#splatdragonff

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.

When they’d said goodbye, when Arthur had tried to come with him, when he’d refused to let him, Charles had known he’d never see him again.

 He’d been half right.

 He’d never seen him alive again.

And he never regretted burying Arthur. The man deserved a burial, deserved a headstone, deserved more than to be left to rot.

 But he’d give anything to be able to close his eyes without seeing Arthur laying on the mountain, without seeing his corpse. To remember Arthur without first seeing him dead on the ground, to remember him first living and bright, even if it was angry and cruel, before he’d tried to redeem himself if only because it meant he didn’t think of him half-rotted on that stone.

He hadn’t found out that the gang had been scattered for a day or so after the fact.

 Rains Fall had, face more solemn than usual (which was saying something) stepped into his tent, a newspaper in hand. Pressed it into his palm without a word, and he’d known before opening it what it would say.

 He’d been gone by morning, but it took days to reach Beaver Hollow.

Though he’d hated Beaver Hollow, seeing the camp decimated hurt. He’d not run with them long - only a year and a half, maybe a bit longer, they’d been his home, been his family, even towards the end. And though most of it had been reduced to ash, he could still determine what most of it had been - there was Dutch’s tent, there, the remains of the campfire, and there, Arthur’s wagon.

 Half tangled in Dutch’s tent, Grimshaw’s body, skull picked near-clean by crows that he chased away.

They had never been particularly close.

 She hounded him when he came back bloody from hunting, and more than once had boxed him around the ears when he hadn’t been quick enough to wash clean.

 But she’d been like a mother to him, if a poor one. Chased him to his bedroll if he didn’t sleep after taking the night watch duty, shoved ‘dinner’ and ‘breakfast’ into his hands if he didn’t eat. He didn’t remember much of his mother, they’d been separated when he was too young to remember her, but he liked to think she’d be like Miss Grimshaw… if a bit nicer.

 So seeing her left to be picked clean by scavengers hurt. He took the time to stoop down, cutting the tent and wrapping it around her carefully, mindful of her exposed skull and keeping it together as best he could, her mandible nearly coming loose, before fastening her to Taima’s rump.

 She deserved better, but he didn’t have better, so he gave her the best he had.

The trail wasn’t hard to follow.

 Corpses, picked half clean by scavengers, led into the cave. Led to the ladder, and he knew where it led out, so he left the cave and led Taima up to the hole, followed the trail from there - horse carcasses left to rot where their riders had been collected, though he didn’t know why the Pinkertons back at the Hollow had been left behind - until he found Old Boy and Dipper, pain a shearing wound in his chest.

 Old Boy had been largely eaten, a gaping wound in his side - a bear, maybe, seeking the nutritious innards - but Dipper had been left to decompose, untouched as though she were something holy, something that would bring sour luck on any who dared touch her, though flesh had begun to slough away from her dark face, baring her gleaming skull, and he took the time to kneel and stroke her mane, hair coming out in chunks caught in his fingers, thanking her and then Old Boy though he hadn’t known the Half-bred half so well.

 Up the mountain, and he struggled to keep the trail. Finally found himself clambering up a ledge - then down, and the crunch of breaking bones trickled ice down his spine.

He saw, first, what was easily the largest coyote he’d ever seen. Black as a starless night, it stood impossibly still aside from its head, jerking from side to side and - 

 though Charles was not one who was quick to anger, or to fault an animal for its instincts, he reached for his gun and fired at the coyote.

 But it was quick and, as though it had known what he was going to do, danced back with the grace of a deer, paws so light they didn’t seem to touch the ground, stopping to stand in the middle of the ledge and just barely he was aware of its paw resting on a revolver, but couldn’t look away from its muzzle, dangling open and dripping blood.

 His eyes met its - dull yellow, like spoiled egg yolks - and he couldn’t look away. It went still, didn’t seem to even breathe, and then the spell was broken as a drop of blood splattered to the ground and he brought his gun up again, firing over its head. With a nonchalance that no wild animal he'd ever met had, it sauntered away, turning the corner and kicking away the revolver as it went.

 He stared after it until long after its paw-steps had faded away, jerked as though coming out of a trance and looked over at the form the coyote had loomed over and

“Oh god, Arthur,”

 he’d thought he’d never be unable to see his brother, and he’d been right.

