#splat dragon

Hosea had known he wouldn’t live to see the end of it all.

 He’d tried to get them all out - he had. Had sat with Abigail, sat with John. Tried to convince them to leave, to get out, before Jack was old enough to start following in their footsteps, before he could become a thief, an outlaw, a murderer like they all were becoming. Had tried to talk Arthur into leaving but he was too damn loyal and that was his fault, wasn’t it? He’d impressed loyalty into the boy from the moment they’d picked him up out of the dirt, he couldn’t blame Dutch for it all, the man held a lot of fault but Hosea did, too.

 Javier, Bill. They weren’t monsters, they weren’t innocents but even he could see some good in them - Javier, who’d only wanted to do good from the beginning, a revolutionary in Mexico who wanted to keep his family safe now, but Dutch had saved him, had picked him up out of the dirt too, had put food in his stomach and a gun in his hand and he’d looked so unsettled that Hosea had known he was a lost cause, Bill had called him a crazy old man and the women were thinking of it but they were scared, what kind of jobs could they take if they left?

 He’d known he wouldn’t live to see the end of the gang. He was getting old and you don’t live to be old in their line of work, some did but only if they retired and hid away, and even then you still end up dead, shot by a bounty hunter or some upstart, Arthur had come to him all fussed up, talking about Flaco Hernández and Emmet Granger and Billy Midnight and Black Belle, all great gunslingers in their day, all but one he’d shot dead - and it hadn’t surprised Hosea that Black Belle had been the one survivor, he and Susan had known her in her heyday and she was a survivor.

 And he wasn’t anywhere near retirement. He could see that things were crumbling - Dutch was buckling, collapsing under the weight on his shoulders, the cloud behind his eyes growing dark and stormy. Their world was closing in on them, the Pinkertons always one step ahead of them, every con going wrong and there was a rat, he could tell you that and he could tell you who but Dutch wasn’t listening to him anymore, so all he could do was try to get them all out as the rat gnawed at their very foundation.

But then he’d been shot down in the street, looking Dutch in the eye as he died, and then all he could do was watch.

 Watch as Javier was tortured in Guarma, as he became even more enamored by Dutch though Arthur had saved him just as much, as Micah led the Pinkertons (and he’d been right, damn it all) back to Lakay, as Arthur was diagnosed, could only try to run his fingers through his boy’s hair as he fought for breath only for them to go through, could only watch as Dutch s l i p p e d, could only praise his boy as he got them out, helped the women and Pearson and Trelawney escape, as he tried to do good though he’d always been the best of them all.

 Could only pray that Dutch would keep his word as they found the bonds and the storms cleared from his eyes; could only watch as Dutch became unredeemable, screaming and begging ‘Help our boy Dutch!’ as he walked away and the boy died to save theirs, could only scream and beg ‘Help our boy Dutch!’ again as he left John to die though John never did join Hosea, the man kneeling at his side and praising him every time he made an attempt to his feet, coaxing him and promising ‘You can do it son, you can do it,’ until finally he was on his feet and Hosea was slowly, slowly following him back to camp.

Susan joined him, apologizing: she’d failed, she’d failed, she hadn’t saved their boys but it wasn't her fault it was Micah’s and Dutch’s, she faded away and it was just him again. Dutch had a gun pointed at Arthur and Micah - and he was horrified, they’d never hit their boys, never laid a hand on them and here Dutch was aiming a gun at him but he hoped, hoped Dutch would see through Micah finally, but “WHO AMONGST YOU IS WITH ME AND WHO, IS BETRAYING ME?” 

 and ‘Please Dutch, those are our boys!’ as his guns turned on Arthur and John, and John wasn’t even armed, they always gave someone a fighting chance and John was wounded and unarmed and then poor Javier was so confused, even aimed his gun at the sky, his family was falling apart and though he’d been so cruel he can’t hate him as he never did turn his gun on his boys.

 Never had he been glad to see the Pinkertons, but as they interrupted the stand down he could kiss the very dirt they stood on.

Arthur’s dying.

 Their baby boy is dying.

 He’d always thought Arthur would be one of the ones who made it - who started a new life, even took a wife and had kids, have the ranch they always dreamed of, work with horses like he always loved to do.

 But his boy is dying, and Dutch is just staring.

 They never hurt their boys, but Dutch had stepped on his fingers.

 Hosea had heard them break.

 He knows that breathing - that rattling, gasping, gurgling that always precludes death.

 And his baby boy is making it.

