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tjswritingstuff · 1 year ago

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Under the Harvest Moon

Chapter 34

Gary dropped the woman in the car and pulled the dart out of her back.

One of the wolves barreled toward them down the center of the uneven driveway. “Get down,” he barked at Kristina aiming the gun at the center of its chest.

Gary felt the jolt of every shot fired. Time dilated. The wolves were so close he could feel the heat of their breath

Facing down a pack of wolves in the dark, confined space of a driveway, was not the way that Gary would have chosen.

His gun fired in swift rapid succession. If they got close enough to get their teeth or claws into him, it’d be over.

The witch was a problem. He’d taken care of the first wolf, but Kristina was between him and the others.

She was oblivious to the danger.

“Get out of here,” he ordered pulling her toward the car, “take her and go.”

Gary watched in slow motion as one of the wolves leaped through the air. His gun arched up following the center of the creature’s mass. Gary fired off a shot just as it was at the peak of the jump.

The drug didn’t have time to work before it landed.

Its claws raked down the witch’s sides.

Gary expected her to scream.

She had to have been too shocked to react.

He turned his attention to the wolves he still needed to take down. A large male leaped to the top of the car. The metal groaned and bent under his weight. A discolored section of fur on its front leg was so light it practically glowed in the dark.

It took a second for him to put together what he was seeing with the spark of recognition.

It was the shape of a human footprint.

It wasn’t possible, Gary had put a bullet in Ford himself and left him on the side of the road. The buzzards should have been feasting on his liver.

It changed things.

The wolf growled and lowered itself over its front legs. The fur on its body was standing out as it tensed to launch at him.

Gary didn’t have time to sight his next shot before he heard the witch scream. A jagged bolt of red light cut through the night striking the beast squarely in the chest.

Its claws scrambled against the metal rooftop. Strips of paint tore free.

“I thought you knew what you were doing,” Kristina yelled. She threw a bolt of magic toward the advancing wolves.

She didn’t appear to have suffered from having one land on her.

If he had a chance, he’d ask her how the hell she managed to take the force of a werewolf leaping onto her claws first.

“There were only supposed to be two of them. That’s what you told me, and one of them was a child.”

“That’s what she told me,” she yelled. “If you’ve got a problem with it, take it up with the bitch in the car.”

They didn’t have time to argue.

There was a howl somewhere on the other side of the house. Gary hoped one of his traps had caught another of the beasts, but it didn’t quite have the pained note he wanted to hear.

Sometimes they didn’t.

Usually he could tell by the tone if he’d snared one or startled it. This time he wasn’t sure. There was too much going on.

One of the wolves circled to the left, slipping in the grass on the edge of the drive way. It was trying to get behind him.

Gary was faced with a difficult choice. He could try to track the one circling behind him and turn his back to the two between him and the house. Or he could focus on the one with a clear line of attack.

The one on the other side of the road lunged.

He fired. Ducking behind the open car door.

The wolf slammed into the car.

The door slammed into Gary’s legs. A sound like dry wood snapping echoed.

Gary half screamed, a mix of rage and pain made him see red.

He was going to kill them all.

He shoved the door but the clawing beast on the other side had him pinned in place.

He lifted the gun around the side of the door and squeezed the trigger.

It was a bad shot, but it was better than what would happen if the raking claws caught him.

The wolf fought a few seconds longer; the drug was at least quick.

Gary felt the force of its weight slack as it ran out of energy.

He shoved the door hard catching it off balance. The wolf went sprawling across the edge of the drive way. It was half on the loose packed gravel and half in the grassy ditch.

Kristina was close enough it knocked her off balance. She fell hard onto her side.

Something in her pocket shattered. A sickly-sweet smell of perfume overwhelmed them.

“No,” she screamed jumping back onto her feet.

Gary didn’t have time to catch his breath. The circling wolf moved in closer. Its nostrils flared wide at the scent of the blood seeping from the abrasions on his shins.

He saw its shoulder’s roll as it lowered itself for the jump that would cross the distance between them.

It leaped.

He could see the frothing saliva dripping from razor sharp teeth.

Its claws extended toward him.

Flames burst into existence catching the wolf in its orange halo. The air caught on fire between them.

There was an almost human anguished scream. It landed hard on the ground inches from him.

Gary’s skin flashed from hot to ice cold in a heartbeat.

He could smell burning hair and didn’t know if it was his or the beast.

Smoke rose from his clothes. Ignited by the fireball.

The werewolf rolled back onto its feet. Yellow eyes gleamed in murderous rage. They weren’t focused on Gary.

He had to reload.

He couldn’t get the darts in the gun fast enough.

Every millisecond he lost counted.

The half a second it took him felt like a life time.

Adrenaline made everything slow down.

The ache in his broken leg became a distant memory.

Nothing else existed except the sight pointed at the beast and the micro twitch of his finger squeezing the trigger.

Claws raked down the witch’s body. Red roses bloomed from the punctures in her delicate skin. Her eyes widened in shock. The color drained from her face.

The wolf was fighting the drugs. Its limbs twitched as it fought to stay conscious. Blood matted in its coarse fur.

At last the battle was over.

Despite the loses he’d come out on top.

The pain came back, and his injured leg gave out from underneath him.

Kristina and Gary locked eyes and he saw the pleading in hers.

She expected him to help her.

Even without seeing the extend of the damage he knew she’d need more help than he could give.

His hands shook as he pulled himself up. He used the car for leverage.

He crossed the distance between them and pulled her head into his lap. She grabbed his hand.

“You’re going to be okay,” he lied, “I’m going to take care of you.”

She gasped, “I’m sorry.”

“Apologize later,” he said. His hands trailed down her shoulder trying to offer her what comfort he could.

The past between them and all the things he never said felt like they were choking him. It didn’t matter if he said them or not.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said as much to himself as her.

Her green eyes were wet reflecting the orange moonlight. Tears gathered on her lashes. Her mouth was set in a thin pained line.

He felt a tremor rack her body.

“Hold on for me Krissy,” he whispered.

Her body fell lax. Her eyes were open but empty. Water splashed on her cheek.

For a moment he thought it might be rain, but the sky was clear.

His own tears caught him by surprise. His heart squeezed painfully. He felt the hope he’d carried for years die with her.

He sat holding her until the tears dried. He won the battle, but the loses were devastating.

He forced himself to his feet. He was careful not to put weight on his broken leg. The night was getting away from him and his work was only just beginning.

