#vanderlindc

                     BOLD , COURAGEOUS ——- FEARLESS . dutch van der linde was a hero in the eyes of few , a modern day prophet who could do no wrong , only right . he beared upon him the responsibility of his disciples , of his divine crusade to overthrow civilization and forge a finer life for those loyal to the cause — loyal to him . however , molly o’shea had been around long enough — or perhaps close enough to the man himself — to be able to see well beyond that messiah-like guise of his . to be able to see that beneath it all , he was only human . just a man at the end of the day , and nothing more .

                     the answer to her question , she already knows . fear eats that man alive , and she has watched it do so for weeks now . how he tosses and turns throughout the long nights , how he chews through his pricey cigars like termites through rotting wood . he looks tired , worn . those umber eyes seemingly darker than what she once recalled — and she can see it all coming through . HIS FEAR . clawing at the thinning ice that keeps him so contained , that hides what trouble and conflict dwells low beneath the surface .

                     even with a stomach filled with liquor ,  the final confession on her lover’s part is enough to stir up a sense of foreboding in molly o’shea’s clouded mind . ginger brows knit together and the freckled flesh upon her nose crinkles in the very slightest , those scarlet lips coming together in somewhat of a pucker . she’s watching him like a hawk , every move he makes , every glance he casts . searching his eyes for the truth , raw and unpolished . the splintering of glass against wood leaves the young woman unfazed , and instead she inches closer to him , eager to hear more . to know more .

                     ❝ —— you’re afraid yer concerns will dishearten this lot ? ❞ her question is spoken softly , but then comes the mention of hosea — and the expression upon freckled features shifts entirely . of melancholy , empathy as she watches him open up to her . although buzzed , she’s conscious enough to realise just how truly tragic all of this . a man so ridden with fear , but entirely unable to express it — not even to his woman . not even without delving into an intoxicated state and losing all control first .

                     he says that he has faith , but to molly it seems that his said faith is dwindling without him fully knowing it yet . and when he says that —— ❛ we were never meant to survive . ❜ a chill runs down her spine , and never before has she felt so cold . not even during their biting stay in colter .

     the bullet had only GRAZED the side of his thigh during the untimely event of some ambush by the o’driscolls bastards. it wasn’t hard to dispatch them all, thanks to the skilled duo and the burning anger of dutch the second he had heard javier cry out in a moment of familiar pain. once the gunfight dies down, javier is kneeling behind worthless cover of a fallen tree, applying PRESSURE to the gashed wound.  ❝ it’s fine, just a scratch. ❞  he attempts to stand, hissing the second his weight forces blood to ooze like a river, soaking his pant leg.  ❝ we should get going before more show up and head back to camp. ❞

     in hindsight, john should have gagged him when the rope was first hitched around a slack pair of ankles, or when the bruise he’d dealt was little more than a splotch of red across a silver-dusted temple, the man bearing it a nondescript weight strewn over the back of a borrowed horse, rather than some bleary-eyed palimpsest of someone john once respected. loved, even. 

     of course, he’d loved javier and bill too, and if the couple of them aren’t cold in the ground by now, it’s because javier’s noose has become tangled up in government-issue red tape, no more, no less. the bonds of the past don’t change much, and they certainly don’t address the problem john recognizes in the last remnant of that life coming to, tied and contused as he may be.

   ❛ . . . do us both a favor and don’t say nothin’. ❜ ( there’s a warning in there, albeit wearied and competing with crackle of dry brush kindling in the fire. john watches him from the corner of a sharp eye, but pays no further tribute. he’s given dutch enough for one lifetime. arthur gave enough for them both, alone. ) ❛ you know i ain’t listenin’, and i know you ain’t never once listened to me. ❜

❝ you saved me , dutch . ❞

   ❛ y’know, dutch, ❜

   ( he starts, a bottle pinched by the neck between his knees, a peripatetic thumb running against its glass lip in idle strokes. his beer sloshes, lapping gently at its amber confines as his hands feint gestures john hasn’t the energy to follow through with, eyes shuffling up from the campfire but not quite reaching even the height of dutch’s cheeks. guilt — or shame, or whatever it is — keeps his gaze heavy, anchors it in the glow of dying logs at his feet. )

betrayal :  my  muse  finds  out  that  your  muse  has  betrayed  them  in  some  way  and  confronts  them  about  it.

        TAIMA IS LEFT TO GRAZE ONCE SHE IS HITCHED, the familiar busy sound of horseshoe overlook greeting him with open arms once he sets foot back into camp.    sean’s welcoming-back festivities had caused the camp to wake at a SNAIL’S PACE, lumbered grumbles throughout and complaints of the hangovers that would surely come as the day progressed.    charles is one of the first awake, fetching a fresh bucket of water, and checking the local traps he’d set about outside of camp.    he returns with a fresh rabbit upon his shoulder. being mindful of the recent burn on his dominant hand.    out of the corner of his eye, he spots SOMEONE ELSE leaving his own tent, and charles goes out of his way to greet him --- slight inclination of his head out of RESPECT, voice just barely over a breath.    ❛    g’morning, dutch. did you sleep okay?     ❜