 “N...no…” 

 He’s never found himself without words before, but he can’t breathe and his boy can’t breathe either - he doesn’t even need to breathe but his chest feels tight and he needs to say something, to get Dutch’s attention because what is he doing, their baby boy is dying, they’d raised him and promised to never let him get hurt again and Arthur is dying.

 “I…”

  I can’t watch this.

  I can’t do this.

  I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.

  I’m so sorry I didn’t stop this.

  I’m so sorry I can’t do anything.

 Arthur’s begging Dutch, trying to out Micah who’s right there with his final words and he can’t breathe he should be saving his breath because maybe, maybe someone will come back for him and if he saves his strength he can hold on ‘til then, and Dutch is just staring,

 and Hosea’s reaching for Arthur though he knows there’s nothing he can do, can’t pick him up and hold him close, can’t doctor his wounds or comfort him, can’t even let him know he’s here, “Arthur, I…”

  I’m here.

  I know.

  I believe you.

  I’ve always believed you.

 Dutch takes a step back, a quiet, “I…” and Hosea snaps to him, meets his gaze and how could Dutch leave their boy on the ground? Leave him to Micah’s mercies? Micah is still standing there, huffing and panting for breath but still stronger than Arthur, still on his feet,

 “Dutch!” the sound startles even him, tearing from his throat in a way that would hurt if he could feel pain, shrill and panicked, “Help him!” but Dutch doesn’t respond, takes another step back, and Dutch has always been queasy, has always been the one to take watch-duty while the boys were sick because seeing people sick made him sick, but this is something wholly different, the clouds are gone from his eyes, Hosea can see that he’s seeing for the first time in a while but he’s not acting and

 “You…” he hadn’t known he could cry, in all this time he’s never cried but tears that dissolve before they hit the ground are trickling down his face, “You better help our boy!”

 but Dutch, of course, can’t hear him, and as Dutch staggers away he wonders if, even if he could hear him, he would help Arthur.

  “Dutch!” his feet move without him willing them, planting him between Arthur and Micah though the latter is screaming his rage and Arthur is laughing, a horrible rattling sound, but Dutch staggers over the hill and away and maybe it’s Hosea’s desperate, wishful thinking, or his own tears clouding his eyes though even when he blinks he sees, but he thinks there are tears in Dutch’s eyes but damn him he doesn’t get to cry when he’s abandoning their boy to die alone.

 And he’s never seen a sight so awful as Arthur, gasping and fighting for breath, dragging himself to the cliff’s edge so he can watch the sunrise and he remembers, clear as day, Arthur laughing what feels like a lifetime ago but is only a few months, if that, when they’d been talking about how they’d wanted to be buried - and hadn’t they been buried as they wanted? He’d been buried with Lenny, he’d heard Sadie say,

  “When I go, I hope they cover my grave with roses.”

  “When I die, I just want to be buried with friends,”

  “Me too. With friends, or with family. I don’t think it matters more than that.”

  “What about you, Arthur?”

  “Me? Aaah, I don’t care about that nonsense.”

  “Come on!”

  “Face me to the west, so I can watch the settin’ sun, remember all the fine times we had that way.”

  “See Tilly! I told ya Arthur had a soul!” 

 and he sits with Arthur as he passes, wishing nothing more that Arthur could know he was there, that he wasn’t alone, trying to run his fingers through his hair only for them to fall through, his tears dissolving before they land on Arthur or darken the ground.

He couldn’t breathe.

 His face was throbbing, his chest was burning. Micah had done a number on him, and his only solace was that he would die of his wounds instead of his illness. But… he didn’t want to die. There was so much he still wanted to do, he was terrified. He still had so much he needed to do.

 He needed to talk to Dutch, get him to see that he was wrong. That following Micah would only drag him further into ruin, further down than he was already, if that was possible. He had already lost Hosea, had lost those he had raised as sons and daughters, to death and to leaving in hopes of a better life. What more could he lose?

 His life, he supposed. But with all of his gang lost, everything he had built up destroyed, did he have much of a life left to lose?

 No, not really. As much as Dutch had changed, he still loved them: the gang was as much his family as they were Arthur’s. If Arthur lost them… he would be crushed. He’d never be able to go on. Would go insane, most likely, lose his mind—they were all that was keeping him together. He’d rather die than lose them, couldn’t imagine a future where he wasn’t surrounded by his brothers and sisters in arms.

          ‘I don’t want to die.’

 He wanted Hosea.

 Desperately.

