another step, the unmistakable sound of the Power Fist coming to life filling the air around the small room. Within a blink, and with a sickly crunching sound, you watched as the butt of Nate’s rifle came down on Knuckle’s nose, shattering it.

As Knuckle reeled from the hit, Nate stepped back, glancing over to you with a nod that said “it’s gonna be alright”. You had seen that same nod and look, heard him mutter those words to almost every settler you passed in your travels. The General of the Minutemen, calming, kind, there to protect.

As you looked back up to Nate, you didn’t see the Minutemen General, but a Raider Boss, eyes hard and rifle raised. He circled around Knuckle, crouched on the floor and holding a hand to his broken nose, and addressed the rest of the gang. “I’ll pay you more than you’ll get from this joke, or I can kill you all,” Nate started. “Choose wisely.”

The three other raiders lowered their weapons, dropping them to the dirt and raising their hands over their heads in surrender.

“You fucks!” Knuckle cursed, pushing to his full height and rearing his Power-fist clad arm back to prepare for a very powerful punch right at Nate’s head.

Nate didn’t hesitate, and before you knew it, a gunshot was ringing out throughout the small cabin. The bullet had lodged in Knuckle’s chest, square in the center, disregarding any of the armor he was wearing. You watched as Nate slowly lowered his gun, stepping forward.

“I told you.”

As Knuckle slumped over, dead, Nate rose to his full height, shrugging the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and whistling through his teeth to the other raiders. “Get this body out of here. Report to the Nuka station if you want a job. If you don’t, best believe I’ll shoot on sight next time you cross a settlement.”

The raiders nodded, hurriedly moving to grab Knuckle and pull his lifeless body out of the building. Nate waited until they were well down the path towards the beach before closing the rotten door and turning to you.

“Come on, I’ve got a stimpak.”

Your brow furrowed as you watched Nate’s imaginary mask fall back into Minutemen General. His features softened as he removed the ridiculous cowboy hat he wore, and the bandana around his neck as if he was shedding the layers that made up the Raider boss.

You relaxed back against the wall as you watched him fumble through his pack for a stimpak and first aid supplies. Finally, you spoke up, “Nuka’s Overboss? That place still up and running?”

Nate chuckled, kneeling beside you and stabbing the stimpak into the fat of your shoulder, just above the bullet wound. As he ripped your sleeve open to look at the wound, he nodded. “It’s a huge misunderstanding, actually.”

“Doesn’t sound like a misunderstanding,” you hummed, watching him work. “And we’ve got time.”

Nate met your gaze. “I was out exploring and found Gunners had set up shop in the transit station out West. I was just looking for scrap and salvage, came up on a Raider pretending to be a hurt settler. Tricked me into taking the train to Nuka World.”

“Find it hard to believe you were tricked into anything,” you answered. “Thought that place was a trading post now?”

Nate shook his head. “Raiders moved in years ago. And apparently, their boss was disliked by everyone. They funneled all travelers and settlers through a gauntlet. I impressed them by surviving and was put up in a one to one fight with the boss. Winner took over.”

“Colter …” you hummed, thinking back to any gossip you had heard about Raider gangs around the Boston area. “Wasn’t he some super powerful boss, though? Everyone was scared of him.”

“Yeah, well, he was a cheater,” Nate smirked, patting your shoulder as he tied off the bandage he had been working on. “Was able to connect his power armor to the power grid of the Nuka Cars ride. Essentially creating an electric current throughout his body that protected him in his armor.”

“How’d you beat him?”

Nate chuckled, reaching into his pack and pulling out a small, red, plastic pistol. “Water gun.”

“Fuck off.”

Nate shrugged, stuffing the plastic pistol back into his bag. “It’s the truth.”

You glared at him. “Not sure I’m ever going to be able to tell if you’re lying.”

Cullen’s lips on your neck, his hands on your waist as he bunched the fabric of your skirt up in the back of a wagon at some depot in the middle of nowhere was intoxicating. The six days you had spent traveling alongside him in the coach were enough to get to know the man on an amiable level, culminating in an intense night together. 

***

"Oh go get fucked by the horse you rode in on!"

Cullen's eyes widened at the words, and he spun on his heel, ready to break up a fight. He almost had to laugh at the statement, though, the words coming from a rather sweet sounding young woman. Across the muddy street, the working girls standing on the small porch of the boarding house were in fits of laughter, their heads thrown back and hands holding their sides at your outburst.