#Under the Harvest Moon

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worldrandom · 2 years ago

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These are national holiday for each day between 3-5-23 and 3-18-23

3-5

cinco de march, custom chiefs day, finisher medal day, international open data day, multiple personality day, namesake day, national cheese doodle day, national potty dance day, reel film day, celebrate your mamerac, chocolate chip cookie week, national aardvark week, national words matter week, read an ebook week, sea week, teen teach week

3-6

alamo day, day of memorial and respect for veterans, day of the dude dentist, national dentist day, national dress day, national ford day, national frozen food day, national hero and benfactors day, national oreo cookie day, national white chocolate cheese cake day

3-7

alexander graham bell day, national be heard day, national cereal day, national crown roast of pork day, national flapjack day, national library workers day, national sportsmanship day, plant power day, sock monkey day

3-8

be nasty day, international womens day, learn what your name means day, natioanl august day, national no smoking day, national proofreading day, national retro vidoe game day

3-9

amerigo vespucci day, international school s meals day, march full moon, name tag day, national american paddle fish day, national crab meat day, national false teeth day, national get over it day, popcorn lovers day

3-10

festival of life i cracks day, harriet tubmen day, international bagpipe day, international day of awesomeness, international wig day, mario day, middle name pride day, national dry shampoo day, national landline telephone day, national pack your lunch day, national ranch day, national women and firls hiv/aids awareness day, paper money day, salvation army day, skirt day

311 day, debanking day, genealogy day, international fannny pack day, key deer awareness day, nantional covid 19 day, national dream day, national johhny appleseed day, national no coded day, wash your nose day, world of plumbing day, workship of tools day, world largest rattlesnake round up

3-12

alfred hitchcock day, aztec new year, check your batteries day, day light savings time starts, national baked scollops day, national girls scout day, national plant a flowere day, national working moms day, world day against cyber censorship, girl scout week, sleep awareness week, sunshine week

3-13

common wealth day in canada, eight hours day, international every girls wins day, k-9 veterans day, national coconut torte day, national earmuff day, national good smaritan day, smart and sexy day, brain awareness day, national button week, national clean out your closet week

3-14

bake a pie in solidarity day, celebarate scientist day, crowfunding day, dribble to work day, equal pay day, genius day, legal assiant day, national children craft day, national dog theft awareness day, national learn about butterflies day, national pir day, national potato chip, national save a sp\ider day, pi day, white day,

3-15

1848 revolution memorial day, brutus day, buzzards day, dumbstrucks day, everything you think is wrong day, ides of march, international day of action against canadian seal slaughter, international eat an animal for peta day,

3-16

black dress day, companies that care day, everything you do is right day, freedom of infomation day, lips appreciation day, national artichocke day, national close the gap day, national farm rescuer day, national panda day, no selfies day, orange and lemons day, st urhos day

3-17

camp fire girls day, doc patient trust day, evacuation day, national corned beef and gabbage day, national preschools teacher appreciation day, st patricks day, world sleep day

3-18

awkard moments day, forgive mom and dad day, global recycling day, goddes of fertilitry dayy, maple syrup sat, national biodiesel day, national corndaog day, national quilting day, national sloppy joe day, play the recorder day

#notionalholiday

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dansnaturepictures · 6 years ago

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28/07/2019-Baddesley Common and Emer Bog

Pictured: 3 views over it, Red Kite and Ruddy Darter

It was nice to discover a new place on another great day today, one that is local to us really and a quite brilliant wild land we just never knew was there. Summer is such a good time to make new discoveries as well.

Wildlife Sightings Summary: My first Ruddy Darters of the year my 11th dragon or damselfly species of 2019, one of my favourite dragonflies the Southern Hawker, two of my favourite birds the Red Kite and Buzzard, Woodpigeon, Rook, Linnet, Robin, Dunnock, Song Thrush, Small Skipper, Gatekeeper, Meadow Brown, Common Blue and Small Copper.

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antiqueanimals · 2 years ago

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Illustration from “When the Buzzards Come Back to Hinkley” Ford Times, March, 1964, © Ford Motor Company. Illustration by Charley Harper.

#birds #raptors #vultures #turkey vultures #Charley Harper

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thelostexperiment · 2 years ago

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"HAHA! Yes, welcome to the dark side! We have better fashion and cookies... literally, I just baked these." He holds out a plate of tiramisu shortening bread cookies as he munches on one, himself.

Santa’s List

Jose shouldn’t you be working, instead of surfing the web during office hours… NAUGHTY LIST FOR YOU!

“How did he know? I was using a VPN!”

#dash comm #collin condor #if no one else got the naughties- Collin's got the naughties!#(warning: naughties may not include certain older buzzards who's name starts with 'B' and ends with 'ford')

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running2re-duck-tion · 3 years ago

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Match Maker Lavinia Labrador

@lucy-buzzard

I mean, my first instinct is, of course, Smol!ford, since her summary/history implies that they've met and spent time with together and it might be interesting to explore that in an RP space.

I also think it might be interesting for Poe to encounter her, but I don't have any solid ideas there beyond it being an interesting interaction.

#ooc

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ramblingguy54 · 5 years ago

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DuckTales Season 3 Hype/Speculation

Soooo, how badly do I want Bradford and the other two buzzards to be in DuckTales Season 3 on a scale of one to ten, regarding intimidation?

I want these three to have the same cold blooded nature, as Bill Fucking Cipher. Don’t hold back on the danger.

I want them to actually PUT the triplets’ lives in real danger for Season 3′s intensity. They wanted to give Clan McDuck their last adventure, so make the threat feel genuinely real. Lunaris had a promising start in Season 2, but didn’t carry through with that factor on attacking the triplets in Moonvasion, which Magica did a much better job in putting an actual threat on the children’s lives, during the Shadow War. She wasn’t a damn pushover, even despite Webby’s best efforts, it was a combination of the other kids that helped bring her down, by freeing Scrooge from his magical prison inside his own number one dime. Magica was this serious threat that Season 1 made clear was a force to be reckoned with and said point is made evidently clear by how they weren’t fighting to beat her on their own, but freeing their uncle was the top objective.

I want to feel that same danger for Huey, Dewey, and Louie, as I felt for Dipper & Mabel in Weridmageddon’s climatic finale at Bill Cipher’s hands. That particular moment where Bill almost snaps his finger never fails to send chills down my spine. Bill was tired of screwing around trying to get the information outta Ford, so he cut the bullshit and went after his most vulnerable area emotionally. This is what should’ve happened with Lunaris. Scrooge & Della should’ve had a physical confrontation with Lunaris instead of a space ship battle, even though I very much enjoyed that last battle against him. Imagine how painfully awesome it would’ve been to see Lunaris capture the children and torment Scrooge, Della, and Donald over using them as chess pieces to manipulate their emotions and be seriously reckless. Seeing Lunaris beat the crap out of Scrooge here, can’t stop giving me ideas for how brutal their fight would’ve been like if they had invaded his ship, instead of blowing it up to Hell.

