#MICHA WITHOUT YOU I DON'T KNOW IF I COULD TAKE THIS ROAD

[wrathyforest]

ONCE AGAIN @mimicha-arts and I MADE A COLLAB 🔥🔥🔥🔥 LG by Micha, CXS by me

[mamahex]

The Plea.

Its funny, how being so close to death can change things. It has a way of pulling everything that's hidden inside a man right up and throwing it out on the surface. Things you don't want to be seeing, things you don't want to be feeling, they're suddenly there and staring you right in the face.

I've been thinking a lot about the past, as my future has been halted. I've been thinking about Dutch...remembering him and Hosea finding me when I was an angry, wild and stupid kid, remembering my tough guy act that he could always see right through, how he'd calmly let me yell and rage without judgement through those early days, and how he'd hold me tight when I'd wake sobbing from nightmares by night, then make no mention of it in the morning.

He was a better father to me than my no good son of a bitch father had ever been, and I love him something fierce.

And I know he's gone. He's still here, sure, but the man I knew is long gone. And that man, that man who tought me to read, to write, to hunt, kill, that man who held me while I weapt through the night, he ain't coming back.

I did something today that I should have done at the start of this madness, this road of death and destruction, before Micha started whispering in his ear, before Sean, Kieren and Lenny and dear old Hosea had to die, before I got sick...if Hosea were still here, I know we could have pulled Dutch back from this madness he's running into, taking us all with him. Hell, I think that losing Hosea was the end of us all, inevitably.

I'm not usually a man of words, other than what I put down in this journal. I don't talk much, I don't show much, but like I said, dying will bring things out.

I waited til I knew Micah and them two cronies of his were out of camp, I waited til it was dark and cold and quiet, what was left of the family all sleeping, or at least laying awake with their misery, as I had been. I could see the lamp still lit in Dutch's tent, sending a soft golden glow out all around it. I could see his shadow, up and pacing, so I knew he was awake.

I felt afraid as I stood up. And I ain't never been afraid of much in my life, up until I got sick. I certainly never was afraid to speak my mind, nor had I ever been afraid to speak to him. But I could feel my heart slamming and my knees turn to mush as I walked over to that bright yellow glow in the cold night.

I stopped by the tent door, suddenly too afraid to move. The silhouette inside stopped pacing and shadow faced shadow.

"It's me," I said, my voice much louder than I'd intended.

There were a few heartbeats of silence before he answered. "Not now, Arthur."

There was something about that voice, the coldness, the anger, It brought a tightness to my throat that I haven't felt in a long time. I swallowed it down, willed myself not to start coughing.

"Dutch...I...I need to speak with you."

Another few seconds passed before the fastenings were undone, and the tent flap opened, quickly, like he'd yanked it aside.

I stepped inside, the warmth, the light, the familiar scents of cigar smoke, cologne, and sweat choking my cursed lungs. I tried to hold it back, but I couldn't, a coughing fit shook me and took my breath away.

These attacks, they are getting worse. I could taste blood in my mouth, I could feel my legs struggling to hold me as the view turned cloudy and listed to one side.

I felt his hands on me, he must have stopped me from falling, sat me down, because as my coughing subsided and the world slowly slipped back into focus, I was sat next to him on his bed, his one hand warm on my back, the other on my arm. He absently rubbed my back and stared at me, his face no longer quite so cold and changed. He frowned.

"You don't look so good, son."

I wiped the wetness from my mouth and knew, without looking, that it was blood. I hoped he didn't see.

"I'm dying, Dutch."

He looked away from me, let go of me as if my words had hurt him.

"That's why I need to speak with you," I said, and my voice shook like I was a damn kid about to start bawling.

Dutch still didn't turn to look at me. Perhaps he was hiding his face from me. Perhaps my words really did hurt him.

"Dutch...please...I need you, now. I need you to hear me..."

His shoulders rose and fell as he let out a sigh through his nose. He eventually turned to face me. And in the flickering lamplight, I swear his eyes shone with tears, just for a moment.

Again, I felt that swell of feeling rise to choke me, I felt my own eyes sting with the start of tears.

Dutch sighed again. "What do you need to tell me that I don't already know Arthur? Is dying the reason you are doubting me? Is dying the reason you broke John out of jail before I said so, Is dying the reason for your betrayal?"

"Dutch..."

The fear I had felt on entering his tent came flooding back through me.

"I haven't betrayed you, Dutch. I can see things clearly now, is all. Dying changes a man. Hell, I could see things going south before I got damn TB, it's not dying that's opened my eyes!" I knew my voice was too loud, I knew the others might hear me, but my heart was pounding and my eyes were stinging, and I felt a kind of madness taking over me.

Dutch's eyes widened, but he didn't interrupt me.

