#and he doesn’t let Arthur carry any of that weight

[thatgirlonstage]

Obviously nothing is more gutting than Diamond of the Day but the end of S2 is truly like. Merlin is having consecutively the five worst days of his entire life and has made several of the most impossible, cruel choices imaginable and he can’t talk about any of it with anyone except Gaius. Arthur asks him what’s wrong and there are like sixteen different true answers and he can’t share any of them.

[clarkeyhill]

Eyes only for, you.| George Clarke

Fluff

The air was electric with the usual buzz of our friendship group—laughter, the clinking of glasses, and music that pulsed through the bar. But there she was again.

Sophie.

She had always been part of the group, a friend of a friend, and up until recently, she’d been just another familiar face. But now, something had shifted.

It started subtly. The way she dressed differently when George was around—her hair styled in a way I’d never seen before, her makeup more striking. At first, I told myself I was imagining it. But then came the way she spoke to him, leaning in just a little too much, her laughter a little too eager.

George, to his credit, never played into it. He was his usual charming, carefree self, friendly to everyone but never crossing a line. And yet, a feeling settled in my stomach like a weight—what if he just acts disinterested because I’m here?

Weeks passed, and her energy towards him flickered like a faulty lightbulb—sometimes distant, sometimes entirely too present. And then, on a night out, she made her move.

It started with playful touches, brushing her hand against his arm. Then, she danced erratically, laughing loudly, making sure he noticed. George, drunk and carried by the group’s energy, laughed along. Arthur Hill and Chris encouraged it, making it feel like some big, harmless joke.

I stood there, watching. My drink in my hand, my heart sinking.

George wasn’t doing anything outright wrong, but he wasn’t exactly shutting it down either. I tried to push the feeling aside, tell myself I was overreacting. But as the night wore on, it became harder to ignore.

The pit in my stomach grew heavier. I wasn’t my usual self, my mood shifting from lighthearted to withdrawn. I wasn’t laughing anymore, wasn’t engaging.

George noticed.

Pulling me aside, his brow furrowed, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

I hesitated, but then, what was the point in holding it in?

“It’s her,” I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. “She acts differently around you. Like she’s trying to get your attention. And tonight, she—” I exhaled sharply. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t sit right with me.”

George looked at me, genuinely taken aback. “Wait… you really feel this way?”

I nodded.

His expression softened, and without hesitation, he said, “Why would I want to pay attention to anyone else when I have you right in front of me?”

The words settled in my chest, warm and certain.

I searched his face for any trace of doubt, any hint of guilt. But there was none—just sincerity.

Maybe I had let insecurity creep in where it didn’t belong. Maybe I had let the what-ifs cloud what was right in front of me.

George pulled me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You don’t have to worry about anyone else. It’s always been you.”

And just like that, the pit in my stomach began to fade.

-

🫶🏻

Sorry for not posting! I have 0 ideas🙄

[fancygremlin]

A breakdown of Arthur’s breakdown.

Part 26 is stuck in my head, so I am going to talk about it.

Arthur’s breakdown of course starts off with the reveal that Larson sacrificed his daughter for power and money.

However, what really reinforces Arthur’s self-loathing are Yellow’s words;

Yellow has no qualms in throwing cruel accusations at Arthur. His intentions were clear and simple: to hurt him in the most devastating ways and where it hurts the most. However, Yellow does all that in a voice that Arthur recognises as John’s.

Ultimately, Arthur is forced to hear the voice of his only friend confirming all his worst fears and convictions. That’s what gets to him: his best friend seeing him as Arthur truly sees himself (irredeemable, rotten, a poor excuse of a human who should have died a long time ago. Someone who is trapping John, and who is forcing John to stay and put up with him).

Arthur is ao distraught that he is almost catatonic as he is carried to the mines. He is unresponsive to Yellow's insults, he has no strength to bite back to Larson's taunts. He just lets himself be dragged by Uncle.

When John finally, miraculously comes back, Arthur is quick to latch onto him. His attempts at interacting with John are however awkward and clumsy. I think that this inability to reconnect with John is because he still cannot distinguish John’s words from Yellow.

After all, if Yellow is John without his memories and without their shared experiences… doesn’t that just mean that deep down Yellow’s opinions reflect John’s in some way? Does John really think of Arthur as a self-centred person, a selfish man, a careless and cruel monster who hides behind fake acts of kindness?

To put these doubts to rest, Arthur decides to project onto John his issues. If he can prove that John is not like Yellow, he can prove to himself that he is not like Larson.

He therefore wastes no time in praising how John has improved… by cruelly comparing him to Yellow and demonising everything about Yellow… which is not right. The things he shows reluctance over were still part of who John was, those were still parts that John had to build upon to become who he is currently.

Ultimately, Arthur is involuntarily preventing John from further forming his own identity by explicitly telling him what he should and shouldn’t do, what he should and shouldn’t be. He is suddenly removing the safety and freedom that he granted John this far to figure his own identity out and is instead setting up arbitrary expectations and rules.

He is just doing to John what he did to Yellow.

These strong attempts in differentiating John and Yellow held a lot more weight, when we consider that he was projecting his own problems onto his friend. That's why he is so explosive and irritated whenever John doesn't agree with him.

He was just trying to grapple for any excuse, any proof that there is something concrete that he can use to define what makes a person good or bad. Because otherwise, there really is no difference between himself and Larson and he cannot bear to see himself in that light. He can’t accept that despite everything he did and tried to improve, deep down he’s still a cruel, heartless monster who killed his own child and went on to live.

When John didn’t give him what he wanted (instead going as far as agreeing with Yellow at one point), Arthur grew more and more anxious and restless. So, the only thing that he had left was to carve out and purge the rotten parts of himself. In any way he could.

Only then will he be a good person. Only then will the scales even. Only then he will stop seeing himself as a murderer and a poor excuse of a human.

He resolves that the only option for him is to kill the parts of himself that he doesn’t want. He decides to kill himself Uncle and make Larson pay.

Clearly these suicidal tendencies have been accompanying with him for a long time, as shown in his emotional reactions when his parents died, when Bella died and when Faroe died. His regret is also shown when he confesses he felt extreme guilt in enjoying the life he managed to build back for himself in Arkham as he was working as a PI with Parker.

Arthur just truly cannot forgive himself and his self-loathing runs so deep it’s almost a part of himself he cannot leave behind.

I like how the doubt Arthur feelings of inaptitude, guilt and self-loathing still linger even after being comforted by John at the end of Season 3:

He is unable to truly move on from his mistakes, he still feels the need to find a piece of irrefutable evidence proving he is a good person and that he can be forgiven. He needs his worries and anxieties to be put to rest.

John's forgiveness isn't enough to move on. Daniel's forgiveness was just enough to convince him he might be a good person who is truly trying to do good.

However, in Part 36, we can see that Arthur has not abandoned his self-loathing, as he still sees no wrong in wanting to kill himself killing Uncle. After Oscar reveals what happened at the orphanage he grew up in, Arthur and John have this exchange:

Arthur is tragically forever stuck waiting for Faroe's forgiveness, which he can never really obtain. She’s dead and there is nothing he can do to get her back…

[lighthouseshepard]

some comforting jarthur for @mikonezz ! (:

"Arthur? Arthur, what the fuck? Where did you - Arthur!"

John's voice rings out over the clearing as he comes into view, stumbling over the jut of a tree root well placed to trip him up. He barely manages to catch himself before tumbling to the floor, months of mastering newly human reflexes finally paying off. Cursing, he dusts a scattering of dry leaves from his clothing and focuses anew on the figure standing some small distance away.

"Arthur," he calls again, his tone an impatient rumble. "What the hell are you doing? I've been looking for you for over ten minutes!"

He makes a few hesitant shuffles toward him, glancing down for any more wayward branches. The clearing spreads out before him, a gentle unfolding of dry grass stretching in all directions strewn with the remnants of autumn’s crisp decay. Trees tower above them, their branches intermingling in a crossed network of slowly withering leaves fluttering in the breeze, a myriad of orange and brown made stunning in the late afternoon light. Every step crunches beneath him as his feet find the path they’d been traveling along once more. It’s obvious and clumsy, and still the body ahead of him doesn’t turn around.

“Arthur,” he tries, impatience winning out over anything else. “Why did you get so far ahead? You said you were going to go ahead just around the corner and then you were gone. Do you know how hard it is to find fucking anything in this forest? I could have lost you, I… Arthur?”

Arthur turns. The smile he offers John, flickering and lackluster on his lips, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. With a sense of trepidation John slows, coming to a halt before crossing the final few feet.

“Hey, John,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you behind.”

“Well, you did,” John grumbles, eyeing him carefully. “You have no idea how to get back without me. Why did you take off like that?”

Arthur swallows. His head dips down, chin bumping his chest. Something heavy sits in the line of his shoulders, an indecipherable weight hanging off his silhouette like a stone skipped and sunk into the sea. John studies the windswept tangles of his auburn hair, the wrinkled state of his shirt. What creases beneath his eyes appeared that morning were deeper, half moons faint and tender as a bruise which refused to heal.

“Sorry,” he mumbles again. “Didn’t realize. I got a bit lost in my own thoughts.”

John’s irritation dissipates in the breeze winding delicately across the clearing. Nature’s decomposition carried a strange scent. Like hay, he thought, dry and slightly sweet. He breathes it in, closing what gap remained. Arthur still wasn’t facing him, his gaze blank and distant as he stares sightlessly at a point by John’s elbow.

“Arthur?” John asks. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Arthur.”

“I said it’s nothing, John,” he snaps. His palm grips the end of the cane held firmly in one hand, braced in the earth by his feet. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I walked off, alright? Jesus Christ, can we just go back now?”

“No.” John crosses stubborn arms over his broad chest. “Not until you tell me why you decided you wanted to disappear in a wood you can’t see.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

He breaks off, exhaling sharply. “Like I said. I… wasn’t paying attention. Didn’t realize.”

“You haven’t been paying attention all day,” John points out. “You’ve been distracted since the sun rose, Arthur. I’ve been talking to a wall since you woke up.”

“Fucking forgive me for being unfocused,” he mutters, “like I can’t catch a goddamned break from you or anyone else.”

“What?” John furrows his brow. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head.” Let’s head back.”

“I don’t want to head back. Would you just listen to me? We’re not going anywhere until you-”

“Don’t touch me!”

Arthur’s exclamation echoes around them. He rips his arm out of John’s attempted grasp, twisting to the right and nearly falling as he had only minutes ago. The cane clatters to the leaves below, its muted thump the only sound accompanying the rolling ring of Arthur’s plea as it dwindles into a slow, tense silence.

Leaves rustle softly overhead. John’s arm falls to his side. He refuses to look away, although Arthur was doing all he could to try and pretend he was the only one in the entire forest at that exact moment.

“Arthur,” John says softly. A small spark of frustration flickers to life in his gut, but he tampers it resolutely down. He knew enough by now to tell when such a thing would be useful to him. Clearly, that approach would do neither of them any good. “Talk to me.”

“I,” he starts, barely getting the singular word out. His breath comes unevenly, the rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt staccato beats along a string of notes gone out of key. “I don’t know what to say, John.”

“Try me.”

He rasps a dry laugh, this one just as unhappy as the last. “Haven’t I confused you enough already?”

John hums. Anything he wanted to say, whatever he thought might work to combat whatever was going on inside Arthur’s head all clamors for his attention at once. He knew him, understood how his mind worked. For a long time he’d been inside it, curled up in scattered pieces behind those eyes while he fought to realize what would make him whole, watching and listening as Arthur’s life fell apart.

Perhaps words weren’t what he needed right now.

“Just talk,” he says simply. “I’m listening. I’ll always listen, Arthur. I want to help.”

Sighing, Arthur finally turns to face him. His expression is weary, loaded with the same tension coiling throughout his thin frame. For a second he seemed as though he were going to move forward, and it would have been so easy then to wrap him up in an embrace. But he stops halfway through, head still facing down. The air between them grows a little colder.

“I’ve always loved that about you,” he murmurs. “The fact you’re so willing to help, even when you’re upset with me.”

“I’m not upset,” John points out, “I’m… worried, Arthur. For the last few days especially you’ve been distant. I’ve tried to give you space, wait it out because I didn’t want to pry, but it’s not getting either of us anywhere.”

“I know, John, I know. I haven’t meant to snap at you, it’s just… “

“Arthur.” John was all but whispering, the name as much of a promise as a prayer in his mouth. “Please. What’s going on?”

“It’s… it’s like,” Arthur says, every syllable punctuated by a tremble he fought to hold back. “Alright, fine. I can’t catch a fucking break, John.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, forcing himself to stay completely still. Every muscle and length of bone within him yearned to reach out and touch his face, his shoulder, anything to offer what little comfort he could. The privilege of being able to hold that body with flesh and blood of his own was a blessing he’d never grow tired of, and whenever Arthur strayed too far from him the pull of that dissonance stung like a newly reopened wound. But his demand continued to ricochet in the back of his mind: don’t touch me. So he doesn’t.

Arthur lets out a bitter laugh. “Life, John. I’m talking about this, here, with you.”

“What?” John asks hesitantly. He takes an instinctive, rustling step back. Did I… did I do something wrong? Is this about me?”

“No, no!” He glances up wild-eyed, the gold of his gaze wrought with a sudden nervous concern.  “No, John, god. I’m sorry, I phrased that poorly, it’s not about you. It’s… fuck, I’m not making any sense, am I?”

John’s lips thin into a frown. “Not a bit.”

“I’m sorry. Again, it seems - I’ve been saying that a lot today, haven’t I?”

“Could say it a few times more,” John mutters.  

“Yeah, darling. I could.”

John waits. Those eyes find him somehow in their darkness. As exhausted as he was, their color rivaled the soft flame of autumn soaked into every bit of foliage and underbrush around them still clinging to life.

“It’s her, John,” Arthur says after what could have been an eternity or a few elongated seconds. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Oh,” John hums. “Arthur, are you-”

“No, John, don’t.” He wipes the back of his hand across one eye, refusing to acknowledge it. “It’s the weather, I think, or maybe just the way the leaves are turning red around us. She loved fall. I always preferred spring, mind you, but the way she used to talk about it could sway me in a heartbeat. I can’t even see the leaves now, John. All I’m left with is sound and the scent of the season’s… goddamn inevitable decay.”

“I could describe it to you,” John offers quietly. He moves closer, still not giving in to the urge to touch him. “If you wanted.”

“I know,” Arthur sniffs. He lends him a watery smile, tear tracks lining his cheeks. “All I wanted to do, all I’ve wanted for the longest fucking time, was to enjoy this life with you. Ever since the separation I thought I’d finally be able to relax, that we’d be safe-”

“We are safe,” John interjects. “You know that, right?”

He chokes off, heaving an unsteady breath. More salt stains his skin, miniscule rivers winding among the landscape of his scars. Without a second thought John decides to damn his request. With a soft huff of air he pulls him in.

“Sure, John, but my body remembers what it was like. And I can’t shake the feeling some outside force is still trying to fucking pick me apart. It’s like I’m going to spend the rest of my life hopping from one hard thing to the next, never getting a break in between, never knowing what really makes me happy except for you, and Noel and Oscar, the sound of your laughter, the radio you play late at night when we can’t sleep-”

"Wait a second."

"And then I wake up with thoughts like these and it's so fucking hard, John, trying to cling to that happiness -"

“Arthur,” he rumbles, the singular word a slip of velvet draping around them both. Strong arms wrap across Arthur’s back, enveloping him in an embrace that would have left him breathless had he anything left in his lungs to give. He sinks into John, pressing his face into his chest, clinging desperately to him as he’s folded up. Warmth seeps into limbs gone cold and aching from the day’s brisk chill. What music of the forest he’d been paying attention to drift further and further away until all which remained was the melody of John’s heartbeat, steady and assured.  

“Sorry,” Arthur says against him. “I’ve completely ruined our little walk, haven’t I?”

John chuckles, resting his chin atop Arthur’s head. “Oh, I’ve ruined much worse. It’s alright.”

What might have been a muffled laugh wracked through with another sob answers him. John draws him in tighter.

“That’s all I want,” Arthur whispers. “I want to stop feeling as though there’s nothing to look forward to even though I know there is, like the past keeps dogging at my heels with its relentless… emptiness. And I don’t know where to start.”

“It’s going to be fine, Arthur,” he tells him. His breath stirs the ends of his hair, a reassurance in its own right. “I know you… I know we spent a long time climbing out of pit after pit, but there are moments of happiness in between. I don’t know what that looks like for you, but I can help you find them, if you want.”

“Well.” John parts them gently, shifting Arthur reluctantly off him until he could see him properly in the light. Their arms remain around each other, their faces half a foot apart. “Maybe it starts with a walk.”

Arthur sighs, sniffling once more. “Very funny.”

“I’m not joking. I’ve learned a lot from you, Arthur, and what blindsided me in the beginning still strikes me now as something of immense worth. Your resilience, your stubbornness, the way you keep going in the face of impossible odds. Even in the prison pits, there were times where you found reason to laugh. All that suffering, and you kept striving for joy in small moments.”

There is no immediate response. John wonders fleetingly if he had said the wrong thing, and he begins pulling threads from the tangle of his thoughts, searching for anything at all that might right his mistakes. To his surprise, Arthur begins to relax against him, inch by inch. That tension bleeds away like so much sand back out into the tide.

“I don’t know a fucking thing about living a human life,” John says. As Arthur opens his mouth to speak, John shushes him. “No, I don’t. I’m learning, though. Maybe that’s where we find peace, those small hours in between the difficult stretches. In walks, or… the trees changing color around us, all the subtle beauty of staying defiantly alive in a world that might want us dead. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Arthur says weakly. John reaches up to brush a thumb under his eyes, wiping away what few tears remained, and he leans desperately into the touch. “Thank you, John. Sometimes I just need a reminder, I guess… and, um, John?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you describe it to me? The forest, I mean, if it’s not too much trouble. I’d like to listen to you talk for a while.”

He could have kissed him, then, but he doesn’t. There would be plenty of opportunity for that later. Instead John tilts his head back, gazing up into a sky dusted powder blue.

“Of course, Arthur. We’re in the middle of a clearing. The path we were following is almost entirely buried beneath a covering of dead leaves, like the trees were trying to swallow civilization’s influence up. Above us branches stretch spindly fingers into the sky, framing what I can see of it in a rickety halo tinged through with hints of amber and red. All around us the trees are alight in autumn’s bloom, but nothing compares to your eyes.”

“My… eyes?” Arthur asks in strange awe. “John?”

His cheeks flush. “Hush. Do you want me to keep going or not?”

“Oh, by all means,” Arthur says, and rests his head on John’s shoulder. “I’m listening.”

“Right. There are bushes lining the edges of the clearing sporadically, dotted with some sort of bright pink berry. Light bathes the ground in long yellow arcs which shift and shiver as  the sun travels across the sky. Little green exists here, but it’s alright. Fall has a kind of atrophy I appreciate for its earnestness, its honesty, I suppose. Oh, let me tell you about the flock of birds above, too…”

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 28 - I Would Not Cause Her One Regret

Summary: Under the tender care of Wapiti's medicine woman, Kate receives life-changing news that will forever alter the course of her and Arthur's future. In the midst, she uncovers a gift left by Hosea, something that will carry them through the journey ahead.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: 12k Words. This is my new favorite chapter, it really felt like it wrote itself at times. (There is smut coming but I'm putting it in its own chapter bc its quite long...)

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw  @yallgotkik @sawendel

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Caretaking, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

Freedom is an untamed beast, wild and feral, impossible to hold without losing a part of yourself. Some give everything for it, others bleed for it, and many spend their lives chasing its shadow, never knowing it was in their grasp all along.

As they rode deeper into the mountains, the weight of civilization fell away, its rules and customs crumbling like ash in the wind. Out here, the world belongs to no one and everyone all at once. The land answers only to the sky, and the only law is the one written in the marrow of your bones. It doesn’t ask who you are or where you’ve been—it just demands you let go.

Freedom is riding wild over untamed lands with no notion any moment exists beyond the one you are living.

Arthur followed in the shadow of Eagle Flies, the young man’s figure cutting a determined path against the twilight. Kate rested sideways in his lap, her body fragile and fevered, a weight that felt heavier than it should. She shivered against him, her shallow breaths hitching with every bump of the trail. Arthur’s heart clenched with every sign of her pain, a cruel reminder that he’d pushed her too far.

He muttered promises she might not even hear, low reassurances that the journey would be over soon, that she’d be safe and warm again. But those words felt hollow when measured against the fire in her cheeks and the trembling in her frame. All he could do was hold her close, shielding her from the chill and praying the people of Wapiti would welcome them with the same warmth he couldn’t give her.

The trek from Annesburg had been relentless—hours of climbing rugged hills, navigating shadowed valleys, and crossing the jagged spines of Roanoke Ridge. The land felt as hostile as the men who wandered it. Breathing down their necks from places unseen, watching, and waiting. 

They’d stumbled upon horrors Arthur prayed Kate wouldn’t remember. 

It began with a stench, sickly sweet and cloying, clinging to the air like decay itself. The source revealed itself— human remains strewn across the earth, picked clean, as though the forest itself had rejected the bodies. A band of cannibals had appeared from the trees. Their gaunt faces twisted with a feral hunger as they crept out like pale writhing maggots. 

Arthur didn’t hesitate. He silenced them with well-placed shots, each echoing like the rusted throat of a bell through the forest. Not bothering to wait and see who fell; he just kept firing until every movement ceased. And not a flicker of regret crossed his face. 

Kate had turned her face into his chest, her fingers clutching weakly at his coat as though she could block out the reality around them. He held her tighter, shielding her from the sight, from the smell, from everything.

From that moment, his resolve hardened. There would be no more stops, no moments of rest, no lingering—not until they reached Wapiti. 

The trail was long, but he’d make it shorter, cutting through the heart of the wilderness with single-minded determination. The thought of Kate enduring even a fraction more of this hell lit a fire in him that wouldn’t burn out until they reached safety.

As the earth turned, indifferent to their struggles, dawn unfurled its golden threads across the sky, soft light spilling over the edges of the world. The warmth kissed their weary faces, yet the weight in Arthur’s lap tethered him to the gravity of his purpose. Each breath he took felt borrowed, a quiet prayer carried on the fragile morning air.

Through the trees, thin tendrils of smoke rose from Wapiti, winding skyward like whispers from the land itself. Arthur felt as though he was standing on the edge of time, suspended between heartbeats, daring the wind to bear them the final stretch. Every creak of the saddle and rustle of leaves seemed to echo a silent plea: only a little farther.

Freedom isn’t found; it’s forged. It doesn’t merely cost blood—it demands it, devours it. 

It is no gentle gift but a treasure wrested from the clenched fists of an unforgiving world. And as Arthur urged the horse forward, he wondered if they had paid enough, or if freedom would always slip out of reach, like the rising smoke dissipating into the golden sky.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The horse’s hooves crunched softly against the brittle earth as Arthur guided Belle closer to Eagle Flies, the small, weathered expanse of Wapiti rising like a tired sigh from the valley floor. Cradled by towering gray cliffs and ancient pine trees, the reservation felt like the last refuge of a vanishing world—its fragility stark against the sprawl of the wilderness. The morning sun spilled its light like a hesitant blessing, but the shadows it cast were long and pointed, heavy with the weight of memories too sharp to be forgotten.

Smoke curled skyward from tepee tops like prayers, their buffalo-hide walls painted with bold strokes of lineage and defiance. The symbols seemed to pulse with life, stories etched into the skin of survival itself, each one a declaration against time’s relentless erosion. 

They stood not as monuments, but as promises that these people, this place, would endure, even as the world threatened to erase them.

The land bore its own wounds, raw and desolate. The soil beneath the settlement was cracked like parched lips, its breath caught in the barren lungs of fields where crops clung to life by sheer will. What should have been lush and thriving felt ghostly, the very earth seeming to groan under the strain of expectation and loss. 

Arthur saw it in the sag of the tepees, the defeated gait of a hunter returning empty-handed, and the thin wisps of smoke curling from modest cooking fires. Every detail spoke of a people stretched thin, their resilience a thread pulled taut.

And yet, amid the weariness, life stirred with a quiet insistence. Children darted between the structures like sparks in a dying fire, their laughter piercing the stillness with a wild, fleeting joy. A mother’s soft hum drifted like a lullaby carried on the wind, soothing her swaddled infant against her breast. Friends huddled close around a small fire, their voices low but warm, weaving moments of solace into the fabric of their shared burdens.

Arthur felt the weight of it all settle in his chest, heavy as lead. This place was a battleground of hope and despair, its spirit caught in a delicate dance between resilience and surrender. He wasn’t sure if Wapiti held the answers or the salvation they sought.

But as he took in the quiet persistence of its people, he couldn’t deny that even here, on the edge of collapse, life refused to be extinguished.

A young man, lean and sharp-eyed, emerged from behind one of the larger tepees, his gaze locking onto the approaching group. He called out, his voice edged with relief and suspicion. “Eagle Flies! You live, brother!”

Eagle Flies straightened in his saddle, though the weariness in his body was apparent. “I live, Paytah,” he replied calmy, even as his wounds betrayed his struggle.

Paytah’s sharp gaze shifted to Arthur and Kate. The lines around his mouth deepened as his lips pressed into a thin line. “Why have you brought these outsiders here? Their kind has brought nothing but suffering to our people,” he said, walking alongside them as they entered the heart of the reservation. His voice carried the weight of distrust, each word a stone cast into the quiet tension that rippled in the air.

“It is well, brother. They are friends,” Eagle Flies said firmly, leaving no room for argument. “This man saved my life when the soldiers were ready to take it.”

Paytah’s eyes narrowed as he studied Arthur and Kate. The pale faces, the tired eyes—signs of struggle etched into their features. Though his skepticism remained, the authority in Eagle Flies’ words softened his stance. With a grunt, he stepped forward and offered Eagle Flies an arm, helping him down from the saddle with care.

As Eagle Flies’ feet touched the ground, the murmurs began. Men and women emerged from their tepees, leaving behind their weaving, cooking, and quiet conversations to gather around. Faces painted with years of hardship and resilience bore a mixture of joy at the sight of their chief's son and unease at the presence of the outsiders. The voices grew louder, some calling his name with relief, others muttering words of doubt and disapproval.

Through the growing crowd, a booming voice silenced the whispers like a sudden burst of wind. “My son!”

Chief Rains Fall stepped forward, his long, dark hair swaying with each purposeful stride. His weathered face, etched with the wisdom of a lifetime, twisted with concern as he took in his son’s battered appearance.

“What has happened to you?” he demanded, a rich, steady baritone that carried the gravity of a man used to commanding attention. “Speak now and speak only the truth. What has brought this upon you?”

The crowd parted, creating a wide berth as Rains Fall reached his son. His hands hovered over Eagle Flies as if afraid to touch him and worsen his injuries. The chief’s gaze flickered briefly to Arthur and Kate before returning to his son, his brow furrowing with unspoken questions.

Arthur remained silent, standing firm at Belle’s side, his gaze steady but respectful. Kate, pale and feverish, leaned weakly against him. He tightened his grip on her, feeling the stares of the gathered tribe like the heat of a midday sun, judgment burning in their eyes. 

This was not his story to tell, not his place to speak.

Eagle Flies swallowed hard, voice hoarse but steady as he spoke. “Father…I led a group of men to attack a military camp outside of Saint Denis.”

“Saint Denis?” Rains Fall’s thundered, the disbelief and disappointment woven through every syllable. “You told me you were going to the mountains to seek guidance from your spirit! Do you think me a fool, my son? Your lies wound my pride deeply. Where are the others who followed you into this madness?”

Eagle Flies’ shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his father’s condemnation. “Gone,” he admitted. “Their spirits have joined the wind.”

A shadow of sorrow passed over Rains Fall’s face, his disappointment settling like a heavy cloud in his chest. “How many times must I warn you, Eagle Flies? Reckless violence will not free us—it will only hasten our ruin. Do you not see the storm you bring upon us with these careless actions? The blood spilled today will stain your hands forever.” His voice rose through the air like thunder. “Go now! Find the mothers of the men you led to their deaths and tell them what your pride has cost.”

Eagle Flies stiffened, his face flushing with fury despite the bruises that marred it. “What choice did we have, Father?” he retorted, raw with anger and pain. “They treat us like cattle, pen us in as though we are less than human. How long must we endure their humiliation before we fight back?”

“You have done enough!” Rains Fall cut him off, his voice harsh. His hand rose in a dismissive gesture, the finality in it brooking no argument. “Go! Do not make me ask again, Eagle Flies.”

Eagle Flies hesitated, his chest heaving with unspent rage, but the command in his father’s tone left no room for rebellion. With a sharp exhale, he turned and walked away, his steps heavy with resentment and shame. The crowd parted silently to let him pass, their eyes a mix of sympathy and reproach.

Rains Fall watched him go, his expression unreadable, the burden of leadership heavy upon his shoulders. Around him, the murmurs of the tribe swelled like an incoming tide, but he stood resolute, his grief and disappointment hidden behind a mask of fleeting strength.

The crowd lingered as Rains Fall raised a hand, the gesture firm and commanding, though weariness sat heavy on his shoulders. His voice, when it came, was quiet but filled with authority.

“The time for words has passed,” he said, but the deep lines etched in his face spoke of exhaustion and sorrow. His gaze swept over the crowd, ensuring they understood the finality of his command. “Go now. Each to your thoughts. There is nothing more to be said here.”

Arthur stood in silence, his chest tight, unsure of how to respond. The words stuck in his throat, choking him, while Kate shifted against him, seeking comfort and rest. She needed it—desperately. Her breath was shallow, her body fragile. The tension in the air was thick, like dust settling after a stampede, an uneasy silence that hung between them all.

Paytah took hold of Lorena and Belle’s reins, guiding the horses away from the crowd. The heavy, unspoken understanding between the two men—the weight of what had just transpired—lingered. But Rains Fall’s gaze softened as he watched his people leave, the movement of the horses an echo of the quiet dispersing crowd. After a moment, he turned back to Arthur, his posture still tall, but his age and wisdom seemed to press on him, slowing his movements.

He looked Arthur over, his tired eyes searching for something—an understanding, perhaps, or a reason to be at peace with what had just unfolded.

“Arthur Morgan…” Rains Fall began, gentler now, though his tone still carried gravity. He extended a hand toward him, a solemn gesture of gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough. I am sorry for whatever trouble my son has brought upon you. Please, allow me to repay you for the kindness.”

Arthur shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the offer. His gaze dropped briefly before he met Rains Fall’s eyes. “No payment necessary, Chief Rains Fall,” he said, rough from the weight of the day’s events. He let out a short, breathless chuckle. “That boy of yours… he’s got the fire of a feral horse, all wound up ‘nd ready to buck. I just hope he learns to control that temper ‘fore it drags him into somethin’ worse.”

Rains Fall’s eyes darkened, a deep sadness flickering behind them. His chest swelled with the love he felt for his son, but it was also burdened by a father’s fear. “He is my pride and joy, Mr. Morgan.” His voice cracked slightly, the words holding a weight that spoke of both love and helplessness. “But I’m afraid even I cannot save him from himself.”

He paused, his hands clasping together in thought, before reaching for a pouch of coins, holding them out to Arthur. “I have some money,” he said steadily. “Please, take it for saving my boy. It’s the least I can offer.”

Arthur shook his head firmly, his face set in an expression of reluctance. “Keep your money…” His voice softened, looking back down at Kate, who had her eyes closed, leaning into him. “But I could use your help with somethin’ else.”

Rains Fall’s sharp eyes softened as he followed Arthur’s gaze, understanding settling in. His posture straightened, the weariness lifting for a moment as he focused on the matter at hand. “I can see that.” His eyes lingered on Kate, taking in her fragile state. “Your woman… she carries the marks of a long struggle, as if a spirit has been slowly draining her strength.”

Arthur nodded, as the Chief pressed his palm to feel the warmth of her forehead. His eyes clouded with concern. “Eagle Flies mentioned you had some kind of medicine woman?”

“Yes,” Rains Fall answered, his tone shifting to one of reverence, as though speaking of something sacred. “White Dove is a great healer. Her knowledge is vast, her hands gentle.”

Arthur took a deep breath, his hand brushing over his jaw, the strain of worry heavy in his voice. “Kate…she’s,” her name slipped from his lips, full of urgency. 

She is more to you than that. 

He hesitated for a moment, as if the name did not carry enough meaning, more than he'd intended. His voice became firm as he continued. “My wife… she’s taken ill. Ain’t been sleepin’ right, nor eatin’ much. What little she can keep down just comes back up.” 

The title graced his tongue as naturally as the breath in his lungs. The simple word filled him with so much love, an aching need to shield her from pain. An instinct as old as time, deep and undeniable. It wasn’t just a label—it was a truth he hadn’t quite grasped until now. The weight of it settled in his chest, heavy yet right.

As soon as the words left his mouth, a new wave of responsibility crashed over him, and for a fleeting moment, the world around him seemed to shift. His heart clenched, thoughts of everything he and Kate had endured together flooding his mind, all of it weaving into something more than just a bond forged in shared hardship. 

A desperate feeling that he couldn’t quite name, something urgent, primal. Paternal. 

He looked at her, her fragile form slumped against him, and a new surge of protectiveness swelled within him, instinctive and fierce. 

She’s yours to protect, she’s tied to you now. 

Though the words felt strange, even foreign. Arthur welcomed this instinct as it coursed through him, unsure of why it hit him so suddenly, but feeling that it was a part of him now, and he couldn’t shake it. 

Nothing will take that away from you.

Kate’s voice echoed in his mind, a question that still lingered—Do you want it to change, Arthur?

That longing for change—he realized it was more than just a desire. It had become something real, something solid in his heart. Something fragile and innocent cradled in his calloused hands. The quiet yearning to build something lasting with Kate was no longer just a dream. It was a promise, a reality. And in this moment, it was as if the universe had whispered a secret to him without words, pulling him toward her in a way he couldn’t explain but would never question.