This isn’t to knock hard on Moonvasion because its a totally solid season finale, of course. It wraps up Della and Louie’s plot line beautifully with that Moon Lullaby reprisal from Louie, even if it had a mixed bag of an episode transition in the middle Glomtales, which could’ve explored so much more of their dynamic instead of focusing solely on Glomgold’s shenanigans through a lot of it. However, seeing the wonderful climax of Season 1 and what it accomplished still makes me reminisce about an another emotionally intense physical fight we could’ve gotten back in September of last year. Not even Donald, at his most pissed, could win against Lunaris’ brute strength, so this could’ve out shined Magica’s fight potentially. You know someone means business when they can stop Donald. Like, he literally roared at a freaking vicious lion outta existence back in Season 1′s episode, The House Of Lucky Gander.

Anyways, I’ve gotten a strong first impression that these buzzards are gonna be a Hell of a lot smarter compared to Lunaris’ incompetence with carrying out on legitimate threats, considering Frank stated they’ve been planning their diabolical stuff for quite a very long time. Longer than Lunaris ever managed to accomplish for those many years of planning, which given how under the radar they’ve been with manipulating Scrooge is a freaking no-brainer there. No matter how many times I’ve rewatched this cliffhanger, their straightforward robotic nature about how carefully they’ve planned all this out has me so worried for what they could do to the duck family. Especially Huey, since he’ll be slowly learning of their existence throughout this big arc. Although, it makes ya wonder just how far they will go with their manipulation tactics. Considering Lunaris used Della’s PTSD against her to make her run for the hills, who’s to say these heartless buzzards won’t take that a step further? If Lunaris was all about using fear to crush his opponents, then Bradford will most likely be using whatever secrets he has up those sleeves about the past to crush the family’s improved emotional state, like say I don’t know...

Most likely being the root cause of Della’s Spear Of Selene tragedy?

I’d be seriously shocked if these guys weren’t highly responsible for keeping her on that Moon for the past decade. These guys have been watching Scrooge for so many years, which leaves very few suspects to who else could’ve caused Della’s unfortunate separation. Either Bradford did the awful deed himself or got somebody else the buzzards trusted enough to do this hit job properly. There’s no way we haven’t entirely gotten the full story yet of what happened to Della. A tragedy like that just doesn’t happen by accident and knowing this is a season all about secrecy leads me into highly anticipating the bombshell of this idea being confirmed. After all, Frank did say it was serious spoilers as to why Della’s communications were jammed and none of her messages got through. Regardless, I’m beyond ecstatic to see how they’ll make these antagonists a step up from Lunaris in this season.

Bring on the buzzard cruelty. Let’s see what these three got.

#ducktales speculation #ducktales season 3 #ducktales f.o.w.l.#ducktales season 2 #general lunaris #gravity falls #dipper and mabel #huey dewey and louie #my hype is real but im also scared #ducktales 2017 #f.o.w.l.#scrooge mcduck #della duck #donald duck

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kathren-is-here · 4 months ago

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they have all seen enough/j

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salamanderskin · 5 years ago

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In Imladris (Lotr, m)

Set pre-The Fellowship of the Ring. Lord Elrond's birth sons and fosterling return from a long mission in the wilds, and he is drawn to give Aragorn's mortality some thought.

Whump, hurt/comfort, sickfic, fever, sneezing, injury, stitches, infected wound, blood mention.

The wind in the treetops of Rivendell made a sound to vie with the rushing of the falls, uneasy, restless and unceasing as it worried at the branches and strewed the last of the leaves from the branches. They fell from the birches which lined the upper flanks of the valley in slow spirals like so many circling buzzards as they wended their way down from the mountainside and through the cool air to land in delicate handfuls on the grass that made up the gardens of the Last Homely House. Some caught in the carved canopies that sheltered the grove or scattered themselves over the seats of a stone bench, some drifted down to meet their own reflection in the still grey pool, to dawdle there until the current whisked them downstream, and still others lighted on the winding paths where they barely whispered beneath the light feet of an elven woman who walked there, her dark head seemingly bent in thought.

Lord Elrond Halfelven observed all this from the window in his study which commanded a view of his house and the valley which sheltered it, and his brows narrowed with interest. He had been watching the phalanx of horses splashing across the ford before moving single-file along the narrow tracks which lead into the valley itself, their green- and grey-cloaked riders weary with many weeks of travel, their mounts burdened with longbows and spears, and his keen eyes noted that all those twenty of his house who had set out were returned. It had only been a routine party sent out to quell the goblins in the Misty Mountains, but many rumours had reached Elrond's ears that those who were once servants of Sauron were moving again, and growing in number, and he was not so arrogant as to take for granted a successful mission.

Of course, he had a especial interest in the success of this journey. Elrond's eyes sought among those dismounting in the courtyard for two figures of equal height and build, their hair like rich, new-turned earth as they lead their mounts to water- his twin sons Elladan and Elrohir. He saw also the elven woman in the garden glance up at the sound of hoofbeats striking cobbles and come swiftly to the two, embracing each in turn as a sister should. Arwen Evenstar, his only daughter, moved among the party, assisting where she could and offering words of welcome. This was well.

This was the last rider still on horseback, a little shorter and more muscled than the party of willowy elves, and by the stiffness in his stance as he dismounted, definitely human- his adoptive son Aragorn was also returned. Even from his high window, Lord Elrond could see the way that his daughter's gaze was drawn always to this man in particular, and without understanding why Elrond found himself stricken with a sudden heaviness of heart though the man did not notice Arwen among all the bustle of elves and horses. He was glad to put it out of his mind to focus his intention on his sons, who would doubtless come straight to their father to report.

He allowed himself to pace to one side of the great room, and then to other, so that by the time he received the inevitable knock on the door he was seated in a carved chair, his hands folded expectantly infront of him. His twin sons entered looking travel-stained but no worse for wear, their eyes bright with success and pride. Lord Elrond fought a smile as he looked at them- they were so like himself in his younger days; strength and swiftness well balanced with a steadiness of spirit in their lithe forms.

“Welcome back, Ionnath. I trust the hunting went well.”

Elladan came forward to speak for the two, as he was wont. “Very well, Adar. We routed great gatherings of orcs in the mountains and destroyed their camps, though they were very many. They are breeding again, and in such numbers as we have never seen before.”

“Then it is as I feared. Do not be troubled, come now and rest yourselves. We shall feast tonight to celebrate your safe return.”

“Adar-”

This time it was Elrohir who spoke, and something of the cadence in his light voice made Elrond ask “All are returned safely, are they not?”