Clearing his throat, with a "'Scuse me, ladies" as he stepped up onto the small porch, he was barely able to dodge a slap aimed directly at his face. Catching the wrist, he met your gaze, eyes wide and a bemused smirk lighting his face.

At realizing the man you had almost slapped wasn't the man who had been catcalling and trailing after you all morning, your eyes widened and your wrist went limp in Cullen's grip as recognition hit. 

Cullen. The man you had shared a rather intimate ride in a coach with 3 weeks ago was standing in front of you. 

He had said he was heading to the Wyoming territory to work, but finding him here, in Durant - or Cheyenne as you learned it was now called - was something you weren’t expecting. 

“Terribly sorry.” You shook yourself, taking your wrist back and dusting off your front as you looked around the street. The drunk who had been pestering you wandering off in the direction he had come, waving you and Cullen off. 

Cullen bit back a smirk as he waved off your apology. "Heard a bit of commotion over here, everything all right?"

Eva nodded from her spot on the small porch. The girls around her filed back inside to go about whatever business they needed to tend to. "Miss here's got a mouth on her worse than my girls."

You blushed, ducking your head away. "I'm terribly sorry, it flew out before I could think."

Cullen laughed, a bark he couldn’t keep in as the crowd dispersed. "Hear a lot worse than that 'round these parts." He looked you over, catching your gaze. “Heading to Wyoming, you said.”

“Never said you were heading to Cheyenne,” you replied.

Cullen smirked. “You didn’t ask.”

You furrowed your brows. “Didn’t give me time with the way you were –”

“Ah, there you are!” The voice cut off your thought, making you clamp your mouth shut. 

You heard your name called from behind you and you spun, plastering a smile on your face. Cullen took a step to the side as Durant stepped up, cigar in hand and looking every bit pleased with himself. “Mister Bohannon,” he greeted. 

“Durant,” Cullen nodded, tucking his thumbs into his belt as he relaxed, one foot propped on the wooden walk. 

“I’ve just had lunch with General Grant,” Durant started. “He’s had some fine ideas I believe we can start to move forward with.”

“Looking forward to speaking with him,” Cullen replied before motioning to you as you stepped aside. “I was just speaking to miss …” he trailed off, realizing you had never given him a surname during your last meeting. 

“My daughter,” Durant interjected with your name, holding a hand out between you and Cullen. “Mister Cullen Bohannon, Chief Engineer of the Union Pacific.”

You noted the disdain lacing your father’s words as he introduced Cullen. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Bohannon.”

Cullen’s blue eyes were wide with shock, but he managed to tip his hat at you. “Pleasure, Miss Durant.” At your name, he shot you a glare. 

“We have much to discuss, and I am sure your mother is wondering where’ve you run off to,” Durant sighed, flicking the ash from his cigar with his finger. 

“Yes, of course,” you nodded, following after your father after nodding to Cullen. “Farewell.”

“Alright,” Cole smiled, plopping onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn and two beers in hand. “What are we watching tonight, darlin’?”

You smiled, pulling the water bottle from the back pocket of his jeans as he sat forward, aware he had almost squashed the plastic container. As he settled back in the cushions, you stretched your legs over his lap, folding your hands on top of your belly, balancing the water bottle on the large bump.

“Thought you wanted to watch an old western?” you started, “Change your mind?”

Cole shrugged, kicking his feet onto the coffee table and draping an arm over the back of the couch. “How ‘bout something we ain’t never seen before?” he asked, scrolling through the movie options on screen. “Just pick something and see where it goes?”

“Deal,” you nodded, adjusting so you sat against his chest, shoulder to shoulder. “Now pass the popcorn,” you made grabby hands for the bowl on his other side, “And the Tums. Our peanut has already kick-started my nightly heartburn.”

Movie nights had always ended up with one or both of you falling asleep on the couch, blankets shared between the two of you. The TV had long turned itself off to save power, the movie and credits long over and forgotten as both of you fell asleep before the ending.

Cole shifted as he felt you shift against him, trying to get comfortable as you laid on his lap. Blinking his eyes open, he rubbed at them before running a hand through his hair. He smiled as his hand came to rest against your abdomen, your pregnant belly supported by a throw pillow. “Lettin’ your mama finally get some shut eye, huh?” he mumbled.

He sat there for a moment before stretching out the stiffness in his joints, resigning himself to the fact that he would have to wake you to get you into the bedroom. He missed the days the two of you slept on the couch all night, or those nights you fell asleep and he carried you into the bedroom, smiling at the uttered protests that you were “just resting your eyes”.