Rains Fall’s expression darkened with concern, his hand instinctively reaching for Kate, as if preparing to move swiftly. “I will bring her to White Dove,” he said firmly. “She will help.”

Arthur nodded gratefully, his shoulders slumping with a mix of relief and exhaustion. He knew there was little more he could do, and the thought of White Dove’s healing touch was a small comfort in the face of Kate’s suffering.

Rains Fall’s eyes flickered to the horizon, and he let out a sigh, the weight of leadership pressing upon him once again. “You have fought long, Arthur Morgan. Rest now. We will see to your wife.”

Arthur didn’t answer right away, his mind racing with what had happened and what might come next. For a long moment, he just stood there, looking at her, struggling to find the words. Finally, he nodded, offering a quiet thanks, though the weight of his feelings was too much to put into words.

He pressed a soft kiss to Kate’s cheek, his hand lingering as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. In a low, steady voice, he whispered promises that she’d be alright, even if he wasn’t sure of the truth in them himself.

With one last look, he watched as Rains Fall gently led her away, toward one of the tepees. His heart tightened, but there was nothing more he could do now

His guilt will not purify him of his sins, as the dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn’t. But there is something in her—something—that will save him. 

In the way a seed buried in the earth can one day push through the dirt, seeking light, so too does a new purpose rise within him. It is the promise of a future unknown, full of potential. A chance to grow, to change, and to leave behind his past.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

By the authority vested in me, this sentence shall now be carried out. Arthur Morgan you have been found guilty and will be condemned to death by hanging. Do you have any last words? 

Arthur stood at the gallows, his hollow blue eyes locking with hers, a quiet intensity in his gaze. His lips moved in a whisper, the words carrying across the void between them.

‘Keep fighting, my wife. Keep fighting for the both of you’ 

Kate opened her eyes with a startled gasp, her chest heaving as the last shreds of the nightmare faded with her breath on the wind. The world around her slowly came into focus, her senses overwhelmed by unfamiliar details. She lay on her back, enveloped in warmth, the sensation so foreign after days of chills and exhaustion that it almost alarmed her.  

Above her, a patch of sky peeked through a hole in the ceiling of the tepee. The canvas, stretched taut over wooden poles, swayed gently in rhythm with the night’s breeze. Smoke from a central fire curled upward in soft, lazy pillows, escaping into the starlit sky. The stars themselves winked down at her, distant and serene, their light shimmering faintly through the drifting fog.  

The pop and crackle of a fire filled her ears, its sound strangely soothing. She turned her head, her cheek brushing against the soft fur of the animal hide beneath her. Her gaze settled on the flames, their golden light commands flickering shadows to dance on the walls. Tentatively, she reached a hand toward the warmth, only to pull back as the sensation of heat kissed her fingertips.  

Her body shivered, the fever still clinging to her like an unwelcome guest, but here, she felt safe. She exhaled, her breath shaking, the smoky scent of the fire mixing with something earthy and herbal—medicines, perhaps.  

As she shifted beneath the heavy layers of hides draped over her, a new awareness settled in. She was naked, her usual clothing gone, replaced by the comfort of the carefully tanned and supple hides. The rough, sweaty fabric of her work shirt and the denim of her jeans soaked in horse musk were nowhere to be found. Her skin, once sticky and chilled, now felt clean, though her limbs ached with fatigue.  

Sitting up slowly, she clutched a fur-lined robe to her chest, its texture soft but slightly coarse against her fingertips. Her gaze landed on the far side of the tepee, where two figures spoke in hushed tones.  

“H-hello?” Kate ventured, voice rasping from disuse. The sound startled even herself, carrying a tremor of vulnerability.  

Both figures turned toward her, their expressions registering surprise. Kate studied them through the wavering firelight. The older woman’s face was a map of deep lines and weathered wisdom, her dark eyes steady and knowing. Layers of beads hung around her neck, and leather wraps adorned her braids, which fell over her shoulders like rivers of silver and black.  

Beside her sat a younger woman, her features strikingly smooth and proud, framed by a fur-lined hood that rested gracefully over her shoulders. Her braids, neatly tucked away, hinted at a careful precision that contrasted with the older woman’s well-worn regality.  

Kate clutched the robe tighter, her heart pounding as the silence stretched between them. But in their eyes, she saw no malice—only curiosity and a quiet patience that urged her to breathe.

The elder woman murmured something to the younger, her tone steady and commanding yet kind. The younger woman nodded, stepping toward the entrance. She turned back briefly, offering Kate a warm smile. 

“Híhanne wašté,” she said softly, voice lilting with a musical cadence. Then she slipped into the darkness beyond the tepee’s threshold, leaving Kate alone with the elder.  

Kate blinked, her fevered mind struggling to process the events. Her gaze followed the elder woman’s deliberate movements as she worked, gathering bundles of dried herbs and binding them with twine. The firelight danced across the weathered planes of her face, illuminating every line and crease—a testament to years of wisdom and service.  

The elder woman held the bundle over the fire until the dry leaves crackled and ignited, thin trails of smoke curling upward. She approached Kate with a quiet reverence, waving the fragrant smoke in sweeping arcs over her body. Her lips moved in a prayer, the words flowing in a language Kate didn’t recognize, but their cadence was soothing, like a lullaby carried on the wind.  

“W-who are you? Where am I? Where’s my…where’s Arthur?” Kate’s voice wavered, panic rising as her fever-clouded mind spun with unanswered questions.  

The woman paused her ritual, her dark eyes flicked to the chain around her neck, carrying the gold rings. Before meeting Kate’s with a calm authority. She placed a warm, weathered hand on Kate’s bare shoulder, its touch grounding. “Hush, now. It is well. Your Arthur is with Chief Rains Fall. You are in Wapiti, among the people. You are safe.” Her words as gentle as the hand that guided Kate back down onto the buffalo hide bed.  

Kate hesitated but allowed herself to be eased back. Her muscles were weak, trembling under the weight of her illness. When the woman reached to pull the blankets from her figure, Kate clutched them tightly to her chest, her breath quickening. “Where are my clothes?”  

The elder woman made a soft clicking sound with her tongue, a hint of exasperation flashing in her otherwise serene expression. “Bad medicine,” she said firmly. “No clothes are best to let the fever out. Do not trouble yourself with modesty, child. It is my sacred duty to honor the body as I tend to it.”  

Kate swallowed, hesitantly loosening her grip on the blankets. Her chest rose and fell in labored breaths as the woman peeled the layers away, exposing her frail form. Kate’s gaze flicked down to herself, and a sigh escaped her lips. Her frame was thinner than she remembered, her skin pale and fragile under the fire’s glow.  

“You must be White Dove,” she whispered, breaking the silence.  

The medicine woman gave a slight nod, her expression softening as she ran the smoking sage in a deliberate trail down Kate’s abdomen. The warmth of the smoke hovered close to her skin, the scent earthy and cleansing.  

“I am,” White Dove replied, low and melodic, carrying the weight of her title and the assurance of her skill. “And you, Kate, are stronger than you believe. Your body knows what it must do. Lie still.”  

Kate obeyed, letting her gaze wander the interior of the medicine woman’s lodge. The space was humble, yet rich with years of careful practice. Wooden racks lined the edges of the room, their beams laden with bundles of dried plants and herbs, their colors faded but their purpose unmistakable. The faint, earthy aroma of sage, sweetgrass, and juniper mingled with the smoky air, creating a scent both grounding and otherworldly. 

In the center, the small fire crackled softly, its embers glowing beneath a tripod that held a weathered clay pot that Kate had not noticed before. The fire’s glow gently illuminated the hide walls, where faint etchings of symbols seemed to come alive in the fragile light.  

Animal hides draped over sturdy wooden beams served as insulation against the outside cold, their textures varying from soft rabbit fur to the coarse leather of bison. Scattered tools and supplies spoke of a life deeply intertwined with the land—bone knives for cutting, stone scrapers for tanning, and hollowed gourds for carrying water. 

A low bench made from a flat stone sat near the fire, its surface worn smooth from years of use as both a workspace and an altar for preparation. Kate could see the remnants of the sage White Dove had just prepared. 

Nearby, a simple yet meticulous arrangement of feathers, beads, and small carvings hinted at spiritual rituals, each item placed with care as though they held the stories of generations past. The tepee felt alive, not just with the heat of the fire but with the wisdom and traditions that pulsed within its walls.

So much of it reminded Kate of River—his people, his way of life. It all felt so distant, a world left behind in the shadow of time. Yet here it was, as vivid as if she’d never left it. She half expected River himself to step through the tent flaps, his familiar smile breaking through the haze, carrying the scent of fresh pine and the blood of a successful hunt. 

As if time were nothing more than a serpent devouring its tail. A cycle with no end, always bringing her back to where she began.  

White Dove’s voice broke the spell of memory as she ended her prayer, setting the smoldering sage bundle aside with deliberate care. “Your body tells me many stories,” she murmured, her thin, weathered finger tracing the faint scar on Kate’s side. The mark was old, yet it burned in Kate’s mind with the clarity of its origin—the arrow that had pierced her nearly a decade ago. 

The scar that set everything in her fragile world to motion.  

“You carry a great strength,” White Dove said softly, her eyes meeting Kate’s with quiet intensity. “It will serve you well for what’s to come.” 

With a groan, she rose to her feet, shuffling to her rack of herbs. She crushed some leaves with practiced precision, the aroma rising as she poured steaming water from the clay pot into a small clay cup. Turning, she offered it to Kate. “Drink this.”  

Kate sat up slowly, holding the animal hides over her breast so they would not pool at her waist. She took the cup, bringing it to her lips and inhaling its earthy, bitter scent. The first sip burned her tongue, and she quickly set it down on the packed earth to cool. 

“Thank you…for all this,” she murmured, glancing at White Dove with hesitant gratitude. “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble. I just need to rest, really.”  

The older woman scoffed, a short, knowing laugh. “Rest?” She waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll need far more than that.”  

Kate frowned, her voice tinged with protest. “It’s just a bit of weak blood. I’ve…had a hard couple of weeks, that’s all.” She picked up the cup again, blowing on the steaming surface before sipping cautiously.  

“Weak blood,” White Dove echoed, mimicking Kate’s words with an exaggerated accent and a chuckle. “Is that what the tosi tivo are calling it?”  

Kate blinked, the unfamiliar phrase catching her off guard. “I’m sorry—what does that mean?”  

“It is Comanche,” her tone patient but amused, “for white people.”  

“Comanche?” Kate repeated, tilting her head. The revelation sent a flicker of surprise through her. “I… I didn’t know there were Comanche here. I thought Rains Fall’s people were Lakota.”  

The elder woman raised a brow as she swept the stone workbench clear and began grinding fresh herbs into a fragrant paste. “There are many different people here,” she explained. “But we are more than just tribes. We are a family, bound by something stronger than blood. Do you understand?”  

Kate nodded slowly, the words resonating with her deeply. River had been like that, drawing in lost souls from all over—those whose tribes had been scattered, those who had nowhere else to go.  

“I was saved by one of the Lakota,” Kate admitted quietly, her voice dipping with the weight of memory. “A long time ago. He taught me his language, the way of his people.”  

White Dove glanced at her, the lines around her eyes softening. “Then you understand,” she said simply, her voice carrying the wisdom of one who had seen many lives cross her path. 

Kate’s gaze dropped to the cup in her hands, the rich, earthy scent of the tea curling into her nostrils as she sipped. “I owe him everything,” she murmured, voice distant. “He found me when I didn’t even know who I was anymore. Gave me purpose when I thought I had none left. I wouldn’t be here today without him.”  

White Dove tilted her head, her sharp eyes studying Kate with quiet intensity. “River,” she said after a moment of contemplation, her tone soft and reverent, as though the name itself carried a sacred weight. 

Confusion and surprise washed over Kate’s features immediately, “h-how did you…” 

“The way you speak of him… I can feel his spirit lingers with you, like a light that never fades.”  

Kate swallowed a mouthful of tea, trying to free the lump in her throat that was making it difficult to speak. “Sometimes I feel that too,” she admitted. “It’s like… he still lends me strength when I need it most. But it’s been years. He’s gone.” Her voice faltered, a raw edge of grief cutting through her words.  

White Dove approached, the earth beneath her soft footfalls barely whispering. She knelt beside Kate, her hands gentle yet firm as they rested on Kate’s shoulders. “Gone in body, yes,” she said with a grounding force. “But not in spirit. River walks with you, child. He is in the wind that moves the grass, the fire that warms your skin. And here,” she added, placing a hand lightly over Kate’s heart, “he is always here.”  

“I miss him so much,” Kate’s eyes welled with tears she hadn’t realized she was holding back, the elder’s words wrapping around her like a balm. She nodded, barely managing a whisper. “I just wish I had the strength back then to save him.”  

White Dove’s gaze softened further, her expression both knowing and kind. “And yet he has left you with a gift,” she said, her hand moving from Kate’s heart to lightly press against her abdomen.  

Kate’s breath caught, her eyebrows furrowed. “A gift?”  

The elder woman’s smile deepened, her voice soft. “A piece of the Great Spirit’s plan, one that River will surely guide.”  

Kate’s hand flew instinctively to her stomach, the air catching in her throat. “I…” Her voice faltered, her mind grasping for logic amidst the swirling emotions. “I–I don’t understand. That’s not… no, that’s not possible.”  

"You’ve endured so much, child. He sees it, he knows. He has never truly left you. And though you’ve faced countless losses, you now carry something precious—a new life growing within you."  

A new life.  

The words echoed, reverberating like a bell in the quiet chamber of her thoughts. Her heart pounded as if trying to catch up with the revelation, and the clay cup she had been holding slipped from her fingers, landing softly on the earth below. A rush of emotions surged through her—hope, joy, disbelief, and an undercurrent of fear.  

Her mind raced to Arthur, his rough-edged voice filling her memory as she recalled their quiet talks about dreams of the future. Children. A family. She had crushed it then, before those dreams could take root in his heart. Claiming her body incapable of such things, her voice trembling with the conviction of a woman who had been resigned to a cruel fate.  

And now?  

Oh, God. She was going to have his baby.  

Kate’s chest tightened as the enormity of it settled in. She was going to be a mother again, and Arthur Morgan—a man caught between his own war with the world and his heart—was going to be a father again.  

“Do not fear it,” White Dove murmured, her hand warm and steady on Kate’s arm. “This child is a sign of strength. Just as you have endured, so will they. River’s spirit watches over you both, guiding you toward what is meant to be.”  

Kate met the elder’s eyes, finding a depth of calm that eased the storm within her. “H-how can you be so sure?” she whispered, her voice trembling with doubt. “It’s too early… there are no signs.”  

“No signs?” White Dove chuckled softly, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “The fever and sickness say otherwise. A mother’s body tells stories long before the mind catches on. And the man who brought you here, his ways are not those of a settled life. But perhaps this news will steady his wild heart.”  

Kate’s lips quivered, her exhaustion returning in waves as she slumped back against the hides beneath her. Her hand drifted to her stomach again, resting there as if to ground herself. Memories of a vivid dream, one that had lingered deep in her heart for weeks, re-surfaced. It’s meaning was suddenly clear.  

Two heartbeats, one body. 

“If only it were that simple,” she murmured, heavy with weariness and hope.  

Arthur had made his choices, ones that had led them both to the edge of ruin. She loved him with every fractured piece of her soul, but this—this changed everything. Would the promise of a new life be enough to pull him away from the shadows of his past? Would it finally give him the courage to leave it all behind?  

They had barely spoken of the events that had brought them to this point, with Arthur keeping much of their shared losses buried deep. He carried the weight of so many burdens, and though Kate longed to ease his load, the storm of worry and fragile hope in her own heart waged a relentless battle, pulling her in opposing directions.

But this game of tug-o-war on her soul will not stop her child, Arthur Morgan’s child, from growing in her belly.

Kate closed her eyes as warm tears spilled down her cheeks like gentle streams, cradling the fragile hope that had been placed in her hands. Despite the uncertainty that loomed like a shadow in her heart, she could not wait to share the news with Arthur.

“Sleep now, all is well.” White Dove whispered calmly. 

In sleep, he sang to her, his voice like a low and steady river, carrying her to places untouched by pain. In dreams, he came to her, his shadow softened by the golden light of a future yet to be written. That voice—gravelly and tender—called to her across the distance, whispering her name like a prayer meant only for her ears.  

And as she drifted deeper into slumber, the veil of the present began to lift, revealing a vision of what could be. 

A quiet life stretched before her, simple and unshaken. She saw their child, laughter ringing like wind-chimes in the summer breeze, their small hands reaching for the strength and love that only their father could provide.  

Arthur held them to his chest, his face softened with peace. With happiness. 

The edges of the dream blurred into a warm haze, but its heart remained vivid. A sanctuary where love thrived, untainted by the blood and dust of the paths they had walked. Here, in this fragile hope, she found their burdens were lifted and replaced by the weight of joy.  

And so, in dreams, she would find him, not as he was but as he could be—a man reborn by the light of their love, carrying their child toward a future shaped by something greater than fate.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur stood where the streams spilled into the river, where two currents became one. The waters laughed over the stones together, twisted through ravines together, and plunged down the cliffs of Donner Falls as one force. From this height, he could see Bacchus Bridge stretching across the horizon, its iron skeleton stark against the sky. And he could hear the mournful wail of a train whistle cutting through the valley below.  

Salmon darted through the clear waters, their pink and green bodies a fleeting blur against the clear expanse of blue. They swam downstream, migrating toward the ocean to grow and mature—a journey long and perilous. For a moment, as the clouds reflected on the tumbling surface, it seemed as though the fish swam through the sky itself, weightless and free.  

One fish caught his eye, a lone swimmer defying the current. Against the tide of its kind, it fought to return to the place it was born, battling the relentless push of water. Arthur watched as it struggled, its small body twisting with determination, before finally surrendering to the pull of the current. Drifting downstream with the others, pulled ever closer to the unknown. The inevitable.  

Like the salmon, it is the same when a man loves a woman. To love her is to fight the current, a struggle both thrilling and exhausting. But when it takes hold, there is no stopping it—no argument strong enough to resist it. Women, like the streams, could be gentle one moment, soothing a man’s spirit, and the next, they could drag him through white water, testing every ounce of his strength.

“Ready to head back, Mr. Morgan?” Rains Fall’s calm voice broke through Arthur’s thoughts. Turning, he saw the elder already mounted on his horse, waiting patiently to return to Wapiti.  

Since arriving at the reservation two days prior, Arthur had buried himself in tasks and chores, anything to repay the kindness shown to him and Kate—and anything to keep his mind from wandering to darker places. Hard work left little room for thoughts of the gang, of Dutch and Hosea, of Kate’s worsening illness. Or his own failings, the ones that had led them all here.  

Kate had been battling a relentless fever, resting under White Dove’s gentle care. The healer’s hands tended to her every need, offering what comfort she could. That’s why Arthur and Rains Fall were out here, gathering ginseng, yarrow, and sage for her collection of medicinal herbs. Every small effort felt like a desperate attempt to atone for what he did.  

Arthur mounted Belle with practiced ease and gave a nod. “Sure,” he said evenly, adjusting the reins. “Lead the way.”  

They rode in silence for a while, the sound of the rushing river beside them filling the spaces between hoofbeats. Arthur let his gaze linger on the landscape, but his thoughts were elsewhere, turning like restless leaves in the wind.  

“You’ve been awfully quiet these past few days, my friend,” Rains Fall said at last, voice deep and clear. It was less a question and more an observation.  

Arthur tightened his grip on the reins, grateful the elder couldn’t see his face. “Just got a lot on my mind,” he replied flatly, though he regretted the curtness of his tone. There was something in Rains Fall’s calm presence that reminded him of Hosea—the patience, the quiet wisdom.  

“Forgive me for prying,” Rains Fall continued, undeterred. “But you strike me as a man at war with himself.”  

Arthur sighed, knowing it was pointless to hide from someone as attuned to the human spirit as Rains Fall. “I’m not used to things bein’…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Out of my control, I guess.”  

A soft chuckle reached his ears, rich with the weight of years and understanding. “From the moment you are born, you have no control. You can’t choose your parents any more than you can choose your death—unless you’re desperate enough to end it yourself. The only choices you have are to love someone, to be kind, and to make this brutally short stint on earth as worthwhile as you can.”  

Arthur’s gaze dropped to Belle’s mane, his voice forlorn. “I reckon it’s far too late for all that.”  

Rains Fall’s words struck a chord deep in Arthur’s heart. His whole life felt like a series of choices made for him, never by him. Lyle had stolen his freedoms before he was old enough to even talk, and Dutch had stripped away any illusion of control—not just in the physical sense, but emotionally too. Arthur had never truly recognized himself, never understood who he was beyond Dutch’s right hand, his sword, and his shield.  

Who was he behind the savagery? Behind the bloodshed? Behind the beast of a man he’d become?  

Arthur couldn’t fathom what it meant to be a person—he’d never been one. His purpose had always been pain, fear, and weaponry. He wasn’t a man; he was a tool, a pet trained to serve.  

And yet, he desired violently. He desired an end to it all, a chance to be better, to become the man Kate saw in him. That vision of himself seemed impossibly distant, but it clawed at him nonetheless, leaving scars on his soul. He wasn’t supposed to need like this, wasn’t supposed to crave someone so deeply it hurt. But he did, and it made him sick.  

Because wanting something made you weak. It meant you were at the mercy of something else. And Arthur knew all too well how the world had a cruel habit of leaving him empty-handed.  

“You’re caught between the man you’re supposed to be and the man you truly are,” Rains Fall said, calm and understanding, as if he had plucked the words straight from Arthur’s thoughts. “Your wife does not strike me as the kind of woman to be unaware of that fact.”  

Arthur let out a small chuckle despite himself. How easily this man seemed to read him and Kate, like the pages of an open book. She’d been trying to guide him to a better path since the day they’d met, steadfast and rooted in her devotion.  

“She’s far too good for someone like me,” Arthur admitted, heavy with regret. “I worry ‘bout what’s gonna happen to her—to us,” he corrected himself, “after all this is said and done.” His thoughts wandered to the cold, chilling unknown that loomed ahead.  

As they approached the gravelly path leading back to Wapiti, the savory scent of roasting meat mingled with the fresh aroma of herbs, carried on the crisp evening air. The familiar smells grounded him for a moment, but the edge in his chest lingered.  

Rains Fall reined in his horse at the threshold, turning to Arthur with a quiet smile that held the wisdom of countless years. “Do not borrow grief from the future, Mr. Morgan. To become spring, one must accept the risk of winter. There will be hurt and hardships, but the wildflowers will always bloom after the thaw.”  

Arthur held Rains Fall’s gaze, the words settling in his mind like seeds in fertile soil. He nodded slowly, though the ache in his heart remained. Perhaps, there might still be wildflowers waiting for him after all.  

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate was roused from her sleep by the aching growl of her empty stomach, the pangs of hunger sharpened by the tantalizing aroma of meat roasting over an open fire. The scent was rich and smoky, stirring her senses more effectively than any alarm. 

She shifted under the warm weight of the animal hide blankets, bracing for the familiar pull of exhaustion to drag her fevered body back down. But to her surprise, she felt a marked difference—her fever had broken, and the rest had returned a measure of strength to her limbs.  

White Dove and her gentle assistant, Halona, had cared for her tirelessly. Day and night, they tended to her every need, reading her body’s cues with practiced intuition. Kate had grown fond of the two women, whose quiet kindness eased her discomfort in more ways than one. Their efforts had made the tepee a sanctuary of warmth and healing.  

The news of her pregnancy still lingered fresh in her mind, a secret she clutched close to her heart. She’d asked White Dove and Halona not to share it with Arthur, eager to savor the joy of telling him herself when the moment felt right. The women exchanged knowing smiles and readily agreed, leaving Kate to relish the anticipation of sharing her happiness when her body and spirit were ready.  

Carefully, she rose from the bed, the lingering weakness in her muscles reminding her to move slowly. Touching the rings against her breast, she rubbed them between her fingers tracing their tiny halos. She slipped on a long tunic that brushed her knees, the soft fabric comforting against her skin. Over it, she wrapped herself in an antelope robe, its heavy warmth almost swallowing her slender frame. Finally, she pulled on a pair of knee high moccasins, their soft leather cool against her feet.  

As she stepped outside, the evening air enveloped her. It was crisp and biting, carrying with it the clean, invigorating scent of pine and earth. The sky above was a masterpiece, streaked with hues of pink and blue that filtered through the tall pines, painting the world in serene beauty.  

Kate inhaled deeply, letting the chill air fill her lungs, refreshing her after the days spent confined inside. It cleared her mind and steadied her heart. Despite the gnawing hunger in her stomach, her thoughts weren’t on food.  

She needed to find Arthur. She missed him terribly, and her heart raced with anticipation. Her secret warmed her like the robe around her shoulders, and she longed for the moment she could share it with him—alone, just the two of them under the vast expanse of the painted sky. The moon and the stars as their only witness. 

Kate made her way toward the central fire, where the tribal members gathered to fill their plates and cut portions of meat from the animal roasting over the flames. The savory scent of the meal mixed with the crackling of the fire, creating an atmosphere of warmth and fellowship. Her eyes scanned the group until they landed on a familiar silhouette outlined by the glow of the flames.  

A smile tugged at her lips. There he was. Like herself, he was wrapped in animal skins, blending seamlessly with the people around him. A large sheep hide was draped over his broad shoulders like a cloak, the white fur soft and thick, resembling a ball of cotton drifting through the night air. He wore sturdy moccasins similar to hers, their thick soles a perfect defense against the biting chill of Ambarino.  

Her gaze caught on his old gambler's hat, now adorned with a new feather charm, its soft plumage swaying gently in the breeze. It was likely a gift from one of the people or something he had traded for during his endless efforts to repay their kindness. The sight of him like this—fitting in so effortlessly—warmed her heart. 

Arthur had a way of slipping into their world as though he’d always belonged, like a lonesome buck searching for his herd and finding a place among them.  

Beside him stood Eagle Flies, engaged in what appeared to be a lighthearted conversation with her cowboy. As Kate drew closer, the sound of the young man’s laughter reached her, a warm and genuine sound that made her smile grow wider.  

Eagle Flies noticed her first. His keen eyes lit with recognition, and a small smile played across his lips. With a subtle nod, he clasped Arthur’s arm in a gesture of brotherhood, one that spoke volumes about the bond they had formed in their time together. Then, without a word, he turned and departed.  

Kate placed a hand on his shoulder, and Arthur turned to her, his features lighting with surprise. Without hesitation, he set his plate of meat on the nearest surface and framed her face in his warm, calloused hands.  

"My sweet girl," he murmured, his familiar rough timbre washing over her, making her knees weak with adoration. "What’re you doin’ up? You feelin’ alright?"  

His questions came rapid-fire as he checked her face and body for any lingering signs of illness, his thumb brushing gently along her pallid cheek. Which was now turning a shade of pink under his gaze. The tenderness in his touch stood in stark contrast to the hardened exterior he usually wore.  

“I feel wonderful,” she assured him, carrying a smile she couldn’t suppress. “Better than I’ve felt in weeks.”  

She saw a flicker of guilt pass across his handsome face at her choice of words, a shadow of self-reproach he couldn’t quite hide. “Thank you, Arthur.”  

“For what, darlin’?” he asked, his hands moving to her waist, pulling her closer. His piercing blue eyes searched hers, as if trying to unravel the depth of her gratitude.  

Kate reached up to stroke his rugged cheek, her thumb gliding along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the roughness of his beard, thick and overdue for a shave. “For bringing me here, for protecting me. For standing by me while I recovered.”  

Arthur smiled, that bashful, boyish smile she loved—the one he reserved for moments like these when her praise left him flustered. “I’d do it all again,” he admitted softly. “Though I hope I won’t have to.”  

Pulling her into his chest, he sighed, a sound heavy with relief and affection. “Hated seein’ you in pain like that,” he confessed. “Damn sight nearly broke me.”  

Kate pressed her face into his chest, mumbling against the warmth of his shirt, “I’m well, Arthur. More than well.” She inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar mix of smoke, pine, and musk that clung to him.  

Arthur reached for his abandoned plate and held it out to her. “Think you can try and eat some?”  

Kate nodded, accepting the small portion of meat and vegetables with gratitude. As she took her first bite, Arthur filled another plate for himself, sitting beside her by the fire. 

For the first time in days, the world felt steady again.

Together, they joined the others, settling onto overturned logs as the flames flickered and danced, casting dark shadows over the gathering. The warmth of the fire fought against the creeping chill of nightfall, and a comfortable silence lingered as plates emptied and bellies filled. The sun had dipped beneath the horizon, leaving the sky painted in deep blues and blacks. Stars began to wink into existence, their light glittering faintly above the treetops.  

As the reservation quieted, a soft melody began to rise from the gathered people. One voice turned into two, then three, until a full chorus swelled, singing in their native tongue. The song carried through the air like a living thing, winding between the fire’s glow and the cold night, weaving a tapestry of history and culture. 

It felt like the land itself was joining in, harmonizing with the crackle of the flames and the rustling trees. The occasional howl of a wolf, or cry from an elk joining the orchestra in its own language.  

Arthur leaned closer to Kate, his breath warm against her cool cheek as he murmured, “Think you can translate what they’re chanting?”  

Kate stifled a chuckle, shaking her head. “It’s not chanting, Arthur—they’re singing. And don’t ever let them hear you call it that.”  

A grin tugged at his lips. “Fair enough.”  

Kate paused, tilting her head to better catch the song. Closing her eyes, her brow furrowed as she picked through the lyrics, trying to parse the Lakota words amidst the many other languages blending together. 

“It’s a song about reclaiming identity,” she finally said softly. “About standing together as a community, returning to nature, and rejecting the way society’s trying to change them.”  

Arthur nodded thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the fire. He didn’t need to say anything more—his silence held a reverence for the moment, the music wrapping around him as snugly as the sheep-hide cloak draped over his shoulders.  

After a moment, Kate began to hum quietly, her voice low and melodic as it slipped seamlessly into their rhythm. She translated the lyrics into English as she sang, her voice soft enough for Arthur’s ears alone. He listened, mesmerized by the emotion in her words, the way they made the distant and unfamiliar feel close and deeply human.  

The song, in both languages, seemed to bind them to the world around them—a moment of peace and connection amid the chaos of their lives. For the first time in what felt like forever, Arthur let himself simply be still, soaking in the beauty of the night and the voice of the woman at his side.

I might be more like an animal, than you would have thought at first. Your only conviction was that I would have to choose.

I’ll be running with the animals soon. Always swore by the same remedy, to battle feelings with thought, but lately there’s a change in me. The words don’t really do.

Humans rip open so easily, like paper heads in the rain. I won’t be my own enemy. The skull no longer fools this body.

I’ll be running with the animals soon. Into everlasting now, I’ll unfold mysеlf. Slowly, parts of me.

I’m herе to be more like an animal.

I’m here to fight more like an animal.

I’m here to eat more like an animal.

I’m here to bite more like an animal.

I’m here to move more like an animal.

I’m here to hunt more like an animal.

I’m here to rest more like an animal.

I’m here to play more like an animal.

I’m herе to be more like an animal.

As the singing came to an end, the gathering began to disperse. Hunters, elders, mothers, warriors, and children alike offered their farewells, their voices softer now as they drifted back to the comfort of their lodges. The fire crackled quietly in the stillness, its embers glowing as if reluctant to fade. 

Kate and Arthur remained seated on the overturned log, her head resting gently against his broad shoulder. Their fingers intertwined, a silent promise exchanged in the cool night air.  

Arthur stared into the flames, his eyes distant and shadowed, lost in thoughts that weighed heavy on his soul. Kate watched him intently, her heart aching for the grief and guilt etched into his face. It was the same expression she had seen during their night in Annesburg, when uncertainty and frustration had driven him to the edge of what any man could bear.  

She remembered how she had held him that night, cradling his trembling frame as his soft tears soaked her chest in the silence. She had whispered soothing words until the storm within him subsided, giving way to the steady rhythm of his breathing. But even then, she knew it wasn’t enough. There was still so much he carried, a burden too great for one person alone.  

Her free hand glided over her belly, where the first stirrings of life had begun to take root. Over the next nine months, she would be swollen with his child—a little piece of them both, growing steadily within her. The thought of meeting this tiny person, of holding them and nurturing them, filled her with a sense of purpose she hadn’t known she needed.  

Kate was certain the news of the baby would ease some of Arthur’s pain, offering him a beacon of hope amid his struggles. She could already imagine the spark it would ignite in him, a reason to fight for something brighter. To become the man she knew he could be—the man their child deserved.  

“Ready to turn in, my love?” she asked softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze to pull him back to the present.  

Arthur turned to meet her gaze, his tired blue eyes searching hers for a moment before he nodded silently. “Which lodge is yours?” she asked, glancing across the rows of tepees glowing softly with firelight.  

His voice was low, tinged with exhaustion and a rare vulnerability. “Y’sure you wanna stay with me, darlin’? You can still sleep in White Dove’s tent if you’d rather. I won’t be upset.”  

Kate raised an eyebrow, looking at him like he’d suggested something completely absurd. “You kiddin’ me? Quit being silly, old man. I want to stay with you.”  

A small, tired grin spread across Arthur’s face as he stood from the log with a quiet sigh, extending his hand to her. Kate rose, slipping her arm around his waist, leaning into the warmth of his embrace.  

“Besides,” she added with a soft smile, “I always have the sweetest dreams when I sleep next to you.”  

Arthur’s grin widened just a touch, and he pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head before leading her toward his lodge. Together, they walked through the quiet encampment, the stars above a silent witness to their love and the promise of a brighter future. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur’s lodge sat quietly on the edge of the reservation, a modest sanctuary tucked away from the hum of the reservation. Originally used for storing extra furs, dried meat, and other supplies, it had been generously cleared out by the people to provide him with a warm, sheltered space. Though Arthur had offered to set up his own camp, they insisted he stay somewhere better protected from the cold Ambarino winds.  