 One of his eyes was gone, only a bloody socket left in its place, skull bared, long stolen away by a scavenger, a bird or something precise, looking for an easy meal, something soft that wouldn’t require much fuss to get to. His stomach churned and he fought the urge to gag - he’d dealt with many corpses in his time, but never one of a man he’d call brother, and finally he lost control and turned, emptying his stomach, as a fly crawled out of his nose, fluttering down and crawling into his mouth, dangling open as though he’d been gasping for air when he died (or, some part of him hoped, his face had relaxed in death, he’d seen that happen before.)

 Blood and… and other liquids, he didn’t know the name for them, wasn’t much of a learned man in such a way, decomposition fluids he supposed they were called, oozed from his nose, from his eyes and mouth and ears, and he had to turn his head to keep from vomiting on Arthur. Though he hated the sight of it, he prayed that the way his nose was at a wrong angle, looked crushed and shattered, was because he was dead and that it hadn’t happened as he died, though from the bruising on his face - at least, he thought it was bruising, but Arthur’s skin sat odd on his face, those frown lines that once lined his mouth now stretched strange down near his cheekbone and jawline, so who knows what it could be - he had a sinking feeling it was due to how he died.

Charles never did know how he died.

 He’d thought Arthur looked beaten in, though he’d been dead long enough that he’d started to look small, skin sliding and falling along his bones, and he’d been sick in the end, losing weight and muscle mass until he’d looked more skeleton than man, so he wasn’t entirely sure.

 Hoped, almost, that he’d been shot, that he’d suffered the short death of a well-placed bullet.

 But when he’d sat back, unable to look his brother in the face any longer, unable to see that single stony eye staring accusingly back at him, he’d found a mess.

 The coyote hadn’t been the first to get there. That, or the coyote had been there for a long time as he was torn open from stem to stern, a mess of torn flesh and bared meat, shredded organs and shattered bone, the flayed remains of his beloved coat, writhing with maggots and he couldn’t unhear the coyote cracking Arthur’s ribs between its teeth.

 He lurched to his feet, put his hands on his knees and gasped for breath, tried desperately to ground himself even as he shook apart. Shucked his jacket - wished he had that tent but he’d have to make do, refused to leave Arthur behind for fear the coyote came back, or any other scavenger for that matter - and lifted him carefully, swallowed convulsively, stomach rebelling at the feel of his loose skin shifting beneath his hands. It wasn’t his first time handling a body, even one long rotted, many rotted even more than this one, but it’s different when it’s your brother.

 There was a chunk missing from his leg - the coyote, he thought, it fit for its size, and maggots poured from it as he scooped him up, cradling him like a bride, holding his breath against the scent of rot and sick, turning and beginning to walk up the cliff.

He wanted, more than anything, to bury him near the Overlook.

 Arthur had been happiest there, he knew. When the gang had been happy, before it had all fallen apart. When they were all alive, before Dutch had well and truly lost his mind. Where Micah had been gone - first in jail, then hiding while he made reparations.

 But he feared trying to bring him down the mountain, wasn’t sure he could hold together for even that small trip, much less on the back of a horse that far of a ride, and he didn’t have enough room on Taima if he managed to either way.

 So he went up the mountain, cradling Arthur as though he were something precious - which he was - mindful of the open wound in his leg, of the hole in his stomach, painfully aware of the eye staring into him. Looked and looked, determined to find somewhere to bury him - he deserved, at least, that much. Remembered overhearing him talking to Lenny and Tilly and Hosea once, a long time ago—

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

 —and Arthur, when he found him, had been facing east, and so Charles was determined to bury him facing west if it was the last thing he did.

He looked up, frowning as he carefully stepped down a small ledge, and the coyote was staring back at him.

 If his arms weren’t full, he would have shot the damn thing for the mess it had made of his brother.

 It huffed, tilted its head, licked its lips, and trotted away.

Behind where it stood was the perfect spot.

 An outcropping, not too far out but long enough for a man of Arthur’s size, a massive rock at the end like some natural headstone. The grass thick and lush, cradling Arthur when he set him down and knelt to feel the dirt, finding it loose enough to be dug with a tool but hard packed enough that an animal would have to work their paws bloody.

 It was perfect, almost too perfect, and he looked back, frowning when he didn’t see the coyote anywhere. Felt a chill run down his spine, shook it off.