He yawned, sitting up. “Darlin’, come on. Wakey wakey,” he said gently, running his finger over your hairline and down your cheek. “Can’t sleep on the couch.”

You mumbled something in your sleepy daze, but started to push up into a sitting position. “How’d the movie end?” you asked on a yawn.

Cole matched your yawn with a smile, tossing the blanket and remote onto the cushion. “Think we both fell asleep, darlin’.”

You took the hand he offered to help you stand, taking a moment to balance yourself as you rose. “When was the last time we finished a movie?”

Cole smiled, guiding you to the bedroom and turning off lights as you went. “Can’t remember,” he answered, quickly changing into his pajamas as you fluffed the pillows on your side of the bed. “Maybe one day we will.”

You nodded as he slid into bed behind your back, arm draping over your waist so his hand sat comfortably on your stomach. “Love you, cowboy.”

Watching as you shrunk back from the elf, a lump rose in Thranduil’s throat. You were scared. Your eyes downcast, and hands clasped in front of you, but Thranduil could see the whiteness forming on your knuckles as you clutched just a bit too tightly to your skirts.

As King, he could have walked right up to you, broken up the conversation and sent the guard – your husband and lover – on his way. With an order, Thranduil could make it so he would never harm you, yet he had been frozen to the floor as if captured in a magic hold. But as you turned to walk down the corridor towards him, Thranduil’s anger bubbled up and he found himself stepping up to you, the bruise against your cheek wasn’t hidden by any cosmetics, or any elven magic, and stood stark against your skin.

Throughout the years Thranduil should have done something, he knew. A naiveté formed in him as he continued to bond with you as a top advisor and friend, pushing the thought of your husband from both of your minds when you were together, as if those days you were together would somehow fix any problem the two of you had. He saw you laugh, smile, the light returned to your eyes as you strode side by side along the halls.

It wasn’t often his kind remarried - or left their lovers for that matter. It wasn’t often someone watched the one they loved be broken down to someone they no longer knew. He loved you. He always had, and seeing you with the monster your husband had turned out to be was killing him inside.

“Your Highness?”

Thranduil’s head lifted as he looked to the guard in the yard across from him. He had been lost in thought, his anger slowly rising as the day had unfolded. Standing at the edge of the clearing, Legolas sat, pressing a damp cloth to your head to staunch the bleeding cut at your hairline.

The moment he had raised a hand against you, Thranduil’s resolve broke. “Do not.”

The guard sheathed his sword, taking a step towards you with a muttering of your name. Thranduil’s sword came up to halt his path, the blade sitting at heart’s height. Meeting the guard’s gaze, Thranduil’s icy blue gaze hardened evermore.

“She is my wife, I must protect –”

“No.” Thranduil’s voice echoed around the clearing, all the guards around standing at attention at the commanding tone. None had dared step up to fight alongside the guard in solidarity. They knew their King was no match on the battlefield. “You have disrespected your oath to the kingdom,” he started, steppling slowly towards your husband, sword still blocking his path. “You have dishonored your vows to protect those who cannot protect themselves. You have armed an innocent, and drawn blood.”

Coming to stand face to face with the guard, who had the gall to square his shoulders and match the King’s glare, as if in yet another invitation to fight, Thranduil hardened, his chin raising ever so slightly as he lowered his sword. “For these crimes, you are banished. Leave. Now. Never return.”

“But my wife—”

“Is under the protection of the Woodland Realm, and the Royal Family. And you, are trespassing. If you ever step foot into my forest, I will know, and you will spend the rest of your days rotting away in a cell never to see the light of day.”

***

The banishment had come as a bit of a surprise. You wished Thranduil had killed Elian. Wished he had gotten the same treatment you had endured over the years.

You told Thranduil everything that had happened that night, crying into his chest as his arms wrapped around you. The tears weren’t for your husband, or rather ex-husband. You cried in relief as you were finally able to confess all he had done to you.

“I am sorry, meleth,” Thranduil murmured against your hair, brushing a finger over the line of the cut on your temple. “I am sorry it took me so long to free you of him.”

Thranduil had always made you feel loved, safe, and protected. As he lay you on his bed, kissing you for the first time in years, you melted into the love he gave, the tenderness he treated you with as his hands softly ran over the healing bruises hidden under your dress. He kissed you in all the spots you had spoken of hours ago, detailing some harsher wounds he had never realized you had been hiding. Love flowed from both of you as you rekindled a flame long thought extinguished.