Holding the flap open, Arthur gestured for Kate to duck inside. She stepped through, marveling at how surprisingly inviting the small space was.  

In the center, a humble fire glowed softly, its embers casting a flickering warmth that filled the room. Arthur knelt by the ashes, adding a handful of wood chips and buffalo dung. A skill taught to him by the tribe to revive the flames and keep them burning through the night. As the fire grew stronger, Kate let her eyes wander around the lodge.  

Against the canvas walls, crates and boxes were neatly arranged, serving both as storage and structural support. Arthur’s cot lay near the fire, piled high with animal hides that promised warmth on even the coldest nights. His saddlebag, folded and topped with rabbit pelts, served as a makeshift pillow. A few hides draped over smaller crates created a reclined space she imagined he used for writing in his journal late at night.  

Kate shrugged off her antelope robe and draped it over the crates, adding to the cozy arrangement. Kneeling on the fur-covered bedroll, she slipped off her moccasins and stretched out on her stomach near the fire. The heat from the flames quickly seeped into her skin, chasing away the chill of the night.  

Arthur watched her with a small smile, his gaze soft and full of affection. Tossing his sheep-hide cloak into a corner, he tugged off his moccasins and left them by the entrance. Slowly, he slid off his suspenders, setting them aside with care. His gambler’s hat followed, then his leather shirt, revealing the expanse of sandy hair and gentle lines that contoured his torso. Now dressed in only his trousers, he settled beside her, reclining against the fur-covered crates.  

Kate waited until he was comfortable before shuffling forward on her stomach, her head coming to rest in his lap. Her cheek pressed against his firm thigh, and she sighed, feeling more at peace than she had in weeks.  

For a long moment, they sat in silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound between them. Their eyes met, the unspoken desire swirling in their shared gaze enough to make her heart race. Arthur’s hand found its way to her head, his fingers slipping through her hair. He began to massage her scalp, untangling knots with a care that belied his rugged exterior.  

Kate melted under his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before she opened them again, unable to look away from his face. Her fingers moved to his chest, tracing the defined lines of muscle with feather-light strokes. She twirled the coarse hair between her fingertips, letting the texture ground her in the moment.  

Neither broke their gaze as their hands explored, gentle and reverent. His thumb brushed against her temple while her palm flattened against his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath her touch. Their connection in the firelit room felt electric yet soothing, a sanctuary of their own making, where words were unnecessary, and their love spoke through every touch. 

She suddenly sat up, leaning her weight on her wrist as it rested against the warmth of his thigh. Her lips found him with a desperation that felt like they had never stopped searching for him. Arthur responded in kind, his kiss deepening as his hands roamed over her back, feeling the heat of the flames and pulling her closer, if that was even possible. 

As he opened his mouth to let out a shuddering sigh, Kate seized the opportunity, her tongue darting against his, earning a ragged, breathy moan, from the depths of his chest. They explored each other’s mouths as if it was the first time, foreign yet familiar. As if they had been apart for years, and by some miracle, fate had reunited them. 

Arthur tugged at her arm, pulling her closer, gripping her thigh with the other hand, urging her to straddle his lap. She didn’t hesitate. His lips trailed down her neck, leaving a fire in their wake. But before the heat could consume her completely, she stopped him with a question that had been burning inside her for days.

“Arthur?” Her voice was soft, trying to steady the rush of emotions that clouded her thoughts, the bliss in her body making her words feel weightless. 

“Hmm?” came his low, breathy reply, muffled against the hollow of her neck.

Her hand gently cupped his face, guiding him to look at her. “Why did you call me that…?” She hesitated, but only briefly. “Back when we arrived at the reservation?” Her mind has replayed his words endlessly since then. My wife. 

Arthur furrowed his brow in confusion, before the memory clicked. “My wife?” 

Kate nodded, her gaze enduring. 

A small, sheepish smile tugged at the corners of his lips, flushed red from her kisses. “Oh... I didn’t think you’d remember that,” he stammered, tinged with a nervous tenderness. “I dunno, guess it just felt... right.” 

Her heart skipped a beat, the weight of his words sinking in. “Do you think of me as your wife, Arthur?” The question came out more serious than she had intended, but it had to be asked. 

He straightened, his gaze locking with hers, no hesitation this time. “I… Yes. Yes, I do see you as my wife.” His voice was steady now, firm. He meant every word of it.

Kate’s eyes widened, the reflection of the fire flickering in her eyes like molten gold. She didn’t speak for a long moment, the gravity of his words settling in her chest. “You really mean that?” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried with it a world of emotion, meant only for him. His heart.

Arthur’s hands found her neck, cupping it gently as he wiped away the tears she hadn’t even realized were there. “I do. You’re mine, Kate. Mine and mine alone. I’ll take care of you for the rest of my days, if you’ll have me.” His voice cracked slightly, the vulnerability of the words choking him. He looked away, his emotions threatening to spill out. “I know this isn’t the life I promised you, honey. But I’ll save up, buy you a pretty ring...” He took her hand and rubbed at the empty space where a ring would sit. “I’ll make you my wife, for real.” 

Kate smiled through the rush of emotions that swept over her, and her warmth filled his heart in ways nothing this world ever could. Oh, how he adored her. In that moment he wished he were the wind, so he could kiss every inch of her skin and weave through her hair. To carry her scent with him forever. Through this life, and the next. 

Her smile faltered for a brief moment, a shadow crossing her features. “And what about the gang? Everything you fought for, everything you helped them build?” 

Arthur’s eyes darkened for a moment, as the weight of his past settled back into his chest. The future he had imagined with her could not exist within the chaos of his reputation, the people he had once called family. A deep sigh escaped him, a cold gust slipping in through the cracks of his thoughts, licking at the flames of the inevitable. 

The fish fighting against the current, must let go of the past and turn towards the future. 

“I’ll still help ‘em while I can,” he began slowly, “but I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about the future… about you.” His gaze softened, locking onto hers like she was the anchor keeping him grounded. “You’re my future, Kate.” His words were sure, steady. “I gotta put you first. If these last two days taught me anything, it’s that I want you far away from all this.” He stressed the final words with a firmness that left no room for doubt. “And we’ll never look back.” 

Kate’s smile returned, but her eyes held a flicker of something more. Reaching around her neck, she slipped a silver chain over her head, two gold rings glinting in the firelight as she held them up. Their glow danced between their faces, the light kissing them with a quiet oath.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the rings—worn and well-loved, relics from his father figure’s hands. His eyes softened, and he swallowed back a sob. “Hosea…” His voice cracked, the memories of his father’s wisdom and love choking him. 

“Hosea made me promise to give these to you when the moment felt right.” Kate explained, cupping his palm and letting their gentle weight cradle in his hand as she slipped the chain off. 

“Always one step ahead... He knew things were changin’, even before it all fell apart.” Arthur admired the rings, recalling memories of Hosea and Bessie’s devotion. 

Kate nodded, her smile tinged with sorrow. “He said you’d know what to do… take me far away, and never look back.” She echoed his words, like a vow that hung between them, delicate and sacred.

Arthur sniffed, trying to keep the emotions at bay. “Christ, I’m gonna miss him.”

Kate’s fingers carefully plucked one of the larger rings from his palm, then gently took his left hand in hers. “I am too, Arthur. But… sometimes things change for the better. My whole world changed when I met you.” She slid the ring onto his finger with quiet reverence. 

Arthur watched her with a tenderness that made his heart ache. He kissed her knuckles, his lips soft and full of longing. “Reckon you’ve changed me for the better... and yet…” He hesitated, a familiar doubt creeping in. “Yet I keep making a mess of myself.”

With a free hand, she cupped his cheek, guiding his gaze back to her. “Maybe we just need something worth fighting for.”

Arthur’s laugh was breathless, full of love. “My darling Kate, you’re the reason I fight.”

Her eyes locked onto his, fierce and full of determination. “Perhaps a reason… for both of us.” 

As he slid the ring over her finger, past the knuckle, it settled against her skin with a commitment that both felt deep in their souls. And then, softly, like a secret whispered just for them, Kate spoke the words that stole the breath from his lungs. 

“I’m pregnant, Arthur.” 

The words seemed to echo in the air, a divine truth. To speak them aloud felt like releasing a beautiful secret into the world. The weight of her confession hit him like a wave, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at her, his breath catching in his throat. His pulse thundered in his ears. 

“You’re…” The words failed him, as his heart leapt in his chest. Everything suddenly clicked—the protectiveness, the need to shield her. “Oh, my girl…” His voice trembled with emotion, and he pulled her into his arms, clutching her close. “How—how is that possible? I thought—”

Kate’s fingers found his lips, silencing him. “I don’t exactly know how, but I know it’s there. I’ve known for some time, but I just couldn’t let myself believe it was true.” Her forehead pressed against his, and new tears, joyful and free, fell down their cheeks. “I knew our love would bloom into something wonderful.” 

In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only them, and the life they would build together. Arthur cradled her neck gently, pulling her close as they embraced, his thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. A familiar chill of unease crept into his mind, but he banished it before it could take root. Nothing—not fear, not doubt—would steal this moment of joy from him.

And yet, beneath the elation, a quiet resolve began to form. The countdown had already started ticking in the back of his mind. Nine months—no, likely less. He couldn’t let her bring their child into the world while they were still trapped in the chaos of the gang’s life. The decision came as naturally as breathing: he would do whatever it took to make things right and ensure she had a safe place to welcome their baby into the world.

Despite the timing, despite his failures, despite everything, the news of this child—his child—growing within Kate filled him with a hope he hadn’t felt in years. A new purpose ignited within him, fierce and unshakable.

“Kate…” he murmured, his voice raw with wonder and disbelief. His thumb swept across her cheek, brushing away the tears that glistened like firelit jewels. “You’re carrying our child.” The words felt foreign, surreal, almost more of a question than a statement, as if he needed to hear it again to believe it was real.

Kate’s lips curled into a soft, radiant smile, the same smile that had captivated him from the start. “Yes, Arthur,” she whispered, her voice steady and full of love.

“You’re going to be a father again.”

AN: I had SO much fun writing this chapter, everything from Eagle Flies and Rains Fall to Kate's pregnancy reveal. Ugh I just love them so much and it was so nice to finally get the secret out there. There are a lot of emotions going on between them right now and I want to be able to explore that in more intimacy. This chapter would've been over 20k words if I included the sex scene I initially wrote...but like I said before it will be in its own chapter! This gives me more time to tinker with it, as well as add to it without worrying abt the WC.

Thank you all so much for the support, and for reading this work that has become something so dear to me. I love all of you, and endlessly appreciate all the love and comments and feedback! 💗💗💗

[tenessee-walker]

Fully self indulgent but... Arthur with a gender neutral Reader that has celiac disease? Or in general, a Reader who can't eat many of the foods at camp because of textures and/or allergies

i don’t really know a lot about celiac disease, I really hope this is okay!

soft!arthur notices the way you hesitate before taking a bite when you're in your camo gear, his eyes softening as he picks up on your discomfort.

soft!arthur doesn’t fully get why the food textures bother you, but he can tell it’s a real issue, so he doesn’t push, only watches with concern.

soft!arthur gently asks, "You okay there? You don’t gotta eat if it’s makin’ you uncomfortable."

soft!arthur stays close, letting you explain, and though he doesn’t fully understand, he listens carefully, his brow furrowing with sympathy.

soft!arthur is the first to offer you his own food, quietly sliding it over to you, as though saying, I’ve got you, just relax.soft!arthur doesn’t make a big deal of it, just silently providing you with what you need—something easy to eat, without any of the textures that bother you.

soft!arthur stays by your side when the others are around, making sure no one offers you anything that might make you feel uncomfortable.

soft!arthur always gives you that warm, understanding look when you seem uncertain, as if silently telling you, I’ll make sure you’re okay.

soft!arthur goes out of his way to make sure that when you eat, it’s without any unnecessary stress. If there’s something you need, he makes sure it’s there without hesitation.

soft!arthur notices how you try to hide your discomfort when you're out in the wild, always worrying about not being a burden. He’s quick to reassure you with a gentle smile. “Ain’t no shame in needin' a little help,” he’ll say, his voice calm and reassuring.

soft!arthur keeps his movements slow and deliberate when he notices you getting uneasy, especially when it comes to meals. He’ll set the food in front of you with care, always making sure it’s something you’ll be comfortable eating.

soft!arthur has learned to pack an extra meal just for you, one without any rough textures, even if it means carrying a little more weight. He never complains about it. In fact, he’s proud to look after you this way.

soft!arthur quietly watches over you when you eat, not in a way that makes you feel pressured, but more like he's waiting for you to finish, making sure everything’s okay. His eyes soften when you glance at him for reassurance, and he’ll give you a small nod.

soft!arthur can’t help but feel a little protective, and so he always makes sure there’s no rush to finish your food. He’d rather you take your time, enjoy the meal without the stress, and he’d always stay close, just in case you need anything.

soft!arthur finds himself trying to ease your mind when you start worrying about the smallest things, reminding you that no matter what, he’s here for you. “You don’t gotta do it all alone,” he’ll say, voice low and full of care.

soft!arthur would never make you feel like a burden, and he’s always looking for ways to make sure you’re comfortable. It’s little things like this that make you realize just how much he cares.

[photo1030]

Leather and Lace - Chapter 19: Second Time Around

Summary: You and Arthur settle into your new relationship and try to find some more time alone together. 

Warning: 18+ please. Minor - DNI; NSFW

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*This beautiful image comes from @regwishesshehadmagic . I know it's Sadie in the image, but this just captures the tone of this chapter perfectly.

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*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people. 

The next morning you wake up early to the faint breeze of someone’s breath dancing across your forehead. Reluctantly opening your heavy eyes just a sliver, you realize that you have your face snuggled up and tucked under Arthur’s chin. You notice the heavy weight of his strong arm draped over your middle, holding you in place close to him, even in his sleep. It is a most comfortable position to find yourself in first thing in the morning. 

A serene calmness settles over you as you take a moment to appreciate where you are and who you are with. Your drowsy eyes roll up to look at Arthur, careful not to move your head too much. You note with affection all of those little red marks scattered across his face from broken capillaries under his skin caused by years of sun exposure. In his sleep, his face doesn’t carry those deep worry lines that seem to constantly decorate his features. His hair is slightly rumpled from his slumber, locks twisted like summer wheat swaying in the wind. His eyelids don’t even twitch with any sort of movement from a possible dream-like state. He is utterly out to the world. And it is with a slight feeling of pride that you acknowledge Arthur is able to rest so peacefully because of you lying by his side. 

You think of the whirlwind of events that have taken place over the last few days. Your mind replays with such fondness the tender moments of the previous evening. While you were not able to be intimate last night, just the closeness and sweet whispers in the darkness mean volumes to you.

Your attention is briefly pulled away from your rough outlaw to the subdued movement outside of the oasis of his tent. There are a few voices muttering softly in the camp, but it’s still early enough where it’s only Mr. Pearson getting food together and Ms. Grimshaw puttering about to help him. The faint hint of fresh-brewing coffee is already carrying through the air to usher you to another day. 

The morning sun isn’t too high yet, not even breaking the treeline, casting the camp in subtle grey and lavender hues as the mist rises off the grass. The songbirds are scattered throughout the trees overhead and softly singing their own little songs to welcome the new dawn. You relish these quiet moments in the morning before the camp is awake. But as much as you’d love to stay here forever, you should probably get back to your own tent before anyone sees you creeping out of Arthur’s. 

With a reluctant sigh, you carefully roll back from the man, gently lifting his arm and setting it back down in your place. Arthur is so tired that he doesn’t even flinch from your movement. You’re not sure if you are thankful or worried about his state of exhaustion, but there’s not much you can do about it now other than leave him be to get some much-needed rest. 

You slowly sit up on the edge of the cot, stretching your arms over your head and cringing at the popping sound from your shoulder. Turning back, your gaze falls to Arthur as he sleeps. He is so handsome. Just looking at him lying there so serenely makes your belly flutter. You are anxious for his hands to be on you again; to feel those large, weathered hands that reached out and touched your heart to be all over you once more. But unfortunately, you are not in a space conducive for love-making whenever you please. With a quiet disappointed sigh, you turn back forward and try to slip away when an arm suddenly snakes around your waist. 

“Where you think you’re goin’?” Arthur gruffs out in a sleep-hazed voice. 

You quietly giggle as you affectionately wrap your hands around the burly forearm. “I should head back to my tent before I’m noticed.” You look over your shoulder again and see his blue eyes now open, thick with sleep, yet still twinkling at the sight of you.  

“I think people have a good idea that we’re together now,” he murmurs as he blinks his eyes to try to keep them open.

“I know. But we should still try to be discreet about it. At least this part, anyway.” Your voice is low and hums in the air, as if trying to keep him all to yourself as you run your fingers over the hair of his arm, drawing lazy circles on his skin.  

“I suppose you’re right.” Arthur doesn’t retract his arm, but reluctantly allows you to escape his hold of you.

You stand up and shiver a bit as the brisk morning air envelops your whole body. It's damp and chilly this morning, a sure sign that colder weather is coming soon. Arthur rolls onto his side, his eyes following you as you rub your hands over your arms as goosebumps begin to decorate your skin, popping up like effervescent bubbles. 

“See? If you’d stay in bed with me you’d be warm,” he smirks smartly.

“I’d also be late,” you reply back with a grin as you begin to finger-comb your hair into submission. “I wouldn’t want to get up.”

“Hmm…that’s the bitch of it, isn’t it?” That impish grin of his forming on his plump lips. “Well, what can you do about it anyhow?” And Arthur leans forward to grab your hand to try to pull you back onto the cot, which you playfully swat away. 

With a slight groan, Arthur moves as if to get up with you, but you are quick to put your hand on his shoulder, halting him in his place. “Ah, ah. You stay right where you are, mister.” He looks at you in confusion.  “You could still get away with another hour or two of sleep. And you need it, too. Go back to sleep.” 

Arthur shifts back down to the canvas of the cot, tucking his arm behind his head like a pillow as he smirks up at you. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Don’t worry, Arthur, you won’t miss anything. I won’t let anything happen while you’re asleep,” you tease, knowing full-well how he has to be up and watchful over everyone at all times. Always the protector. 

You tug at your skirt and blouse, making sure everything is straight and where it should be, running your hands over your hair one more time in check. When you're content that you are presentable again, you turn back to place a simple yet sweet little kiss upon Arthur’s lips, pausing to sweep your thumb over his cheekbone before heading over to the tent opening. You discreetly poke your face out to check to see if anyone is watching and then quietly scuttle back to your tent. 

—-------------------------------------

As the morning progresses, you and Arthur try to be discreet, but the stolen glances and distractions continue. Trying to stay focused on the daily chores becomes difficult. The girls giggle and tease you about it and you shake your head, trying to wave them off at their nonsense, but it doesn’t stop their curiosity and fun. 

With the afternoon sun high in the sky, you are walking with a laundry basket sitting on your hip, picking through the contents, when a hand like a vice grip suddenly clamps down on your arm, pulling you behind a wagon. Your heart jumps up into your throat as the sharp motion causes you to drop your basket and you stumble to keep your footing. A panicked yelp is quickly stifled by someone’s hand over your mouth as you flounder before being spun around and pushed back against the wooden slats of the wagon. When you finally get your bearings, you rapidly blink to see that familiar silhouette in front of you.

“Jesus, Arthur, you scared the hell out of me!” you hiss at him, slapping his chest. He can only reply with a playful, mischievous laugh, those brilliant blue eyes of his dancing back at you. He places his left hand over your head onto the wagon and leans over you, encasing you in towards him. His other large hand comes up around your neck, his thumb pushing your chin up so that your tender lips are easily accessible to him. He leans in and plants his warm mouth onto your own, inhaling as he does as if drawing out your soul.

As your kiss quickly deepens, Arthur pins you against the wooden frame with his own body. His mouth eventually leaves yours and begins nuzzling up on you, leaving a trail over your jawline and down your neck. Your eyes roll back into your head as you submit to his will, quickly getting lost. You slowly bend your leg to rub in between Arthur’s as your arms extend over his shoulders, lacing your fingers behind his head as he leans further down your neck, sucking lightly on your clavicle.

“I want you in the most sinful ways, you know that?” Arthur whispers in your ear. Your only response is a soft little groan. He gently lays his forehead to yours. “When it comes to you, there’s no doubt about it. Just this crazy need to make you mine.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I am yours, then, Arthur.” Your eyes lift to his, giving him that look, an eyebrow arched with all of the permissions and suggestions behind it. It's enough to melt his brain. “I was always yours.” Your fingers slide down from his neck to curl around the open collar of his shirt, the tips of your fingers teasingly grazing across his collarbone underneath. “It just took awhile for you to find me, is all.”

You lean up on your toes to catch his lips again and kiss him heatedly before he dips down once more to your neck to that spot behind your ear. You giggle again as his beard scratches across your sensitive skin and you roll your face into his as you cradle your arms around his head, snuggling him closer to you. 

“Ahem!” 

Suddenly out of nowhere, you hear the sound of someone clearing their throat. You and Arthur both freeze before slowly turning to the side to see Ms. Grimshaw standing there with an oh-so annoyed look upon her face. 

You quickly drop your hands to your sides, face turning bright red at being caught, as Arthur drops his head down, looking sheepishly at his feet. Suddenly you feel like kids being caught sneaking out of the barn by your mother. 

“Aren't you supposed to be doing something, Miss Y/L/N?” Ms Grimsahw barks, eyebrows arched expectantly at you. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” you confess, biting your lip nervously.  

She then turns her bubbling temper to your partner in crime. “Arthur, do you need something to do?”

“No, Ma’am.”

Ms. Grimshaw stands in silent judgment for a moment and you can see the gears turning in her sharp head. “Is this going to be a problem?” She huffs, waving her finger at you both before firmly planting her hands on her hips. 

“No, Ma’am”, you both respond in unison, trying not to laugh under her intensifying scrutiny.

This isn’t the first time Ms. Grimshaw has caught people messing about, and frankly she couldn’t care any less who’s diddling who in this camp. As long as it doesn’t interfere with her work, that is. (She has a hard enough time keeping Karen and Sean focused.) But you and Arthur are new at this, acting like a couple of love-dumb teenagers, so she’s trying not to be too harsh about it.  To be honest, it kind of warms her black heart. 

After a few more awkward moments of silence, Ms Grimshaw turns and walks away, shaking her head. But unseen by you and Arthur, a little grin pops up on her stern face. “Idiots”, she mumbles.

When you are in the clear, you and Arthur both exhale with relief to be spared the matron’s wrath any longer.

“Thanks a lot, you got me in trouble,” Arthur jokingly swats your shoulder with the back of his hand. 

‘What?! Me?! You started it!” You smack his chest back.

“You’re a bad influence, you know that?” he smirks. “I mean, really, the nerve of some people. You should be ashamed of yourself, Miss (Y/L/N). Attacking me in broad daylight like that. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.” He plays innocent, placing his hand on his chest and feigning offense.

“Arthur, I swear to God…!” You bend over and snatch up the bar of laundry soap laying in the grass and whip it at him. Arthur hops up on one leg, quickly dodging the projectile to avoid being pelted with it.

“You move pretty good for an old man,” you tease, tucking that always-stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Woman, you have no idea yet. Just you wait.” He flashes those eyes again at you. The taunt alone makes the butterflies in your stomach swirl. Arthur leans in to you with a suggestive grin as his thick fingers trail across your stomach and over your hips. “Now get back to work.”

—------------------------------------------

For the rest of the afternoon, you and Arthur manage to behave yourselves. Now that Ms. Grimshaw is wise to your antics, she has been watching you like a hawk. She doesn’t need another “Karen and Sean” in camp, especially if it’s two of the hardest working people there. Of course the woman isn’t going to be heartless about it. But she does have a camp to run, afterall. 

Currently, you are over by the food wagon. With the autumn vegetables coming into harvest, you are trying your hand at a corn chowder to serve the gang. You’re hoping it will be a welcomed change from Mr Pearson’s usual stew that is served more often than not. Hopefully if it is well received, you’ll be able to can some of the thick soup for the upcoming winter months. 

A plethora of spices and herbs permeates the air as you stir the simmering mixture in the large cast-iron kettle that hangs over the fire. You sing quietly to yourself, watching the golden mixture bubble hypnotically as bits of bright orange carrots and deep brown potato skins dance as they soften to a delightful texture. Satisfied with the state of things for now, you set the ladle aside and walk a few paces back to the work table to cut up the fresh biscuits you baked earlier to go with your dinner. 

As you work, Arthur walks over to you, casually leaning his shoulder into the side of the wagon. He takes the cigarette that dangles precariously from his lips between his thumb and fingers and flicks it into the cool grass. “Hey you.”

“Hey you,” you beam back at him. “What are you up to?” 

Every time. Every damn time, that look of brightness and excitement in your face to see him sets Arthur’s tired soul alight, bringing him back to life just a bit more. 

“Nuthin.” The corners of his mouth tug up into a grin. He folds his arms over his chest, watching your hands for a moment as your delicate fingers sort the fluffy biscuits into a basket and cover them with a white muslin cloth. 

His watchful eyes dart around as he tries to act inconspicuous before he leans in a bit closer to you. 

“So I was thinking, maybe we could get together again tonight?”

You give him a questioning look at first, but when those crystal blue eyes flash at you and the corners of his lips begin to pull up even more, you know exactly what he means.

“Oh! Here in camp?” you ask surprised, your face dusting pink at the thought of it.

“Gonna have to sooner or later, right?” Arthur tilts his head with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders.

You think about it for a moment, contemplating the option. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” you say slowly, letting the idea sink in a moment. You’ve waited so long for him, so the thought that you could be together whenever you want now is exciting. Plus, your first time together was just so heavenly, you honestly can’t wait for another go at it. 

“Okay, then.” Your face lights up as the blush of your cheek deepens. You turn to look about as well, sharing in this cute little secret plan of his. “I can come by your tent later tonight? After everyone turns in?” you suggest, an air of hushed eagerness in your voice.

The elated expression on Arthur’s face is priceless. “Alright. Sounds like a plan, then.” Like a little kid waiting for Christmas, you can see him trying to contain his excitement. Arthur didn’t think you’d be quick to spurn him, but he has to admit, he wasn’t so sure if you’d be so readily willing to fall into his arms again so quickly. 

He holds your gaze as if there is something else he wants to say or do, but only simply nods. He runs the back of his forefinger along your upper arm as he pushes himself up and off the wagon and leaves you to finish what you're doing, heading over to the fire. 

You smile brightly and nibble your bottom lip as you watch Arthur stroll over with a swagger in his step as he joins Javier at the nearest fire, his attention keenly refocused on the gun in his friend’s hand. It must be a new one Javier found as Arthur takes the gun and flips it around in his hand, evaluating it. He opens the chamber and squints to look through it, checking the straightness of it. He spins the barrel and evaluates the weight of it in his oversized hand. 

Watching Arhtur handle this gun as if it were a simple kitchen utensil, you are suddenly filled with a bit of apprehension. You have never been afraid to be in Arthur’s presence, but it fills you with a sense of dread to hold him so dear to your heart like this, knowing that any moment could be the last time you set eyes on him. Being with a wanted outlaw, being with Arthur Morgan of all outlaws, is going to come with that level of fear. He warned you of this and it wasn’t until now that you fully comprehend his caution. It makes the fire within you that burns for him all the more intense. As your feelings for Arthur deepen by the very hour, if that’s even possible, this is something that you are going to have to be mindful of. And, take advantage of the time together whenever you have it.

—-----------------------------------------

Night has fallen across the camp, the sounds of chirping crickets and the occasional hooting owl echoing in the background as you stand in your tent. It’s another chilly night yet you are warm with exhilaration. The idea of being with Arthur again tonight has been all you could think about all day since he mentioned it. 

You dress in your newer nightgown for your amorous rendezvous, one that is a simple white cotton with white silky ribbon sewn into the hems. It has wider shoulder straps, leaving you arms exposed and hugs your bustline nicely as it cascades over your chest, creating a white waterfall of textured fabric and falls to mid-calf length. 

You look yourself over in your little mirror, primping and touching-up. Voluminous locks of hair spill over your bare shoulders, but you have pulled the sides back with a white ribbon to match your nightgown. Deft fingers comb through your hair, curling the pieces just so. Slightly trembling fingertips dab a bit of red rouge to the apple of your cheeks, as well as your soft lips. 

Your hands fidget over your body, smoothing everything out, as you wince just a bit in self-consciousness at your curves. You wish you had a more attractive body to offer, but it is what it is. Arthur has already seen you naked, so there should be no surprises, yet you are still thankful to have the modest covering of your nightgown. You grab the green shawl that took you several months to ineptly knit and wrap it around your shoulders as a finishing touch. 

Suddenly, you hear your name softly called out in the darkness outside of the tent. A smile instantly blooms across your face at the sound of your lover’s gravelly southern drawl. You skip over the few paces to the opening and pull back the tent flap to see Arthur standing there. 

“Hey you,” you whisper in a hushed tone, careful not to wake anyone. 

Arthur nods to you in greeting, the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkling at the sight of you. “Can I come in?” he asks, his gruff voice equally as hushed as yours.

“Of course!” and you step aside, allowing his large frame to slip inside your space unnoticed by the others as you quickly close the opening behind him. 

“Change of - woa!” he exclaims, instantly distracted once he finally turns and gets a good look at you in the lamplight. His eyes dance up and down the length of your whole body, drinking you in from your beautiful hair down to your delicately slippered feet. The golden glow of the oil lamp gives you an even softer look about yourself, the orange flame flickering in your large, sparkling eyes as you look up at him. 

Arthur’s reaction catches you off-guard and you self-consciously look down at yourself, wondering what you missed or could have done to yourself so quickly. “What? What’s wrong?” Your hands immediately start to smooth over the nightgown, searching for the offending item.

“You…you look…amazing!” he stutters in wonderment. Even with his earlier new-found bravado, it still floors Arthur that someone so beautiful, so wonderful, could be waiting for the likes of him. You are a white lily flower standing in your tent, graceful and delicate. And it comes as a stark reminder of just how damn lucky he is. Arthur wonders if you truly have any idea what sort of a man you have invited into your tent. 

Astonished eyes blink back at him, speechless at his response for a moment. Your cheeks flush ruby-red and warm, and you cast your eyes down with a grin, nervously tucking that same lock behind your ear. 

Clearing his throat, Arthur shifts his weight from hip to hip and gives his head a quick shake in an attempt to refocus his train of thought. “Change of plans. Not gonna work in my tent tonight. Dutch and Molly are still awake and fightin’ again. And that usually leads to ‘other things’ as well.” He rolls his eyes. For whatever reason, the last time the gang moved, Arthur’s tent, which he usually likes to be setup away from other people, was placed closer to Dutch. There was alot going on at that time, and it was probably for Dutch’s convenience and easier access to his right-hand man. But now, it is causing a bit of a “logistics problem” for the two of you. 

“Maybe we can stay here?” Arthur poses hopefully, waving his hand towards your cot. 

You bite the inside of your lip at the thought of it. “We’re kinda close to the girls,” you worry, tilting your head in the direction of their shared tent just on the other side of yours.  “Do you think we can be that quiet?”

A laugh huffs out of his nose as a smirk creeps across Arthur’s face.“You forget, I’m used to taken care of myself that way before you came along.” He shifts his weight on his hips again as his thumbs settle confidently onto his belt. 

You raise an eyebrow at him, giving him a humored look. “Right, because only men need that,” you say with that signature hint of sarcasm before the eyeroll comes. The statement causes Arthur to look at you in surprise, not expecting such a thing from a woman. The thought of you touching yourself in the solitude of your tent at night causes a sudden rush of blood to his groin. 

“I can be quiet if you can. But history says otherwise,” he snickers.

“Hey, I’m not the only one who was making noise that night,” you remind him with a look that is equally as smug as you cross your arms over your chest.

God, you are just so fiery. You have a spark in you, a fire about you that Arthur finds so irresistible. He hopes that you never let anyone extinguish that part of yourself. A sense of pride begins to bloom through his chest, knowing that he’s the one that you’ve chosen above all others for yourself. 

Arthur steps up closer to you, placing his large, strong hands on your hips and looking down at you expectantly with that look of escalating desire as your own hands unfold from their place on your chest and float up to grace his forearms. Your fingers wrap around the lower part of his arms, your fingertips barely able to meet due to the bulk of muscle there. The feeling of his skin beneath your fingers is enough to ignite the awaiting heat in your stomach and you have to take a deep, steadying breath to calm the thundering in your chest.

“Okay fine. We can try it here,” you shyly concede. You let go of him and walk a few steps to the large trunk at the foot of your cot that Arthur and Charles had pilfered off of a robbery for you. You quietly open the lid and pull out the large winter comforter that you are saving for colder weather. Shaking it out, the thick material waves in the air, and floats down flat on the ground, making Arthur step back a few paces to make room. 

“What’s this for?” he asks as he watches you pull your blankets off your cot next. “We picnickin’ now?”

“My cot is even squeakier than yours,” you joke as you start to pull any pillows and blankets you have to lay down as well. “Any fooling around we do on that thing is sure to let others know what’s going on in here.”

As Arthur watches you fix your literal “lovenest”, a troubled look suddenly clouds his handsome, chiseled face.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?” You casually look up at him out of the corner of your eye as you get the make-shift bed ready. 

“What if it's not as good the second time around? I mean, what if the first time was a fluke?”

The hesitation is heavy on his face. That first night together in the hunting shelter was so perfect, so divine. He can’t imagine anything shattering that little slice of heaven that he’s saved for himself in his mind.

As you stand straight again, you offer him such a radiant smile. “That night was amazing, Arthur. Absolutely amazing,” you agree emphatically. “So if we are even half that good this time, it's still going to be pretty damn good.” 

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief. You’re right. Nothing is probably ever going to compare to that night. But, he’s certainly up for the challenge. 