 He moved Arthur so he could keep an eye on him, ready to chase off any birds that might be attracted, not trusting the coyote - clearly brazen, used to humans - not to try its luck.

 Charles carried a trowel in his satchel, having found it useful for a great many things, so he pulled it out and set to work.

Hours passed. By the time he was done his clothes were sticking to him with sweat and he was shaking, muscles throbbing and near to giving out. But he had a grave, ten feet deep just to be safe, and so he wiped off the trowel and set it aside, picking up Arthur as carefully as he could with hands that shook with more than just exhaustion, said a prayer and set him down in the grave, making sure to face him west before clambering out of the hole, collapsing onto his side and gasping for breath.

 He didn’t dare to rest though, knew that just a hole wouldn’t deter any scavengers, and set about filling the grave. Hated to cover his brother with dirt, wished he could give him the dignity of a coffin but had no way of getting one, so could only offer an apology as the dirt scattered over the side of Arthur’s face.

 He doesn’t remember much of burying him. Pouring the dirt back in took hours, he had only his hands and a trowel and he’d dug it deep, but finally he could collapse onto his side after patting it harshly, making sure it was packed down until, aside from the lack of grass and plants, it looked barely different from the rest of the ledge, barely disturbed.

He dozed on and off for the rest of the day, waking as the rising sun cast its light into his eyes. Reached up and wiped his face, was jerked back down to reality when he found himself with a streak of dirt across his face—

 —looked up, and found himself staring down the coyote again. It shifted from paw to paw, looked back over its shoulder, and his only warning was the faintest, far-away clattering of hooves before the most golden stag he’d ever seen strode up to stand beside the coyote as though the coyote wouldn’t eat it if given a heartbeat’s chance, peering down at him critically, before turning right back around and walking away, gone as quick as it had come.

 The coyote looked down at him for a moment longer, then turned and trotted after the stag.

He shivered, and stood, grabbing his satchel - he’d intended on eating and having a drink, but he wanted to get started on Arthur’s grave marker, could always eat as he worked.

Arthur’s grave marker took him five days. Finding the wood took the better part of the first, breaking down the trees took the second. And then was the matter of carving it, of working the wood into a circle, of making it take the shape he could see in his mind’s eye, of making all the separate pieces come together and, more importantly, stay together.

 He intended on taking as long as he needed to make the grave marker. Every time he closed his eyes he saw it, saw it look a certain way, and though he didn’t know why he knew it needed to look as such.

 And on the fifth day, every one woken to find the deer and coyote peering down at him, he had the marker, and all he needed to do - though it was no easy undertaking - was engrave it. He was no religious man, but he knew some sermons, knew some verses as any man of his time would, had spent most of his time carving trying to decide, trying to picture them carved into the wood until it fell to rot, and finally he planted the grave marker carefully and stepped back to look it over a final time,

His knees went weak, and he sank to the ground.

 The culmination of a week - two days ride, five days taken to bury and make his grave marker, a break taken only to bury Miss Grimshaw - stood before him. He felt… oddly empty, until a tear trickled down his face, and then another, and another, and he’d never been one to cry and his face didn’t twist and he didn’t sob but he couldn’t stop.

 Something soft nudged against his face, a warm puff of breath, and he caught a glimpse of golden fur before he was nearly knocked over with the force of the stag’s shove.

 Despite himself, he grinned - it was watery, and shaky, and tasted of salt as tears ran over his mouth, but the stag sighed into his face, smelling of sweet-grass and smoke and horse-sweat and familiar and he reached up, tangling his fingers in the thick fur of its neck, bringing their heads together.

ARTHUR MORGAN

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.”

“Where the hell is it?!”

 Colm was furious.

 Arthur, though he’d never admit it, was terrified.

 His arm was burning, his whole body was throbbing. His head, god, his head, he was no doctor but surely it couldn’t be healthy to dangle upside down for so long?

 How long had he been down here? Four days? Five? More? Colm had been down seven times, although that was just by his count, how many times had Colm come down while he was unconscious?

 And even when Colm wasn’t there, he was hurting. The other O’Driscolls enjoyed taking their pound of flesh from him - a punch here for ‘Tommy’, a kick there for ‘Danel’, though they weren’t half as cruel as Colm. Colm always aimed for the crater in his shoulder, enjoyed shoving the spoons of food down his throat ‘gotta make sure you don’t starve ‘son’’, put out his cigarettes on his skin as he demanded, over and over ‘where is the Blackwater money?’