Cursing under your breath, you pulled the shirt onto your shoulders, glad it covered you enough to crawl up the bank to your own rifle. Laying in the tall grass, you fired down at one of the Raiders, too drunk to find cover behind a tree.

"This our land, ya hear!" 

"You can't take us!"

You had to give it to them, those Lemoyne Raiders were persistent. 

Karen's scoff was loud enough for all of you to hear over the gunfire, followed by a laugh as she hit her own target square in the chest. 

Finally, the only sound in the air was Karen and Mary-Beth's whooping laughter as they danced out from their cover. You laughed as you pushed to your knees, looking down to the now dirty shirt you had thrown on. "Hey, pass me a shirt or somethin'," you said, motioning to the basket Karen was picking up from the water's edge. 

She tossed you a shirt as Arthur whistled, turning to the horses as the three of you continued to make yourselves decent. Finally, after finding a skirt and your boots, you tucked the oversized shirt in and grabbed your rifle. 

"Those raiders are relentless," you sighed, setting the rifle in the back of the wagon.

Arthur nodded, glancing up at you for a moment with a cigarette between his lips. "Yeah," he started, cutting himself off as he looked back to you. "That's my shirt."

You stopped, looking down at yourself. The shirt Karen had tossed your way was the worn-out blue shirt of Arthur's. You chuckled, placing your hands on your hips. "I think it fits me."

He shrugged, ducking his head slightly as he took the basket Mary-Beth held out to him. "I'll want it back."

You smirked, hitching up your skirt to climb onto the wagon. "I'll think about it."

*********

"You threw me that shirt on purpose," you accused Karen as you nudged up to her in the supper line later that evening. 

"No, I swear!" she laughed, spooning a portion of Pearson's stew. 

"Happy accident," Mery-Beth piped up from behind you. 

Karen snickered, leading your small group away from the cookfire. "But did you see his face when he saw you in it?"

"And a blush!"

You rolled your eyes, glancing over your shoulder to the campfire where Arthur sat hunched over his own plate of food beside Javier and John. "Y'all are crazy. How many times do I have to say there's nothin' between us!"

You had joined up with this caravan on the southern outskirts of the Commonwealth. Happy to have a few extra caps in hand, you graciously took the guard position and kept your mouth shut. Lucas seemed to be well liked by everyone you came across as your traveled a well worn route through the Commonwealth, and the brief stays in settlements with actual marketplaces were always relaxing. 

The past three days you had walked through a handful of settlements around Boston, heading north to a newer, larger settlement called Sanctuary. You had grown up in and around the Commonwealth, and especially the Boston area, and were surprised to hear of a new large settlement encroaching on the success that was Diamond City.

“Who is this Nate guy everyone keeps mentioning?” you asked Lucas as you stepped through the gate of the Castle, glad to have some semblance of sturdy walls around you. 

“Say hi to the General for me, would ya,” Lucas smiled to one of the minutemen as they passed under the gate of the castle.

“And who’s the General?” you added. 

Lucas smirked, dropping into the bench beside you as the caravan settled into the camp for the night. The walls of the castle would afford you enough protection without a watch tonight. “The General of the Minutemen,” he started. “Nate. Some wastelander turned General, mayor, merc for hire, scavenger … he’s done a lot.”

“Never heard of him.” you shrugged, picking at your food. 

Lucas nodded. “Understandably. He’s pretty new to the area. Most of the settlements we’ve been passing through are run by him,” he said around a mouthful of stew.

“Now you’re fucking with me,” you started, smiling, dropping your arms to rest along your knees. “Ain’t no way one man can be in charge of all those little farms. Mayor of a settlement, I get -- spent enough time pissing off McDonough to know how most settlements are run -- but all of those farms?”

“Nate’s different,” Lucas said. “He’s run with us a few times. Brings in the caps, and pays us handsomely. Your paycheck’s comin’ from him when we reach Sanctuary.”

***

“Caravan’s in!” MacCready’s voice cut through the morning din of Sanctuary as he walked down the sidewalk. Nate saluted the merc from his spot on the watchtower near the path that lead to the vault, leaning against the wooden railing as the brahmin entered the settlement. 

Nate had found this tower was his favorite just to watch the settlement. It afforded a full view of the cul-de-sac and marketplace, and was central enough to meet anyone who came through the main gates. 