With his mind at ease, Arthur opens his arms to you and you stride over and curl up against him. You inhale and sigh deeply, taking in the notes of leather and cigarettes mingled with his own scent. He holds you close and affectionately kisses the top of your head before lowering his chin to reach your lips with his own. His hands gently land on either side of your face, pulling you in closer for the kiss. Your own hands instinctively find their way to Arthur's ribs, fingers splayed around the mass of him to feel as much as possible before tightly fisting up the material of his shirt to pull him closer to you. You can feel the warmth of him through the fabric. You feel safe here. You feel looked-after and cared for in his arms. And this is just what you need. 

What starts as lazy kisses intensifies with that deep breathing and eventual hip pull. Arthur’s lips show no mercy as they begin to work feverishly over yours, desperate for more. And your own body betrays you as you shiver with each kiss, your knees already falling weak. 

The air fills with muffled sounds of wet kisses and quiet moans as you both try to be quiet. Your nimble fingers start to impatiently pull at the buttons of his black shirt, while his own hands are preoccupied with gripping your arms before dropping to cup the supple flesh of your rear. Layers of clothing begin to quickly become unfastened and discarded as the intimacy rapidly escalates. Restless and busy hands fumble over each other, sometimes crossing the other person’s, fighting for access to the other. 

For a second, your mind flashes back to your previous thoughts of how every moment with Arthur could be your last, and how he could be snatched from you at any time. The idea emboldens you now, making you desperate to keep Arthur to you. You reach down and cup his rapidly growing bulge over his trousers, palming it in your hand, gently squeezing and massaging. A guttural groan of yearning rumbles up from his chest as Arthur angles his hips into your hand. With your lips still locked together and panting hotly into each others’ mouths, you move to make quick work of unbuttoning his pants, pushing the fabric back to get your hand underneath.

Your palm finds Arthur’s thick cock, already half-hard from anticipation. You begin to stroke as much as the confines of his pants will allow, causing his member to twitch in your skilled hand. Your thumb rubs over his tip, already becoming wet, and he breathes hotly against your skin.

His rough hands have already tossed aside your shawl and pulled the shoulder strap of your nightgown down for full access to the soft skin of your shoulder where he has already placed hot, wet kisses and slight bite marks. Arthur pulls the fabric further down your bicep to expose your breast which he immediately clamps his mouth onto, his tongue flicking against the pebbling nipple. Your hand reaches and curls tightly into his hair as your head drops back, your mouth gaped open.You are hardly able to contain the moan that is desperate to escape your throat.

The man already has your head spinning. You’d love to see Arthur completely bare again, like you were the first time at the hunting shelter. You want nothing more than to run your hands along his massive, strong chest and arms; to feel those burly thighs of his pressed around your hips. The idea of rolling around together, completely bare and skin to skin, is so tantalizing to you both. But you are in camp this time with nothing between you two and the rest of the gang except a thin layer of canvas. Plus, you had a fire there the last time to stave off the chill air. So your clothing will need to stay on while you are in camp and you’ll have to work around it. Out of sheer impatience and modesty, you manage to get Arthur’s shirt open enough to run your warm hand over his chest and push his pants down to his thick thighs.

Without letting go of each other for a mere second, you both ungracefully lower yourselves to the ground upon the nest of blankets, lips still locked with each clumsy and impatient movement. You manage to win the dominance of the moment and push Arthur down beneath you, his back up against your cot as you twist around and swing your leg over his hip to straddle him. Your hands wrap around his face and neck, pulling him to you as your tongues wrestle over each other’s. Arthur’s hands knead the tender flesh of your sides before running up your back, clutching at the base of your neck and tightly wrapping around your waist. 

The first time you and Arthur made love together was sweet and passionate, carrying that innocent frailty of being unsure and exploratory. But this time, that seal of the unknown has been broken already. This time, it is more hot and carnal, a desperate need to replenish the high that you both have already experienced and know is lingering under the surface and waiting to be unleashed once again. 

You rock back and forth on the outlaw’s lap, rubbing yourself against his ever-hardening cock. Your mouth breathes hotly into his mouth. Arthur feels so amazing beneath you that, like an addict dependent on their drug of choice, you have to have more of him. 

It's probably indecent how much you want him, but you really don’t care. Because you know he certainly doesn’t, and that’s all that matters. And you realize that nothing is indecent as long as you’re with the right person. And that is when you lose all of yourself to the man underneath you, giving in to your desire so completely, trusting that when you fall, Arthur will be there to catch you. You squeeze his face in your hands, pulling him in to you, squishing his cheeks slightly in the process.

Arthur is constantly on your mind. Your need and craving for him, for his hands to touch you, to press yourself up against his strong body, is a persistent ache, especially after that night in the woods. It’s as if his hands left permanent fingerprints scattered across your body. You yearn for Arthur when you are apart, and when you are together, even in the most innocent of circumstances, you just want to breathe him in and convince him that you are his.

Arthur releases the hold around your waist and hastily pulls the bottom of your nightgown up around your hips. He drops his hand between you two, seeking your heat as his wrist rubs against your pelvis with your persistent rocking. With all obstructions out of the way, his thick fingers begin to rake across your folds, basting themselves in the wetness that is quickly emanating from you. 

With your face squished against his, a soft groan ushers out of your mouth as his middle finger pushes up into you. Arthur slowly pumps in and out, waking up that bundle of nerves that are nestled so gently there. When his second finger joins the first, you have to bite your lower lip at the sheer feeling of it. Your breath quickens and your hands grasp his shoulders, fingers digging into the meat of his muscles. Your eyes roll closed and you begin to grind down onto his hand as he thrusts upward at the same time, shaking his hand back and forth in stimulation. Arthur’s motions draw impassioned squeaks out of you, eventually pulling his name from your trembling lips to be whispered against his temple. His thick fingers write poetry inside of you, rubbing and curling against that perfect spot. 

Just as before, Arthur watches your face and body as he touches you. He is totally mesmerized by how someone so horrible as himself could inflict such pleasure; how hands that could do such damage could still hold something so precious as yourself. He leans forward and leaves nibbling bites along your jaw, making you even crazier with ecstasy.

Arthur holds you so tightly that all of his own anxiety melts away instantly. And he realizes that you are the key; the key to his sanity, to his well-being. His restless hands hold you like you are the missing piece to his broken soul, as if he is trying to mend you into himself. It is here with you, with you entwined in his arms, that Arthur gets to forget the ugliness of your daily lives. The stealing, the killing, the running, all of it; it's a distant thought in his mind right now. All he can focus on right now is you. 

You pull back from Arthur’s face to look him in the eye as you lift yourself up a bit onto your knees. You push his hand from your heat before wrapping your hand around his cock. You give it a couple of slow pumps, relishing the feeling of the hard, thick muscle in your hand. You line yourself up to him and slowly sink back down, allowing his size to fill you so perfectly.

Your mouth gapes and hisses at the fullness of it and Arthur lets out a faint whimper of ecstasy of his own as the two of you conjoin once again. 

Pausing only long enough to meet and hold his gaze, you begin to move atop of him. You quickly figure out that if you grind your hips in a circular motion, it rubs with the most exquisite friction. Arthur’s eyes become heavy-lidded and he lazily clunks his forehead to yours in a moment of pure weakness at the new sensation. 

You move slowly at first, clenching your muscles around his cock as you pull up and down, but you just simply can’t maintain that pace. You are hungry and burning for him, and selfishly you give in to your own needs. You build up speed, each thrust of your hips gaining more momentum. A sharp huff emanates from him as he falls forward even more to lean his forehead onto your shoulder. There, his lips bury into your soft skin and he tries to muffle his uncontrollable moans and grunts.

Arthur doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sight of you coming completely unraveled before his very eyes. He feels your trembling fingers digging into his skin and watches your face contort with pleasure as you ride him. It's a thing of such beauty, such awesomeness that he has no words to describe it. His head dips lower as his plump lips land to that sweet spot of soft skin on your chest just above your breasts. The sensitive porcelain-smooth skin reddens as his beard stubble scratches delightfully against it, setting your nerves on fire. Arthur clutches you even closer to him as you snap your hips back and forth, chasing that lightning that you know is on the horizon for you.

You begin to moan and pant even faster and louder now.  Your hand desperately grasps at him as your arm encircles his shoulders while the other one reaches behind you and pushes against his thigh to support yourself. A beautiful fog clouds your rational thinking as you get so caught up in the blissful moment.

Too caught up. 

The lines around Arthur’s eyes crinkle a bit in amusement. “You’re gonna have to try to be quieter, sweetheart,” Arthur muses. “You’re gonna get us caught.” His hand comes up to brush a few rogue strands of hair away from your eyes, before cradling your face and smashing his mouth into yours in an attempt to swallow your bewitching little sounds. But being quiet is proving to be easier said than done.

“Do you want…to stop…what we’re doing?” you ask between breaths, slightly annoyed at the light-hearted criticism.

“Hell no.” He pants out matter of factly.

“Then you try to hush it!” And you grind down especially hard to make your point. His stiff cock rams into your back wall; the tightness of your heat clenches unrelentingly around him. Arthur stifles a lustful whimper with your unexpected movement, and his head turns and eyes screw down tightly. It takes a moment for him to regain composure and he slowly opens those majestic sapphire eyes again to stare you down.

“Is that the game you wanna play, little miss?” Arthur growls out, his expression dark and lustful.

Your only response is a suggestive and taunting eyebrow lift as you continue to bop up and down, completely unaware of the beast that you have just unleashed with your salacious behavior.

In an instant, Arthur flips you from his lap to your back, causing a yelp from your throat, and he is quick to roll on top of you. His intense eyes stare you down like a predator. Those eyes alone can fill you with a need and desire like no other, even in the shadows of the night. His firm lips on your body fill you with fire, and the way he works his tongue over yours could easily make you forget your own name. 

Arthur’s grip on you is firm and solid. Not rough, exactly, but not gentle either. He comes up on his knees a bit, and forces his pants down a bit farther on his thighs to give him more flexibility to move. Large hands shove your nightgown up past your ribs. Arthur holds you exactly where he needs you to be, making it clear in unspoken terms that you are not to move. His chest heaves with hunger and you can’t take your wide and shining eyes off of him. He is magnificent. 

One of his hands hooks under one of your tender thighs and Arthur pushes it up to your chest. He holds it there with his broad chest as he leans over you, scissoring you as he wraps his free hand around his cock. When Arthur pushes his solid, heavy member into you once again, it stretches you in a whole different angle, leaving you absolutely breathless. 

He is in total control of your body now as he ruts deep and fast. The new position pulls on the back of your thigh, but it’s nothing compared to the new-found stretch inside of you. Arthur’s massive hand clamps over your mouth in an effort to muffle your moans and whimpers while he supports himself with his other hand set next to your head. Once he gets his bearings, Arthur leans forward even more as his face sinks into the side of your neck, huffing out hot, humid air onto your tingling skin. And you try so, so desperately to be quiet.

You lose all track of your senses as you are completely overwhelmed by them. Arthur is so handsome, so perfect. He is hard as lightning, yet can be as soft as candlelight. His strong, muscled body encompasses your own as he covers you. The very sight of him is enough to make you come undone if you thought about him long enough. You wrap your arms around his neck and shoulders as you angle your hips upward to meet the pounding of his as your breath races to keep up with his relentless pace.

In a brief window of clarity, Arthur makes a mental note to take you somewhere where you don’t have to be so quiet next time. He took for granted how loud you two could be, briefly forgetting how intense the first time was. He absolutely loves the sounds you make for him and he’s a bit resentful that he has to try to silence you and deny himself that simple pleasure. Your little moans and gasps make him grasp you even tighter; to push that much deeper and to squeeze that much harder as his mind is set afire. The hard ground beneath you digs into your back from his unrelenting force, even with the cushion of the blankets.

Athur relishes the way your body rocks back and forth as he rolls his hips into yours. Like a puppet, you move with each of his administrations. He can’t get over how you respond to his touch. Whether he is soft and caressing or rough and lustful, how can you be so pliable, so accepting to him?

He doesn’t last as long as the first time you were together, being too wound up with anticipation this time. But then again, neither do you with that pinnacle coming hard and fast just as before. Once again, the two of you are in perfect sync. Arthur can tell when you’ve hit your climax first, as your body spasms sharply beneath him and a euphoric yet muffled whimper escapes under his hand that is still clamped over your mouth. He can feel your calf muscle tighten sharply against his shoulder as your toes curl as the orgasm overtakes you. Then, your whole body goes limp with exhaustion, no longer able to maintain the energy to stay with him. This causes Arthur to push even faster to chase his own release. A few more greedy thrusts before he pulls his hips back, releasing his warm seed upon your abdomen with a satisfied grunt. 

When he’s sure you have control of yourself, Arthur releases his hand from your mouth, setting it next to your head, opposite his other. His head hangs exhaustedly between his shoulders as he hovers over your trembling body. Panting heavily, Arthur lowers himself to his elbows, cradling you to himself, but trying not to crush you in the process.

Once again, Arthur worries if he’s been too rough with you in his overzealous excitement. But that is quickly dispelled when you lift up to nuzzle your face into his cheek, your arms still gripping tightly around his shoulders. You pull Arthur down to lay overtop of you, eager to feel his warm skin against yours. He hums contently as he comes down from his rapturous high and his heartbeat tries to slow.

“Not gonna lie, but I could really get used to this” he mutters as he places soft kisses to the cuff of your ear and then over your eyebrow. He rolls over to his back, yet still close enough that his arm lays up against yours. You both lie next to each other panting and trying to catch your breath, staring up at the canvas ceiling of your tent. The slight burn between your legs faintly pulsates, leaving you feeling spent and your legs like jelly.

“You’re right though, we’ll have to work on being more quiet,” you giggle softly, turning your head to smile sheepishly at him. Arthur reaches down to entwine his thick fingers with your soft, delicate ones and lifts your hand to kiss them. After a moment, you reach over and grab one of your hand towels to clean yourself before handing it to Arthur and adjusting your nightgown to cover yourself again.

“I’m up for more practicin’. Just so you know,” he snickers as he wipes himself down and proceeds to pull his trousers back up around his hips. 

Arthur leans over you to toss the towel onto your cot then comes up on his side, head propped up on his hand and elbow so he can look down on you. In return, you roll on your side to face him, your arm comfortably tucked under your head as a pillow. 

“I may never leave the tent, if that’s the case,” you reply seductively.

“You’d get sick of me real quick.” 

“I don’t know, I’d find ways to entertain myself with you.” You roll even closer to him and wrap your hand around the back of his head to pull him to you and begin to playfully nibble on his ear.

Another soft chuckle bubbles its way out of his broad chest. “Miss (Y/L/N), you're makin’ me blush.” 

You draw back to see his face again. “If everyone else was unkind to you in the past, then I want to make up for that.” And you deliver a delicate kiss upon his nose.

“There’s a reason for that, ya know,” he raises an eyebrow in warning to you.  

“I’m not too worried about it.” You run your fingers through his hair and stare into his eyes, giving him the most loving smile. Arthur quietly stares into your face, his thumb drawing softly against your hip where his hand comfortably rests. 

“I can’t believe you’re real sometimes.” He kisses the pad of your thumb as you sweep it across his chapped lips as he speaks.

“I could say the same about you.” Another soft giggle leaves your lips.

“You’ll be disappointed when you find out,” he says flatly. 

It takes a moment, but your face turns into a slight frown of disapproval and your eyes catch an unhappy gleam in them. “You need to stop this, Arthur.” Getting a little exasperated, you reluctantly separate from him and his warmth and slowly sit up, leaning back against the cot. You wrap one of the blankets around yourself, drawing your knee up to your chest.

Arthur’s expression quickly turns to worry, afraid he’s already screwed something up. “I’m sorry, did I make you mad?” 

You look down as your fingers nervously play with the edge of the blanket around your shoulders. “A little. This needs to stop, Arthur. I know you’re not used to being treated kindly, but we really need to change that.” Your chin lifts again as you give him a look of slight admonishment.

His eyebrows pull together in shame. “What’s the point?” he pouts.

“What’s the-?” You rapidly blink back at him, totally flabbergasted. “Because I lo-…!” 

And you stop short in your speech, eyes widened. Your heart beats so fast and hard that you can hear it in your ears. It's too soon for you to say those three simple little words. You just got Arthur to admit he has feelings, period. You don’t want to spook him any more than you already have. So you'll have to reel this topic in for now. 

All in good time. 

“Because it hurts my heart to hear you talk about yourself like that, is all.” You quickly backpedal, tucking loose pieces of your hair behind your ear again as you avert Arthur’s gaze for a moment, hoping he missed your slip-up. Fortunately, he’s so preoccupied with your sad face that he missed the intention of what you were just about to say. 

Arthur gives you a guilty look. He never, ever wants to be the reason for any discomfort to you, even if it means he’s going to have to be kinder to himself. You are going to call Arthur out on his bull-shit; that’s something he’s going to have to get used to.

“‘M sorry.” He sits himself up now as well, set right in front of you. He gently takes your chin in between his thumb and fingers. “I’ll try. I promise.” His blue eyes look deep into your own in earnest to try to instill his words and convince you of his intention. He reaches down and takes your hand again and kisses the back of it before engulfing it with his own two in an attempt of an apology. 

“I want to show you what it’s like to be held the way you should be,” you say softly. Your other hand floats out to rest over his heart, feeling how it flutters beneath your palm. “You are nothing that I expected to find here when I first met you, Arthur. But you are quickly becoming everything that I have ever wanted. I know you think that you’re full of disappointment. But I promise you, there’s a huge part of you in there that is worth keeping.” 

Arthur stares back at you, slightly slack-jawed. His head tilts ever so slightly as if he’s about to say something, but whatever it is catches in his throat. His eyes glisten slightly from the mist gathering in the corners. Even in the golden shadows of your tent’s lamplight, you can see the crimson rise from Arthur's cheeks up to the tips of his ears as a smile slowly creeps across his handsome face before he has to avert his gaze from yours to collect himself. 

He places his hand overtop of yours on his chest, holding it there as if afraid you’ll retract your offer. Your words not only cut into him, but they nest there like a seed about to germinate and flower, blossoming into something beautiful for the whole world to see. Sometimes it’s best not to overthink, not to question too much and wonder why. Arthur just needs to stop and take a deep breath, and, as Dutch says, have faith that all will work out for the best. 

“We’re both broken, Arthur,” you breathe, your voice gentle and angelic in the quiet night. “But I think we just fit together so right. Don’t you?” Your glinting eyes burrow into him so deeply when he lifts his chin again to meet your smile. 

“God, I hope so,” he whispers.

—--------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been several days since you and Arthur have “officially” become a couple. And you are quickly settling into a comfortable routine. While you try to be discreet about the relationship and still have that jovial interaction publically, there is definitely a distinctive difference in how the two of you interact with each other. 

The shy and awkward glances and innocent flirting have given way to more assertive touching and possession. You and Arthur have always gotten on well together and everyone else could plainly see the attraction between the two of you, even when you yourselves could not. And now that it is all out in the open and acknowledged, it is as if the two of you have already been together for years. 

There is the unspoken responsibility for the other one that is always present; one that is tinged with love and respect. It’s a familiarity that usually comes with time and experience. But it is as if you and Arthur are old souls, already having been tied together since before you even met. 

They say that love has no bounds:  not time, location or circumstances can dictate how love will present itself. To have rules and restrictions is a losing battle. Like water cutting through the rocky terrain of a mountain canyon, love will cut its way through and carve out a whole new landscape for those blessed with its presence. 

Today, Arthur has just gotten back from a two-day stint out hunting for food and supplies for the gang. You wanted to go out with him, but since he was doing more than hunting, Arthur had taken Charles out instead, leaving you safely behind. It was kind of annoying at the time, but just as Arthur needs to get used to you being so nice to him, you are going to have to get used to Arthur being so protective of you. You are a precious jewel to him and he will stop at nothing to make sure that you are safe. 

Of course, the minute he’s back in camp, Arthur is called into Dutch’s tent for some damn thing. You sit at the table with some of the girls, mending one of Jack’s shirts, as your eyes follow his tired form lumbering over towards Dutch before returning your attention back to your work. Molly is sitting off to the side of you and looks up from her book as she notices Arthur’s return as well. 

“It’s about time they got back,” she mutters out loud. “Let me know when he’s done in there with Dutch. I need him to run into town for me.” She lifts her chin in Arthur’s direction.

You blink your eyes incredulously at her before a hard frown settles on your face. An irritated sigh huffs out of your mouth as you drum your fingers impatiently on the tabletop. You look at Molly and as calmly as you can, you simply utter “No”.

Molly looks at you for a moment, as if confused by your statement. 

“You’re going to have to send someone else, or wait until later when Arthur has rested up a bit.” You try your best to speak calmly yet firmly to her, as this is a subject that you are not going to yield on.

Molly’s green eyes flash at you as the irritation is clearly visible on her beautiful face. “What?!” 

“I’m sorry, what was the confusing part for you?” You tilt your head at her. “The ‘no’ or the ‘you have to wait’ part?” 

“Who the hell are you to decide anything around here?” the red-head snaps at you. “What, are you Arthur’s keeper now?”

“Apparently, because no one else around here is going to look after him. He does everything around here.” Your own voice begins to escalate as you wave your hand at the expanse of the camp. “The least you could do is give him a break between requests!” 

Tilly and Abigail look at each other nervously as they watch the exchange, not sure if they want to get caught in the middle of an impending catfight. 

At this point Arthur emerges out of Dutch’s tent and slowly makes his way through the camp, the exhaustion evident on his body. Giving Molly a quick scowl, you abruptly get up from the table and walk over to Arthur before anyone can approach him about anything else. You stop right in front of him, causing him to halt and lift his chin at you, a faint smile emerging on his face. 

“Hey you”, you say softly, smiling at him. 

“Hey”, Arthur counters. The minute he lays those blue eyes of his on you, the tension immediately begins to subside within his body.

You reach out and gently grab his gloved hand. “Come with me, please.” And you lead Arthur towards his tent. 

“Um, okay,” he replies, a bit confused. For a moment, Arthur thinks you are dragging him to his tent for some “amorous attention”, but he quickly dismisses that idea when he notices the slight irritation in your step.

Once inside his tent, you sit him down on his cot. You stand in front of him with your arms crossed over your chest, assessing his current state. “You look dead tired.” Your eyes are laced with concern.

“Yeah, I feel dead tired, too. Took me ten minutes to get down from my damn horse, I think,” he complains as he drags his hand over his haggard face that is past-due for a shave.

“Okay, then,” you insist definitively. “You stay in here, lay down and get some rest. I’ll go get you something to eat. Don't you move from this tent, understand?” you instruct as you point your finger at him. “I don’t want anyone asking you to do anything for awhile.” 

“Y/N, I appreciate that, but there’s work to be done around here.” He motions towards the camp before his hand falls limply into his lap.

“Don’t care right now,” as you are quick to shut that idea down. “Either someone else can do it for once, or it will have to wait a bit. If I have to, I’ll take care of it myself.” Your eyes are wide, with your eyebrows launched into your hairline and your body rigid.

“Okay, I guess.” Arthur smiles, pursing his lips a bit. He’s not used to someone helping him, let alone putting his needs first. He can tell by the look on your face right now that there is no arguing with you about this, either. Apparently, he’s not the only one in camp that one doesn’t want to piss off. 

Satisfied with his submission to your request, you turn and head out of the tent. Arthur just grins, shaking his head at your nonsense. His eyes cast down to his boots, half tempted to pull them off, but quickly gives up with the thought of the physical exertion of it. He takes a long, deep sigh, leaning out on his knees with his elbows, letting the stiff muscles of his back slowly unwrap themselves. He slowly wiggles his head back and forth, trying to get his neck to “crack” and release the tension sitting there. 

“Where are you going?”

Arthur hears your voice piercing through the air off in the distance and turns his head towards the commotion. He immediately notices that you’ve caught Sean trying to head over to the tent.

“I was just-” Sean sputters, pointing at Arthur’s tent.

“Nope, no. Don’t even think about it!” you snap sharply.

“Yeah, but-” the little man attempts to protest again, but you just are not having any of it. 

“I don’t care! Whatever it is that you need, go find Charles. And you keep your ass away from that tent! Understand?”

“Ugh, fine!” Sean huffs out a pout and stalks off to find Charles.

The sight makes Arthur chuckle in amusement at your protectiveness. “That’s my girl.” He lays back on his cot with a groan and closes his eyes, tossing his hat onto his chair. 

—------------------------------------

As the late afternoon breeze carries through the camp, it gently lifts a few ruby and topaz-colored leaves to skip across the cool grass. You’ve managed to keep everyone away from Arthur upon his return to camp, allowing him to rest a bit for once. After he’d eaten something, you discreetly tugged on his arm and pulled him away, wandering off to find a quiet spot. You both know it's only a matter of time before Arthur is called away from you for one thing or another, so you try to steal whatever quiet moments you can together. 

You sit peacefully under a tree at the edge of camp with Arthur’s head in your lap. Your fingertips absentmindedly curl themselves in that triangle of exposed skin between the top buttons of his union suit and shirt, playing with his chest hair. His hat is pulled over his eyes to shield them from the bright autumn sun, now starting to make its descent for the day. The sun’s rays sprinkle a peppered sunlight across your nose, gently warming your face. You read your book and hum softly to yourself until you hear Arthur’s soft snores in your lap, making you smile down at him. 

Soon, you see Hosea approaching from the side. The crunching of leaves under his worn black boots causes your head to lift in his direction. He instantly halts when he sees Arthur’s hat pulled over his eyes. You put a finger to your lips in a shushing motion. 

“He’s sleeping,” you mouth quietly. 

“Oh,” Hosea silently mouths in return. He stands there a minute, observing the tranquil scene in front of him. A certain sense of pride and even relief settles over Hosea’s chest as he observes you and Arthur together, sitting so untroubled and content. He wasn’t sure he’d ever see his adopted son so happy again. 

“Well, when he wakes up, let him know I need to see him, won’t you?” the older man whispers.

You smile and nod and Hosea quietly turns around to walk back towards the camp. 

After a few moments, Arthur’s voice murmurs “I ain’t sleepin’, you know.” His hat is still lowered, but you can catch a glimpse of his lips curling into a grin under it. 

“Shhh. I just bought you about another twenty minutes of peace and quiet. Don’t ruin it.” You lift the corner of his hat and peer under it. “And, yes you were. You were snoring.” You playfully drop the hat back onto his face resulting in a light laugh to huff out of him.

He gives himself a few more minutes of calm, but eventually, Arthur rolls himself up with a groan. He casually reaches over and grabs your thigh, tickling it and making you giggle and squirm. He’s slow to stand up, reluctant to move, as his knees make a slight popping sound. He brushes the grass off of his butt and leans over to grab your chin to kiss you on the lips and then your forehead. 

“Thanks for the nap, darlin’” He gives you a wink that makes your heart flutter in your chest. 

The smile you return is one of absolute adoration. “Anytime, cowboy.”

[magpiefngrl]

writing patterns: last lines

I love the first lines meme, but what about last lines? I find them as vital as first lines, if not more. A first line should do a lot of things (indicate POV, tone, voice) while also catching the attention of the reader and inviting them to read on. But it can be invisible, just a way into the story, and that's perfectly fine because the story is what will amaze/impress/entertain the reader.

The last line, however, is the last impression: it can be a powerful punch, or it can be underwhelming. It's the vibe, the feeling, the aftertaste that the reader will carry with her when she closes the tab/book. It doesn't do as much work as the opening, but a really strong (or really weak) last line might colour what has come before.

For this game, instead of recent fics, I decided to check my longer fics; the last line of a longer piece of work sort of carries more weight, in my mind, idk.

Rules: write the last line of your 10 longest fics. What patterns can you see, if any? Which ones are your favourites?

Something I noticed: in my longer fics, I often have a short epilogue at the end of the story. Like a post-credits scene. I'm including both last lines for pattern-seeking. Also, a while ago, I'd done a before-during-after ask thing and posted some sequels at the end of a few fics. I debated using only the original ending here, but the sequel's last line is what will stay with readers, so I added both. Finally, The Boy Who Died has a coda but it's so long I'm treating it as a chapter.

I. 9 ½ Days (drarry, E, ~70k)

(story) Harry burrowed closer to him, eyes fluttering open. ‘You’re real.’ ‘I am.’ Draco tangled their legs together. It was snug under the covers. ‘Touch me and see.’

(epilogue) Harry took his hand and together they stepped forward into the green, living wood.

II. dirtynumbangelboy (drarry, E, 39.4k)

(story) ‘Home,’ Harry says, nuzzling Draco’s hair. ‘Take us home.’

(epilogue) He wants them to look smashing at the betrothal.

III. The Miseducation of Draco Malfoy (drarry, E, ~38k)

(story) Draco decided he would be happy to spend his life making Harry laugh, and thrust in.

(epilogue) “Let’s give them something good to talk about then,” Draco suggested, and Harry smiled, bent him backwards, and gave him a proper kiss, tongue and all.

IV. The Boy Who Died (drarry, E, ~27k)

Overthrowing the regime will take a miracle, Kingsley had said in the dark Edwardian manor. Draco had smiled at that and gazed at Harry. Indeed. Which is why we’ll win.

V. The Gift (drarry, E, ~26k)

Before [Draco] casts Nox, he takes a last look at his packed trunk, and then, in the whispering night, he allows himself to dream.

VI. Hush, darling (drarry, E, 23.6k)

But Draco holds Harry tighter — and doesn’t let go.

VII. The Unquiet Grave (drarry, E, 21.5k)

Draco glanced at Harry and smiled. ‘I’ll be fine. I have a bodyguard.’

VIII. Through the Looking Glass and What Draco Found There (drarry, E, 17.5k)

(original) This world was fucked up. It had pain and grief and sick people and dead people and stupid decisions and bad hair days and fear and regret—although it didn’t have Smith in leather gear, which was something. It also had Harry Potter, who buried his face in the crook of Draco’s neck, and who liked this Draco, the Death Eater Draco, and that made everything worth it.

(sequel) ‘Pull them down yourself,’ Draco said and kissed him.

IX. The Full Monty (drarry, E, 10k)

First, he goes to the kitchen to make sure Arthur is indeed alive — he is, nibbling at some seeds on the counter — but after that, yes, he goes straight to where Potter is waiting, hopefully all soapy and wet.

X. How to Court your Husband (drarry, E, 5,5k)

(original) Their escorts maintained a discreet distance when they arrived and saw what the princes were up to, and twenty minutes later in the palace courtyard, the Fountain spurted a jet of water the likes of which had never been seen before.

(sequel) Harry smiled and stroked Draco’s face. ‘We’re in no hurry, husband.’

Patterns

JFC. I like my epilogues and codas and sequels, don't I? Lord. I don't think I'd noticed it before as clearly as I do now. This isn't even everything: I actually started a coda for The Gift a while back, and I have a half-finished sequel scene for dirtynumb in my folders. I can just never leave off. But it's true: I do love epilogues.

I end with dialogue A LOT more than I start with it. First lines, I estimated a third of them are dialogue, but a good half of the endings are.

A large majority of my endings involve kissing or cuddling or touching in some way. Love language touch anyone?

There's a fair bit of Draco glancing at Harry and smiling.

In the two fics that have a sequel scene, the original ending is, imo, vastly superior to the sequel's. Hm.

Faves

I like the epilogue ending of 9 1/2 Days; the ending of Unquiet Grave, which works better I think in context; the rather poetic ending of The Gift; the original ending of Through the Looking Glass, which, imo, perfectly captures the theme; and the original ending of How To Court Your Husband, which is hilarious in context. Several readers commented on that one.

Tagging

I'll no-pressure tag @lettersbyelise @lqtraintracks @the-starryknight @skeptiquex @etalice @coriesocks @gracerene @citrusses @lower-east-side @hogwartsfirebolt @queenofthyme @writcraft @shealwaysreads @phdmama @stripedroseandsketchpads @sixappleseeds to get the ball rolling-- and of course YOU, reading this! Feel free to tag me so I can read your last lines, I'm ever so curious x

[rottenentity]

broken crown | arthur morgan

redemption marks him like the scars of a hunted beast, noble yet weathered, as time carves its claim.

contains: introspection, self reflection, guilt, penance and what you would usually except to come out of a shitty fic about arthur morgan.

He moves through the dawn like a deer startled from the underbrush, all sinew and silence, the weight of him pressing into the earth yet leaving no mark behind. The man—if he can still be called that, for there is so little left of him—wears his penance in his shoulders, sloped beneath the burden of a life spent taking more than it ever gave. His breath steams in the frigid air, slow and heavy, curling upward like smoke from an extinguished fire.

His steps are deliberate, unhurried, as though he knows the end of the trail lies not far ahead and there’s no need to rush toward it. Each movement of his body tells a story of injury, of repair that never quite took; there’s a hitch in his gait where something once broke and healed crooked, a shiver in his hands that speaks of wounds too deep to close. The way he tilts his head, listening to the creak of the trees, suggests a man waiting for the crack of a rifle—always listening, always ready.

The air around him feels heavy, laden with the gravity of a storm yet to break. It clings to him, as if the world itself knows what he is and cannot let him go. A predator? No. That would be too simple, too clean. A predator hunts without malice, kills without remorse. He is something messier, a creature whose purpose was undone by its own hand. The blood on his skin has been scrubbed away, but the scent of it lingers, sharp and metallic, a stain that cannot be seen yet never fades.

His face is gaunt now, the hollows beneath his cheekbones deepening with each passing day. A beard cloaks the sharp angles, but it cannot hide the erosion of time, of sickness, of guilt. His eyes, though—those are the eyes of a stag caught in the sights of its pursuer, wide and wet and wild. They glint with something primal, something feral, as if he might bolt at any moment, gallop into the trees and vanish into the wilderness where no man could follow.

Yet he doesn’t. He stays. He faces the world with the quiet dignity of a beast resigned to its fate, a creature that knows the hunt is over but will not bow its head until the blade is upon its neck.