The two stepped a little closer together as if shoring up against a blow.

“Aragorn took an arrow in his shoulder. We do not know if it was serious- he would not show us the wound.”

“He has not come to me or any of my people for healing.”

Eladan's dark eyes lit briefly with wry amusement at the vagaries of men as he said sadly “But that does not mean that he is well.”

Elrond followed the wend of his son's thoughts with a flicker of concern in his heart for his adopted son, so fierce in body and spirit and yet so delicate when compared to his immortal older brothers. “Your compassion does you credit. I shall go to him, at the very least to welcome him home.”

Dismissing the two young warriors to rest and refresh themselves before the evening's festivities, Elrond rose and closed the book he had been reading with a thoughtful hand, leaving his study to seek out his youngest child, wherever in Rivendell the man might have hidden to lick his wounds.

* * *

Aragorn was not to be found in the chambers reserved to him, nor in any of the wide communal halls of Rivendell where it might be pleasant to sit on such a cold Autumnal evening. Lord Elrond moved intuitively through the winding corridors and balconies of his house, allowing his mind to calm and guide his steps to where a human man might seek solace upon returning home. His path wended gradually down from the treetop towers of the house and down the broad, shallow steps until he found his feet upon the soft loam of the forest floor as he walked among the great trees into which his house was melded.

It was never truly cold in Rivendell, but in the gardens there was a chill edge to the breeze which spoke of snow beginning to settle on the misty mountains to the North. It whispered in branches which were growing barer by the day, strewing leaves and swirling ash keys down to form a golden carpet which did not rustle under the weightless tread of elven feet, though they would tell the tale of any human's passing, no matter how wood wise. Here rushing of the falls and the lighter, higher voice of the Bruinen where it ran in the ford was muffled, and the gently folded hills of the valley created a curious effect so that the tiny trickling of the little stream sounded louder and more potent than those other, greater bodies of water. Elrond allowed the murmur of that stream to draw him towards the grove where the water poured itself into a sculpted pool surrounded by pillows of the smooth green moss which liked to grow at under the deep shade of the trees. With his green Ranger's cloak pulled around his shoulders he was difficult to distinguish from the bark of the great oaks behind him but sure enough, beside the lip of the fountain where the stream poured through in a silver thread, there knelt a figure instantly familiar.

The elf watched as Aragorn unfastened the sword and hunting knives from his belt, took a cloth dampened in the fountain and began systematically to wipe each weapon clean. Distaste rose in his throat as black blood was washed clean from the blades and dripped onto the hallowed ground of Rivendell, staining the moss, but Elrond held his tongue for the moment, content to observe the man in his reverie. Aragorn's movement's were slow and distracted and after mere minutes they ceased altogether as he stared into the middle distance, wrapping his arms about himself. His cape fluttered fractionally with some tiny movement which drew Elrond's eye- could the man be shivering?

Though Elrond's steps were elven-light he expected his son, of all people, to notice his approach, yet he did not. He actually had to speak Aragorn's name to get a reaction.

“Estel.”

Aragorn seemed to come to, and rose immediately to his feet to give a polite bow, shaking his head to clear it.

“Forgive me, I expected you to be indoors, with the rest of the party.” He said, and his soft bass voice crackled huskily over the delicate syllables of elvish words, sounding raspish and painful as though from too much shouting.

“And I expected the same of you. Did the hunting go well?”

“I- Yes. Thank you.” The man said distractedly, kneeling down to make a business of collecting up his weapons, weighing them in his hands and buckling them on once more. A healer's instinct instantly noticed that his movement was restricted along the left side, which he held stiffly, and the dark stain in the cloth of his tunic just below the right collarbone along with many scrapes and grazes on the skin visible around his clothing. Perhaps more worrying was the bruised shadow pooling under his adoptive son's grey eyes. The man looked as though he had barely slept.

Elrond waited for Aragorn to elaborate, but he did not. Though he stood straight as a soldier should before his captain, the man was swaying slightly and Elrond thought privately that Eladan and Elrohir had been right to come to him. He did wonder exactly how long the man would go without seeing a healer, but it did not do to play betting games with the health of one's children, especially those of the mortal persuasion. Luckily Elrond was not so elfin that he was above intervening when it was needed.

“Estel.” He said again, and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. As he expected, he felt Aragorn's body tighten under his fingertips and the slightest flicker of tightness around the eyes betrayed what in another man would have been a grimace. “Your brothers tell me you were injured.”

Aragorn gave a lopsided shrug, too noble to lie when pressed outright.

“Aye. I took an arrow to the shoulder six days ago.” He swallowed, clearly ashamed. “I was careless.”

“You are a Ranger, such things happen. Would you like me to look at the wound?”

Aragorn had to clear his throat twice before he could speak, his words punctuated with a tiny, restrained sniffle. “Thank you, but that is hardly necessary.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, I -snf- took the arrowhead out and dressed it. You trained me in herbcraft yourself.”

Elrond took a moment to reply, instead looking curiously into Aragorn's face. It was as though he had not looked at his adopted son properly before. He did so now and came to realise that his own immortal lifespan had lead him to think of Aragorn always as a youth, and this was no longer true. His shoulders were broader than Eladan or Elrohir's would ever be, taught and sinewy with muscle, whilst his jaw had waxed strong, his eyes stern and already a little sorrowful. His skin was that of a mortal man, complete with two-days growth of beard, and that meant the paleness of his cheek was not a natural elven complexion but spoke of fatigue, or perhaps something else amiss in the young man standing before him.

Yes, there was pain from the injured shoulder in his face, but Aragorn son of Arathron was too stoic to let a wound set his features flickering with discomfort the way they were now. Elrond's acute hearing picked up both the uneasy rapidity of the man's breathing, and the soft, damp sound of him sniffing around fluid in his nose. Even as he watched, Aragorn's nostrils fluttered suddenly, irresistibly, and he drew a broad hand up to pinch at them. His eyes were downcast, embarrassed, and then suddenly flickered shut as the man drew a hasty, involuntary breath and sneezed sharply, shielding his face reflexively in the crook of his arm. “ihd-Ngkssch!”

It was a tight, helpless motion that seemed to wring all the energy from the man's body, racking through him though he tried to restrain it.

“... forgive me, please...” He pleaded, utterly mortified at the wet sound as he tried to sniffle his way back into composure. Each breath in merely seemed to make the itching worse, and before Elrond could so much as comment, it overcame him again.

“NgkScch! Ngksssch! Ih...Kscch! … ngh...”

He looked up afterwards with a low groan, gripping his shoulder where the convulsion had doubtless torn the healing muscles.