 When he was a kid and he was sick or hurt, or just needed attention, the old man (although he hadn’t been that old back then) would sit with him, tell him that it would be okay, would card his fingers through his hair. Read aloud to him from whatever book he was reading at the time, even if Arthur didn’t understand a word of it. Tell him about one of his favorite cons or heists, and Arthur would be just as fascinated as the first time he’d heard it, even if it was the hundredth time.

 But Hosea was dead, wasn’t he? He’d been shot in front of him, captured in that damned bank robbery that had gone so, so wrong. He’d been made to watch him turn to stare his death in the eye, collapse to the ground in a spray of blood and writhe pitifully in pain. His pa’s death hadn’t been dignified, or peaceful, or even something worth telling stories of as he had wanted; he hadn’t died in some amazing shoot-out, or protecting his family. He’d been shot down in the streets like some mangy, flea-ridden dog. Made the most horrific sound as he’d been torn open, punched through by a bullet and put down without a second thought.

 If Hosea was still alive… well, this wouldn’t be happening. He would never have allowed Lenny to be shot on that rooftop, Micah to bring in Joe and Cleet, Dutch to stir the pot that was the Wapiti and the government. Would never have allowed Susan to be shot down as she had been. He would have been horrified, heartbroken, to see Dutch walk away from their sons and Arthur wondered if, perhaps, it was better that the man wasn’t around to see how far his pa had fallen.

 Could Hosea have fixed things? Dutch had been falling for years, but he’d only gotten worse since Micah had joined them, worse since he hit his head, worse since Hosea died. No, maybe not. But Hosea could have lessened the impact. Could have gotten them all out before Dutch broke, could have kept them from being hit by the shrapnel, from being collateral damage. Could have restrained the ticking time bomb such that only Micah and Joe and Cleet were affected, so that only they were left to deal with the fall-out when Dutch drew the Pinkertons down on their heads, when Dutch turned on his family.

 But Hosea was gone, and they had all been damaged. Shrapnel had dug deep, the shock-wave doing damage that no one could see, but that they would feel for the rest of their lives. Still, though, he wanted Hosea. He was sick, sicker than he had ever been. He wanted Hosea to sit with him, to run his fingers through his hair and read Rip Van Wrinkle or Robin Hood or any of those other books he seemed to always be re-reading, or even those books that Arthur could never remember even the title of, never mind the contents.

          ‘I want Hosea.’

 Dutch wasn’t saying anything.

 He wasn’t sure what he, himself, was saying. There was some sort of disconnect between his mouth and his brain, his mind fuzzy, his ears buzzing, and the edges of his eyesight had gone grey, but Dutch was a solid figure, as sturdy and unchanged as always.

 And he had nothing to say.

 For as long as Arthur could remember, Dutch always had something to say. He was always talking, always moving. Gesturing, pacing, orating.

 But when it mattered, he was silent.

 And then the pressure lifted from his hand, released his broken fingers, and Dutch made some sort of noise, an involuntary sort of one, a moan or a groan or a gasp, and then he was walking - staggering - away.

 Perhaps it was Arthur’s fading mind trying to comfort him, but he could have sworn that he saw a tear in his Pa’s eye.

          ‘Dutch, please don’t leave me.’

 He’d never been one to fear death.

 It was part and parcel of their life. When your job included bullets flying, being chased by the law and by bounty hunters, then you became desensitized to death. He’d gone through being sick with the Russian Flu as a teenager, with Hosea and Dutch at his side for fear he might die alone, had suffered Scarlet Fever much the same. Had been bitten by more snakes than he could count on both hands, been bed-ridden by near half of them, had nearly died from so many bullet wounds that it was almost a common occurrence for him.

 When he’d nearly died of an infection of the blood after escaping the O’Driscolls, he’d been angry and indignant, not mad. He’d sworn up and down that he would see Colm dead before he died, to protect his family from the man’s machinations, and he’d be damned before he died of an infection of all things.

 And Hosea had, laughing wearily, said that it was that anger that had made him live. He was just too damn angry to die.

 But now? Lying alone on the cold stone, bleeding out, drowning in his own blood, watching as his father walked away, abandoning him to whatever death took him?

          ‘I’m scared.’

 They’d always been there for him.

 From the moment they’d pulled him from the mud, shivering of the cold, his lips tinted blue, a sigh in Hosea’s chest and an offer on Dutch’s lips, he had always been able to count on them.