The wind pulls at him, whispering through the tatters of his coat, a garment too worn to keep out the cold but too familiar to cast aside. He wears it like a second skin, a patchwork of his own making, each tear and stitch a testament to the miles he’s traveled and the battles he’s survived. The weight of it drags at his shoulders, yet he doesn’t shed it. Like the antlers of a stag in winter, it is both a crown and a curse.

His hands are calloused, thick and rough like bark stripped from a tree. They are not the hands of a man who should cradle life, yet they do. In the crook of his arm, he carries a rabbit—its body limp and bloodless, its fur damp with the dew of an early morning hunt. He sets it down with reverence, laying it on a bed of moss as if it were an offering. To what god, what spirit, what fleeting notion of salvation, he doesn’t know. Perhaps he offers it to the earth itself, the only thing that has ever held him without judgment.

The mountains loom in the distance, jagged peaks scraping at the clouds like the ribs of some great beast long dead. He stares at them as though they are a mirror, their barren slopes reflecting his own erosion. He has climbed them before, felt their chill bite into his lungs, but now they seem insurmountable, unreachable. The effort it would take to ascend them would be his undoing. He knows this. Yet he yearns for the summit, for the thin air and the silence that comes with it.

There is a sickness in him, an unspoken thing that gnaws at his insides, hollowing him out from within. It is not a predator, but a parasite—a slow death, creeping and insidious, feeding on the marrow of his bones. He feels it in the ache of his joints, in the fire that burns low and steady in his chest, in the way his breath catches and shudders with each exhale. He does not fear it. He welcomes it.

For what is there left to fear? Not death. He has seen it too many times, met it in the eyes of men and beasts alike. He has carried it in his hands, felt its weight, smelled its stink. It is an old companion, one he neither loves nor loathes, only acknowledges.

What he fears is living. Not for himself, but for the weight of what he leaves behind. The ripples his absence will create in the lives of those who have clung to him despite his failings. He is a stag with a broken antler, a creature marked for death yet still standing, still breathing, still fighting to stay upright in a world that would see him fall.

And so he moves forward, step by step, stride by stride, the weight of the world pressing down but never breaking him. He is both beast and man, both hunter and hunted, a creature caught between life and death, forever treading the thin line that separates the two.

There is no salvation for creatures like him, no heaven or hell, only the endless expanse of the wilderness and the quiet hum of his own breath. And that is enough. It has to be.

[starlight-and-whiskey]

A Place to Rest Your Bones: Pt 15 - Arthur's Final Visit

Pt 14 Pt 16

You answered the knock on the door with a cautious hope fluttering in your chest - a hope that died a little at the sight of him standing there. Arthur looked worn in a way that made your breath catch. The dark circles beneath his eyes were deeper, his skin taking on a pallid sheen. He was breathing heavier than usual, heaved shallow breaths whistling and crackling beneath his ribs. But he still tried to offer you that familiar lopsided smile, even if it didn’t reach all the way to his eyes this time.

“Hey, darlin’” he said quietly. Even his voice sounded different now - lower, raspier, like every word cost him breath he didn’t have.

He closed the door behind him and paused just inside the threshold, taking in the surroundings with a kind of tired relief. You swallowed hard. “Are you… alright?” you asked, though something in your chest twisted, telling you you knew the answer already.

“Better for seein’ you,” he smiled softly. “Is it over?” you ventured, your voice trembling. It is for me, he thought.

His gaze flicked to the floor, then back up to yours. A flash of sadness crossed his expression, almost too quick to notice. “Almost...” he blinked heavily, looking sombre. “It’s almost over.”

“I’ve been… looking at something,” you offered, easing into a chair by the table and flicking through the stack of papers. “Ranches, land. I know I shouldn’t be looking, you said we’d be getting a boat, leaving the country. But I thought… doesn’t hurt to look, right?”

He stilled, eyebrows lifting just a fraction as he came closer, eventually setting his hat on the table’s edge before sinking into a chair. He let out a soft grunt as he settled, like the very act of sitting cost him. You slid a folded newspaper cut-out toward him, your eyes bright with earnest longing.

He picked it up, scanning the advertisement: a modest ranch for sale, nestled by rolling hills and a winding creek. The print promised good grazing and fertile soil, a peaceful life far from prying eyes. You watched him with eager eyes, waiting for a spark of excitement to bloom in his.

But Arthur’s expression didn’t shift into joy. If anything, it darkened, eyes hooding as though he was searching for words he couldn’t say. He ran his thumb over image as he wet his bottom lip, his breath hitching ever so faintly in his chest. Inside, an irrepressible ache spread through him, seeing your hope laid out so plainly, so trustingly.

He looked up at you, your face alight with a dream you’d been clinging to for so long. Guilt and pain gripped every cell of him, mind burning with the thought of all the things he’d done, all the blood spilled, the bounties, the sickness he felt burning in his lungs. And now, to see your dream - one that was so simple and kind, the life you should’ve had… could have had if not for him - was more painful than any bullet wound he’d ever taken. For a moment, Arthur tried to force a smile, but it fell short, and he swallowed hard instead.

Two words burned in his decaying lungs, words that would shatter the illusion this meagre cabin had always held for the both of you. Just say it. I’m dying. Clearing his throat, Arthur swallowed them instead.

“It’s… it’s real nice,” he finally managed, voice thick. He set the clipping aside gently.

You nodded thoughtfully, grabbing the clipping to take another look, before setting it back on the table. “It was just a thought, I mean – stupid really.”

Slowly, steadily, Arthur reached over to grasp your hand in his.

“What’s wrong?” All them things I done. All them people I killed for no damn reason. All them friends dead. His eyes slid shut for a split second, as though bracing himself. “Arthur?”

How can this hurt more?

“I’m so sorry,” he said, and the apology carried a weight you didn’t fully understand yet. His gaze flicked to yours, laced with sorrow.

“You’re scaring me.”

Just say it.

"I ain’t gonna be comin’ round too much no more."

“What?”, you chuckled incredulously, a half-smile on your lips as you watched the way his head bowed, his eyes refusing to meet yours. “I…I’m sick…” Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt your heart drop.

He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles, the way he always did when he was trying to comfort you. But this time, it was different. His touch was shaky, fragile.

"I got TB”, Arthur said softly, his voice breaking on the words. His eyes finally glanced up to meet yours.

"I’m dyin’, darlin’."

Your chest tightened, a thousand questions blooming in your mind. You forced yourself to take a breath in a futile effort to quell the panic rising up, threatening to consume you. The world had tilted beneath your feet, your stomach twisting in knots. Behind him, the cabin’s walls seemed too close, too small, your entire world shrinking as the future you’d gripped to so tightly these past decades wavered beneath the emerging shadow of something that just couldn’t be.

It wasn’t real.

Tears welled in your eyes, and you blinked them away quickly, swallowing hard. Needing something – anything - to break the suffocating silence, you pushed yourself up with a shaky chuckle, the sound hollow in your own ears. “I should get supper started,” you said briskly with a forced, painful smile.

Arthur rose with you, moving behind his seat as his hands clutched the back of the chair, knuckles white. You could feel his eyes follow you across the small space, but you refused to look at him as you turned your back, focusing on the mundane act of chopping vegetables for a dinner you’d made a thousand times before.

“Say somethin’…” Arthur said softly, voice low and pained. A plea.

You forced a thin smile, eyes fixed on the food you sliced with methodical precision. “Got a buck the other day,” you said, voice trembling in forced cheer. “Just like you taught me, remember? Bam - right between its eyes. Butchered it just like you showed me too.”

Arthur shifted, and you heard the chair creak under his weight. “Darlin’…”. His voice broke, like the word physically hurt him to say.

Your grin wavered, your knife moving too quickly. “It’ll feed me for a month, by any reckoning,” you continued, swallowing against the dryness in your throat. You concentrated on each movement of the blade, desperate for a normalcy you couldn’t find in the cavern that had opened in your chest.

It’s not real.

His heart clenched at your hollow, rambling words, as he waited for you to break. To cry, to scream, to do something besides put on this charade. The silence thickened around you, pressing in on all sides.

“Maybe tomorrow we could—ah!” You slipped, nicking your finger, and a sharp sting jolted you. “Dammit…” you breathed shakily, pain and pent-up emotion flaring simultaneously as you watched the small bubble of crimson blossom on your fingertip. The heat in your eyes became too much. The chasm opening in your chest, overwhelming you. “God damnit… God - fuckin’ – damnit!” The shout felt like it had come from someone else, unexpected and without warning as your voice cracked and trembled, seizing the nearest plate and flinging it off the counter with a force he hadn’t anticipated. The shattering echoed across the wooden walls. Ceramic shards skittered across the floorboards. Arthur flinched.

You hung your head and splayed your hands on the counter-top, tears streaking your cheeks as a ragged sob tore from your throat. All at once, Arthur’s arms came around you in a rush, his warm chest solid against your trembling back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered near your ear, chin tucked against your neck so tenderly that your defences crumbled altogether. The pain was thick in the warm puff of his breath against your skin, regret swimming in his voice - an ocean’s worth.

You sniffled against your hitching breath, desperately trying to force air into your burning lungs, but it was no use; the tears burst free, hot and unrelenting, choking you. Arthur turned you gently in his arms, one broad palm resting at your back while the other cupped the nape of your neck, and you willingly buried your face against his chest. His heartbeat pounded steadily beneath your ear, as he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

For a long moment, you let him hold you like that - clinging to the withering strength of his shoulder, hands scrabbling at the back of his shirt as though you might anchor yourself, leaving smears of blood against the fabric.

You weren’t sure when Arthur had guided you to the table, pressing you gently into a chair as he fetched bandages. You couldn’t place just when he’d crouched before you, reaching for your pliant hand, turning it over to rest it on his knee.

You felt nothing and everything all at once. Numb. Hollow. Lost.

Arthur’s lips pressed into a tight line as he wound the bandage slowly around your wounded finger, the calloused pads of his fingertips brushing against your palm, your fingers, the pulse at your wrist.

Every now and then he glanced up, his gaze laden with worry. You caught his eyes each time through blurring tears, desperately forcing your mind to sear the image of him into your memory. You felt your chest tighten again, threatened by a fresh wave of tears.

“Sorry,” you whispered, even though you weren’t quite sure what for. For the broken plate, for the yelling, for him... Likely all of it.

“Don’t be sorry,” he smiled sadly, the words gentle and raw and rasping against his throat.

Arthur’s breath caught suddenly, an abrupt, choking sound that jerked his shoulders back and made your stomach clench. You glanced up sharply, alarmed by the way he seemed to fight for air, each intake catching in his throat, each exhale crackling painfully against his ribs.

The rasp was jarring—wet and ragged, as though his lungs refused to expand. He forced one cough into his fist, then another, his gaze losing focus for a moment.

“Arthur?” you breathed, heart pounding as panic flooded your veins. You tried to steady him, fingers gripping into his bicep, but he shook his head, raising a trembling palm to stave off your worry. “’M’fine,” he rasped in a thin whisper, forcing his mouth to form words through shallow breaths. “Jus’… give me a minute.” Spots danced on the periphery of his vision.

Sliding from your chair, you knelt beside him on the floor, a hand rubbing gently on his back.

But the coughing didn’t stop. Didn’t ease.

And then your horrified eyes caught the slick of scarlet spittle staining his lips, standing stark against the paleness of his face - the little colour he’d had when he arrived already draining away. The lines of his brow furrowed deeper, the cords of his neck standing proud as he struggled, each desperate wheeze rattling in his chest, air painfully refusing to fill his lungs.

Arthur’s eyes rolled upward in a hazy surrender, and he toppled, crumpling with a hard exhale. A heavy scrape of wood on wood echoed as he grabbed the chair, only for it to topple with him. Time slowed. Your hand found the back of his head, preventing it from hitting the floorboards. Consciousness slipped away.

***

Arthur surfaced from the haze slowly, as though crawling from a deep, dark pit. The dull burn in his chest was familiar, the aching. Yet for a moment, he couldn’t place where he was. Blinking hard, he tried to banish the dizziness swirling in his head, noticing only then the soft weight of a damp cloth pressed against his forehead. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt raw, his mouth parched and tasting faintly of iron. A low groan slipped from him.

“Hey,” a soft voice cut through the haze. Your voice. He twisted his neck to the source of it, pulling his gaze from the cracked beams of the ceiling.

He blinked, eyes stinging as he forced them open. The low lamplight wavered, painting the small bedroom in gentle gold. Thick blankets had been pulled up over him, and the vague scent of herbs lingered in the air. Slowly, he turned his head to see you perched on the edge of the mattress, one hand holding the cloth to his brow, the other curled around his. With a long, slow blink, Arthur gently squeezed your hand.

Hair fallen in loose curls around your shoulders, your soft skin against his, your lip caught between your teeth - it was a sight he would never get used to.

When your eyes met his, relief flickered across your face, loosening the tension in your jaw.

He swallowed, wincing at the fire that flared in his throat.  “What… happened?” he rasped, voice too raw, too thin.

“You passed out,” you said softly, noticing the way he moaned softly as you dabbed the sweat from the hollow of his throat.

“Shit…” he muttered under his breath, grimacing at the aching tug at his ribs and rolling his eyes in quiet frustration, glancing around to confirm that yes, he was in your bed. The blankets you’d mended, the pillow with its faded embroidery - these small domestic details clashing with the ache in his chest, anchoring him in the fading haze that clung to him. “How’d I get here?”

“You came to. Sort of,” you explained, setting aside the cloth and reaching for a nearby cup of water. “You were pretty out of it, but… well, I managed to get you to bed.”

Arthur grimaced, though the corners of his mouth twitched in a fleeting, self-deprecating smile. “Sorry,” he murmured.

You shook your head, your lips pressed together as if not trusting yourself to speak, afraid that you’d betray the raw fear simmering just beneath the surface. “Here,” you whispered instead, offering the cup to him. “Drink. Slowly.”

You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as, with effort, he pushed himself upright with a shaky breath, wincing as a surge of pain scorched his lungs. Still, he took the cup with a trembling hand, pressing it to chapped lips. The first sip felt like heaven against his parched throat.

You reached out, fingertips grazing his temple, like you couldn’t help checking him - making sure he was still here, still breathing. In the tender light, he found your eyes again, and the naked concern there made his chest tighten from something other than sickness.

Arthur noticed the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, the way you tried to hide them by turning your face away. With a soft sigh, he lifted one arm and opened it, a silent invitation. “C’mere,” he said gently, voice rasping but warm.

You shifted, heart clenching in your chest, and gingerly crawled into bed beside him, the mattress dipped beneath your weight. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, and you settled your head against the solid plane of his chest. In the hush of the cabin, you could hear every laboured rise and fall of his breathing - like a metronome, steady, even if tinged with the faint thrum of crackling.

“It’s real bad, huh?” you asked, your voice small, almost childlike in its vulnerability.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly, his chin dipping so his breath stirred the top of your hair. His fingers began tracing light circles along your arm, a soothing pattern that threatened to unravel the knot inside your stomach.

You swallowed hard, throat tightening on the question you already half-knew the answer to. “How long?”

There was a silence, filled only by the rustle of the blanket as he shifted his weight. You felt him drag in a breath. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly, resignation heavy in each syllable. “Not long.”

Your eyes stung, and you bit your lip, desperate to keep from sobbing. Memories bloomed unbidden, swirling and melding - yearning nights waiting at a window, the joyous rush of his presence every time he returned, and all the moments in between, patched together by stolen letters and whispered confessions. Lemon candies and whiskey kisses. All that wasted time. You remembered stitching bullets wounds and soothing bruises away. Every new scar another close call, but this… this was different.

There was no bullet to pry out this time.

Tears prickled behind your eyes. You forced them back, but it was no use, and a tremor passed through you. Arthur felt it, his arms tightening around you as though trying to ease your trembling from the outside in. You bit your lip, eyes squeezed shut, breathing in the scent of him—a mix of worn leather and campfire smoke, and something else entirely Arthur. You wanted to memorise it, commit it to memory. In the silence, his breath rattled softly beneath your ear, a frightening fragility in the bones that once seemed so unbreakable.

He turned his head slightly, lips pressing against the crown of your hair in a gesture that spoke more than words. You shuddered, a single tear slipping free. In that moment, you felt the weight of every stolen dream you’d had - ranches, safety, a future together - teetering on the brink of impossibility, and sniffled back the sob that threatened to burst from your throat.

The two of you lay there in silence for what felt like hours, your soft, uneven breaths mingling with the faint hush of the night beyond the walls. You had cried yourself nearly dry, your eyes bleary and swollen, dried tear tracks tight against your skin.

After what felt like hours of your racing thoughts chasing themselves into knots, you whispered more to the air than to Arthur, your voice barely audible, “There’s this new saloon in town. Maybe next time we-”

He cut you off gently, voice rough at the edges. “Darlin’…”

You closed your eyes, tears burning behind them again. The single word felt like a physical blow in your gut. The weight of what wasn’t being said bore down on you, crushing in its finality. “Right,” you breathed, pressing your lips together. “No more next times, right?”

Arthur’s muscles stiffened a fraction beneath you. “’Fraid so.” The quiet that followed pressed down like a lead blanket. You sniffled, biting the inside of your cheek as you fought against the sob building in your throat. “I’m not ready…” you whispered, your voice trembling, “I’m not ready to not have you in my life.”

Arthur’s swallowed thickly, his rough hand cradling the back of your head as though holding you together. “You’ll be alright”, he murmured, though his voice carried the strain of a man trying to convince himself as much as you, his free hand swiftly scrubbing away unbidden tears from his own eyes before they could fall. “No”, you said quietly. Arthur’s arms loosened a little and you felt him twist to look down at you, eyes bloodshot and watery. “No, you ain’t gonna die”, you said firmly, fingertips tracing the curve of his chest. “We can find someone. A doctor. A clinic. I… I read about ’em. Places up North. Places that can help.”

Arthur’s breath caught in his chest, and he shook his head gently, the sadness in his eyes cutting deeper than any wound. His hand pressed tenderly against your hip, as if trying to calm the flurry of your desperation. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, a trace of regret in every syllable, “I seen a doctor. Ain’t no curin’ it. Ain’t no fixin’ this.”

The words hung in the air, stark and irrevocable. Your heart hammered as you grappled for a contradiction, but the bleak certainty in his gaze told you all you needed to know. It tore at you, making your throat tighten until you could barely inhale. You lay still in the quiet dark. The sound of Arthur’s uneven breathing seemed to echo from every wall. Every so often, he’d let out a sigh or shift his arm to a more comfortable angle around your waist, but otherwise, neither of you spoke. It felt as though words had all run dry, leaving only the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. A long pause stretched between you - so long that you wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But when you lifted your head, you found his eyes open, fixed somewhere in the shadows on the ceiling. You swallowed the ache in your throat, biting back a surge of helplessness. “So, you’re gonna die,” you said, voice trembling with the starkness of it.

He tensed briefly, swallowing hard. “Yeah, darlin’.” 

You swallowed, your throat tight as you edged closer, feeling the slight tremor in his chest against your own. “Are you scared?” you whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer.

He drew in a sharp breath, and for a moment his lips pressed into a thin, grim line. “No,” he answered stiffly, the single syllable clipped and unconvincing. But the set of his jaw, the tremble in his lower lip, betrayed him. He sucked in that lip, as if trying to trap the unspoken truths from escaping, and his gaze flicked away, tears threatening. Nervous fingertips kneaded at the flesh of your waist, tracing your ribs with a reverence he only held for you, before settling again at your hip. When he spoke again, it was quieter, weighted by honesty. “Yes,” he admitted, voice trembling as he forced the confession. “I’m… I’m afraid.”

Your heart twisted. Without thinking, you reached up, brushing a hand against his cheek. His eyes closed briefly, and you felt the faint shudder in his breath. This simple admission seemed to open something in him, and for a moment you both lay there, raw and vulnerable, letting the reality settle.

Your tears pricked again at your lashes, but you kept them at bay, pressing your forehead gently against his cheek. “Arthur,” you breathed against his skin, as if repeating his name would keep him with you for eternity. 

He didn’t answer, only exhaled shakily and shifted onto his side, enveloping you fully in his arms as though trying to hold on to a life slipping through his fingers.

You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment sleep claimed you - only that Arthur’s warmth had anchored you there against the burning in your eyes and the throbbing in your skull, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your back, the weight of his fingertips brushing your skin filled with every unspoken promise he could no longer make.

***

Morning came without ceremony. A dull, pale light slipped beneath the curtains, stirring you from a fitful doze. You blinked groggily, limbs protesting as you stretched beneath the covers, an arm reaching out to find the solid warmth of Arthur dozing beside you. But the space beside you was cool and empty.

You rose from the bed on shaky legs, the ache in your chest still fresh from the sight of empty sheets. Every creak of the old floorboards set your nerves on edge, bracing you for the hollow stillness of an empty cabin. But when you stepped into the small kitchen, your breath caught at the sight of Arthur, standing there with the morning light skimming his shoulders. That blue shirt and black neckerchief. 

He was at the counter, pouring coffee into two tin mugs. For a moment, he glanced your way, an unreadable flicker crossing his face—relief, perhaps, or regret. Or both.

“I thought you’d gone,” you said quietly, voice trembling from a mix of exhaustion and unspent tears.

He paused, lips pressed into a thin line as he set the coffeepot aside. “No,” he murmured, handing you a mug. “But I gotta soon.”

A deep ache wrung your heart. You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding and moved to the counter, your fingers curling around the cup’s warmth. You lifted it to your lips, sipping slowly, letting the bitterness of the coffee cut through the hollow feeling in your chest before setting it aside.

“You don't gotta go,” you managed, eyes searching his face for any sign of reconsideration.

His shoulders stiffened. “Yeah, I do,” he said softly.

You shook your head. “I never asked you before. But you could stay,” you whispered, your voice fighting that edge of desperation threatening to break through.

A muscle in his jaw tensed. “Don’t ask me that,” he said thickly, picking at a chip in the old countertop’s edge, gaze sliding away from yours.

“Why not?” you pushed, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your hand found his waist, the thick muscle you remembered now waning in sickness. “Why can’t you just… stay?”

Arthur turned toward you then, his eyes weighted with sorrow. Reaching up, he brushed a tear from your cheek, the familiar roughness of his thumb making you shiver. “’Cause I just might,” he answered, so quiet you nearly missed it.

“Then stay,” you whispered, swallowing the thickness sticking behind your teeth. “Arthur, please.”

Arthur sighed softly, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “I can’t.”

“I could take care of you.”

“And watch me wither away?” he said with a sad smile and a hollow chuckle, his thoughts drifting back to you tending your momma in her last days. How back then you’d had Dutch and Hosea to help bury her by the blossoming trees, the reverend to say a prayer, Arthur to lean on. When he died, as he inevitably would, there would be no one there for you this time. There was no one left. “No.”

You paused for a moment before nodding defiantly. “Then, I’m coming with you.”

Arthur stiffened, his eyes flicking over your face as though searching for some sign he might have heard you wrong. “No,” he said evenly, “you ain’t.”

“I’m not leaving you,” you insisted, voice trembling with fierce determination.

“Ain’t we had this exact conversation before?” Arthur shook his head, a weary attempt at a wry smile ghosting across his features. But it faded the moment he caught the grief in your eyes.

“You weren’t…” Your voice trailed off, the word dying lodging in your throat, refusal choking it off. You sniffed, nodding briskly and setting your jaw before managing to look back at him. “You weren’t sick before.”

“Darlin’,” he sighed, “that whole business… it was bad before. It’s worse now. Dutch is talkin’ real strange, Micah’s drippin’ poison in his ear, leavin’ John to rot in prison, killin’ folk for no good reason. It’s all such a goddamn mess.”

You swallowed hard, forcing steadiness you didn’t quite feel. “What if I talk to him? I know Dutch-”

Arthur shook his head, cutting you off gently. “It don’t matter. He just don’t care no more. Not about the gang, not about us.” He paused, hands finding yours, squeezing them in a sad, desperate plea for understanding. “He left me for dead,” he said quietly, the words catching. “I got pinned down, gun on me, and he was right there. I was yellin’ at him to help, and he just… turned tail and walked away. He left me to die.”

Disbelief tore through you. “He wouldn’t… Arthur, he couldn’t.”

Arthur’s eyes lifted to meet yours, crinkled with regret and sorrow. “I didn’t wanna believe it neither,” he whispered, voice tight. “But he did it. That’s Dutch now. Ain’t no talkin’ him into seein’ sense.”

The weight of his words crushed the air from your lungs. You stared at him, your mind reeling as you tried to process it all. The man Arthur had followed, believed in, for so long. The man who’d brought you dresses and lemon candies, who you’d trusted implicitly.

“It’s over, darlin’. All of it. The gang, Dutch… whatever we thought we were fightin’ for. It’s gone”, Arthur’s grip on your hands tightened slightly, grounding you as he fixed his eyes on yours, brow furrowed. “And them folks that’s left, they’re in danger if I don’t go back. The women. Jack. I gotta get them safe. Might be the last good thing I can do.”

A suffocating hush blanketed the cabin, broken only by the tremor in your breath and the soft creak of the wooden floorboards as you stepped away to the table, where his hat lay abandoned. Hesitantly, you lifted it, turning it slowly in your hands like some treasured relic, the worn brim familiar beneath your fingers and the stark memory of how it had once buried him etched in your mind's eye. You traced every stitch, your heart pounding with the weight of what you both knew: this was goodbye.

Your eyes flicked to Arthur, your heart squeezing painfully at the sight of him. So different and yet so achingly the same—the dark hollows under his eyes, the sun-scorched patches on his cheeks, the slump of his weary shoulders. There was something in the way he stood, the subtle unsteadiness of his stance, that revealed just how fragile he truly was. And yet, beneath that, there was still the quiet, gentle strength that had always drawn you in. The flicker of the man you’d known for so long.

You couldn’t tear your gaze from him, committing every shadow and line of his face to memory. The ragged edges of his hair curled around his ears, the new hollowness in his cheeks only making the sullen intensity of his eyes more arresting. You noted every tremble in his chest, every subtle crease in his brow, praying you’d never forget. He was etched with exhaustion, with pain, but still somehow, he was Arthur - steady, steadfast, and heartbreakingly familiar.

A sad smile crept over your lips as you found yourself standing on tiptoe, placing the hat gently on his head. Your hand lingered for a moment, the brim brushing against your knuckles. Then you leaned in, pressing a soft, trembling kiss to his stubbled cheek. You felt him stiffen slightly, then exhale a shaky breath that warmed your skin.

“You’re a good man, Arthur,” you whispered, stepping back just enough to look into those pools of azure for what may be the final time.

His jaw flexed, the lines around his mouth deepening in well-worn self-deprecation. “Ain’t much o’ that,” he muttered, eyes flicking downward, as though he couldn’t stand to have you see the shame behind them, the weight of all he’d committed and waited far too long to regret.

“Yeah”, you insisted, your voice wavering with unshed tears, “you are.”

He held your gaze a long moment, a thousand words sticking in his ribs. He was leaving - truly leaving this time - and there was nothing either of you could do to change the course set in motion by so many tragedies and betrayals. Your heart felt like it was splitting at the seams as you looked at him - the final image you’d keep if you never laid eyes on him again. The same realisation gnawed at Arthur’s bones too, burrowing into his skin, just as you had that autumn evening decades ago. 18 years old and in a new blue dress. Almost twenty years later, he’d never quite managed to work free the splinter of longing you’d lodged in him. Except now he just ached with the things that would never be again. The thought that he’d never again ride up that path and feel your beaming smile as he dipped to kiss your cheek in greeting on the porch steps. Never know the warmth of your body pressed against him in the night, a leg slotted between his thighs. Never feel the teenage thrumming of his heart resurface as he watched you undress through the reflection of the mirror, your supple skin illuminated by a lamplight’s glow.

“Thank you,” you managed, voice trembling. “For our little life, Arthur. It ain’t always been perfect, but it—”

Your words faltered in a gasp as he moved, his hand wrapping firmly around the back of your neck, pulling you close. Arthur dipped his head in one smooth, urgent motion, and his mouth found yours in a kiss that was fierce and desperate, tasting of grief and apology and reverence all at once. It left you breathless, your eyes fluttering shut as his arm banded around your waist, pressing you chest to chest.

The hard brim of his hat nudged your temple as he angled closer, but you barely felt it, your senses consumed by him - his warmth, the subtle shake in his limbs, the scratch of his chin against your jaw.

“I love you,” Arthur panted desperately against your lips as he pulled away a fraction. “I ain’t always said it. But I always have. All these goddamn years.”

Tears slipped from the corner of your eyes as you lifted one hand to stroke his cheek, your other splaying fingers over the dip of his back. “I love you too,” you whispered between fervent kisses. The words trembled from your tongue, a confession long etched into your very ribs, yet never quite given voice enough.

A single tear escaped him, sliding down the pallid, weary plane of his cheek. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath hitching.   “I should’a run away with you,” he said, voice shaking. “First damn chance I had.”

His words broke you, and you let out a soft, heart-wrenching sob, your arm tightening around his neck. You wanted to stay in that embrace forever, the reality of his life outside your door – the gang – the Pinkerton’s – Dutch van der Linde himself - be damned.

He stepped away slowly and scrubbed his face, almost as if something inside him broke at every inch of distance that stretched between you, and you hesitantly walked him to the threshold, your feet dragging like lead boots. For a moment, his hat cast a shadow over half his face, the morning light stretching across the cabin floor in dusty beams. He glanced around at the only real home he ever really knew. At the worn furniture, the gentle slope of the windowsill, the quiet corners and the rug beside the fireplace, like a man determined to sear this final image into his mind.

At the porch, he paused, shoulders sagged under the weight of a farewell that had no pretty words. His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling as if resisting the urge to reach out one more time. He swallowed audibly, the motion tightening the muscles in his throat.

You stood frozen in the doorway, your breath caught in your chest, eyes swimming with the tears you tried to hold back. Every soft creak of the floorboards, every scuff of his boot on wood, felt like a clock ticking down to a final second you weren’t ready to face. A moment that had come far to swiftly for either of you.

Arthur lingered at the threshold, half-turned toward you in that last moment. When he lifted his gaze, he caught yours, and the ache in his expression stole the air from your very lungs. You opened your mouth, desperate to speak, but no words came.

But he knew you too well, and a broken smile touched his lips. Carefully, he took his hat from his head, stooping to press a soft kiss to your cheek, just as he had that very first time, though the stubble was thicker now as it scratched your jaw. “Bye, darlin’.”

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter Eighteen: To Sow the Fields Next Chapter: Nineteen Summary: Now that the Morgans are restored as they should be, Arthur and Kit must decide how they plan to leave, and who might want to go with them. And Kit, being her thoughtful self, wants to plant the seeds. Word Count: ~9,600 Warnings: Mature themes, language, innuendo

After putting your clothes back on, Arthur’s mouth follows yours to the door. Relishing in the last few seconds, you have to push him off before closing his bedroom door in his face. Turning around, you walk carefully to the stairs. About halfway down, you begin to wish that you had just escaped from Arthur’s balcony instead, but it is too late now, not to mention that if you were to return back to Arthur, he might not let you leave his sights.

You reach the bottom of the stairs and just as you reach for the door, you hear a soft voice speak to you.

“Oh, you’re back.”

You freeze in your stride, turning to see Molly, sitting in the corner of the room, looking out the window. Even before the gang had moved to Shady Belle, Molly had been a sullen shadow. Arthur told you about the fights that she and Dutch have had, and now she spends most of her time rambling to herself and not engaging with anyone.

You pity her. You remember Annabelle, and with only the pieces that Arthur has filled you in on, you know that Dutch’s feelings towards Molly fail in comparison. It isn’t her fault.

You take a step towards her, your heart twisting with empathy. “Molly,” you say softly, careful not to startle her further into her solitude. “I just got back last night. I escaped Saint Denis.”

She looks up at you, her eyes a mixture of surprise and cautions relief. It’s clear that she has been worried about something, maybe even you. “Escaped?” Her voice has a trembling note to it, like the strings of a fiddle stretched too tight.

You nod, stepping closer toward her as she sits on the floor, the wooden floorboards creaking, even under your weight. "It was chaotic," you confess, keeping your voice low so as not to wake up anyone else. “I wouldn’t recommend going to any of the mayor’s parties.” You try to make a joke, but it seems to fall flat.

“I used to love balls,” she admits, hugging her knees as she brings them to her chest. “My Da would spare no expense back in Ireland.” Molly's eyes momentarily brighten with the reflection of nostalgia, but just as quickly, they dim again, her gaze falling to the lace of her dress. "But that's all gone now." Her voice carries a tinge of bitterness, mingled with resignation.

You reach out, bending down and placing a hand gently over hers. “That doesn’t mean they can’t ever happen again.”

She scoffs bitterly at your words. “Not in this place.”

You think about taking a risk and suggest she leave. Maybe if not with you, but on her own. She’s young, she’s beautiful, and there has to be a way for her to find safety elsewhere. It is clear that she’s unhappy here.

You squeeze her hand once and wait for her eyes to meet yours. “Then maybe it isn’t here, but somewhere else.”

Your words seem to weigh heavily on her, stirring something in the depth of her melancholic eyes that sparks a glimmer of possibility, however faint. She stares at you for a long, silent moment, as if trying to decipher whether hope is merely an illusion or a tangible thing she can grasp.

And you rise back up, and turn to head outside.

Everything is quiet and still outside, the sun rising. You need to establish a story of how you got back here, and so you make quick steps towards the outskirts of camp. You pass the bridge of the dried-up moat, and instead of continuing on, you stop to see your horses.

First, you go to meet Odliv. As you approach, she turns her large head toward you, her eyes a soft pool of recognition and warmth. The sight of her brings a small comfort to your troubled heart. You reach out, your fingers trembling slightly as they brush through her silken mane, feeling the solidity of her presence grounding.

“I missed you, Odliv,” you say softly. “I hope you haven’t been giving Kieran a hard time.”

She tosses her head, as though shaking her head no.