"Nothing has gone right for us since Blackwater, since god damn Micha Bell came into our lives! And it's getting worse, it's tumbling out of control now, Dutch! You left John to be hanged in that prison! I didn't betray you by getting him out, I did what you should have done, what you would have done before you changed, before you let Micah start whispering in your ear!"

Dutch snorted a bitter laugh, like a dog barking.

"Before I changed? Before I changed?! I wasn't the one who changed, Arthur, I wasn't the one who started doubting and questioning and sneaking round and putting us in danger -"

"- you are the one who's been putting us in danger, Dutch, you and Micah!"

Dutch was saying more, but I started coughing again, worse than before, I could feel my ruined lungs bubbling and grasping at the air as the tent began to shimmer and fade and the sound began to hum.

When I came back to myself, Dutch was silent. He was holding me again, his hands gripping my upper arms, his face, strained with worry, with sorrow, close to mine. I could smell his familiar scent, and I could feel the warmth of his body. And as I looked him in the eyes, sat there with him, I'm ashamed to admit that a sob rose up through my battered throat. A pathetic sound I haven't made since I was a kid, waking from night terrors all those years ago.

I clutched at his arms, both wanting to pull him close and push him away from me.

"Dutch... you are like a father to me...and I love you...please...please, you have to hear me..."

I've never felt such overwhelming emotions, except for when I lost Isaac and Eliza... but that was real, that was something real...this? I don't know why my heart was so broken then, looking into the strained face of the man I love like a father. It wasn't just the path he was leading us down, nor his distrust of me...it was the realisation that I had lost him.

I began to sob. I couldn't hold it back. I felt my face fall against his shoulder, I felt his arms go tight around me, and I sobbed like a kid.

It was as if everything that had happened since Blackwater had been hidden deep down inside of me - the running, the fear, the killing, the deaths, my inevitable death, watching Dutch descend into brutality and madness, losing Hosea...it all came pouring out of me and I couldn't hold it back.

Dutch held me. He held me like he used to when I was a kid, before all this, before he changed, when he was still the man I looked up to. He held me tight, he let me mourn all of those losses in silence. And I knew I was holding him as tightly, my fists clutching at his shirt, my face buried into his neck. I felt his arms around me, and for those awful moments, I felt safe again, I felt loved, and I never wanted him to let go.

As my sobs started to lessen, I began to feel his heartbeat against me, I could feel he had a hand on my head, in my hair, the other moving slowly on my back to comfort me. He was quietly murmuring reassurances; I felt the vibration of his voice rather then hearing his words. Then he did speak aloud.

"I'm sorry, son." It was bearly a whisper, his voice vibrating against me.

I pulled out of his embrace, feeling foolish. I wiped my face and tried to pull myself together.

Dutch still had a hand on my head. "Look at me," he spoke so quietly. I looked up into his face and saw tears had wet his cheeks, too. "I don't want to lose you, Arthur." His voice was choked. I saw a tear crawl slowly down his face and drop off his chin. The first, the only time i have ever seen him weep. His hand moved down from my hair to my face before he let me go.

"You... you have to stop doubting me, Arthur. You need to trust me and do what I ask, I have a plan!"

"As quickly as I'd seen real feeling on his face, it faded again. For a moment, I had seen my Dutch, my father, the man who I'd die for, the man who would always listen to reason. But I watched his face change before me, back to the madman he'd descended into.

"Yeah, you have a plan..."

We stared at each other in silence for a moment as I wiped the tears from my face. "The only plans you have are the ones that Micah puts in your head these days..."

"You're jealousy of Micha is getting ridiculous now!"

I felt the anger rise up to engulf me, but found it slip away just as quickly. I was spent. My tears, my passion, my wretched lungs had drained me. All the feeling I'd entered that tent with were gone, emptied out with my tears, no doubt.

As if on cue, Micah's voice drifted in, cutting through the silent night like a blade. Dutch looked up towards the closed tent flap, a mixture of a smile and a frown flickering over his face. He quickly wiped his face and stood up."

"I'm sorry, Arthur, I have business to discuss with Micah..."

Already, his attention was gone.

"I love you, Dutch," I found myself saying, my voice quiet. "No matter how this all goes down in the end, just know that I love you."

He turned his attention briefly back towards me, but only for a moment.

The tent flap tore open then, and there stood Micah Bell, reeking of whiskey, blood, and filth.

"Black lung...looks like I'm interrupting a...tense moment..." Micah sneered at me, staring at my no doubt tear streaked face.

"Arthur was just leaving."

I walked away from them without looking back, the sounds of their voices fading into the night. I've lost him, just like I lost Hosea, like I lost Isaac and Eliza, like I lost Mary, like I've lost everybody I've ever loved... he's gone now. And I will be gone soon too.