“...Bless you.” Elrond said at last, reverting suddenly to the common tongue. It seemed wrong to insist on the elvish when the man had just been overtaken by something so... human.

He placed his own hand on top of Aragorn's where the man pressed his own palm into the damaged flesh at his shoulder. Elrond's fingers showed slender and pale on top of his adoptive son's broad, weapon-wielding ones which were darkened by tan and by dirt worked into the flesh. His knuckles were skinned and dark with blood where the scabs had cracked with the sudden movement. He could sense that if Aragorn did not pull away it was only out of a sense of respect for his guardian's authority and race and he turned his head away, refusing to look at his sire though he submitted to the inspection.

“There may be some orc poison in this, still, or perhaps merely a fragment of your leather jerkin has been driven into the wound. Still, this is a good place to take an injury, if there is such a thing as good place for an orc arrow. It has missed your organs, your head, your heart. But it is a difficult place to keep still, and you must keep it still so that the tissues may knit together well or you will lose some strength in your shield-arm. Five days on horseback have done you no good at all.”

As Aragorn sniffed again, Elrond's wise fingers moved intuitively across the site of the injury. Where Elrond drew aside the cloak and parted the tunic at the neck to get a better view, the man's body clenched with shudders of cold quite disproportionate to his exposure to the crisp autumn air, yet though Elrond could hear the man's teeth chattering in his head despite his every effort to still the motion, the skin under his fingers radiated an unmistakable, sickening heat. The wound itself has been dressed neatly enough, but under the wrapping of fabric the flesh gaped wide where Aragorn had pulled the arrowhead back through, wide enough to require many stitches he had not had time to provide. The skin around was bruised and swollen, seeping fluid and a fresh, red trickle of blood where it had opened again, perhaps in the last few minutes.

“Why did you not go straight to a healer with this?”

“Please, Adar, it is too small a thing with which to trouble an elven healer. It's merely that I keep... k...keep...” He did not make it through the sentence before his features once again took on a tortured grimace, part exquisite irritation, part knife-keen embarrassment at his loss of composure in front of his elfin sire. “NGKSchh!” He bent again, burying his nose into his elbow and this time. Elrond could see for sure that the motion of sneezing was too fierce for the field-dressing to keep the edges of the wound together. “...forgive me.”

“It will not heal if you keep pulling at it this way.” Elrond heard the healer's sternness in his voice and consciously softened it, truly concerned for the health of his adoptive son. He gestured away from the wound and to the general area of Aragorn's face and throat, sensing that drawing more explicit attention to the mortal ailment the man was suffering would cause him to shut down. “How long has this been troubling you?”

Aragorn did not respond to the question, but it was possible this reaction was caused not by defiance but by his distraction as he murmured “forgive me, Adar” again before fishing out a used-looking handkerchief that was stiff in places with rust-coloured blood streaks, and touching it shamefacedly to his nose. He blew softly, the sound betraying the thickness of congestion in his head.

“Estel. How long have you been running a fever? Answer me.”

Aragorn still did not speak, and the breath he drew through his nose was an unyielding -sgk- that revealed he was hardly able to get a breath into him, though he coughed again in the attempt.

Instead, his answer was to buckle at the knees, going suddenly limp as his eyes showed white and hazy in his head. Elrond grabbed for him reflexively, but luckily the rangers of the north were not ones for fainting, so that as soon as his knees hit the moss he came back to himself sufficient to balance his weight on one hand rather than fall to the floor. The sharp jarring movement must have been excruciating, and he hissed in a tight, pained breath through his teeth as he levered himself back into a kneeling position, racked again with those tight, juddering coughs.

Instinctively Elrond felt his hands drawn to Aragorn's face and he laid his cool palms against the fire at his son's cheeks, soothing him at the same time with his words. “Estel, you need only walk with me a little way and then you can rest. Come.”

* * *

Tending to Aragorn's wound was an ugly and time-consuming job, and Elrond insisted upon doing it himself. He had to draw a deep breath to steady himself before he could make the cut into his adoptive son's shoulder which was necessary to push the remains of the arrow all the way through. As Aragorn's head lolled limply in his hands under the influence of a hefty dose of pain-numbing herbs, he almost wished that he had entrusted the task to another member of his house. He had been a healer since the world was young, and all the virtue of the elves was in him, but that did not mean that he liked plunging his fingers into the flesh of his nearest and dearest.

Removing an arrow in this way was a routine procedure, but goblin arrows were evil things, designed especially to be uneven and brittle, the better both to be dipped in poison and to catch and fester in the skin. Like many arrow wounds the damage had been caused not by the blade going in but by Aragorn's haste in taking it out. If only the man had had more patience or the humility to go to another for healing, the damage might not have been so bad. As gentle, stready fingers drew the edges of the wound together and closed it with tiny stitches, Aragorn's fevered form stirred uneasily, his breath a congested rasp. Elrond had to wonder whether Aragorn had become so fevered because he had missed a small fragment of the blade inside his flesh when he dressed his injury, or whether he had made a poor job of tending to himself because he was already coming down with some mortal ailment. Either way it was relief to lay down the needle and ease his adoptive son's form back on the bed. The man looked peaceful, the pain held at bay for a few hours, but Elrond regrettably noted that as soon as he came to his arm would be a burden to him, and the order to keep it still and rest it even more so. The mortal ailment coursing through his limp form like a wildfire would certainly help on that score.

In a parting gesture Elrond laid his hand on Aragorn's forehead as he might have when he was a child, offering him the soothing cool of his hand before stroking slowly into the dark hair. He sought the bowl of cool water placed by the bedside and rang out the cloth from it to place on the burning brow, noting how Aragorn's features relaxed as he did so, even in sleep. He left the man to sleep, his elfin lightness of foot allowing him to leave the room as if he had never been there, although his mind was loud.

* * *

The feet of Arwen Evenstar were also light, so light that neither her father, nor any of the last homely house heard her passing. She moved through the corridors of Rivendell like a bird through the wide sky, leaving no trail behind her. She had been long with her Mother's people in the East, returning to her Imladris only for passing visits, and so the passages of her father's house were strange to her. It was instinct which guided her footsteps along the winding stairways past countless statues and priceless metalwork, relics from another age than even she could remember, as she sought the company of her twin brothers, and it was instinct which brought her instead into a room she had not visited before. In contrast to the light airiness of elven architecture in every room she had passed through thus far, the windows in this chamber were closed and heavy drapes drawn about them so that gloom prevailed although it was only a little past midday. A few slanted bars of sunlight made their way into the space, dancing with motes of dust, and when Arwen leaned her head in and made out the scene which they illuminated she very nearly retreated immediately for fear of awakening the sleeper there. However, she was very much her father's daughter, and when that sleeping figure let out a low moan of pain she could not make herself walk away.