You give her a good pat. “I didn’t think so.” Looking around her, you see the shire mare that you had stolen from the Grays, her gentle eyes watching you. You really haven’t had the time to bond with her, and you can only hope that it isn’t too late to start now. 

Your hands move to the mare's broad neck, running over her glossy coat. Her muscle ripples softly under your touch, and she seems to lean into your hand. "Guess we'll need to find a name for you, won't we?" you murmur, wondering why such a task feels so monumental now. It's as if every simple decision branches into thousands, each laden with the weight of your past and the uncertainty of your future.

You take a deep breath, the warm morning air filling your lungs, mingling with the scent of horse and the earthy dampness that heralds the start of a new day. The sun's rays begin to peek through the trees surrounding Shady Belle, and in it, a proverb you remember your mother saying, speaks in your mind.

Ráno je moudřejší než večer.

“The morning is wiser than the evening,” you say softly with a smile. Looking at the shire mare and her dark coat, you think you have a new name for her. “I’ll call you Večer,” you say to her. “You will be my evening, my solace after a long day.”

As you linger with Večer, your mind wanders back to the days before. Days filled with laughter and whispers under starlit skies, conversations punctuated by the soft nickers of curious horses. You remember how Arthur would often join you among them, how his presence seemed to both unsettle and anchor you at the same time. Those were the times when life was a blend of shadows and light, of peril and promise.

You remember one evening in particular, the air crisp and the campfire crackling its own secrets as the two of you sat close, but not too close—the unspoken rule of stolen moments. Arthur had been talking softly, recounting a tale from one of the jobs he pulled back when he first joined the gang. His words were rough around the edges, but his voice carried a warmth that felt like a blanket wrapped around you in the cold night.

"You know, Kit, it ain't always about the big scores or the guns blazin'," he says, looking into the fire but his thoughts clearly somewhere distant. "Sometimes, it's about the quiet moments in between...like this one right here." His hand gestures subtly between the two of you, a small smile playing on his lips.

You smile, and just in the deeper part of the camp, you can hear Abigail humming softly, lulling her little boy to sleep. It is such a contrast to working for the gang, pulling cons and taking names, fleeing from bounties inflicted on those you ride with.

Your eyes drift to Arthur's face, illuminated by the flickering orange light, shadows dancing across his strong features. The world seems to slow down, the crackling fire the only sound filling the silence between you. You hadn't realized how much you needed this tranquility, a reprieve from the chaos that had become your life.

“I agree…” And while your hands are resting beside each other you subtly link your pinky with his, letting the small touch linger just long enough for him to notice but not long enough to make a spectacle of it. His eyes flicker down, a hint of surprise and something tender in his gaze before he looks back at the fire. The action speaks in volumes what words can't quite capture—the mutual acknowledgment of something deeper, something that you both have vowed to keep secret and not dare risk expressing out loud.

“Kitka…?”

You hear someone call out to you softly and so you step away from Večer to look around her.

And there, coming back into camp, is Kieran and Mary Beth.

What were they doing at this hour? The sight of Kieran and Mary Beth walking back into camp at such an early hour sends a prickle of curiosity up your spine. The early morning usually brings rest or grumbled moans of risers, not quiet rendezvous between those you wouldn't expect. Kieran catches your gaze first, his expression sheepish as if caught in an act yet to be understood. But then you see a fishing pole in his hand, and Mary Beth holds up a string of freshly caught fish, her cheeks flushed from the cold or perhaps the thrill of their secret escapade. 

"Thought we'd surprise everyone with breakfast this morning,” she says, her voice lilting with a mix of mischief and pride. “But I am more happy to see you here!” She turns to hand Kieran the string before hurrying over to you, slowing her steps as she approaches to avoid scaring your horses. “Dutch said you were on a job and you wouldn’t be back for a while.”

Your brow furrows. “A while?”

She nods, and sensing your confusion, her smile fades. “Yes, he did. Did it not work out?”

Your mind races, evaluating Mary Beth’s words against what you knew to be true. It was never the plan for you to be gone for a long time. The plan was for you to get out of there as soon as Bronte was satisfied. It unsettles you, the discrepancy between what was said and what is.

Troubled thoughts begin circling in your head like vultures around prey, but you see the look in Mary Beth’s eyes. You don’t want to worry her, but you don’t want to lie to her.

You shake your head. “It didn’t work out the way Dutch had planned it, but that doesn’t mean it failed.”

She blinks. “What do you mean?”

You had just tried to plant a seed in Molly’s mind for her to leave this place and now you are faced again with another temptation to do the same with Mary Beth and Kieran. If Dutch is lying about simple things like the plans with Bronte, what else has he lied about?

You swallow thickly, trying to think of the best way to tell her. “Bronte is not who we thought he was. He was worse.”

Mary Beth's eyebrows draw together in concern, her features tightening. "Worse? How so?" she asks, her voice dropping to a hushed tone that barely breaks the quiet of the night. Her gaze flits to Kieran who has since approached and stood by, fishing pole and string still in hand, looking equally puzzled and anxious.

You sigh. “He tried to kill me, Mary Beth.” And as she gasps softly you hold out your hands. “But don’t worry. He won’t be a threat to any of us anymore.” Your words hang in the air, heavy like the fog settling around the camp.

Mary Beth clutches her chest, a look of horror etching across her face.

Kieran's jaw tightens, his eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and understanding that no person should harbor. "Kitka, what... what happened?"

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter now, what matters is that Dutch isn’t finished in Saint Denis, and I have a feeling that though Bronte is dead, the threat will still linger. A viper’s bite is still venomous, even if the head is cut off.”

You watch as both Mary Beth and Kieran digest your words, the weight of the situation pressing down upon their shoulders. The unease clings to the air like a damp cloth, and you feel it seeping into your bones. You know that confiding in them risks unsettling their spirits further, but secrets in this gang are often more dangerous than the truth.

Mary Beth takes a deep breath, steadying herself against the uncertainty that ripples through her expression. "If what Dutch is doing is dangerous, what are you going to do?" Her voice trembles slightly, revealing the fear that underpins her question.

You look at her, then at Kieran. “Me?”

Mary Beth shrugs. “Well…you and Hosea always came up with good ideas. And Arthur…he always has a way to sort things out when they go sideways.” Her eyes flicker with a trace of hope, a spark that fights against the encroaching shadows.

You look at Večer, trying to let your mind focus on what the next step would be. Well, you know what it is, but you need to talk to Arthur about it more. You’ve said too much already.

You meet Mary Beth’s eyes again. “I don’t know…but just…be careful. Keep your eyes open, especially when you leave camp.”

Mary Beth looks at Kieran and then back at you. “We…we did hear something while we had gone fishing. Like someone was following us.”

Kieran nods. “It was Mary Beth who noticed. She cut our fishin’ trip short because of it.” And after seeing your expression he holds up his hand with the fishing pole. “W-we lost ‘em in the trees! Promise! We took a long way around back to camp.”

You then shift the conversation, grinning slyly. “So, what would you have done when there was no more fish to catch, hmm?”

Kieran’s face turns beet red, and he clears his throat. “Oh—I…erm…”

Mary Beth, on the other hand, quickly avoids your gaze, pulling her shawl up tight around her neck as she quickens her pace toward her tent.

Kieran takes this as his cue to leave and with a polite nod, he hurries into camp to deliver the fish to Pearson’s wagon.

You shake your head, smiling faintly at their hurried departures. Young love in the midst of turmoil always had a way of being both sweet and heartbreakingly fragile. Your thoughts meander back to Arthur, the memory of his rough hands clasped around yours on cooler nights alone in the woods emerging with a pang in your chest.

You start to hear sounds coming from the camp and looking back towards the mansion, you see Pearson approaching the cooking fire with a pot of coffee and he sets it down on the coals. People are waking up.

You see Susan, dressed and ready for work, taking a cloth and wiping off the table. Charles takes the axe and starts chopping wood. Uncle moves from his spot at the gazebo and moves to a tree to sit under. It’s like a dance, each playing their own part. 

You linger for a moment, watching the camp slowly come to life, each member falling into their respective roles with practiced ease. It reminds you of your days in the circus, how every morning felt like a meticulously choreographed routine, each performer knowing exactly where to be at the precise moment.

With a deep breath, you turn away from Večer and Odliv and return to camp. 

And just as you near camp, you see Dutch coming out of the mansion.

“Hosea!” he calls out into the morning. “We got some plannin’ to—” His sentence is cut off as soon as his eyes fall on you once you cross the bridge.

You wave, acting as candid as you can muster. “Hello, Dutch.”

You know now that he wasn’t expecting you to return, as it is evidenced in his shocked face. Dutch's expression smooths over almost instantly, shifting into a calculated smile as he strides toward you with his usual charm. "Kit, my dear," he starts, his voice dripping with feigned warmth, "don’t tell me that Bronte sent you back to us already. What could possibly have happened?”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him, and decide to let him have the blow, but subtly. “There was a house fire.”

Dutch's eyebrows shoot up, a flicker of frustration passing over his features before he regains his composure. "A fire?" he repeats, his tone shifting as he glances over your shoulder, perhaps checking if you have returned alone. "You ain't hurt, are you?"

You shake your head, feeling the air around you thicken. “It is like you said, Dutch,” and you pause before continuing. “I could do it even with my eyes closed.”

His eyes narrow at you. “What about Bronte?”

And you come out with it. “He’s dead.”

You hear the usual ambient sounds of camp pause at your words, telling you that there are other ears tuning into your conversation. But your eyes remain trained on Dutch. 

You expect him to be surprised, even with a hint of it in his brow. “Dead, you say? That's a real shame,” he muses, but the glint in his eye suggests his thoughts are already miles away, planning the next move in this ever-complicated chess game he plays with the lives of those around him.

“Indeed,” you agree, a hint of dryness in your tone that you doubt he notices. “It’ll change things, won’t it?”

Dutch claps his hands together once, as if to seal the fate of the matter with a single gesture. “Indeed, it will,” he says, his eyes gleaming with an almost predatory anticipation. "Change is always good for us—it's how we survive, how we thrive." He pauses, studying you as if you were a curious specimen he had yet to fully understand. "But let's talk about you, Kit. What are your plans now? You've proven yourself more than capable, as always."

He’s testing you, you know it. He’s always been about loyalty, but not the kind a daughter gives to a father, but blind loyalty, like a dog to its master. You know better than to show all your cards, especially now, when everything's so fragile.

“I believe I’ll do what I do best, Dutch. Seems like there’s plenty of work to be done," you respond cautiously, your gaze unwavering as it meets his. You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to read you just as much as you are trying to read him. 

He taught you too well. 

And after a moment, he nods his head slowly. “Indeed there is work to be done,” and his eyes flicker to Hosea as he walks over with a cup of coffee in his hand, his steps quick. “and soon there will be more of it.”

Hosea addresses you, his voice sharp and laced with concern. “Kit…! How did you get here?” You can tell by his tone, that he was worried for your well-being, like Arthur was. “Did Bronte—?”

And before you can speak, Dutch cuts you off. “Kit has just told me that our greatest obstacle has been removed by fate herself.”

Hosea’s eyes widen, looking at you with a mix of surprise and disbelief. "Kit, is that true?" His voice drops to a worried whisper as he glances from you to Dutch, seeking confirmation or perhaps a denial.

You nod slowly, not finding the will or the words to offer anything further. Hosea's shock does not fade, but he sets his jaw and nods with a resigned understanding. "I see," he murmurs, his eyes now filled with a new wariness as he sips his coffee, the silence more loud than any question he could ask you.

Dutch, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, claps his hands together once more, breaking the tension like a crack of a whip. “Well, Hosea! This means we need to speed up our plans.” He turns around heading back inside, his time outdoors short-lived. “We are going to take Saint Denis, and we are going to find paradise…!”

You and Hosea look at each other, the intensity in his gaze, his mouth opening as though to speak, all the while knowing what you know, and what you and Arthur had shared just hours ago.

You want to tell him, but now isn’t the time. You now have more of a reason to leave, before Dutch wraps anyone into his plans and damns you all.

You reach a hand and squeeze Hosea’s arm. “I will talk to you later, then.”

He nods, his shoulders relaxing on the promise of a future conversation, though his eyes still hold a flicker of unease. "Be careful, Kit," he advises softly, his voice heavy with unspoken understanding. You nod, your mind fraught with the decision you carry in your heart.

As Hosea turns to follow Dutch back inside, you stand alone for a moment, waiting for the gang to resume their work before you move or do anything else. 

No one has come to greet you or ask what happened. Not that you are offended, but surprised. Dutch really was telling everyone not to expect you back. 

And they believed him. 

Arthur had his doubts, Hosea did as well, why didn’t they express them to anyone else? What were they expecting to happen? Did they have a plan of their own? 

You’ll have to ask Hosea when Dutch is finished with him. For now, you will resume camp life as usual. You need to act like nothing has changed, like your loyalty to Dutch hasn’t wavered. 

Like you are still a piece in his game. 

***

“Here, Karen,” you grunt as you lean over to hand her a pair of pants you just scrubbed. 

Wordlessly, she takes it from you and wrings it good one time, her grip strong and her face twisting at the slight exertion, before she hangs them on a makeshift clothesline. You go to the next item which is one of Bill’s plaid shirts. 

Bill. Your demolition buddy. You know how he feels about Dutch, how indebted he feels. You’ve managed to recall one or two memories of him, both when you and he had to blow something up. You usually handled the wire, and he secured the dynamite. You would sometimes argue about who got to push down on the plunger, but that part didn’t matter. 

It was the results. 

That was earlier, when he had first joined the gang, and roles shifted after a while. You mainly became the distraction while he’d man the dynamite, though somehow that was still the thing you and he would talk about when he wasn’t drinking. 

Would he want to leave the gang? Leave Dutch? 

You don’t know if you have the answer, or maybe you’re afraid of what the answer is. 

You scrub away the thought along with Bill’s shirt and you get into a rhythm when you hear footfalls walk in step with your scrubbing. 

“Mornin’, Arthur,” Karen says calmly. 

You quickly look up and see your husband. His eyes meet yours and he holds something tightly rolled in his hands. 

His wool blanket. 

“Erm…” he says and as you realize what he’s about to ask, you feel your cheeks burn. “You think you could wash this?”

You try not to look over at Karen, who has her eyes fixed on you. You smile nonchalantly and nod. “Sure, Arthur.”

He nods his thanks and offers it to you, still tightly bundled. You don’t bother to get up, but quickly take it from him and submerge it in your wash basin. “Thanks.”

“You know,” you begin to tentatively say. “You probably should have this thing washed more often.” Your eyes flicker up to him before looking down at the blanket. “The humidity makes everyone sweat like horses.”

Arthur takes a gentle step back, resting his hands on his gun belt. “Don’t have to.”

Finishing Bill’s shirt, you hand it to Karen. “And why’s that?”

You can hear the timbre in his voice, though it’s only subtle enough for you to detect. “‘Cause I’m a workhorse, not a prized pony.” And when your eyes shoot up at him, you see how calm he looks, as though he had said the most normal thing between two people. “Need only wash anythin’ when you’ve worked up a good sweat.” And then he tips his hat at you. “Ladies…” and he walks away. 

The brazenness of his words still has you frozen, the color flushed from your face. Did he really just say that in front of one of the most risqué members of the gang? 

You’re too nervous to look, but you slowly turn your head to look up at Karen. 

She’s turned away from you, but you can see her biting her lip as she tries to suppress her laughter. 

You think it best to leave it, but your damned curiosity... 

“What’s so funny, Karen?”

She shakes her head. “You’re so innocent, Kit, even with all them performances you’ve done.” She finishes hanging Bill’s shirt, as she had been pretending to work while eavesdropping. “If you ain’t figured it out yet…” she pauses to settle the giggle building in her throat. “You will.” Then she turns to look at you and must think you look like a deer in crosshairs, for she explains, “He wants you, Kit.” And she grins. “Bad, flauntin’ himself like that.” 

Oh, you’re far from innocent, but it’s almost pleasing to think that the guise is still going strong. You aren’t sure how you were able to keep a straight face with any of Arthur’s teasing after you got married, if he’s talking to you like this. But, then again, you might not have had very long before the Blackwater massacre. 

It’s then that you realize that it was shortly before the ferry heist that you and Arthur snuck away to tie your lives together. Your marriage was still new, so freshly made when it all happened. You’ve come a long way from where you started, having recovered quite a bit of your memories. You wish you had them all laid out and you could arrange them in chronological order, everything leading up to the massacre. That’s the one thing you hope to remember, you just aren’t sure what it will take to trigger it. 

But all you can think about is Arthur, and the way he made you feel on your wedding night, last night, even, as though it were the first time all over again. Remembering is far different than feeling, and you have a good feeling that you will never forget it, as Arthur promised you wouldn’t. 

You try to calm the heat in your cheek by distracting yourself. You roll up your sleeves again. “Thank you for spelling it out for me, Karen,” you say calmly. “But I think our relationship is a bit different than how you want it to be.”

It is, but you’re not about to explain exactly how.

She snorts. “If you say so. Don’t take an expert to know the basic needs of men and women. Sean and I—” she cuts herself off and exhales slowly. “Hell, I miss him.” She looks down. “Drove me to drink when he was alive and even when he’s dead.”

You look up at her softly, eyes deep with empathy. “I worry about you, Karen.”

She scoffs at your attempt at sentiment. “You just worry about yourself. No sense in wastin’ it on me.”

“Karen…anything in excess is dangerous. Especially liquor.”

Her brow lowers, but she doesn’t argue with you or snap some snide remark in defense. “Ain’t got nothin’ else better to do. Nothin’ to look forward to.”

You tilt your head. Does she really believe that? “What about Tahiti? Don’t mangoes and sandy beaches sound nice?” You don’t think so, but it’s better to have false hope than none at all. 

She snorts and you instantly regret asking. “Sounds like make-believe.”

Well, anything far away sounds like it was made up. But you know Czechoslovakia is real, and that is farther away than you’ve ever thought the world could stretch until you saw maps. Encyclopedias. Worlds opening up to you in the books you’ve read.

“Maybe it is,” you admit. “But I know what isn’t.”

“And what’s that?”

“Family. Friends. I’ve found that my home is where my people are. The people I care about.” You begin to scrub the wool blanket and swallow down the heat in your belly as you try to suppress the memory of what was just done on it several hours ago. “When my brother died, I had no one. Until Hosea found me.” You look up and toward the part of camp in front of you. Pearson is already at work cutting up the fish that Mary Beth and Kieran caught this morning. “If Tahiti doesn’t exist, maybe there’s paradise closer by.”

Karen doesn’t laugh, snicker, or scoff at your remark. She remains quiet and doesn’t say anything more, and so you both quietly resume the duty of laundry without speaking. 

***

A sudden thundering of horse hooves alerts you as you carry feed for the horses. Looking up, you see Micah, riding in and sliding Baylock to a halt. He quickly dismounts and quickens his steps into camp. He doesn’t seem to notice you, and you don’t care to announce your presence. Your eyes follow him as he hurries toward the mansion just as Hosea and Dutch step out. 

Now, you want to be involved. Setting the hay down, you brush off your dress and make your way back into the camp. 

“Dutch!” Micah says. “Bronte, he’s—”

“I know he’s dead, Micah,” Dutch interrupts and you make it over in time to see the intensity in his eyes. “It seems like someone wasn’t doing their job.”

Micah lifts his hands. “Weren’t me, boss. You know I had my own job to do. Bronte was a weak man, anyone could have killed him.”

He doesn’t reply, but you see Dutch’s eyes move to you as you stand behind Micah. That’s when Micah turns around and sees you. 

“Anyone is right, Mr. Bell,” you say coldly, crossing your arms over your chest. “I suppose you weren’t expecting me so soon, either?”

You see the look in Hosea’s eyes as the gears turn in his mind. He looks at Dutch, then back at you again. 

Micah’s eyes narrow at you. “You were supposed to be gettin’ dirt on Bronte. Schmoozin’ up to him.”

You click your tongue and speak with a lilt in your voice. “Can’t really do that when he’s dead now, can I?”

“And how did he manage to do that?”

You don’t answer, but fix your gaze intently at him, refusing to be the first to look away. 

“How did you find out he’s dead, Micah?” Hosea asks. “Is that where you’ve been? Saint Denis?”

Micah's demeanor suddenly changes, a flicker of unease in his eyes. But it changes, his smirk returning. "Folks talk, you know that. News travels fast."

Hosea is about to open his mouth, but Dutch cuts him off. “There. You see? Everyone knows now that Bronte is dead, which means that we need to take our chance before someone else does.” He turns to Hosea. “You go ahead with your little plan with Trelawny and pick some people to meet him.” Then he looks at Micah. “Micah and I have some reconnaissance to do on our own.” His gaze finally lands on you, and there's a softening in his eyes that wasn't there before. “Kit, I need you to lay low for a while. Too many are talking, and we don’t want any unnecessary attention.”

You don’t say anything. Even you know that you are capable of hiding in plain sight, more than anyone else at camp. After all, nobody can really pin down that it was you who killed Bronte anyway. Dutch might suspect it, but you don’t care.

As Dutch turns away to speak to Micah, leaving his orders hanging in the air, your eyes meet Hosea’s. Perhaps maybe now is the time to talk to him privately about your plans.

“Go find Arthur,” Hosea says. “Then meet me at the gazebo.”

You nod once, sternly, not giving away the emotion swirling in your chest. Your heart throbs painfully at the mention of Arthur's name. The thought of seeing him, even now under these tumultuous circumstances, sends a shiver down your spine.

You make your way silently through the camp. As you walk, the dirt beneath your feet feels damp and warm, characteristic of this Southern region. You see Sadie as she takes her gun and walks to her post for guard duty and she nods to you. You nod back, somehow sensing her dutiful understanding of the day's weight. Her gaze is sharp, like a hawk eyeing its prey, ready to protect what she holds dear. You appreciate her intensity—it echoes something restless within you.

Your path leads you out of the bustling activity of camp life, towards the quieter outskirts of the marshes. The grass becomes less as mud becomes more, and you spot a shack at the edge of camp. There, leaning against the railing, is Arthur as he talks to Strauss.

Oh. It’s been a while since you’ve spoken to him. 

Your eyes are drawn to Arthur, how his back arches as he leans, his arms folded across his chest. The afternoon light casts shadows across his face, highlighting the rugged contours that speak of years of battling both nature and men. His voice, deep and carrying, breaks through the murkiness of your thoughts. You pause a moment, feet sinking slightly into the soft earth, wondering if this is the right moment. But then Arthur looks up, catching sight of you. His conversation with Strauss pauses, and there's a flicker of something in his eyes that makes your heart skip a beat, and a warm sensation fills your abdomen.

You need to get rid of Strauss and fast.

“Ah, good afternoon, fraulein,” Strauss greets. “How’s your memory retrieval coming along?”

You walk to the shack, taking careful steps up to the deck where they stand.

"Hello, Strauss," you manage, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "It's coming along. Slow but sure." You avoid Arthur's gaze, feeling it burn into you like the morning sun.

Strauss seems pleased with this. “Ah, good! I’ve been eager to start business again. When we go to Australia, we will need some income to support our ranching down there.”

You and Arthur turn to Strauss, brows pinched as you both speak at the same time. “Australia?”

Strauss nods. “Why, yes!”

Arthur leans away from the railing, keeping his arms folded. “I thought it was Tahiti.”

Strauss smiles smugly. “For now. I think after talking to Dutch, he might see that Australia is a better option. The land is more suitable for people like us.”

You see this as your opportunity. “Well, don’t stand here trying to convince us, go talk to him right now.”

Strauss hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Very well, I shall speak to Dutch immediately.” He tips his hat and strides off, leaving you alone with Arthur.

Your heart pounds as you watch the little shrew walk down into the marsh and disappear around the corner. The air between you and Arthur thickens as the silence stretches on. You can feel Arthur studying your face, the intensity of his gaze almost too much for you to bear.

“Well, woman, are you just gonna stand there, or—”

His voice cuts off when you take him by surprise by grabbing him firmly by his shirt, nearly dragging him around the other side of the shack. He doesn’t resist you, perhaps still caught off guard by your sudden ferocity, or pleasantly curious as to what will happen next. 

Once you reach the other side you force him against the wall and, firmly clasping his neck, you pull him towards you and kiss him with a newfound hunger, desperate and raw. Your lips move against each other fiercely, a mingling of desire, longing, and a torrent of suppressed emotions flooding through you both. Arthur’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss until there's no space left between you.

When you finally break apart for air, your breath is haggard as you look into his eyes and then down at his lips half-lidded. “How dare you torture me like that in front of Karen, with no ability to respond as I want to?” you whisper hoarsely, your face still close to his.

Arthur chuckles darkly as he catches on what you are referring to, his breath warming your plumped lips. “It’s the only way I know you’ll listen, Kitten.” His hand holds up the leg that you had wrapped around him, sending shivers all throughout your body. “You were teasin’ me with those vague little words of yours, admit it.”

His accusation draws a smile, half amused and half exasperated, from your lips. "Maybe," you concede, your voice a soft murmur against the cool breeze that rustles through the marshland. "But only because you make it so easy to."

Arthur’s eyes soften at your response, the rough edges of his demeanor melting away into something gentler, something more vulnerable. “Kit, I…” he starts, swallowing thickly, but then he stops. “God, I love you,” he breathes, his thumb caressing your thigh. “So much that I just can’t stand it.”

You smile, pulling him into another kiss again, deeper this time, filled with all the unsaid words and promises. His hands tighten around you, as if trying to meld you both into one being. You can feel the beat of his heart, rapid and strong against your own chest, mirroring the wild rhythm of your pulse.

“Can’t wait to have a place of our own…” he moans between breaths, his lips tracing kisses down your neck. “Away from all this madness. Just you'n me, Kit.”

Your heart clenches at the thought, a sweet ache blooming across your chest. “And no more hiding,” you murmur back, your fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. “No more pretending we're anything less than what we are.”

Arthur hums affirmatively, retracing his path to meet your lips again.

The moment ebbing away, he slowly parts from you, his eyes searching yours for any hint of reluctance, seeking the silent permission that's always communicated in the glances you share. "We'll make it happen," he vows, a determination setting into his jaw, the kind that you've come to associate with his promises — promises he intends to keep at all costs.

You smile, nodding your head softly, and he gently lowers your leg and you remove your arms from his neck. “Hosea wants to talk to us.”

Arthur smiles. “Well, I hope we didn’t keep him waitin’.” He offers his left hand and that’s when you see the ring still on his finger.

“You didn’t take it off…” you say softly.

Arthur follows your gaze to his finger, where the simple gold band catches the light of the day. A shadow flickers across his features, a storm of emotions crossing his face before settling back into that steadfast resolve you've come to know so well. "No," he replies, his voice a gravelly whisper. "I guess I forgot.”

Your brow pinches with worry. “Do you think anyone noticed?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t seen anyone really, kept my arms crossed or my hands in my pockets.” He looks at his hand a moment longer before removing it from his finger. “I’ll be glad to keep it on and not have to take it off.”

You nod, your heart clenching. “I know.”

He puts the ring in his satchel and shifts on his feet. “Hosea does know, by the way.”

Your eyes widen. “Knows that…?”

Arthur scratches the back of his head. “It had been so long since I could talk to anyone…and you had forgotten everythin’…I told him that we were married when he and I were back at Emerald Ranch.” He looks back at you, with puppy-like eyes. “I hope that don’t upset you.”

It makes sense, Hosea’s aloofness when you’d walk in on their conversations, his veiled efforts to have you around Arthur as much as humanly possible.  You’re thankful that Arthur had someone to confide in, even if that wasn’t you. You smile and shake your head. “No, it doesn’t.”

He smiles softly at you and after a moment, he offers his hand again. “Mrs. Morgan,” he says lowly.

You grin and take his hand. “You better call me that the next time we are alone,” you tease, feeling a flutter of anticipation at the thought. Arthur’s grin widens, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of mischief and love. He pulls you close, wrapping his arm around your waist.

"Let's go see what old Hosea has cooked up for us this time," he suggests, and you both start walking back to the camp.

Reaching the mansion, you veer right towards the gazebo, where Hosea waits at a table. He turns to see you both, Arthur’s arm around your waist, and he smiles. “Was wondering when you two would show up.”

You snicker at that, stepping ahead of Arthur into the gazebo. “It was only a few minutes.”

Hosea nods. “Yes, I’m sure you both have a lot to catch up on.”

Arthur clears his throat and he reaches the chair you were aiming to sit in to pull it out for you. “Yeah. Lots of talkin’ to do.” You sit in the chair and he pushes it forward and then he takes a chair beside you. “There’s a lot to think about.”

“Indeed there is, son,” Hosea agrees. “Which is why I think you two should go see Trelawny.”

You blink. “I’m a little surprised, Hosea. You were there when Dutch told me to lie low, don’t you think that’s what I should be doing?”

There is a gleam in Hosea’s eye, hinting at a little suggestion of rebellion. “This task requires people with soft tongues, not idiots.”

You glance at Arthur. “Soft tongues?”

And you feel Arthur nudge your leg with his knee from under the table.

Hosea shakes his head, not oblivious to your teasing. “I mean quick-witted, not prone to shoot first. Trelawny’s plan is more subtle than bold robbery.”

“Then why need me?” Arthur asks. “I’m usually the strong arm, remember?” And he tucks his chin. “And I messed up at the party. I don’t wanna make a fool out of myself again.”

Hosea seems to search your faces, his mouth opening as though to say something, but then he closes it again. He runs his hand over his face. “I had forgotten that you didn’t…” his voice trails off. 

But you feel Arthur take your hand and pull it out from under the table, he brings it to his lips, speaking softly into your knuckles. “You wanna tell him, Mrs. Morgan, or do you want me to?”

You see the sparkle in Hosea’s eyes and you feel the heat in your cheeks. You pat Arthur playfully on the arm. “We aren’t exactly alone right now, Arthur.”

Hosea leans closer to the table, regarding you both. “I’m glad you finally told her, Arthur.”

You shake your head. “No, Hosea. I remembered.”

His eyes widen. “You remember?” He chuckles happily, shaking his head in disbelief for a moment and then you see the gears turning in his head. He quickly looks around and seeing that no one is within earshot, he continues, still speaking softly. “Then you must know what happened in Blackwater…!”

It is then that your smile fades and you shake your head slowly. “No, Hosea, not yet.”

Hosea settles back in his chair, shoulders drooped, but it is only a second or two before his smile returns. “Well, we can’t have everything all at once, can we?” Then he studies you and Arthur again. “But I have a feeling you already have everything that you need.”

Arthur releases your hand to put it on your shoulder, pulling you close. “I reckon we do.”

You inhale deeply, taking in his scent and you meet Hosea’s gaze. “I must admit it bothers me that I still can’t remember what happened in Blackwater. It’s like my own mind has built up a wall that I can’t seem to break through.”

Hosea scratches his chin. “What triggered your memory this last time?” He means your marriage. 

“We still would like it secret, by the way,” Arthur interjects. 

Hosea nods. “Oh, of course,” he agrees, then looks back at you. “Go ahead, dear.”

Still leaning into your husband, you answer. “I think it started when I saw Arthur’s ring. He had put it on his finger while he was trying to tell me under the gazebo during the party.” Then your brow pinches as you begin to recall the events that followed. “I fainted. It was the most painful headache I’ve had so far. Then I woke up, Bronte tried to kill me as I escaped, so I set his house on fire and…” You swallow. “Killed him.”

Hosea eyes you closely. “I had thought it was you.”

You sigh. “I didn’t want to tell Dutch it was me. I didn’t want to tell him what Bronte said.”

“What did he say?”

“He…said he already knew about Cornwall. Said he discovered Arthur was my husband.” You shake your head. “He was cunning. I told Dutch he had eyes everywhere, and now that he’s dead, I have a feeling he will be replaced with someone much worse.”

Hosea nods, processing your words. “Dutch keeps asking me about the bank. Wants to send me and Abigail to scope it out.” He shakes his head, his lips forming a flat line. “I think he aims to rob it.”

“The Saint Denis Bank?” Arthur asks, bafflement lacing his voice. “That bank ain’t like Lee and Hoyt, Hosea, or even Valentine.”

“I know, son. But Dutch seems to think with Bronte gone…”

You lower your gaze. “It’s my fault…”

Hosea quickly reaches for your hand as it rests on the table and you feel Arthur kiss the top of your head. “It is not your fault, Kit. Bronte’s death wouldn’t’ve come about if he had let you go in the first place. You killed him in self-defense.”

You shake your head. “I could have left him as soon as the fire started. I had an opening…” you feel the familiar sting in your eyes as the guilt wells up in your chest. “But…I just got so angry…I didn’t want him to take another boy…or…” 

Arthur pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you. “It’s alright, Kit.”

Your voice is muffled as you speak into his shirt. “We’ve got to get out of here, Arthur.” You sniff. “Before any more of us get killed.” You think of Sean, Mac, Jenny, Annabelle. Names you recall but down remember their faces. All had died for this dream that still hasn’t gained ground. 

Hosea and Arthur are quiet as you cry softly, giving you time to feel the grief that you are afforded. 

After a few minutes, you push away from Arthur gently, wiping your eyes. “Sorry.”

“I know when you start crying, it’s a big deal,” Hosea chuckles bittersweetly. “So cry all you need to.”

You chuckle at that, sniffing. “I seem to cry more than I used to.”

“You have good reason.”

You exhale sharply, sniffing one more time. “Okay, I’m alright.”

Arthur begins to rub your back in gentle circles. “You shoah?”

You nod. “Yes.”

Hosea pats the table. “I think we need to come up with plans of our own.” Then he looks at you and Arthur with a steely gaze. “For you and the Marstons. If I can do anything before…” he sighs. “I want to get my boys and their families out. Maybe there can still be paradise yet.”

And Arthur, ever a realist, says what you all are thinking. “I hate to sound like Dutch, but we need moneh if we’re goin’ anywhere.”

And Hosea, always one step ahead, leans in with a fox-like grin. “That’s what this job with Trelawny is for.”