 They’d fed him up, put a gun in his hand and taught him to read. Hadn’t needed to - he’d have been a perfectly good little soldier if he were illiterate - but had done so out of the goodness of their blackened hearts. Had sat for hours, put up with his sulks and whining, spent years shoving books in front of him until he could read even Dutch’s philosophy books, even if he didn’t understand them.

 When he’d fallen from the saddle, his pa never having taught him how to ride proper, they’d been there to pat the dirt from his shoulders and to boost him back up, to teach him that you always get back up on that horse, and to teach him how to ride a horse. How to sit a trot, how to show it how to go, how to hold on as you let it have its head when fleeing the law. How to break a wild horse, how to coax away a stolen horse.

 And when he’d had his son, his baby boy Isaac, they’d been there to hold him close, to smile proud as any grandpas would be, to love and adore him, to give him gifts they’d made themselves, to hum and sing even if Dutch didn’t look particularly comfortable, afraid he’d break him.

 And when Isaac and Eliza had been killed, they’d mourned with him.

 They’d been there as he grew up, as he grew sour. Talked him down when he turned surlish, snarled and snapped, knew when to pull him aside and tug him in close, squeeze him tight and tuck his head under their chins until he stopped shaking, until the world stopped thrumming and he could breathe again.

 No matter what, they’d been there for him. When he was scared he could turn to them, find them there, ready to lend an ear or just sit as he sketched, or look at the stars, or nothing in particular at all. Sometimes it had seemed suffocating, as though he couldn’t take a step without stumbling over them, but at that moment he’d give anything to have them back.

            ‘I want my dads.’

 They’d never turned their backs on him.

 Not when he’d been cruel - when he’d turned to the bottle after his baby boy had been killed, taking out his agony on the world, not when he’d tried to test them when he was young and mad at the world, at everyone and everything, terrified of them, sure that they had some motives he couldn’t yet see and trying to test them.

 But they’d never turned their back on him. Sometimes they’d step away, take a breather if he was drawing their ire, but never did they give up on him. They’d pull him to sit by the campfire, try to talk to him or just sit with him, wait for him to cool down and wait for calmer heads to prevail.

 Maybe… maybe things had changed as the world raced ahead of them. Dutch had grown suspicious but, even then, he’d never turned his back on him. Not until Lone Mule Stead - before then he’d accused him of being a traitor, of intending on betraying him in the future.

 But he’d left him to rot there, to be tortured and to die. He’d sworn, up and down, that he’d been intending to come for him, but Arthur had known him for twenty years and though Dutch was a fantastic liar, it came with the territory after all, he had his tells.

 And Dutch had been lying.

 But then he’d been Dutch again - playing, racing him and calling him his son, taking he and Hosea fishing and singing in the boat, eyes bright and clear and playfully directing them as they all sang their ridiculous songs.

 And he’d saved him on the cliff. Could have fled, left him to be chased by the military. But he’d even covered his back and sent him ahead. Curled around him as they leaped into the river, risked wading into the current to grab his arm and haul him out, waited as he fought to breathe, fighting his traitorous lungs, only leaving once he was breathing steadily or, at least, as steadily as his breathing got these days.

 But then came the oil fields, and he’d turned his back and left him to die. He’d been so happy only moments before - “Arthur… we are nearly there…” - and then he’d looked him in the eye, his hands on his guns (and Dutch was a quick shot, it was a shot he’d made thousands, if not millions, of times before), and walked away.

 Dutch wasn’t his Dutch anymore, he could tell that now.

 Wasn’t his Pa.

 Wasn’t the man who laughed and distracted him from the pain of his wounds being tended with ridiculous stories, who would put on weird hats as he told of how he got them. Wasn’t the man who held him in his arms and rocked him when he suffered the sadness he got from his mother, who knew how to talk him down when he lost himself to the anger his father gave to him.

 Wasn’t the man who hummed and cradled John when the kid woke up screaming, clawing at a noose that wasn’t there. Who laughed and played horsy with Jack when he thought no one was looking - wasn’t even the man who snuck treats to Cain behind Pearson’s back, who twirled Molly by the campfire and took in Sadie up in Colter.

 The man that looked him in the eye on that ledge, though, was Dutch. The one he’d known for twenty years, that had cradled him and loved him and known him and taught him. He knew his tells, knew his eyes.

 And that man, the one who was silent though he’d never known him to be, was his Pa.

Contrary to popular belief, Micah did have feelings.

 He just… wasn’t too good at expressing them. He’d been taught when he was young, and taught well, that Bells are made of steel. They don’t cry, they don’t hug, they don’t say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘You okay?’