She entered and gazed long at the man who lay on the bed, his left side well wrapped in bandages through which a stain of blood had steeped, very red next to the white dressings and his pale face. She recognised the mortal man who had been in the hunting party with Elladan and Elrohir. By the dark hair and beard and the nobility of his face, he was one of the Dunedain. She struggled for a name... Arathorn? No, it couldn't be. She remembered that the young man Arathorn was sheltered in Rivendell for a time but that was too many years ago. This must be his son. Her foster brother.

Arwen had no experience of illness, and little experience of pain, but she knew enough to be sure that the man was not just exhausted from the journey. Her alert senses could feel the fever-heat radiating off him in waves, though he shivered and attempted to burrow himself deeper under the covers which had slipped down to reveal some of his chest. The tautly-muscled flesh which rose over his ribcage was mottled with dark bruising and there were other grazes and scrapes quite apart from the wadded cloth concentrated upon the hollow just below the man's collarbone.

If he had been tended by her father than she had no fears for his well-being in the long term, but despite the heavy dose of analgesics and sedatives required to ease his passage through the surgery her father had performed to his wounded shoulder the man was clearly in deep discomfort. He did not lie at ease but twitched and murmured, his body moving like a ship at anchor as though he had a will to toss and turn but was checked at each attempt by the fierce pain of the newly-closed wound, and she wondered at it.

When the sleeper did not stir at her presence, Arwen allowed herself to approach him more closely indulging herself in the chance to examine him in every aspect, and what she saw troubled her heart in ways she could not precisely understand. Although she had taken him for pale in the face, his pallor was broken by two spots of high colour on his cheeks. His lips were cracked and bloody in the centre where he had bitten through the bottom one in pain or frustration.

“ihd-Ngkssch!”

The explosive sound and corresponding whiplash movement of his head into the mattress startled her so much that she took a step back, withdrawing the hand she had unconsciously extended to draw the blankets over him. She sighed out softly in relief- it was only a sneeze. It had happened without any warning and she fully expected it to have woken him, but to her surprise the man's eyelids remained steadfastly shut. Fascinating...

It overtook him again, but gradually this time, so that she had time to observe the chaotic flickering of his nostrils, the way his eyebrows tented together and his breath formed a questioning “hhuh” as the need to sneeze mounted, consuming him utterly although it failed to rouse him from his sleep.

“Ihd'NGGSCH! .. NNGSHH! ... ngh”

Again without waking, the man turned to smother his face into the mattress to his left, and Arwen saw a wince of pain pass his features as he wrenched at the bloody bandages at his collarbone.

It was clearly not the first time he had been overtaken with such a release, nor even the tenth, for the man's nostrils and the skin beneath them were chapped and sore-looking. And would soon be worse, judging by the dampness of them. The man felt it too, indeed despite the impressive display his nose still seemed to irritate him, for in his sleep he scrubbed it itchily first against the pillow and then against his bandaged knuckles. She had never in her long life carried a handkerchief, having no need for such a thing, but the thick, damp sound of this stranger's breathing made her wish for one to press into his sleep-slackened hand. He sounded awful, his breathing hoarse and his nose by turns stuffed and running so that no amount of sniffing would give him release from the near-constant need to sneeze.

She stood wondering a moment longer, but the wetness in the man's head seemed to be the final straw and enough to draw him almost to the surface of sleep as he unconsciously swiped the back of wrist at his nose. As his eyelids flickered, threatening to open, Arwen drew a hasty step backwards. She did not wish her unlooked-for presence to startle the man from his rest. Even if he was waking, perhaps if she left the room quietly he could return to his dreaming for a few hours more- she could see her father's healer's case set out beside the bed, it's scalpels and needles sleeping next to each other like miniature weapons of war, and knew that sleep was the greatest mercy the elves could give him at that point in time. Reluctantly she left the fascinating scene of his mortal suffering and turned for the door.

* * *

The afternoon sunlight poured out across Rivendell like slow honey, taking its time to make its way into the deep shadows that were gathering around the gardens of the house. The air held the smell of turning leaves and moist earth, the smell of things moving on and maturing, and Elrond was pleased to breathe it in as he returned to Aragorn's chamber a few hours later. There were servants in his house who would boil and bring a cup of this decoction to his son, but again he had chosen to do it himself, taking pleasure in the bitter, herbal scent of it and the weight of the tray in his hands. There was so much in the world that was changing. The shadows of the world were gathering and growing long and all that the elves had known must eventually come to end. Nothing would be as it once was, and so he took the time to focus on the small tasks which had been his everyday experience as a healer since the world was young. Tending his adoptive son would be a temporary shield against the tides of the unexpected.

Yet the unexpected found him even as he went to enter the sickroom, for who should be leaving it but his daughter, Arwen, who was so rarely in his house and never in this part of it at all? She smiled him a greeting, turning her head anxiously back over her shoulder so that the long curtain of dark hair shrouded her fair face.

“I was just meaning to seek you, Adar.” She said in a low murmur of elvish which disturbed the air of the sickroom less that the slightest breeze stirring the drapes. “That man, he-”

“-has taken ill, and it is a poor combination with an orc arrow in his flesh. I am aware of this. How is he?”

Elrond was answered not by his daughter but by a low, shivering murmur from the chamber beyond, followed almost immediately by a horribly wrenching “ngh... NGKtscsh!” It sounded as though Aragorn was no better for the time he had spent unconscious, but rather that now he was horizontal whatever had been brewing in his head and lungs had chance to settle and drive him to outbursts of fretful, frustrated sneezing.

The elves glanced at each other. Elrond's eyes were impassive, Arwen's somewhat disconcerted. That was only to be expected; it was rare to hear a raised voice in Rivendell, let alone one raised in unavoidable, undeniable discomfort. Discomfort was clear enough in the man's laboured coughing. Although that first release sounded as though it had ripped at the surface of Aragorn's throat, it was not enough to ease him and he was racked with them again and again.

“Ihd'Ngkssch!... …. hh... Ngkssch! Ngkssch! IKTSkssch!”

The unpleasant dampness of the sneezes caused even Elrond to wince, though the long, torturous breaths between each one were worse still on the listener, causing him almost to hold his own breath in sympathy. The sound made Elrond realise that Aragorn had been desperately restraining himself when they had met in the garden of Imladris- then his sneezes had been fierce but tight, swiftly muffled as he denied himself relief from them out of some sense of propriety in front of his elven sire. Now he was simply allowing his body to have its way with him, though Elrond could have wished the man had slept longer.

Elrond opened his mouth to call out but he was immediately hushed by Arwen's slender hand.