Your brow pinches. Wouldn’t it be better to earn money in secret? Not through a job that everyone will soon know about? “That doesn’t make sense, Hosea.”

Hosea lifts his chin. “It will. Just go to Saint Denis. In fact, go now. Trelawny will meet you there tomorrow and I’ll send others to help.”

You trust Hosea, so you decide not to argue. “Alright.”

Hosea nods approvingly. “Good. Take some extra clothes.” Then he winks at you. “You never know.” And with that, he rises from his chair and steps out of the gazebo. 

Arthur waits a moment before speaking lowly to you. “You shoah you’re okay?”

You nod, patting his hand as it goes to your shoulder. “Yes, Manžel.”

“It feels so good to hear you call me that.”

You turn to look up into those soft waves of ocean eyes and you mirror his smile. “I think so, too.”

***

You and Arthur decide to pack for multiple days, the anticipated time to be alone while also finding ways to make money the root motivation for doing so. You pack Odliv while also putting a loose halter on Večer. Having an extra horse can come in handy, and given she has good strength, Arthur has the idea to go hunting as well. Pelts are income and the meat is good so you won’t go hungry. 

You and Arthur will go to Saint Denis, as Hosea instructed. You will rent a hotel room in the nicer quarter of the city, not the saloon that you had found yourself in the last time. You will spend some time acting like a normal married couple before meeting Trelawny at the tailor, once again, where you assume he’s going to help dress either you, or Arthur, in the part that you are to play. Then he will take it from there. 

Afterwards, with hopefully some money at the end of all of it, you will split off from Trelawny and whomever else has joined in on the fun, and then you will go off on your own adventure. Just the two of you. Finally. 

“You got your shotguns?” Arthur speaks into your ear as he comes up behind you. Instant chills rise up your spine and it’s everything in you to not drag him into the woods and have your way. 

You bite your bottom lip and nod. “Yes. I’m ready to go.”

“You guys goin’ somewhere?”

You feel Arthur back away from you and you follow his motion to turn around. You see Charles with his saddlebag over his shoulder and rifle in his hand. 

Arthur points to his gear. “Seems like you are, too.”

Charles hums affirmatively. “I had met some Waipiti Indians. Chief Rains Fall and his son. They seem to be having some trouble with the oil company and I’ve agreed to help them.” He readjusts the saddlebag in his shoulder. “I’ll be gone for a few days.”

You nod. “So will we.”

There is an awkward pause and Arthur clears his throat. “Let us know if we can help. Kit and I were at the oil fields not too long ago. We dug some dirt on ‘em.”

Charles raises his brow. “I thought you gave that all to Bronte.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No. Kit just told him a few things. We kept all the papers that we stole.”

You can’t help but feel a little flutter in your heart. After Bronte, you felt that all that work was for nothing. Maybe it isn’t after all. You turn to Arthur and take his arm. “You still have the portfolio, don’t you?”

He nods and walks over to Montana. You and Charles both watch him as he rummages through his saddlebag, eventually pulling out the red leather portfolio. He returns and hands it over to Charles. “We also got some photographs of a body that Cornwall might have been involved in. But that might need an educated feller to mean a damn.”

Charles takes the portfolio gratefully, lowering his saddlebag to stuff it inside. “Thank you. Both of you.”

You shrug. “It may not be worth its salt, but it’s of no use to us.”

Charles nods thoughtfully. “I’m coming to feel that way about a lot of things. I wanna help Rains Fall and his people; it makes our problems seem…”

“Not as important?” you suggest. 

“I was gonna say less like problems and more like consequences.”

And you don’t beat around it. “That is what they are.” And you lower your voice, readying yourself to plant once again. “And I’m tired of running from them.”

Charles nods again, humming thoughtfully. “I wish it wasn’t that way.”

Arthur pats Charles’ shoulder. “Me too, brother.” And as though of the same mind, Arthur adds to what you’ve sown. “So maybe it don’t have to be.”

Charles studies Arthur for a moment, then looks at your unwavering expression. He doesn’t say anything more, and gently backs away. With a wave, Charles turns to continue on his way to Taima. 

You and Arthur both watch him mount up and canter down the path that leads out of Shady Belle before either of you speaks again. 

“You want him to come with us?” Arthur asks. 

“He’s a good man, Arthur,” you answer. “He’d actually make it in a normal life. Better than us, even.” You look up to see Arthur’s eyes cast into the view of the trees, his thoughts taking him elsewhere. “I know you’d like for him to come, too.”

Arthur nods. “Everyone except Micah.”

You snort. “And Strauss.”

He looks down at you, smirking. “Oh, c’mon, Micah would sell you out before Strauss ever would.”

You furrow your brow, as if that is an unfair comparison. “Micah would sell out his own eyes if it meant he could have his precious guns.”

Arthur cackles loudly. “You’re too quick for me, woman.”

The laughter fades as quickly as it came, settling into a silence that's filled more with unspoken words than stillness. The afternoon sun filters through the dense foliage, casting dappled shadows on the ground as you watch a leaf spiral to the earth, its journey calm and inevitable.

"Arthur," you begin, your voice soft and uncertain, "what if we just disappeared? Left everything behind."

His marine blue eyes flicker with a mixture of pain and longing, capturing your gaze as if he's trying to read your thoughts. He sighs, running a hand through his fawn-colored hair.

"Ain’t that what we’re wantin’?” he asks with a light chuckle.

You have a brief smile before it falters. “I know, but…” Your eyes fall toward the camp. “I’m worried about what we are leaving behind.”

“Yeah, it ain’t gonna be easy,” Arthur admits, his tone serious now, eyes tracking the horizon as if he’s looking for an answer in the distant hills. “Not just for us. For everyone we’ve crossed paths with. Those who care, anyway.”

Your thoughts drift to the faces of those you both have come to know over the years: some with warmth, others with warning. "Do you think they'll remember us?" you ask, the question hanging between the two of you like a delicate thread.

Arthur’s expression softens, his eyes returning from the horizon to settle on you. “Some might forget, but not all. We ain’t the type to fade into the background, not completely. Stories of us might turn into campfire tales, or maybe whispered warnings in shady taverns. But we’ll live on, somehow.” He looks down and grins. “Like Plato’s stories about gunslingers.”

You ponder his words, the idea of becoming nothing more than a story, a lesson or a cautionary tale. It’s not what you’d hoped for, but maybe it is what’s real. The life of an outlaw isn’t a hero’s tale, and there are so many who fell who have been simply thrown in a pile of other nameless faces. “It might be best to leave the past behind by then,” you reason. “I’d like for the Pinkertons to never hear of us.”

Arthur nods. “I hear that.” And he sneaks a kiss on the top of your head. “Let’s head on to Saint Denis. I wouldn’t mind takin’ in a theatre show wit’chu.”

Your heart flutters at the idea, something so normal and mundane that it feels like a forbidden fruit. "A theatre show," you repeat, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "That sounds... nice."

Arthur's grin widens, the sparkle in his eyes betraying his rough exterior. "Nice?” He reaches atop your head and snatches your hat. “I offer you a chance to escape, to watch perfect entertainment in a crowded hall, and all you say is 'nice'?" He teases, twirling the hat by the brim before playfully placing it back on your head, slightly askew.

You can't help but laugh, the sound mingling with the rustle of Odliv’s tail swishing. “I’ve been on the other side of performances, Arthur,” you reply holding your hat firm on your head this time. “Aren’t you worried I’ll pick it apart?”

Arthur chuckles, his eyes alight with amusement. "Wouldn't dream any less of you, Kit," he replies, his voice carrying a playful undertone. "But maybe, just this once, you could let yourself enjoy the story and forget the tricks behind it?"

You nod thoughtfully, considering his proposition. The idea of sitting with him, amongst a crowd of people, strangers, not running in fear or glaring at you. Seems…normal. You look up at him, and tap his nose. “We best get going, then.”

He grins. After securing your saddles and making sure you are ready, you mount up, and rise out of Shady Belle.

Thank you for reading!

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[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

I see the fire in your eyes - Chapter 7 : A burden

Summary: Luisa Ganci, a Belgian opera singer, wakes up in 1899 within the world of Red Dead Redemption 2. Trapped in a reality that was never meant to exist, she struggles to survive among the Van der Linde gang while carrying a dangerous secret—she knows how their story ends.

Arthur Morgan doesn’t trust her. She knows too much, and he’s determined to find out why. But can fate truly be changed, or is Luisa doomed to watch tragedy unfold before her eyes?

POV: Arthur Morgan

Freeing Micah hadn’t been a pleasure for me. I had no desire to see that snake back in our camp, but Dutch’s orders were Dutch’s orders.

Things were tough. The train robbery had brought in money, but also another person whose survival had now become our responsibility: Luisa Ganci.

It was unthinkable to me that a woman like her—clearly bilingual, able to discuss intellectual topics with Hosea—could not remember her past and saw no problem spending her time in the filth, discomfort, and danger of this camp. To me, it was obvious: she had been sent to spy on us. Dutch shared my opinion, but Hosea... Hosea pitied her, and it made me sick. How could a man as intelligent as him be fooled by this cliché of the damsel in distress? The decision had been made, however: innocent until proven guilty, Luisa had the right to stay among us but was not allowed to leave the camp. And when we found out the truth, her fate would be sealed—it would be either freedom or death.

Maybe I should have felt something about the idea of seeing a young life wasted like this, but I was past that. Only the gang’s survival mattered.

Luisa didn’t make her presence any easier to tolerate. She spent her time giving us advice on hygiene, insisting that we wash and change clothes more often, meticulously cleaning every tent—though I had chased her out of mine—and worrying excessively about the fate of animals. On top of that, she was incapable of doing certain things that were basic and natural for us, like starting a fire, saddling and riding a horse properly, telling the time by the sun, plucking or skinning the game we hunted or fished, or even killing a chicken. If she hadn’t been such a good cook and seamstress, she would have been a total dead weight to us.

So, when she had to go into town with Sean, posing as his wife so he could visit the bank and study its infrastructure, I wasn’t surprised to see her awkwardly saddling the old mare she had borrowed. When she mounted the animal, the saddle slipped and flipped over. She let out a ridiculous little yelp, and I caught her on instinct before setting her back down, irritated. If I hadn’t been there, she could have seriously hurt herself. But instead of thanking me and asking me to tighten the girth, she just apologized, her cheeks red. That’s what she always did. She was clumsy, slipping, tripping, knocking things over, forgetting others, and always apologizing. She apologized all the time, with an annoying excess of politeness, as if she were apologizing for existing.

I couldn’t help but notice that she smelled good—rare and unlikely in this camp—and that was the only pleasant thing I could find about her. Sean came to help her tighten the girth again, and I walked away toward the logs I had to chop.

I hated her perpetually neutral and overly dignified expression, her know-it-all gaze watching us like she had us all figured out, her stubbornness in keeping everything clean, even her dresses, which she lifted slightly every time she walked through the muddy camp, and that distant air of someone always lost in thought—probably busy judging us or plotting our arrest. Her snobbish and feminine manners had no place among us, and I was sure she saw us as nothing more than lowly peasants.

I muttered under my breath as I stacked the chopped wood, and Karen, sitting nearby with a whiskey bottle in hand, handed it to me with an amused smile.

— You don’t like her, do you?

I grimaced, gesturing vaguely. I wanted to deny it, but I gave in.

— I don’t trust her.

— And I don’t like her. She acts like she’s better than everyone, yet she can’t do anything… and Sean and Javier hovering around her—it’s pathetic, she said bitterly.

I suspected she was jealous, but she wasn’t wrong either. I was relieved not to be the only one who didn’t trust the newcomer. She stood out, as if she didn’t belong in our world, and that scared me.

— Mr. Morgan, mail for you!

Susan Grimshaw interrupted me, handing me a letter.

I frowned as I opened the envelope. I wasn’t used to receiving mail. As I unfolded the letter, I immediately recognized the handwriting and felt a blow to my stomach.

Dear Arthur

I've written this letter a hundred times or more and I cannot get it right. It's me. You know it's me from the bad hand writing. I know I said when last we spoke and I was going off to get married, that we would not speak again. I know I said a lot of things and I meant them, I suppose, at the time, but I am not so proud as to not speak to people who care for me, or cared for me.

I've been in Valentine for a couple of months. I had some bad luck and, well, it's a long story and not an interesting one, but I am here for now. I saw a couple of the girls, or whatever the polite term for them is, that ran with you and your associates in town and I heard tell of a man who sounded like you. I would love to see you again, if you could spare me a little bit of your time. I'm renting a room at Chadwick Farm, just north of Valentine.

Yours,

Mary Linton

Mary Linton. When I had met her, she was Mary Gillis. We were young and naive, so much so that I had believed and hoped she might one day be called Mary Morgan. Mrs. Morgan. But alas, there would never be a Mrs. Morgan, and that was for the best.

And yet, despite everything, I rode toward Valentine with a glimmer of hope.

I knew exactly where she was talking about—Valentine was a small town, easy to navigate. I took a moment to smooth some pomade into my hair before knocking on the door.

It wasn’t Mary who answered, but an armed woman who eyed me warily. My racing heart calmed.

— Hello, is Mrs.… Linton here? I asked, holding back a grimace at the name.

— I’ll check, she said, shutting the door.

A few seconds later, the door reopened. I turned around, my heart pounding, my stomach in knots. I had taken off my hat and was fidgeting with it.

Mary was there. She didn’t dare meet my eyes. Her lips were tight, she had lost weight, and the ten years since our last meeting had left their mark on her face. And yet, I still found her just as beautiful. She no longer had that youthful glow, that innocence, but it was Mary, and her face had always been harmonious.

It had been years since I’d last seen her, but damn, it was like time had suddenly stopped. Just looking at her, I felt everything I had buried deep down rising to the surface. She was different, but she was still her.

And me… I was still the fool who reacted like a damn kid whenever he saw her.

She opened her mouth, and her voice—soft, hesitant—hit me like a punch to the gut.

— Hello, Arthur.

She spoke as if she were surprised to see me. I took a deep breath.

— Mary…

I had wanted to say something else, but nothing came. Just her name. As if it were the only word that mattered at that moment.

I felt stupid.

She played with her fingers, avoiding my gaze. I didn’t know if I was the reason for her nervousness or if it was something else. Then she spoke again, her voice still as fragile:

— I heard that you and your friends were around. I…

She hesitated, and I narrowed my eyes.

— Okay… where is… what’s his name?

I didn’t want to say it. I had never liked the guy, and she knew it.

— Dead.

The word cracked through the air like a gunshot.

My eyes locked onto her, searching for any emotion on her face. And I saw it. Sadness, barely hidden.

I lowered my eyes, still fiddling with my hat between my fingers. He was younger than me. I had wished for his death for a long time, but not anymore. Not for a while. And yet, it had happened.

— I’m sorry to hear that, I breathed sincerely.

She nodded, and her voice broke slightly.

— Yeah, me too… me too. It happened a long time ago. Pneumonia.

I nodded, tightening my grip on my hat.

— Nasty thing.

— Really nasty.

Silence settled in, and I felt a weight pressing on my chest. I didn’t belong here, yet I couldn’t leave. Something was keeping me in place, something invisible but damn powerful.

Then, an idea crossed my mind, and I lifted my gaze to her, my eyes hardening with suspicion.

— So… You became a widow, and now you come looking for me, is that it?

I threw that out with a colder tone than I had intended, but I needed to know. I didn’t want to be that guy, the one who comes running whenever she snaps her fingers. Not again.

Her face changed, surprise flashing across it, almost reproachful. She opened her mouth, then closed it, shaking her head slightly.

— No, that’s not it, Arthur.

Something inside me loosened, but it left room for another feeling—something bitter. I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed.

— Oh. Okay.

I tried to sound relaxed, but my heart was still beating too fast.

She hesitated, wet her lips, and I saw in her eyes that she was about to say what had really brought her here.

I watched her, those pleading eyes, and it was like she was pulling me right back to those years when everything was simpler, before everything went to hell. Before all that damn drama tore us apart. And now, she was asking for my help.

— Listen, I… I… my family… I need your help.

She stepped forward slightly, as if every movement cost her, as if she knew her request would hurt me. And it did. Every word she spoke stung a little more.

— Oh, your family? I scoffed, my voice rough. You mean the family that always looked down on me? And now you want me to help them?

Anger boiled inside me, rising to my head. It was absurd. My throat tightened, my breathing quickened. How dare she? I could see her father’s face, that pompous, self-righteous man, looking at me like I was trash on their pristine flowerbeds.

She leaned slightly forward, resting against the porch railing.

— It’s my brother, Jamie.

I froze, shock hitting me like a slap. Jamie? The only one in that damn family who never looked down on me? It was him?

She went on, talking about her father’s broken heart, the suffering in her family. Apparently, Jamie had joined some religious cult, which seemed to be the final blow to their fragile illusion of perfection. Mary explained it all with that desperate gleam in her eyes, as if I could believe it, as if I was still that young man full of hope and good intentions.

And, damn it, maybe I was. Maybe I still was.

I chuckled bitterly to myself. If I were Jamie, I’d probably do the same thing. I could still remember the unpleasant presence of the Gillis family, the way they had treated me, the way they treated their servants. If I were in Jamie’s place, I too would have preferred religious extremists over the family home. But I kept silent, forcing myself to listen. Because, in some twisted way, I wanted to know.

Then reality hit me like a punch to the gut. I must have been a fool. I should have seen this coming. Mary... Mary didn’t want me. Not now. Not after all this time. I was nothing but a memory to her, an old relic she pulled out when it suited her. I was still that man—too poor, too naïve, too unworthy in her eyes. I hadn’t changed. I had nothing to offer her. And yet, here I was, standing before her, fists clenched, as she asked me to bend to her whims. It wasn’t fair. It felt like I’d been thrown twelve years back, when she used to ask me to intimidate men for her own affairs.

And yet... another part of me, the part I despised, was already caught in her web. It was pure weakness. But a weakness that came from deep inside, from that place where I still wanted to protect her. Because, goddamn it, I knew her. And despite everything, I knew that if I walked away, I’d feel even more hollow than before.

— Fine, Mary. Fine.

I hadn’t even thought before saying it—it was stronger than me. That part of me that still wanted to save her, to shield her from whatever might break her. Even though I knew it would all end in shit again. But I couldn’t... I couldn’t let her suffer, not after all this time. Not when she looked at me like that. And Jamie... Jamie deserved better than being trapped in her bad choices.

Mary gave me a look of relief, and, goddamn it, that glimmer in her eyes made me both melt and grit my teeth.

Night had fallen by the time Jamie and I arrived at the train station in Valentine. The air was cool, and the dust from the tracks clung to my skin. I said nothing, partly lost in thought, too unsettled by this whole situation that made no sense.

Jamie, walking beside me, seemed more at ease than before. He kept casting me side glances, as if he knew exactly what I was feeling.

— You’re nervous about seeing her, aren’t you?

I stared at him for a moment, then shrugged, feigning indifference. But he wasn’t wrong, in a way. It was more complicated than that. Mary—though she’d never said it outright—treated me like a memory she wanted to erase. And yet, here I was again, helping her after all this time. I didn’t want to admit it, but something still chained me to her.

We entered the station, and I spotted her immediately. She stood tall, as always, proud as ever, but this time, it was as if she were looking right through me. I was no longer the man she had known, and she was no longer the woman I had loved. We had grown. We had aged. She threw herself at her brother, and I watched them, a part of me wishing I could be part of that family, that closeness. But it was too late.

I took Mary’s suitcase without a word. She reached out to help me lift it, and when our fingers brushed, a jolt ran through me. It was just a touch, a simple gesture, but it brought back all those moments we had shared—so intense, so vivid—yet so distant. It was as if they had never really happened, until now. Until we touched again. I didn’t want to let go. For a fraction of a second, time stood still.

She climbed onto the train, and I followed, handing her the suitcase. I felt her gaze on me, and despite everything that had changed, despite everything we had been through, I wished I could stop her. I wished she wouldn’t leave. But I also knew that it was too late for that. She had been gone for a long time already.

The dim station lights cast a soft glow on her face, making her look almost unreal. She had that distant expression, that quiet melancholy that, deep down, still broke me. Her eyes were just as beautiful as ever. She knew what I was thinking, what I was feeling. She knew that seeing her leave was tearing me apart.

But she murmured, with a sad kind of certainty:

— Oh, Arthur… you’ll never change, I know that.

I stared at her, the words stuck in my throat. She was probably right. Maybe I’d never change. Maybe I was doomed to always be this man—the one who gave without expecting anything, the one who let himself be crushed by his own choices. My chest tightened, a dull pain rising in my throat. I wanted to stop her, to take her hand, to tell her I wasn’t who she thought I was, that I could change—but it was too late. All of that, I should have told her ten years ago. More importantly, I should have proved it. But she was right—I wasn’t capable of that.

She stepped onto the train, and the door shut behind her. The sound of the departing train faded, and I stood there, alone on the platform, watching its shadow disappear into the night.

I returned to camp at a slow trot, despite the late hour. I needed solitude. I needed to process these memories, this storm of emotions. When I arrived, the camp was quiet. I tied up my horse and was about to go grab a drink by the fire when I saw a figure.

Miss Ganci.

She had her back to me. She hadn’t heard me come in, and she was crying—crying so hard that her whole body shook, her breath coming in ragged gasps. I stood there, frozen for a moment, torn between giving her space and stepping forward. Then, without thinking, I moved. My head screamed at me to leave her be, but my body disobeyed.

The rustle of my boots in the grass seemed to alert her. She turned sharply, quickly wiping her tears with the sleeve of her shirt in a clumsy motion. Her eyes were swollen and red, but she forced a smile. It wasn’t convincing, and she was no good at pretending.

Feeling awkward, I cleared my throat. I was ready to turn away, but she spoke, her voice unsteady and hoarse.

— Good evening, Mister Morgan. You’re back late.

Nice attempt at changing the subject.

— Had things to take care of.

She discreetly sniffled and nodded, turning her gaze to a piece of embroidered fabric.

- Me too. Embroidery. - Is it the embroidery that's making you feel this way?

She shook her head with a sad smile, stifling a hiccup.

- It’s the smoke. It stings my eyes.

She was lying. And she was a terrible liar. That reassured me, in a way. If she were a real Pinkerton spy, she’d be better at it. And she wouldn’t be in such a state, sitting alone in the night.

I sat down in front of her, amused. Suddenly, I found her interesting.

- You’re a bad liar, I stated.

She looked away and shrugged.

- I know. I’ve never been very good at making things up.

That was probably true, and it was a comforting thought. She seemed far less threatening from that angle. I studied her for a moment. There was something both fascinating and unsettling about the way she played with the truth, how she manipulated appearances. And despite myself, I wondered why she had really been crying. She wasn’t who she claimed to be, and I felt caught in a trap, even if I hadn’t yet figured out all its threads. But I simply stayed there, saying nothing. We were both sharing a moment of solitude, each burdened with our own troubles. And if she didn’t want to talk about it, I wouldn’t force her. I knew exactly how that felt.

- Rough day? I asked, more to fill the painful silence than out of any real curiosity.

She let out a bitter laugh and answered in a dull voice:

- Rough life.

She had an ironic smile I didn’t quite understand.

- I know what that’s like, I replied. Except I have the misfortune of remembering everything. You should consider yourself lucky.

- Some memories have come back, she murmured.

I believed her. She seemed sincere.

- Really?

- Yes... I was an opera singer in Europe. I was loved. And I loved what I did… I loved my life and my friends.

- That sounds like good news. You should be happy.

Tears welled up in her eyes again, and that annoyed me.

- No. I lost everything. I will never get that back. That’s why I cry. I cry for everything I’ve lost.

It was my turn to give a bitter smile. Clearly, we had both faced the same kind of reckoning tonight, in our own ways.

- Yeah… I know what that’s like, I repeated.

She suddenly stood up, as if embarrassed by this moment of honesty and emotion, and forced another smile—without much success.

- I’ll feel much better after a good night’s sleep. Good night, Mr. Morgan.

- Good night, Miss Ganci.

I flicked the end of my cigar into the fire and uncorked a bottle of my finest bourbon, savoring the familiar burn down my throat. It was the only pain I could handle tonight.

[outlaw-apologist]

The Gang Catching Feelings For You (RDR2)

The gang catching feelings for you! (Mostly GN) Characters: Arthur, Charles, Trelawny, Hosea, Micah Warnings: Micah’s story contains mentions of gender Note: This one was written for @onceuponadie sorry it took me forever to bang this out. :’) AO3 Version Arthur At first you thought you might be annoying Arthur. He always seemed really awkward when you tried to help out or when you stopped him to make sure his satchel was filled with new supplies before he left camp. Arthur becomes stiff when you’re around. Half of the time he could hardly hold eye contact. It made you feel bad. You were only trying to make his tasks easier. Everyone always had such huge expectations of Arthur. No one cared if there was enough stew leftover for him when he returned to camp, or if the supplies were rationed out to him. You took notice of this quickly, their behavior was beyond you. The man doing the most work for the gang should be supported.

“Thank ya’ kindly.” He usually responded whenever he caught you in the act, tipping his hat down to cover his eyes. It wasn’t in a rude way… just… awkward. It was hard to decode exactly how he felt about it and you assumed he’d speak up if he wanted you to stop and so you kept on doing your thing. You hadn’t seen Arthur in a few days. According to Hosea he went out hunting to replenish the camp’s food supply. Not something unusual. The day was lovely, naturally you decided you wanted to get away from the gang for awhile – in need of some serious space and fresh air – and help out by bringing something in. Fishing sounded nice! Not so close by, as you didn’t want anyone bothering you. You took your horse to a beautiful area you had heard so much about. Cumberland Falls. What you didn’t expect was to see a familiar outlaw fussing with his horse near the bank of the Dakota River. You slowed your horse to a walk, heading his way. Arthur’s voice carried was over the water in the cold spring breeze. “You’re alright girl. Just let me take a look at it. Easy now-” “Is she alright?” You called out. Arthur’s head snapped up and he gave a shrug. “Got ambushed by some O’Driscoll boys. Shot her leg pretty good. Hope she don’t go lame on me.” You could hear the upset in Arthur’s voice even as he tried to act casual. He had a close bond with his horse, something you had always admired. Dismounting your own, you rummaged through your satchel while approaching him. “Here- this might help until we can get her looked at.” You gently pushed a bottle of horse tonic into his palm. Arthur was slow to take it, interlocking your fingers together as he wrapped his much larger hand around the glass bottle. His eyes were on yours, gaze electric and intense. “Thank you.” His voice wasn’t shy this time. He wasn’t turning away from you as he usually did. “You look exhausted.” Your words were gentle, not meaning any offense. “Take my horse, I’ll lead yours so you can rest.” “That’s really not necessary-” Arthur trailed off as you took the reigns from him. He could tell there was no room for argument here. With a small grunt he turned to give his horse the tonic. In truth, Arthur was feeling pretty upset about his horse. Maybe it was the stress of everything. The weight of Backwater on his shoulders. His mind was racing yet, calm, at the same time. How was that possible? He didn’t know. The only other time he felt that way was with Mary. But you? Your actions were so genuine. It made him feel… better. Unexpectedly this was hard for him to accept. Why was someone treating him with so much empathy? Maybe you pitied him, an old man that had no value outside of stealing and shooting for dollars. However, he thinks he understands now. It wasn’t pity. Pity doesn’t make someone manifest from thin air when he wishes they were there. And yeah, it probably was coincidence this time, but damn did it feel natural. It felt… right… As if you two were being drawn to each other like magnets. You see him for who he is and you accept him no questions asked. “Somehow… You always know where to find me when I need you. What would I do without you?” “I guess we’ll never know.” Arthur’s stomach fluttered with butterflies when you flashed him that brilliant smile of yours. Maybe it was time for him to move on and find love again. ___ Charles You liked Charles. Being around him was peaceful. He, like you, enjoys the serenity that comes with nature; and so you two were often found in proximity of each other working on your respective crafts or doing a quiet activity while taking in the day. You didn’t know much about each other. He was a quiet man and you… well, you tried not to talk about yourself unless asked. Over time you observed things about him. It was hard not to. Charles is a dedicated man. Always would his brow furrow when concentrating on his work. He would give a little grunt of victory whenever something came out particularly good that he was proud of. You noticed he would stop to admire a beautiful feather on the ground, or an interesting rock. If animals wondered by your hang-out Charles would put down his work to watch them with a small smile. Fondness for Charles began to grow in your heart. You had feelings for Charles first. You never said or did anything to convey this, of course. It was hard to tell how Charles felt about you and… You know he wouldn’t be unkind towards you if he knew, but you didn’t think he’d feel the same way. Instead you carried on as normal. As time went on this became a little difficult. Every time someone in camp had something to say about him, you were either defending Charles or singing his praises. Not obnoxiously so, but enough to make a few of the gang members suspicious. Despite an odd look here and there, no one said a word. Not even Charles himself. Charles too had wondered at times what your words would mean when you would tell Bill to shut up because Charles was the best hunter they had. Or when you would threaten Micah’s life whenever it looked like he was about to say a slur. It couldn’t be- right? Charles knew he made himself too boring and unassuming… You were probably just being a good friend. “Hey Charles.” You greeted, sitting beside him by the fire in front of Shady Bell. “I know this really isn’t your thing but I have a lead in Saint Denis and I… Well, I need a husband so I can get into this party.” You flashed a shy but goofy grin. “Find someone else.” You blinked in surprise. You knew it probably wasn’t personal but his cold reaction did sting a little. “C’mon.” You gently nudged him. “It’s not really my thing. I don’t think I can help you.” “I know, but I need someone who’ll keep their head. I don’t trust the others not to ruin it.” Charles turned to study your face. You didn’t usually go on jobs like this, nor did you normally ask for help. The mission must have been worth it. “Alright, let’s go.” Charles looked stunning. Trelawny called in a favor from someone in the city and was able to pull together extravagant outfits for the both of you. Charles tied his hair back and… damn did the man clean up well. It was unnatural seeing him this way. It didn’t suit him at all, you loved his usual look more than anything. But hey- you could admire Prince Charles for one evening. Heads turned as you both walked into the small garden party. It wasn’t anything over the top. Mostly it was rich women chatting together. You had met them previously and pretended you were married to a rich man in an attempt to gain access into their society. It worked… A little too well. They were eager to meet your husband. Charles was certainly not who they had expected. “Oh-” One of the women’s faces fell. Judgment danced in their eyes. “You’re married to…” Her mouth opened and closed. Immediately you spoke up before something unsavory was said. “This is my darling husband Charles Wilson.” “Mr. Wilson” A younger woman extended her hand for Charles to kiss. “Y/N tells us you’re quite the talented agricultural tycoon.” “Is that so?” Charles shot you an amused look. “I try to be humble but in plain terms, you can say that.” “How wonderful it is a man of your stature could be so… influential.” “Oh come now Mrs. Jones. I’d love to hear all about it. Our husbands aren’t half as interesting.” A third lady giggled. You gave Charles an apologetic look. You hated leaving him here but the thousands of dollars worth of jewelry weren’t going to steal its self. “I’m afraid, ladies, I feel a bit ill today. May I excuse myself?” “Of course, dear. We’ll keep your husband company. The powder room is upstairs to your left.” You slipped in and out easy enough. The jewelry wasn’t hard to find. Upon returning you rejoined everyone. Charles did look a bit bored and you could only imagine what these women were saying to your sweet handsome husband. “Thank you.” You turned to Charles as you both left for the night.  He had an arm wrapped around you, supporting his ‘ill’ partner. “I know they were terrible and I feel bad for dragging you into this.” “Not at all. I’m used to it. It doesn’t help that I’m not exactly husband material.” Charles tried to make fun of himself to lighten the mood but it only made you feel heavier. “Don’t say that.” You squeezed his shoulder. “That’s not true at all.” Maybe it was the drinks you had at the party, but suddenly you just couldn’t keep it in anymore. “Charles you are one of the gentlest people I’ve ever met. You’re compassionate and considerate. You’re so appreciative of everything around you. You don’t speak much but when you do you’re so damn articulate. I could listen to you talk for days and days and still be in awe of how brilliant your mind is. You’re just…” You ran your fingers through your hair while sucking in a sobering breath.  “So beautiful. And handsome, but that’s a story for another time.” A nervous laugh erupted from your lips. You probably went too far this time. “It’s an honor being seen next to you.” Thick awkward silence blanked the evening for the longest time. How could he respond to something like that? It sounded…. It sounded as though you genuinely liked him? “You really mean that?” Charles’ voice was filled with doubt. You were probably only saying those things because you felt bad for putting him in such a position. Though, it was nice to hear someone point out good things about his character and not just what he was useful for. No one had ever said anything like that to him before. It made his heart skip a beat. “I do.” Charles hummed with happiness. He believed you. “I’ll be your husband again. Maybe not for a party of rich white people, but we make a pretty couple. I’m sure we can find a way.” His gaze met yours fondly. Maybe one day being your husband won’t be an act but a reality. ___ Micah “There you are dead-weight.” You could have groan as the voice of none other than Micah Bell reached your ears. You were having a nice afternoon reading in the trees not far from camp. Ever since the gang left Colter Micah’s been on your back – for whatever reason – and it was getting on your last nerve. Dead-weight was his new favorite thing to call you. If it wasn’t that then it was probably ‘piglet’. You eat Pearson’s stew at camp around him one time and he was enraged because you ‘didn’t do enough to earn it’. He wasn’t every creative. It wasn’t that you didn’t pull your weight, because you did. You’re a real hard worker. But you also value your alone time and Micah… Well, he caught onto that real quick. Every damn time you wandered off for a moment to yourself he managed to find you one way or another. You were at the end of your rope. “Shouldn’t you be makin’ yourself useful? Go make money on your back or somethin’ like the other girls.” You looked up at him over your book while he scoffed at you. All you could do was snort in amusement. “Maybe you should go make money on your back, Micah. Though, I can’t imagine anyone would want to fuck your grimey unwashed ass.” Micah’s face twisted up in both confusion and rage. How dare you insinuate something so… Queer? So disgusting? He didn’t know what to say and you watched as he struggled to come up with a response. “I bring in the money, I don’t wash the clothes.” “And what money have you brought in?” Your voice was calm and measured. “Only Arthur and I’ve been bringing in the big bucks.” “I’ve been out workin’ real jobs that’ll bring in more than you and cowpoke have scrounged up in weeks.” You simply shut your book. “Sure you are, shit-ass.” Oh- a huge smile crossed your face. That’s what you’ll call him for now on.   Micah seemed to catch on, realization flashing across his face. He suddenly threw his head back with a hearty laugh. Never had he thought you’d return his energy. Not many people did. Arthur probably would but that man was beat into the ground and no fun in his opinion. But you? Hilarious! “I like that. I’ll remember that next time.” He loved it. He picked on you because he wanted to stare at your ass while you work around camp. He didn’t like it when his entertainment left his sight. To be honest Micah didn’t think anything would develop between the two of you. He considered you just as pathetic as Molly… But now… Maybe you did have a bite to you. An inkling of suspicion crept into your thoughts when you caught the joy in his eyes. Oh god- this was just the beginning. Micah was going to have his fun. ___ Josiah Josiah couldn’t help himself. He had to flirt with everything and anything he found beautiful. You were no exception. He didn’t expect anything to come of it. Nothing ever did. You laughed at his magic tricks and scolded him whenever you and Arthur had to get him out of trouble. You were just… Ordinary in his life. Like anyone else. You liked Josiah well enough. The two of you would talk about a show you’ve seen or a book you’ve read. However, you found yourself drawn to him as if there were a magnetic field pulling you in. Whenever Josiah would pop back up or walk into camp you seemed to jump up and greet him before anyone else could. Immediately you’d ask him how he was or where he’s been. Josiah thought it was amusing the first few times. You must have felt bad because no one else really cares if he’s there or not. “What’ve you been up to Mr. Trelawny?” You ask every time, leaning forward with an interested smile. He enjoyed you humoring him. “Well my dear, you see, there were these wolves-” always would he reply with some fabricated story with half-truths. You didn’t seem to mind. When Josiah had his face smashed in by bounty hunters in Rhodes the sting of embarrassment was greater than the pain. All because of you. It felt almost humiliating, letting you see him that way. Half expecting you to scold him or roll your eyes like usual, he was shocked as you gently took his chin and turned his head so you could examine him. “Does it hurt?” “Don’t worry about me, dear friend.” “You didn’t answer the question.” You pursed your lips in frustration. Josiah ran a hand through his hair. He squirmed under your concerned gaze, not used to gentle eyes being turned his way. It was weird. Truly strange. You carefully wiped the blood from his face and for once Josiah remained silent. Had you genuinely cared for him this whole time? His heart fluttered… Maybe… It’s silly to think, in his mind, but just maybe… He could start caring for you in the same way. ___ Hosea You follow Hosea around like a puppy at times. If a job had to be done, you were right there with Arthur to company him.  Fishing? Your pole would be out with bait on the hook or you’d sit beside him with a book in hand. You simply wanted to enjoy peace of his presence as he fished. It wasn’t annoying by any means. You’re not loud or presumptuous about it and it seemed as if you always knew exactly when he needed alone time or when he wanted space. Hosea enjoyed it. His boys were all grown and doing their own thing. Everyone now saw him as an old man. For awhile he did jobs on his own. Seeing who’s house he could slip into to make their pockets hurt. Now? He had a partner in crime who always understood his vision. It was fantastic! You two swap books when you’re done reading them and talk in length about philosophy. There was a certain deepness to your relationship. At first, Hosea saw you as a kindred spirit. You were someone who matched him like a puzzle piece. He spilled all of his heartaches to you as well as his hopes and dreams. Bessie was a big one. He’d speak of her when the gang was huddled around the fire at times. But there were things he couldn’t tell anyone. Not even Dutch who understood the loss of a woman he loved. When Hosea gave in, letting the emotions and memories of his dearly departed beloved spill from his lips like knocked over ink, you listened carefully. Offering empathy in ways Hosea didn’t even know he needed. In return he listened to your own heavy thoughts, offering his arms to cry in when needed. The whole gang knew about you and Hosea before you and Hosea figured it out for yourselves. “I think we should also bring Y/N to the party.” Hosea proposed in the midst of hashing out details from the mayor of Saint Denis. “Of course you do.” Ditch rolled his eyes, causing Hosea to cross his arms offensively. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “C’mon, look at’cha. I haven’t seen you like this in a long time, Hosea. Just ask them out already.” Hosea’s moth opened in protest but no words escaped. It took several seconds for Dutch’s words to properly click. All he could do was lean back against his chair. “You don’t think it’s too late for me?” His old friend shot him a weary smile. “It’s never too late for love.” For once Dutch was right. Hosea hummed to himself, conjuring a picture of the two of you together as an official couple. It did feel right. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Surrogate: A Malevolent Podcast Fanfic

The King in Yellow has a plan.