 They lie, they cheat, they steal. It’s all he’d known - he’d been dragged into cons by his father from the moment he could walk; after all, what was better than a doe eyed, blond hair blue eyed little boy to increase your credulity? “Please sir, we’re lost and my boys are just so thirsty.”

 Amos had done his best to shield him from it. ‘It’s just a game!’ he’d say as he yanked Micah out of the way of a bullet, ‘They’re ‘it’, and if they get you you lose!’ and Micah had always wanted to win, what was the point of doing anything if you didn’t do your best after all? and so he always did well. Sure, sometimes he got ‘tagged’, and it hurt like the devil, but Amos said so long as he kept on his feet then he wasn’t ‘it’ so it was fine.

Amos wasn’t much older than him, but you’d never know it.

 His pa had always had his head in the clouds — “This job boys, it’ll be it! We’ll be sittin’ fat ‘n’ pretty, just you see!” — and so it had fallen to Amos to keep him from dying. To keep him fed - to teach him to keep himself fed, to put a varmint rifle in his hand and to teach him to butcher and cook a deer. It had been his pa who put a proper rifle in his hand, who’d taught him to dead-draw a man in the head from hundred yards, how to throw your weight around and threaten a man into giving you his life savings and snivel until a man thought you were his right hand man only for you to rob him blind.

 Amos had taught him to pluck apples from trees, to siphon gold dust from a river, to sweet talk a horse until it charged a cougar if you asked.

Amos had tried, really, he had.

 His brother had grown disillusioned young. Had squirreled away money, snuck out and done jobs beneath their pa’s nose, and one day he’d woke up and Amos had been gone.

 And maybe that had cemented his fate.

 His pa had been furious. Had had to handle his young son, make sure he had food in his stomach and water in his throat, ammunition in his gun and something antiseptic on his wounds.

 And without Amos to watch his back, he’d had to bring young Micah on the jobs that, until then, he’d been sheltered from. See things that would haunt him for the rest of his life, the deer-like final squeals of men with their throats slit, women shrieking as their men were cut down in front of them. Children younger even than him shot mercilessly to ‘shut [them] the fuck up!’, corpses strung up as a reminder of what his pa would do if they went to the law.

 He grew. Blood and screams and corpses filled his days and haunted his nights, and he slept less and less. Micah taught himself to wield two guns, and for the first time his pa looked at him with something other than disdain in his eyes.

 For his sixteenth birthday, his pa stole a pair of revolvers that matched his own.

 The day of his seventeenth birthday, he slit the throats of a man and his wife, Roscoe and Jean Briggs, and strung up their bodies in a barn as his father worked their fields.

Twenty two years later, a dog named Cain bit him.

He looked him in the eye, and he walked away.

 And then… he turned around. Got to the top of the hill and hesitated, a vice grip freezing his heart in his chest.

 His son was dying. Only a few paces behind him, the man he’d raised for twenty years was dying, and he was walking away. Hadn’t so much as said a word, just looked him in the eye and turned away.

 His last words had been to tell him that he’d lost. And only after stepping on his hands, he’d felt bones break, and before that… accusing him of turning on him, of being a traitor, of throwing twenty goddamn years away. God, what had he done?

Arthur was dying. He had known it, they all had though they weren’t willing to admit it. It was impossible to ignore the horrible coughing fits that kept them awake at night, the way he’d turned pale and thin, the way his eyes had gone watery and bloodshot. And he hadn’t looked well on the ground, even without the pain on his face from having his fingers stepped on and god why had he done that? his face bruised more than before, nose at an impossible angle, blood dripping from his mouth.

He wasn’t laying there.

 He wasn’t there-

 there was a streak of blood, a crescent of awful black and he thought, for a horrible moment, Micah must have dragged him off to finish the job, thrown him off the edge of the cliff or stabbed him or or or

 but no, thank god, there he was laying against a rock, silhouetted against the rising sun but, christ, he looked dead, and Dutch thought he’d failed him again, left him to die alone. "Arthur?” he barely dared to even try, each step slow, trudging, feeling as though he were back in the swamps and he and Arthur were trying to help that kid “I don’t think I ever heard you squeal like that before Dutch!” “I weren’t squealin’!” (And what had he been thinking? Arthur could have been eaten alive!)

Arthur’s chest moved.