 Every time, Arthur would tell him exactly where to shove it. Had gotten creative, even (his personal favorite was “up your ass!” which, while not the most creative thing he’d ever said, he was rather proud of considering the sepsis raging through his veins and the blood pooling in his head), with his answers.

By his count, it had been two weeks since the ‘parley’. No one had come looking, and he was still refusing to give up the location of the Blackwater money.

 Colm was coming unhinged.

  “WHERE THE HELL IS IT?!”

 Arthur would admit, it scared the shit out of him.

 He didn’t respond, just stared at Colm. He was tired and weak and he hurt, so instead he just blinked long and slow, wheezed in his frantic attempts for air.

 Colm drew his foot back, wound up for a kick - then paused. “Know what? Naw, naw.” and the glee that lit up his face bode well for no one. “This is all because of Dutch’s famous cha~ris~ma~ isn’t it?” he laughed and, if Arthur were a traveled man, he would have compared it to a hyena’s cackle but he wasn’t so could only call it a coyote’s yipping though it were too deep, rapid and huffed, “Got you wrapped around his finger, bein’ his good boy?”

 He didn’t even seem to notice the lit cigarette that was crushed between his hands when he clapped. “Have to give it to ya Morgan, wish my men were half as loyal as you.”

 And then all the mirth left his face, the transition so abrupt Arthur felt a twinge in his neck like the time Boadicea had bucked so harshly the back of his head had touched between his shoulder blades. “So. You’re not gonna tell me.”

 Arthur narrowed his eyes and shook his head, regretted it when his head spun, his pulse roared in his ears.

 “Well.” Colm brought his hand up as though to take a drag from his cigarette, looked surprised to find it dropped, crushed on the ground, “Well.”

 A cold chill ran through Arthur when the man did an abrupt about face and clambered up the stairs.

Colm cut him down, but he was too weak to stand.

 He’d brought a few men with him, and they were more than happy to drag him onto his knees, grabbing his arms tight enough to bruise to keep him there though he was weak and shackled. “What’re y’ doin’ Colm,” Arthur snarled, baring his teeth like the dog he was often called, but Colm ignored him, watching the largest of them heat a knife over the candle that Arthur’d been eyeing while Colm was gone.

 Colm’s lips spread into something that was neither grin nor sneer nor smirk, not any sort of expression at all, serving only to bare his chipped and dulled teeth, “A good dog wears his master’s information on his tags,” he said, and nothing else as though that were supposed to make great sense and oh shit

   “Let’s just have some fun… geld him.”

  “Oh yeah!”

  Bill pulled the tongs off the fire, red hot.

  The man passed Colm the knife, so hot it glowed red, and held another over the candle and he began to struggle as best he could. But the shackles were still clasped tight, and the men's grips were bruising, so all he could do was waste away what little energy he had left.

 The red-haired bastard holding his left arm let go for a moment to tear open his shirt, baring his chest, and he had a moment to struggle before Colm was slicing through his pectoral, writing in straight lines as easily as a hot knife cuts through butter D U T and oh that screaming was him, wasn’t it? at least the knife was hot enough to cauterize the wound instantly though he supposed that was the point, Colm was branding Dutch’s name on him not scarring it, and there was an H and oh thank god Colm was done he’d stopped being able to scream a long time ago.

 Colm patted him on his filthy hair (“Good boy,”) and stepped back, wiping the blade, not even bloodied it had been so hot, clean on his pants leg before handing it back to the man, exchanging it for the now red-hot other knife and oh god what was he going to do with that one?

 V A N

 “C-C-” he tried but his throat was raw, he’d screamed it so bloody it oozed from the corner of his mouth and he tasted metal, ‘No more, please, god, no more,’ but Colm simply patted him on the head, scratched him behind the ear, and went back to work.

 D E R

Arthur couldn’t say how long he’d been in that basement.

 Two days? Three? Maybe four?

 As it were, he’d long lost track of time. Down in the basement he had no way of telling when the sun rose and fell, could only try and guess based on whether the sun burned his eyes when Colm or one of the others came down to pay him a visit.

Maybe even longer.

 He was so hungry. His stomach screamed, and his mouth was so dry his tongue had cracked and bled, his head throbbing from being upside down for so long.