“He sleeps, despite it all.” She whispered, wry, then added “His fever is very high.”

“Understandably so. The fire will burn the taint of evil from his flesh. I have prepared a decoction which will ease his other symptoms when he wakes.”

He stepped towards the door ahead of his daughter but she hovered, hand still extended, reluctant to leave.

“You should not be here, Arwen.” Elrond said, though not unkindly. “This man needs to rest if he is to recover his strength. I will tend him.”

“Yes, Adar.”

“Do not trouble yourself. Go now to your brothers and give thanks that this kind of suffering will never be your concern.”

She left then, the hem of her gown fluttering behind her with the briskness of her steps, the cloak of her hair rippling.

Although Arwen was gone, that final thought was etched in Elrond's mind as he went to his son and readied his things to change the dressings on Aragorn's shoulder. This kind of suffering will never be your concern. She would never experience sickness, the discomfort and indignity of burning with fever, or having one's head bristle with pressure and pain. Though she could be wounded she would heal quickly, never needing to watch for the insidious creep of infection which was Elrond's main fear as he washed his hands before touching his son.

When he drew back the covers, Aragorn's eyes first opened a crack then snapped immediately wide as he tried desperately to sit up, right arm groping about him as though seeking his sword. Only Lord Elrond's weight on either forearm prevented the man from sitting and he pushed frantically against his father's grip for a moment before realising where he was. He came to himself and laid back down slowly, blinking.

“Adar, it's you.” His voice was a hoarse, painful rasp. “I thought...”

Elrond hushed him and touched his fingers to the man's cheek to gauge the fire there. Cooler, but his fever had not yet broken.

“You were dreaming.” Elrond made it a statement, not a question. “You are in Imladris.”

“I remember. I was not so far gone as that.” Aragorn said, but the tentative slowness of his speech gave that statement the lie, for he spoke as one who must dredge each word up individually from the murk of fever before struggling to remember what he intended to do with it. He lay still for a moment, apart from the slight wrinkle at the bridge of his nose as he tried to get a breath through it, snuffling heavily, and failed.

“Indeed?” Although Aragorn did not seem to recall it, Elrond had a clear memory of the man's weight on his arm as they walked up to Rivendell, and of having to call Elladan to lift his brother's limp form when the fever and the walk overwhelmed him. Still, that the man was protesting his wellness was something of a good sign- the injury had taken none of his spirit.

Elrond seated himself on the edge of the bed, blocking the man from rising.

“Do not get up, Estel. Drink this.” He offered the cup and watched Aragorn drink of it, spluttering around the liquid on his raw throat. “Slowly. Now, can you move your fingers?”

Aragorn's forehead narrowed for a moment in concentration but he clenched his left hand into a fist and relaxed it, his other fingers moving instinctively to the arrow-wound at his shoulder. He sniffed again, liquidly, and touched his hand to his nose. His apology came out as a “Please, excuse be” almost too hoarse to be made out.

“That is well.” Elrond said, of Aragorn's compliance, then “I will need you to lie still for some days until the stitches can be removed.”

“Days? But I must-” Though he tried to rub it into submission, his nose twitched again, reddened nostrils flickering with irritation. He turned away from his father in embarrassment, though it was less the eyes-averted denial of earlier then the expression of a man resigned to being confined to bed with a dreadful chill, more eager for the relief now than ashamed. He cast about and found that someone had replaced his bloodstained handkerchief with a fresh one, and not a moment too soon.

“NGKTssch! NGSSCHuh! … ah...”

It was clear that he was trying not to move his shoulder and yet the sudden sneezes ripped through his irritated sinuses with a force which made the muscles of his abdomen clench and twitch though he tried to swallow them.

“That,” Lord Elrond said quietly. “Is precisely my point. Lie still.”

Elrond sat with his son for some time after he had changed the dressings, rubbing the man's back to ease him through the fits of painful coughing. At times further fits of sneezing overtook him, but these died down as the sedative Elrond had put in the herbal tea took effect. He had the pleasure of watching the hawk-like keenness fade from his adoptive son's eyes with each blink until the man began to snore lightly through his blocked nose. Aragorn lay entirely still, his left arm set awkwardly to one side so as not to put strain through his injured shoulder, but the calloused fingers were relaxed in sleep, cupped loosely like the petals of a flower. On that hand was a ring and the emeralds set there cast a green glow on the white linen coverlet where the sunlight struck them. Elrond looked at it and sighed. He could not, even for a moment, forget that his mortal son carried the fate of a people on his shoulders, not even when the man in question lay passed out on a bed, his cheeks carrying high spots of colour from a fever that would not seem to break. Elrond placed his fingers to Aragorn's cheek, confirming, and pulled the blankets up higher over him before taking his leave.

He walked out of Rivendell as the sun was sinking below the rim of the valley. The last rays spread in a glorious smear of light across the sky, catching the rays from the falls in rainbows and gilding the tops of the ash trees where they shivered in the light breeze. Elrond noticed three figures standing together in the gardens, two completely alike, and he went to them, his heart lifting. Although Estel had been fostered at Rivendell, he needed to spend time with those of his offspring who were of his blood, who did not remind him with their every breath that they were to whither and die. He had sheltered many sons of the Dunadain over his long life whilst they lived and died as briefly as mayflies, but something told him that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had a greater part to play than his adoptive father could understand.

Days were darkening but there were still fragments of light to be found before the gathering storm. Though Aragorn lay in a fever upon his bed, Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen stood on the grass of Imladris as the autumn leaves danced down upon them, and he was glad in the sight.

END.

#whump #hurt/comfort #sickfic #injury #fever #stitches #lotr whump #aragorn whump

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seuzz · 4 years ago

Text

Story: “The Twice-Cursed Outlaw, William Fokke”

There's no rest for the wicked, they say. Neither now or after, for those twice-damned.

"Oh, but for you, William Henry Fokke," she hissed, "a special curse!"

Once he would have stopped to listen to the girl, for at twenty she'd been pretty. But five years of Kansas wind and dust had blighted and blurred her face, so—

"Aw, button it, Molly," Fokke growled. He kicked over the spindly pinewood bureau where Duke Winslow was used to keeping his money. Papers and pens and a gold watch on a chain scattered across the warped cabin floor. "You already cussed me once," he said as he picked through the mess.

"The first was that you and Reno and the rest of you ... rascals!" Molly gulped down a breath. "Meet the law and have justice done you!"

Reno, a lean cowboy with a bristly black beard, sniggered. "Yeah, that's us 'n the boys," he agreed. "Jes' a coupl'a rascals!"