 It was only the barest of motions, a slight up-down, but oh god he was alive, though he looked dead, face pale as a fresh piece of paper and lips blue as the sky he’d never see again, he wasn’t and Dutch dropped to his knees, “Oh, Arthur,” and gathered him as carefully as he could, apologizing over and over and when had he last apologized? oh, he owed so many apologies to so many people and so many of them were dead or gone and were well within their rights to never forgive him when the man groaned, the lines around his eyes deepening with his pain.

 He paused, only for a moment, to shuck off his coat - he’d taken so much pride in it before, and what for? it was only a piece of fabric, some dyed cloth - and fold it up, put it in his lap as a pillow before carefully laying Arthur down, head cradled gently. “I know son, I know, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

 Those eyes squinted, opened if only just barely, blue-green already beginning to haze over, and Dutch’s brown eyes were hazy for a wholly different reason, “Oh Arthur, I’m so sorry,” he ran his fingers through the man’s hair, remembering when he was so much younger and would wake screaming and whimpering and sobbing, terrified of a man long-dead, and they’d bring him into their bedrolls, curl around him and reassure him that he was safe and that they’d never allow harm to come to him (and what a liar he’d been!) as they stroked his hair until he fell asleep.

 “Du-,” his name died in his boy’s throat, the sound breaking into a horrible, hacking cough, and all Dutch could do was cradle him, try to soothe him as he coughed and fought for breath, splattered blood down his front and felt his heart race, prayed that this wouldn’t be it, that Arthur wouldn’t die suffering, choking and coughing and drowning in his own blood.

 Thank god, thank god, but Arthur managed to catch his breath just as Dutch began to really and truly panic, the tiniest of wheezes between splutters, and as carefully as he could Dutch propped him up, rubbing his back and murmuring, trying to encourage him to breathe, “Easy, Arthur, that’s it, that’s it,”

 Finally he slumped down again into his lap, though his weight was noticeably heavier, and Dutch’s heart refused to stop bounding in his throat.

 “Du-,”

 “I’m here, son, I’m here,” Dutch grabbed his hand, pale and cold in his, and leaned over him, and the force of Arthur’s gaze when it locked on his almost stole his breath away,

 “Dutch, Dutch, he’s-” his voice cracked and he began to choke again, coughing, and Dutch hurried to prop him up again, murmuring and humming some tuneless song he’d heard a very long time ago, uncaring of the blood that soaked his front, staining his pinstripe shirt, already well set in on his cuffs.

 “Rat,” Arthur choked out, and Dutch’s heart clenched - even dying, unable to breathe around lungs full of blood, he was trying to warn him, “‘s rat, Dutch, Micah’s rat-”   and his strength faded, slumping back into Dutch’s lap, still gasping Micah’s name though Dutch tried to insist “I know, son, I know,” but whether Arthur had stopped registering that he was there or thought he was simply placating a dying man, he didn’t stop, kept trying to warn him.

 “Dutch…”

 His eyes darted around frantically, breathing picking up, rapid and frantic but not productive enough to bring in any air - at least it seemed so, and Dutch had never thought he’d be so panicked by a lack of coughing, of rasping or gurgling,

 “You gotta… gotta let’m go, please,” and it took a moment for Dutch to put it together - the women, John and his family, those what had already left. Arthur’s mind was going, and going fast.

 “Dutch… please, let’m go,” his eyes darted this way and that, breathing beginning to slow, and Dutch nodded, trying to look reassuring though he was fighting sobs, forcing his face not to twist into a grimace though his lips were straining downward, eyes burning.

 “I will, Arthur, I swear it,” they’re already gone, and though he’d raged when he’d woken to find them gone now he was glad for it - who knew how many of them would have died? At least it had only been Susan (oh, poor Susan she deserved so much better!), they could fight but even the best of them had fled under the onslaught and the Reverend and Pearson, Miss Jackson and the rest weren’t anywhere close to ‘the best’, so he could only hope that they’d reached safety, wherever they’d gone.

  ‘John. John made it.’ and god, but he hoped so. He was losing one son, had lost his dearest, oldest friend, had destroyed his family. Losing his last son would kill him.

 Though, watching Arthur slowly relax into his lap, blinking long and slow but still gasping, spluttering nonsensically, he thought that this might just kill him, too.

“It’s okay, son, it’s okay. You’ve done so good, I’m so proud of you.” He knew what Arthur needed to hear and oh, but it hurt, he wanted to scream and to rage but if it would put Arthur at peace then he would say it. “It’s okay, Arthur. You can sleep now. We’re all… we’re all okay, you’ve earned your rest.”