“Worried for a minute, there, Lucas!” he called down, kicking his right foot over his left as he leaned against the railing, rifle held in his crossed arms. “Bunker Hill said you left eight days ago.”

You watched as the man stepped off the tower, shrugging a beat up sniper rifle across his shoulder as he matched Lucas’s gait. Lucas shook Nate’s hand in a friendly greeting. “Stop finding new settlements, and shipments won’t be late. Those farmers are always willing to buy.”

Nate nodded, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “Stall’s all set for you. You heading out two days from now?” You kept your spot behind Lucas, mouth shut, and rifle held in hand, ready to fire at the earliest sign of trouble, but you kept looking over to Nate as he spoke. 

Lucas nodded, shrugging as they led the caravan down the street of Sanctuary to the marketplace. “About. What’s up?”

“Mac and I are heading out. Might hitch a ride,” Nate answered. Stopping, he met your gaze, “New gun?”

You introduced yourself, relaxing a little bit more as Nate smiled a very white toothed smile at you.

Lucas waved over to you. “Picked ‘em up outside Quincy.”

Nate held out a hand for you to shake. “I’m Nate,” he introduced. “Welcome to Sanctuary Hills.”

“Thanks,” you nodded, matching his friendly smile.

You had to admit, out of all of the settlements you had visited over the years, this was one of the nicest. Like Diamond City, there was a rotating security presence, keeping everyone safe, but you had to admit no one looked scared. The pre-war houses that still stood had been converted into all manner of buildings -- a Minutemen barracks, bath house, school house, security office -- and you found yourself wanting to know how. 

Nate … he seemed odd. At least compared to literally everyone else you had ever met in the wasteland. He held himself as if he was a merc, a gun for hire. He carried his rifle under his arm, and eyes continued to scan his surroundings with practiced ease. As you followed the caravan further into the settlement, you watched as the man was greeted by everyone who you passed. 

You leaned against the old diner counter beside Lucas, gaze trained on Nate as he played fetch with Dogmeat in the street. “Alright, what’s the catch?”

As you were led in by one of the assistants, you stared in shock at the sight before you. Both Durant and Cullen sat, nursing bloody, broken noses at opposite ends of the room.

"Ah," Durant started, lowering his handkerchief slightly as you walked in, and guiding you over with a wave of his hand. "Our lovely doctor. It's a pleasure to see you again ... Mrs Kinson."

You smiled, nodding gently as you motioned for Durant to stay seated. His proper upbringing and social status usually would have had him stand upon a woman entering, but you could give him a pass this once. Upon a simple once over, Cullen seemed to be worse for wear than the businessman. Cullen sat nearest the door you had entered from, tall frame practically laying in the plush armchair. His head was tilted all the way back, a bloody handkerchief pressed against his nose.

"I'm assuming you would like to know --" Durant started as he placed the handkerchief back against his nose.

You cut him off, "You either threw the first punch, or Cullen did. Either way, I'm assuming one or both of you deserved it," you smirked at the incredulous look Durant gave you, almost as if he was shocked to hear you speak to him in that way. "You alright?" you asked, stepping up to Cullen and guiding the hand holding the rag to his nose away.

He groaned, glancing up to you as he lifted his head just slightly. "'m'fine," he mumbled. There was already dark bruising starting up one side of his nose, darkening the socket of his left eye.

You tentatively placed a finger against the bridge of his nose, earning a small yelp of pain as he tried to jerk away from you. "It's broken, I'll need to set it ... I'll recommend coming to the tent to do so," you explained, placing Cullen's hand back to his nose. "Mister Durant?" you asked kindly, as if asking for permission to look at his nose as you stepped around his desk. "I would like to say I am rather ... intrigued as to how your meetings always end up with someone getting hurt."

Durant managed a dry chuckle as you prodded at his nose. There was a bit of bruising across the bridge, but unlike Cullen's, it didn't seem to be broken. "Misunderstandings, I'm afraid."

"About?" you asked, pouring some water out of a canteen to dampen a cloth, cleaning the drying blood from Durant's upper lip.

"Me," Cullen chuckled.

"More so his way of running things," Durant interjected, holding his head as still as he could while you cleaned.

You sighed, shaking your head with a fond smile as you stepped back, tossing the used rag and canteen into your bag. "Well, I'm surprised Cullen didn't break your nose," you smiled. "You'll be fine, just a bit of bruising. The bleeding should stop soon."

