#westpromised

     Dutch had felt...so lost, since that night on the mountain. Directionless. He no longer had any true, solid plan. He was tired of fighting. Tired of running. Tired of...being tired. He didn’t know what to do. For the first time he could remember, he didn’t have even the slightest idea where to go from here.

     At first he’d wandered aimlessly. Stayed out of towns, keeping to rural areas in weak disguises. But more and more, he found it difficult to care. Micah kept trying to follow him, to pester him about the damned money- Dutch didn’t even want it anymore. He was about ready to tell him to go get it himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to damn another of his boys to the Goddamned Pinkertons. He needed some foundation. He needed clarity. He needed Hosea. But Hosea wasn’t there, now. He was on his own.

     And Dutch's ideas were never as bright without Hosea to perfect them.

     As if on autopilot, he found himself approaching the little homestead north of Annesburg. He knew Arthur had visited the building a number of times. Perhaps it would be...beneficial. At least he was doing something, even if he still wasn’t sure it was...right. Or even smart. What if she recognized him? Wanted posters were still out showing his face everywhere from here, to Saint Denis, to Valentine - and even moreso back out west. The heat hadn’t died. Showing himself like this...wasn’t wise.

     But he hadn’t been known for being particularly wise of late.

     “I... I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother, you, miss... I’m Archibald Smith. An old friend of mine came up this way not long ago, Arthur? I was hoping to, have a word, I suppose. If you have a moment?”

     He spoke slowly, with frequent pauses, as if he wasn’t really sure what he wanted to say. A con man who was out of practice. Part of him just wanted to talk about Arthur - to try and...piece it together in his mind. Figure out where he went wrong. But deep down, he knew. Arthur never went wrong. He did. And it was eating at him every waking moment.

The silence that rolls off of Dutch is deafening. The others have learned not to come near him these past few days, not to try and make him eat, or sleep, or do something other than pace and clean his guns and shake with anger.

Not Hosea. He won’t leave well enough alone.

“No, I need you with the boys,” he says shortly, tightening The Count’s saddle. “Bessie needs you, too, more’n ever.” He won’t look at Hosea. Has barely said two words to him since Annabelle was--was found.

(he can still see her when he shuts his eyes--hosea had tried to wrench him back, to keep him from seeing the body, or what was left of it, but he wouldn’t stop, he--)

“If you believe that, then either you truly do not know me at all, or you have finally lost your mind.”

Dutch doesn’t rise from his seat, doesn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him angry, or seeing him care. He just watches her, with that dangerous, predator’s gaze of his, his head tipped down just slightly until the brim of his hat casts him in shadow.

ALTERED REALITY SENTENCE STARTERS. | ACCEPTING.

@westpromised​​ said: the high desert.

What shadows he could grip came from the fire they were sitting beside. Tracing things in Arthur’s jawline that were hard to name. Albert had not had the chance to meet him this way yet: in a quiet way, without animals decidedly ready to make them their dinner. He pokes at the fire with a stick. The stew he’s making has no meat in it. Wild carrots, mint, bread for texture. 

Albert had offered to make it, and he had called it Pythagorean. 

It was dark by the time they’d finished chasing the gators. And company, in swamps like these, was always welcome. In the distance, something calls. Albert flinches, clears his throat, and continues stirring.

“I’m afraid I’ve not been further west than Strawberry.”

Something steps on a branch and the crack of it spills just beyond the tree line. Swallowed by darkness. Albert shuffles on his haunches and glances over Arthur’s shoulder.

Not that he can see anything. 

Above all else, he was ready. He’d done some bad, bad things in his lifetime, it only seemed right. And honestly? Arthur had no fucking idea what was going on. Truly, it was something, to be so monumentally certain of one’s own demise, then to come to, repeatedly, while vaguely familiar ( but more wobbly than anything else ) figures moved above him. Above him? That couldn’t be right. Between the fever and the blood loss, he had to be hallucinating.

His ears caught snippets as he faded in and out of consciousness, a familiar floating feeling washing over him as he wheezed laboured breaths. Apparently he’d aided them in their desire to not die in the wilderness, and they saw fit to return the favour. Something about doctors. Saint Denis being too far. Annesburg.

Were he more cognisant, Arthur might have protested, touted the danger of such a notion. As it were, when he tried, all that came out was something that sounded kind of like a mule eating a sharp peppercorn, that is to say, what came out was more wheezing, but louder and more cough-like. It had started with a definitive ‘n’, though, so as the fog of unconsciousness descended once again, he was reasonably sure that these folks had caught his meaning, and as such, would leave him to his fate.

No such luck. It was likely a painstaking journey from the mountains down to the forests, then through to Annesburg, but Arthur found himself at a loss when it came to knowing just how that journey was accomplished.

He didn’t know much of anything at this point. He knew that Marston had got away and that was about all that mattered. With that knowledge, he was done. What was left but his aching body and biting lungs?

Apparently what was left was an eerily familiar ceiling. Blearily, he turned his gaze to the side. It took him a moment, but he got there. ...Charlotte?

Arthur’s confusion was interrupted when he drew breath to question, and promptly hacked up a lung. Metaphorically, of course ( though who would be surprised, let’s be real here ). Ever the gentleman, he graciously coughed exclusively into his own closed mouth, the coppery blood thick on his tongue. He swallowed reflexively, drily, instantly regretting it, but what was the alternative? Just up and spit blood onto her floor? 

“ —arthur? ”