"I wouldn' 'spect different from buzzard leavings like you and Homer!" Molly sneered at him. "But you, William! You was Duke's best friend! He tore you out'a jail twice hisself when he coulda ridden back to Missouri and left you to hang!"

"Justice be hanged," Fokke retorted. He was carefully thumbing through a sheaf of bills inside a bulging paper envelope; when he finished, he chucked it to Reno. "You'll get more out'a Duke thisaways too, than you'd of otherwise," Fokke went on. "Fifteen thousand, dead or alive, that's what the territory's offering for your brother. It's yours to collect, soon as me and the boys clear out. Provided, of course," he added with a sour grin, "you 'fess it was you that made that mess over there."

He jerked his chin at the body that sprawled face down in the corner, with the back of its head blown off.

Reno laughed. "Tell the sheriff Duke was always trackin' in the mud," he called back as he and Fokke sauntered out. "That's how come you did it!"

"Ride you on till God Himself in judgement calls you home, William Henry Fokke!" Molly Winslow screamed as he and Reno swung onto their horses. "Neither faithless friend nor kindly foe give you rest nor succor, but let saddle be your bed and sky your ceiling"—still she shouted as the men rode off—"till with sound of trumpet He rolls the heavens back!"

*****

Fokke squinted into the sun and found himself wondering why, at that moment—perched atop his horse, under a tree, with his hands tied behind him and a noose chafing his throat— his mind chose to wander back to that afternoon two years before when, almost casually, he'd put two slugs into Duke Winslow's face.

Maybe because that's when it had all begun to go wrong.

It was easy, afterward, to appreciate how there'd been plenty of takings and hardly any fuss when it was Duke running the gang. Oh, sure, sometimes it was months between jobs, time to be filled with nought but the driving of fence-posts and the stringing of wire and other innocent-seeming play as the law chased fruitlessly hither and fro, even as Duke cased and plotted and dallied thoughtfully over the next bank raid or stagecoach robbery. But it was safe and profitable, even with nothing but drink and cards and whores to relieve the tedium. Afterward, though—

Well, Reno had promised action, and he'd delivered, though more of it and more desperate than Fokke in truth had liked. Worse was the sense he got that Reno and the others didn't exactly trust him after what he'd done to Duke. And when Fokke ran out of the bank in Elko, only to get his ear shot off by Reno as he and the rest of the gang wheeled and rode away, he'd found himself some other pals.

Not that any of the others he joined up with—Johnny Hodges, the Ford boys, the Lincoln County Riders—proved much friendlier. Somehow, their talk always circled back to that day in the cabin in the willows by Shoal Creek. The day Fokke had talked the trusting Duke into a corner, then blown his head off.

But it wasn't the memory of the gun that day—hot and heavy though it had been in his hand—or the thunder loosed by the trigger, or the spray of blood and brain and bone, that preoccupied William Henry Fokke as the sheriff read out the list of robberies, hold-ups, and murders he'd committed since. No, it was—

"You have anything to say before we finish this business?" the sheriff asked Fokke.

"You can't kill me," Fokke replied.

The sheriff snorted. "Like hell."

"Take it up with Molly Winslow."

His objection was followed by a puzzled silence. Then: "That was Duke Winslow's kid sister," one of the posse quietly said.

"Well, we'll be sure to give her an account of the afternoon's festivities," the sheriff drawled. "She'll be pleased."

"Maybe not," Fokke said. "She had other ideas for me, and they didn't include me getting packed off.

The sheriff snorted again. "Okay, let's get along," he said. "H'yah!" He kicked Dutchie in the haunch.

The horse jumped, and Fokke grimaced as the slack in the rope ran out. He felt a momentary jerk— something snapped—

And suddenly he was away. Dutchie sprang forward beneath him as though touched by a hot coal.

Branch broke! Fokke thought, and he laughed aloud. Not a hundred yards away flowed the river, where the sheriff's writ ran out. He bent over Dutchie's mane and coiled the trailing rope about his arm as he ran for freedom.

*****

He bent in the saddle, bowing over his horse's drooping head, as though dragged forward by the weight of his skull. His broken hat fell over hollow eyes, and he felt his bones grinding against each other within the ragged great coat that wrapped about his narrow shoulders. The glaring sun beat down, but he shivered yet, and felt he had no more substance than a stain on the wavering summer air.

Reno and his pals were holed up at the old shack in the willows. How he knew this he couldn't guess, but the thought of it filled him with a grim certainty, and with an unslakable desire to confront them with the fact of his continued—though haggard—existence.

Thrice before he had caught up to Reno, only for the traitor to bolt. The first time, the bristle-headed outlaw had thrown lead while galloping away; the other two times he'd merely run. The last time he'd caught Reno was in the dark outside Elko, and he'd had come close to running the louse down, but the squealing coward had fled into town and flung himself inside a church, sniveling there while his pursuer prowled about until dawn, rattling at the windows and prying at the door. Homer Ford, too, he'd nearly caught, but the fool broke his head open trying to escape down a cliff.

Once, riding after sundown in the Wyoming chaparral, he had lingered on the ridge overlooking a dell and listened to a clutch of cowboys talking around the fire.

"Like to a scarecrow tied atop a starving horse," said one. Another corrected: "A dead horse."

A third swore in a rough voice. "Scarecrow? What's the fear in a thing like that?"

"None, they say, if you ain't one that crossed him in life. Though one feller I heard tell looked him in the face and ain't been right in the head since."

"What's wrong with his face?"

"What do you think's wrong? But I've heard it was worse when there were more bits of him still hanging off the cheek bones."

"It's the neck being broke I can't abide the thinking of," said a fourth. "You reckon his head's wobbling funny, like it might fall off?"

"In that case," laughed the rough-voiced skeptic, "one good shot'd put an end to his riding."

There was a cold silence. "I don't reckon I'd want to cross the Dutchman. He was a bad 'un then, but I reckon he's a lot worse now." He was answered only by a rough, rude laugh.

"He still got the rope on him?"

"So it's reported. He carries it coiled like a lariat, though it's half rotted away. They say he tried roping Hoss Johnson with it at full gallop ... with the other end cinched around his neck still!"

How many miles was he from the shack where he'd gunned Duke down? He didn't know, but it didn't matter. When he got these premonitions he always arrived in time.

He paused at an abandoned homestead, to refresh himself at a rain barrel. The flesh had long since fallen from the grinning face that rippled and wavered back at him in the dark surface of the water; the hair that poked from under the hat brim was like old straw. But the water dribbled vainly through the bony fingers he dipped into the barrel, and the withered hand had no strength to lift the tin cup that hung on a nearby nail.

Prompt: Living death.

#story #pulp #weird #western #weird western #ghost

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