  ‘Dutch…’

  ‘Hosea…’

  ‘John…’

 He didn’t want them to come, but he desperately wanted them to come. It was a trap - had been a trap from the start - and the moment they came to save him, the law would snap them up like Cain would a treat. But he was in pain - for every wound that healed, Colm and his men would put five in its place - and he was hungry and hurting and he wanted to go home, but Colm was no fool and he was hardly left alone for a moment, never long enough to even try to break free of his bindings.

Colm shoved food down his throat, once or twice. Just enough to keep him from starving, but not enough that he didn’t grow weak - though, he supposed, that could be because his pulse was throbbing in his head, blood dripping to the floor.

 It had to have been a week, maybe longer, and Colm was growing more and more angry. “Where’s Dutch!?” he’d demand, though of course Arthur didn’t know, before setting him to spinning again with a strike that reopened his shoulder wound, descending on him like some rabid beast.

Arthur was certain he was going to die down in that basement.

 His head spun even when he was still, and his eyes felt like they might burst. God, but he was hungry - he didn’t know how long it had been, at least nine days, he’d counted the sun being up and down nine times when they came down for a ‘visit’ though there were many times he’d woken up to them being in the basement and he hadn’t seen the state of the sun, and he’d had only a few bites of food, only what water they splashed on his face.

 Arthur’s shoulder screamed, his arm throbbed, every wound burned and he was sure he’d expire hanging in his bindings to never be found. “Septic, it ain’t nice.” Colm had said, and he could feel it.

A man whacked his gun into his side, and he saw stars. Whined, would have been embarrassed but he was all screamed out, could barely make even that sound his throat was so dry.

 A gun fired overhead.

 "What the hell was that?" the man barked, freezing with his own still in the air, halfway through hitting him again. "Goddammit!" He hit him one more time for good measure, before bolting up the stairs and out of the basement, leaving Arthur to gasp for breath.

 More gunfire, and Arthur allowed himself to hope. And then a familiar voice—

  "WHERE THE HELL IS MY SON?!"

 —and his eyes burned though no tears came. 'Dutch. Run. It's a trap.' but he'd come, he'd come for him, it had taken a week and a half but he'd come!

  "Sons of bitches! Where's my brother!?"

  'John. Get the hell outta here.' he'd never forgive himself if Jack lost his pa because of him.

 More gunfire, the thud of a body hitting wood.

 Abrupt silence, and his heart thudded sluggishly in his throat. Had that been one of them? Had he gotten one of them killed?

 And then—

  “Mr Marston! Mr. Smith! Tear this place apart!”

 —Dutch sounded half-unhinged, screaming at the top of his lungs. But… they’d won. None of them had been killed, had been hurt, as far as he could tell. Thank god. Thank god.

  “Arthur!”

 His eyes drifted shut, thank god, they were going to find him.

  “Arthur, son, are you here?”

 Weren’t no way they were going to miss the entrance to the basement, 

  “Arthur, can you hear us?”

 He opened his mouth, tried to call out “Yes!” but his voice died long before getting anywhere close to his throat, “Dutch, I’m here!”

 He tried again, tried just to yell, a wordless sound, managed a breathless croak, he was all screamed out, and even that made his throat scream, made his eyes burn with want for tears that he couldn’t make.

  “Arthur!”

  “Arthur?”

  “Arthur, son?”

 Arthur tried, over and over. Managed, only barely, a croak, once or twice, then not even that.

  ‘They’re going to find me.’

 The basement door was huge, he’d seen three men walk through it together though they’d had to stoop, surely it couldn’t be missed.

  ‘They’re going to come for me.’

“Arthur! Arthur, come on! Son, can you hear me!”

  “Dutch… Dutch, I don’t think he’s here.”

 No.

  “He has to be, that fool told us he was here.”

 Please.

  “He lied, Dutch.”

 No.

  “We’ve looked everywhere. Unless… unless they buried him, he’s not here.”

 No!

  “...alright. Let’s go back to camp, regroup. We can start again from there.”

 No!

 He croaked, and he rasped, and he wheezed, sobbed dryly as pain tore through his throat. But horse hooves thudded away, leaving the corpses to rot.

‘I’m here.’

  ‘Dutch!’

  ‘Charles!’

  ‘John!’