Durant nodded, sitting straight. "Then I believe this meeting must be adjourned for the moment," he started. "I am sure General Grant will want to hear --"

Cullen groaned, standing to his full height. Glancing to the bloodied rag he held, he sniffed, face contorting in slight pain. "Impeccable timing as always, Durant," he smirked, the bruising on his nose darkening the expression a bit. "Just in time for our meeting over supper. I'll send your regards."

You groaned, pushing Cullen's shoulder as he tipped his hat sarcastically to Durant as he held the door open for you. Durant only groaned as you exited. Walking back towards camp beside Cullen, you laughed. "So ... why'd you hold back?"

Cullen smiled, wiping at his nose. "Would you believe me if I said he punched first?"

"I'm only assuming you deserved it," you smiled, looking up to him. "How many broken noses am I going to have to set for you?"

Cullen shrugged, stepping onto the small wooden porch outside of your infirmary tent. Sitting down on a wooden chair inside, he watched as you gathered some rags and clean water.

"He's bitter."

You nodded, stepping back up to him. "Yes. It's been quite a year for him."

Cullen managed a smile as you stepped between his knees, fingers pressing against his cheeks, before he winced, closing his eyes against the pain. Cullen opened his mouth to speak, but you took that moment to push his nose back into place. He jerked away, head tilting back in pain as you stepped back.

"I swear," he started, gulping back the tears that were forming at the corners of his eyes as he shook his head slightly, slightly dazed from the quick action, "Your bedside manner is nothing to write home about. You treat all the soldiers like this, or am I just special?" he joked, poking fun at your history with the Confederate army.

"I guess you're just lucky," you smiled.

***

"Mister Durant!" You interjected, stopping with a slight stomp as you turned to face him. Exasperatedly you dropped your hands, slapping them against your skirt, and head tilting back in annoyance. "Just because I have a relationship with Cullen does not mean I know the inner workings of his mind! I have no clue why you're asking me after his meeting with Grant. I wasn't there."

"Surely, he must have confided in you in some way, Mrs Kinson," Durant pushed on. "A brief explanation as to what was discussed."

"Believe me, if I knew, I might tell you," you groaned, crossing your arms. "I have not seen him since yesterday, when I set his nose. I'm not sure what time his dinner meeting ended with the General, or where they ended up on topics of discussion. I also do not know if they even spoke of work related items, or if it was a friendly dinner. Now, is there something I can actually help with? Or do you just want to use me as a spy on Cullen?"

Durant looked perturbed. You had obviously hit a nerve. He must have known you were too stubborn yourself to divulge secrets of your relationship to him. And he must have known how much more you enjoyed working with the railroad with Cullen at the head. Yet, he still seemed to think he was in charge, and no matter what, he wanted to know what Cullen's plans were.

"I am sorry for pestering you with these questions, Mrs Kinson. I am just wondering ..."

You held up a hand to cut him off. "Mr Durant. Is it not against the rules of court to discuss a trial outside of chambers? It would be rather ... impertinent to keep at it. If they did discuss matters of the railroad, I, as I have said, have not seen hide nor hair of Mr Bohannon since last night. I assume he is out on the cut ... although, I'm sure you guessed that."

Durant looked off to the horizon, sighing a bit as he straightened his shoulders. "I am sorry to have bothered you, then, Mrs Kinson."

You smiled. "I will however tell you this," you started, raising a finger to give him pause as he started to turn away. "Cullen won't admit it, but you, showing up with the Credit Mobilier board ... felt like an attack. Not only on him, but the railroad." You smiled brightly, "I hope you have a wonderful day."

****

Cullen laughed heartily as he leaned back in the wooden chair, listening to you run through your meeting with Durant earlier that day. "He wants you to spy on me? As if I'm some rebel across enemy lines?" he asked, smile bright.

"Well, you were and are a rebel," you smiled, pouring a fresh cup of coffee for him. "He seems to think you and General Grant have been discussing grand plans for the railroad. He kept asking me about your dinner last night."

"We didn't talk business, only ... reminisced? I guess is the right word," he answered, sipping at the coffee.

"I also told him I hadn't seen you since yesterday, so I was the last person who would know," you added, sitting back down in your seat.

"I met with Grant this afternoon again," he started conversationally.

"Oh? Discuss anything interesting I can continue to keep from Durant?"

"Durant," Cullen answered, and at your strange questioning look, continued, "The city, Durant. Grant told me it was renamed."

"Oh?"

Cullen smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "Cheyenne. After the natives in that territory."

"Durant know?" you asked.