The first part works, and Arthur Lester is broken.

The second half blows up in his face. John has gone mad, and Hastur’s adopted daughter is upset, but that’s not all.

It turns out a certain Outer God wasn’t done watching that show, and when he arrives with director’s notes, not even the King in Yellow can refuse him.

AO3

----

This fic is fluffy AND dark?

I took the Emotions Box and dumped the whole thing in without a hint of self-restraint.

CONTENT WARNING: It includes one of John and Arthur’s absolute lowest points, and though not explicit, he suffers from suicidal ideation. He does not act on it, but it’s there.

Proceed with caution.

-----------

Faroe is a year and a half old, and she must sit on his lap to reach the keys of the piano.

She plays a low F sharp.

“Yes! Now… here. This comes next.” He plays the next few notes an octave above middle C, high and sparkling.

His voice is deep, and it is terrible, but she is not afraid.

She giggles, and—slowly—mimics it, two octaves lower. F sharp, G, F sharp, D—and after a trepidatious moment, the final F sharp.

“Very good! I’m so proud of you. My smart little girl. You’re so good. Who’s my little girl?”

A giggle, such a tiny sound, like her throat hasn’t even finished developing, and she is simply too young to be self-conscious. “Dadah.”

She’s playing the low notes. He’s playing the high ones. Is there meaning to this? Some hidden portent?

No. It simply happened that way, and he does not know if he should try to find reason in it.

She is remarkable. “Such a good girl. I’m very proud of you, Faroe.”

“Love you, dadah.”

#

Faroe is two years old, and trying to sing.

She has a range of about six notes (fitting for her developmental stage—he’s checked), but she hits them with an accuracy unusual for her age.

It’s not precise, of course. She skips from note to note as lightly as a hummingbird between flowers, never firmly landing on any, but brushing close enough to share the sweetness.

“Faroe, my darling. Such a good girl.”

“I love you, daddy.”

Maybe the fucking human was right not to have let go of this.

She truly is remarkable. Continually surprising in her cleverness, and her ridiculous humor, and her effusive love.

Regardless, her skills and self change nothing.

Faroe’s specialness only emphasizes how much Arthur Lester deserves what’s coming.

#

Faroe is two and a half, and who could have guessed how she’d take to the harp?

Confining her to one instrument was such a human thing to do, and he hadn’t even considered it. At his prompting, she tries them all.

Wind instruments, she doesn’t care for.

Percussion, she enjoys while inventing uncoordinated dances, but does not like to play.

Brass is much the same as wind.

Piano is all right. She shows talent, but no joy.

But string—oh, string.

Anything with strings, she loves, and embraces, and becomes in some sweet way he cannot define, but must be human magic: her small, clumsy movements going smooth, her tiny, pudgy fingers caressing with grace far beyond her years.

She would have absolutely been considered a prodigy among the short-sighted humans. She will be so much more than that now.

Curious, that he finds himself making plans for her beyond the end of this plan. If all goes as originally conceived, she won’t even be alive to—

“Daddy, look,” she says, and catches the harp strings with each succeeding finger as easily as she breathes, tiny digits curling to pull sound toward herself like muses gather dreams.

Remarkable.

If her father was anything like this, perhaps he could understand the Piece’s... reluctance.

But of course, no. He had seen into Arthur Lester, down to his core, and found him only distasteful.

“Daddy?”

“You’re doing so well, my darling. I’m very pleased with you.”

Her smile carries a weight he’d never imagined. For him, she plays some more, an uncomplicated and unsullied worship, given freely with no expectation of remittance.

She checks as she does to make sure he is watching, and it is in this brief, mortal moment that Hastur realizes he’s fallen in love.

#

This was not the plan.

He watches her play among his dancers, those sharp and terrible creations—watches her bound without fear between them because she has never been hurt, never known pain beyond the negligible bump or scrape.

That is according to plan.

She is healthy and lovely, and absorbing knowledge at a rate his study has shown him is unusual for humans, even at her developmental stage.

That, too, is according to plan.

But he no longer wishes to finish the plan as intended.

Is this what the Piece went through? This… illogical abandonment of principle and pride?

Perhaps.

Though he still could not see why. Faroe was worth some flexibility. Arthur was not. What a disgusting creature for the Piece to have latched—

“Daddy, are you watching?” she calls, darting between sharp and stone-hard dancers, who would be dangerous for anyone who had not grown up among them.

“Always, my dear,” he says, and it is true.

So the plan must change.

The result could still be the same.

He is a god, and absolutely has the right to change his mind.

#

Faroe is three years old, and the timing could not be more perfect.

He's been leaving clues for Arthur over the past year, burning hints, plastering Arthur’s life with reminders of what he’d lost and what he’d done.

An unending stream of them, merciless, too subtle to dismiss.

And with constant pressure, there’d formed a crack in that ugly human psyche.

Seemingly nothing. Left alone, it would heal.

Unless one applied a wedge just so, and then hit.

It was crucial to act before she grew much older, before she became too self-aware to demand penance from strangers. Crucial to act when she still lacked the ability to analyze, to question (beyond the endlessly-repeated “Why?” which he had decided was more to hold his attention than to gather knowledge).

Crucial, to do this before she could develop too much empathy. The Piece’s human was nothing if not pitiful, and he would not risk the plan going sour over that.

“We have guests. I need you on your best behavior, darling. Will you make me proud?” he says to her, unbothered by her wriggles, by her curiosity, by her constant personal quest to see if she can climb out of his tentacles (she cannot).

“Yes, daddy!” she agrees, which has to be enough.

They are here.

#

It wasn’t hard to bring them. A little pressure here, a few disposable cultists there, and the Piece and his thing are arrived.

The Piece is worried. Has been for a few months now, certain that something is very wrong with Arthur, but he cannot identify the cause.

They step into the dark, those two—Arthur Lester frowning at gloom he cannot see, John Doe narrating as usual.

The King has chosen a room they do not know, a place John would never recognize, because this plan has been in the works for years, this particular moment envisioned many times, and it has to be just right.

He waits until they’re too far in to turn around.

Come too far to run, to leap back through the silent, slowly closing door.

Too far to do anything but receive.

“Hello, Arthur,” says the King in Yellow, and steps forward in a bloom of light like the heavens opened to augur him.

It is everything he wanted and more.

Arthur’s horror—delayed, because Hastur chose the right day, and Arthur’s sanity is already trembling and painful.

The Piece’s rage—immediate and tinged with terror, because he knows that this setup will have no flaws, errors, or ways to escape.

Arthur tries to shoot him.

Cute.

“Now, is that necessary? I merely want to talk,” says the King in Yellow, and extends his reach to simply take the gun from him.

He might have broken Arthur’s hand. Well, humans are fragile.

The screaming is annoying, though, because it catches her attention.

“What’s wrong with that man?” she says, her voice quavering in the way it does when she’s becoming upset.

And Arthur hears her.

The gasp, the freeze. Beautiful.

“This is a bad man,” says the King in Yellow. “There he is, do you see him? He is very bad. What do we do when we have been bad, Faroe?”

He uses her name on purpose.

That isn’t enough, though. That isn’t nails in the proverbial coffin.

Not that it's a coffin he’s going for. This is a wedge, designed to split.

“What?” says Arthur in a tiny, weak voice.

The Piece has, to the King’s pleasure, gone silent in shock.

Good. That will make this even easier.

“We say sorry,” says Faroe, dutifully, the mental exercise pulling her, fortunately, away from looming empathy.

Arthur? whispers the Piece.

Hastur lets Faroe down.

Slowly. Taking his time. Ensuring the Piece sees how comfortable with him she is, how utterly at ease, because he will tell Arthur.

She… she’s… in his arms, Arthur, the Piece says, slipping by habit into describing things for the blind fool. She's not even afraid.

Yes. Perfect.

She looks… about three, maybe four? I can’t tell. Health blooms in her cheeks. She wears… his yellow, a sort of… single, wrapped uniform, comfortable and loose, along with yellow flower barrettes in her hair. Oh, Arthur—she’s coming closer.

“I can’t,” whispers Arthur, which could mean anything, and then he falls to his knees.

Just bang, right down, sure to bloom those fragile joints blue and yellow within the hour.

How many reminders did it take to bring Arthur to this place? How much effort from the King’s agents? It was all worth it, because it worked.

This is the moment.

He has sown those seeds, and now, he will harvest. “Go on, Arthur. Apologize to my little girl. That is what we do when we are bad, is it not?”

Arthur, she… The Piece runs out of words.

Regretful, that Arthur Lester is physically healthier than he was the last time they met. This might have just killed him, before. Oh, well.

“Faroe?” he whispers.

“Yes, I am,” she says, confident, not quite mature enough to read his defeated body language, his stricken face, his pallor so drained that he looks a little like blue-veined cheese.

“Go on, Arthur,” Hastur says, his pleased rumble filling the room, packing itself into the silences. “You owe her an apology.”

“Faroe,” whispers Arthur, and makes the tiniest move.

“If you touch her, you will be very sad at what happens next,” Hastur warns.

Because that is what he had planned.

Because—

Because.

He can still say it. He doesn’t have to mean it.

Arthur clenches his fists and does not touch. “Faroe?”

“Yes,” she says.

He makes one, broken-sounding sob.

“You should say sorry,” she instructs him. “Since you were bad.”

And… there.

Right there. It’s not an audible thing. It’s not visual. But oh… there it is.

Three years in the making.

More than that in the planning.

Right there, the moment of a mortal mind going snap.

Arthur? Arthur!

The Piece felt it, too.

Good. Hopefully, that would speed this along.

“Faroe,” whispers Arthur Lester. “I’m s… I’m sorry, Faroe.” His breath comes fast, shallow, and wet. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!” He covers his face with his good hand, and he is sobbing now, if that is even the word—vocalized sounds on every exhale, high, pained—more pained than those he made with a broken leg, if Hastur remembers clearly.

Which he does.

“I’m sorry, Faroe! I’m sorry, Faroe!”

Arthur! Fuck, Arthur! Arthur!

It’s a little much for Faroe.

She doesn’t know what to do. Her distress is rising, and that’s according to plan, to the original plan, which Hastur is now struggling to follow. She’s beginning to cry a little—damned empathy, combined with confusion, maybe fear.

He can comfort her after. It’s all so close. “Now, John,” he croons, and he is chiding, gentle, firm. “You know that’s a waste of energy, don’t you?”

The Piece ignores him. Arthur! Arthur!

Faroe reaches up and pats Arthur’s face. “You said sorry. It’s okay, now. It’s okay.”

He startles badly, so badly he almost falls over, but lowers his hand.

He can’t see her. He still stares in her direction, as if caught in a wondering horror beyond imagination.

“I forgive you,” she says, because that’s what she’s been taught to do.

Then absolutely done with this overwhelming scene, she turns around and skips back to Hastur.

To her dad, even if he’s not her father.

He gathers her up, relishing her fearlessness, her familiarity, and lets her squirm through his loose tentacles like her own personal playground.

Arthur is quiet.

Kneeling still, his hands limp at his sides. His head is down.

Oh… oh, it is satisfying. Every inch as much as he’d hoped.

Arthur! Fuck, Arthur, don’t do this! Arthur!

“Are you ready to come home, John?” says Hastur, almost gently.

Silence.

He sighs. Stupid stubborn Piece.

“Daddy,” whispers Faroe, which isn’t much of a whisper. “He looks weird. He’s weird. Why is he weird?”

“Well, Faroe, he’s done a lot of bad things.” There’s no point to this if he’s not going to rub it in. “But maybe now he can do a good one. What do you think? Should he do that?”

“He should be good,” she says, thoughtfully, and then returns to wriggling through his limbs for fun.

“The good thing would be to let go, wouldn’t it?” says Hastur.

Arthur agrees.

Of course he does. He’s thinking… well.

Arthur has no plans to live much longer after this is done—but even this low, he doesn't want to drag John with him.

Hastur will grant him a single point for that.

Time for the finale. “John,” Hastur says, warm. “Come home. There will be no punishment. Come on, now. You’ve been released. Can’t you feel it?”

Arthur!

The left hand rises, feels along Arthur’s unresponsive face.

Hastur sighs. This is the only part he couldn’t fully plan out. “John. It’s time.”

No response.

Really? Really?

Maybe he didn’t understand his toy had broken. “If you stay in him, you’re going back to the Dark World.”

Finally, he gets a response: Good.

What? “Excuse me?”

Good.

The left hand slides over Arthur, as if making sure his organs have stayed inside.

Arthur hasn’t moved at all beyond breathing.

Arthur. Talk to me, Arthur.

Right. Now it was time for some nails. Hastur tickles Faroe.

She giggles—that free, wild sound only small humans seem able to produce.

Arthur slowly curls down over himself, wrapping himself tightly with his right arm, head completely down. “She’s happy?”

What? Yes, she’s happy. Arthur!

“John,” says Hastur. “I have done you the courtesy of using your… chosen name. He’s already released you. Do I need to take you? I’d hoped to spare you the indignity.”

The sound that comes from the Piece, then… isn’t right.

It’s not a sound Hastur can immediately place. It isn’t a growl (the Piece lacks the vocal cords). It isn’t a roar.

It’s some kind of… groan.

He doesn’t know how to interpret it.

Kill me! John demands. Because if you don’t…

“If I don’t… what?” says Hastur, sounding calm.

He isn’t calm.

This part isn’t in the plan. This is where the Piece should realize his vehicle is broken, and—

The left hand keeps roaming, sliding up to wipe away the constant flow of tears, even thumbing away snot (ew!).

As if care of Arthur Lester matters more than dignity.

Arthur, he whispers.

“John,” Arthur whispers. “I’m sorry.”

It was her birthday, or something today, right? the Piece says. You’ve been fucked for months, but today… you’ve been moving like you’re already made of broken glass. That’s why he picked today, isn’t it?

“She’d be… she’d be… eleven, John. I…”

I’ve got you, Arthur. The left hand cups Arthur's downturned face.

“I know.” It’s barely audible. “I’m sorry. I…  I think I’m done.”

Arthur, no. Arthur, no! Arthur!

“Excuse me,” says Hastur. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”

Fuck YOU! the Piece suddenly bellows. What have you done? How dare you? How dare you?

From within the folds comes a tiny, shocked gasp. “He said a bad word,” Faroe whispers loudly.

Oh… Hastur is so proud.

She heard the Piece! The minimal magic training he’s given her worked! She heard it!

“He said a bad word,” Faroe says, louder, because she hadn’t got the expected response.

“You’re quite correct, my darling.” Hastur shifts his limbs enough to lift her free, head popping out of writhing, black tubes. “What should he do, then?”

“Say sorry,” she says, automatically, which is even better, because now there might be a second—

John Doe laughs.

It is a… strange laugh.

Wild, unhinged, too far, like electric shocks in the guise of sound.

Instinct makes Hastur pull Faroe back into himself, hiding her between his many limbs.

Oh, go ahead, says the Piece. Go ahead, use her again. Do anything you want. It won’t matter.

“Excuse me?” Definitely not going according to plan.

The left hand slides over Arthur’s face again, his lips, his eyes. Arthur turns his head away, but the hand turns it back, gently cupping his jaw. Arthur. I’ve got you.

“I…”

I know. You’re done. Arthur… it’s all right. You have my permission.

Arthur exhales like he hadn’t breathed this whole time, and turns his face toward that hand. “Thank you.”

They just came to some weird suicide pact, right in front of him, without so much as a by-your-leave.

“So I have to just take you, then?” says Hastur, sharp.

Go ahead.

He’s too accepting of it. “You think to resist?” Hastur scoffs.

Not at all. I intend to make every deal with every demon I can find. I intend to gather every syllable of forbidden magic and cursed spell I can earn. I intend to hover and hide and hone in vengeance until to come near me is to be cut. I will destroy you for what you’ve done to him.

Well.

Right, so.

Um.

It's just a human. “Fool,” says Hastur, sounding a lot more sure than he is. “I’ll simply keep you isolated until you calm down.”

Go ahead. I can do a lot on my own, isolated, with nothing to risk.

“Nothing to risk but yourself.”

You already destroyed the part of me that matters.

This was getting ridiculous. “Then perhaps I’ll send you to the Dark World instead—apart from him, separate. He kills himself, he’s going a different path than you—you know this. And I’ll simply fetch you after a few thousand years.”

Go ahead. We both know what happens to beings who go down to death with only vengeance as their fire.

At last, Hastur growls.

He’s tried not to do that, not to frighten Faroe; he knows the sound scares her, and it does so now. She stops playing, goes still, emits a tiny, frightened gasp.

“I am not angry at you, Faroe,” he says, low. “You’re all right. Stay hidden, all right?”

“Okay, daddy,” she whispers, but she is still afraid of him.

Afraid of him because of them.

The fucking Piece. “How dare you defy me like this? You think you’re going to win anything? You think I can’t outlast you, overpower you, wear you down like a stone in the sea?”

I think you broke what was mine, and I am going to make you pay even if it takes me until the end of time.

Drama. It couldn’t be anything el-

“Okay, okay, cheese and crackers, rock and a hard place, we get it,” says a new voice, and a thing appears in the middle of the room.

That is an Outer God.

Hastur stumbles back, too shocked to think clearly, physically buffeted by the presence this thing brings.

An Outer God in the form of a human, an Outer God standing right there like the suddenness of a created sun, burning everything near.

What? How? Why?

It's wearing a suit identical to Arthur’s except rumpled, somehow giving the impression that it was out carousing until all hours.

It is barefoot, and its feet leave red, smoking prints.

Outer Gods bring chaos. Outer Gods bring death. Outer Gods bring carnage.

Faroe. Of them all, she is in most danger.

Whatever it wants here, it can have it, and Hastur does not hesitate further.

He tries to take her away.

And… he can’t.

Can’t.

He tries again, harder.

It comes with a weird zap, like his attempt to access his own power has been short-circuited, and that has never happened to Hastur before.

The Outer God has to be doing this.

Faroe. Faroe. He has to protect her.

“Well, this isn’t ideal,” says the Outer God, striding right over to Arthur and the Piece as though they’re the most interesting thing in the room—and as though the King in Yellow, the Shepherd God, doesn’t even exist.

Absurdly, Hastur is offended.

“Lemme see, lemme see. Oh, oh, there we go,” says the being in an utter mockery of tenderness, and tilts Arthur’s face up.

Arthur doesn’t respond. Whatever is in him that would have responded cracked about ten minutes ago, and he lets the Outer God do whatever, tilting his face from side to side.

Kayne, growls John, familiar, dismissive, and Hastur is completely confused.

“Well, fuck,” says Kayne. “You broke him. You fucking octopus. You broke him!”

What?

Kayne, go the fuck away if you’re not going to help me hurt him, says the Piece as though addressing this being wasn’t the maddest thing Hastur has ever seen.

It should fill the Piece with terror. What the fuck was happening?

Hastur tries to leave again.

No good.

He tries to just… put her away, to slide her into a tiny pocket dimension.

He can’t even open one.

Unfamiliar feeling is speeding his own breath now, so unfamiliar that it takes him a moment to realize what it is.

Is he dying?

No. This is fear.

Actual fear.

He keeps Faroe hidden deep in himself, as protected as he can.

Kayne—the Outer God—turns slowly to look at him.

And the unfamiliar feeling spikes.

He was wrong. This isn’t fear. This is terror. Debilitating, weakening—

“Oh, you don’t know terror yet,” says this Kayne (that can’t be his real name, the fuck kind of name is that), and turns back to the Piece and his broken toy. “See,” says Kayne. “This is why I stopped after the music box in Carcosa. Didn’t want this to happen. Well… fuck.”

John makes a low, angry noise. You want some chaos? Something to watch? I’ll give it to you! Give me the power to hurt him. Do it now.

Kayne snorts. “The effective way to do that is to kill her, fuck her up, rip her to pieces, and that’ll hurt your guy a lot more than it would him, even now.”

Hastur's breath catches.

So... his plan seems to have well and truly blown up in his face, though why it did—

“Oh, you think so, squid for brains?” says Kayne, turning to look at him again (and Hastur wishes he would not because every time he does it’s like switching out his ichor for bitterly cold helium). “You fucking cephalopod. I won't even give you the courtesy of saying cuttlefish because they are smart.”

Hastur makes one small, lost noise.

Give me the power, growls John.

“No, no, no. I was watching this. I wasn’t done.” And the Outer God begins pacing.

Released, Arthur slumps back down again.

Hastur peeks at him. Arthur is… waiting. Waiting to die. Waiting until he’s sure Faroe won’t see, hear, experience anything that might upset her, that might even give her so much as a bad dream.

Even now, at a point so low he might as well have dug it with his face, Arthur is considering Faroe’s welfare above his desperate need to just end.

Fine. It's deserving of another point, at least.

“You fuckers killed Iroh,” says Kayne, still pacing.

“What?” says Hastur.

“Four books down to three, all because of this. Ugh! I. Was. Watching. That.” And suddenly, so suddenly, so fast Hastur cannot see him move, Kayne is right there, right in front of his face, disparate heights be damned, and one of Kayne’s hands has pierced through his arms to just brush Faroe with his fingertips.

Ichor sprays.

Hastur flails, because now he has to protect her from his wounds (she’s mortal, so mortal, it would burn), because this monster has damaged him so quickly and with such ease that if he’d wanted to kill her, he could have, and Hastur wouldn’t even have been able to do anything to stop it.

Kayne starts pacing again, one arm dripping with Hastur’s black, hissing blood, leaving stains along the floor that send up rising smoke. “Right. Okay. How do we fix this, babes? What do you think? We could wipe it and do a full reboot, but I don’t wanna. That takes too long, and I really don’t have that kind of patience.”

Hastur is healing, yes. He is.

Slower than he should be.

Faroe has picked up on his terror, and she begins to cry. “Daddy?”

Oh. Oh, no. No, this is worse. This is worse than—

Kayne is right in his ear, lips brushing the cowl. “Than anything? No, we haven’t even gotten near that yet. Better not upset her. I’m not in the mood for the sound of babies screaming.”

Hastur makes one, low sound. “Faroe, it’s… I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“Daddy,” she whimpers, unable to see or hear what’s going on, merely responding to his fear, his tension.

“Try harder,” Kayne, and pinches the end right off one of Hastur’s many arms.

The pain is—

Hastur is not used to pain.

He’s had pain, sure. Sometimes. Way in the past of forever, when he was still new, and pecking orders had yet to be established. More recently, when the Piece was torn away.

This isn’t pain like that.

He is surprised into a roar.

Faroe screams.

She’s three. All she knows is her daddy is upset.

He has to rein this in. Protect her. Keep her sa-

She’s gone.

“No.” Hastur bellows, searching himself. “No!”

Faroe Lester Yellow is in Kayne’s arms.

“No!” Hastur roars, and lunges.

Right into some unseen barrier he cannot pass, and it is immediately obvious she can’t hear him anymore.

She’s hyperventilating, clearly confused, staring up at Kayne.

“Well, look at you! What a big girl you are,” he says with such a warm, kind voice, with such a warm, kind smile that of course she responds, focuses on him, begins to calm, because what else would she know to do? “Hello, MacGuffin," he says.

“Hi,” she says, still tear-streaked. “I’m not MacGuffin. I’m Faroe.”

“Faroe! You sure you’re not a MacGuffin?”

And it’s perfect delivery and perfect play, and Faroe giggles, swapping emotions the way small humans can. “Nooo, I’m Faroe!”

Kayne laughs, and oh, it’s warm and sweet, and oh, his hand on her back is sharp and long and darkening and filling with terrible power. “Oooh, I get it now. Faruffin, nice to meet you!”

That gets another giggle. “I’m not a Faruffin!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” says Kayne teases, and his long, blackened fingertips on her back have begun to glow a terrible purple that leaves afterimages.

Hastur is hurling himself against the barrier with such force that he’s completely torn out the floor, exposing pipes and bedrock.

He can’t get through.

He can’t be heard.

He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

And then two things happen at once.

Do it, says John, low and virulent, tightly holding Arthur’s other arm as if to keep him from just falling apart.

That is already shocking, but the second thing is even more.

“Kayne.”

It’s barely there.

Almost inaudible.

Arthur's face is turned toward the sound of his daughter’s voice. “Please. Please don’t hurt her.”

Kayne turns to look at him.

It’s even quieter this time, like a memory of sound. “Please.”

Kayne beams. “Well, fry me for dinner and call me baloney! We may not need to go salted earth, after all. Hey, Faruffin?”

More giggling. “I’m not Faruffin.”

“Sure. Know what just happened? Your daddy fell asleep, and oh, no! He had a bad dream.”

She gasps. “Oh, no!”

“You know what bad dreams are like, don’t you?”

Faroe takes that so solemnly. “Uh-huh.”

Hastur freezes, gasping. He’s exacerbated the wounds, and ichor hisses as it drops from his limbs.

“You know what he needs?” says Kayne like he’s playing a game, keeping her attention like a bauble on a string. “He needs to get his surrogate ass in gear so he doesn’t blow his audition for his new starring role! What do you think?”

What?

Faroe is struggling with this one. “You said a bad word,” she finally says, focusing on the part she could understand.

Kayne kisses her forehead.

He does it looking Hastur in the eye.

He does it with such unblinking, unyielding warning.

Faroe sighs, wriggles. Uncomfortable. Unsure. “Put me down.”

“Is that how we ask for things?” says Kayne, holding her close, gaze locked onto Hastur. “Uncle Arthur was polite. He said please.”

“Please put me down,” she says.

“Hear that?” says Kayne. “Hastur. What do we say when we want something?”

Hastur has never said “please” in his life.

Not beyond teaching her to do it, or teaching rebellious fools to beg.

Is that what he is now? A rebellious fool? “P… Please.”

“Eh,” says Kayne, loosening his grip so she slides right onto her feet. “C plus. Go on, Faruffin—your daddy needs some love.”

She can do that. She was raised in that, overflows in that, and if she sees him like this—

Hastur manifests an illusion.

Looks normal and welcoming as she runs for him, makes no sound as he cauterizes his own wounds so he doesn’t burn her with ichor, gives no indication of pain as he cooks off the spilling of himself before it can do her harm.

“Daddy!” she pronounces, and hurls herself into his many arms. “You had a bad dream!”

“I did,” he says, sounding calm, keeping the limbs he cannot repair back and out of reach. “But everything’s okay now. I have you.”

There’s a slight tremor in his voice.

“Better,” says Kayne. “B minus. Oh, but let’s get back to the interesting part.” He turns to Arthur.

Hastur is bizarrely insulted again, even in the midst of the worst horror he’s ever known.

Kayne crouches before Arthur, touches his chin, tilts his head up. “Say it again, Arthur. What you just said.”

Why? Seeing if his blasted mind could retain anything? Just to fuck with everybody? Hastur doubts Arthur will even—

“Please don’t hurt her,” Arthur says. “Please.”

Kayne sighs.

It is such a sound, too long, weirdly pleased. “How about that? It seems all hope is not lost, gentlemen. Hulu’s bought the rights.”

Hastur’s not sure he heard that right. “What?”

“Cartoon Network got in there for a bit, but that was all, you know, fuck the Fox executives, and who wants that? Predictable. No, no, no. No.”

Kayne, John growls.

“Quiet, Snippet.”

“Please.” It’s not even a whisper. “Not her.”

Hastur never thought he’d find himself agreeing with the Piece’s disgusting human.

Kayne snorts. “You’re lucky she’s so young. Some folks love messing with children, but me? No, thanks. They just don’t… feel it all, yet. Can’t understand what’s happening to them. Lack that special flavoring that comes with knowledge of inevitable doom. I fucking hate kids. They taste like oatmeal. Without salt.”

Arthur’s eyes are still leaking. He swallows. “Kayne, please.”

“I heard you the first time. No more speaking unless spoken to.” Kayne pats his cheek, stands, and claps his hands, sharp. “Here’s what we’re going to do: miniseries.”

What are you talking about? rumbles John. I need to hurt him.

“Shush. Ya boy is almost gone, but not quite. And you know what’s going to keep him around?”

Faroe vanishes from Hastur’s arms again.

And Kayne has one hand raised, one finger up, at Hastur, who suddenly knows if he doesn’t play whatever role he’s been assigned, he won’t get her back at all.

Faroe is in Arthur’s arms.

He didn’t even move to hold her. Kayne just did that.

“Daddy!” Faroe cries in startlement, pulling away from him.

Arthur lets her go.

Kayne goes down to her eye-level, on his knees, and holds her shoulders. “Hey, now, sweetheart! Easy, there. Aren’t you a good girl?”

“Yes,” she says, and wipes her face in her sleeve.

“That man needs a friend,” says Kayne. “He doesn’t have any. Isn’t that sad?”

“But… he’s weird.”

“He is weird! Wouldn’t that make you even gooder to be a friend to someone who doesn’t have any? I bet it would make your daddy super proud.”

She looks toward Hastur with such hope of approval.

Kayne turns his head all the way around like a fucking owl and smiles at him.

It’s so much threat couched in a mortal, human face that Hastur briefly cannot breathe.

He has no choice but to go along. “That would… be good. Yes, Faroe. It’s good to be…” What does Kayne want? “Friends to the… weird man.”

“His name is Uncle Arthur,” Kayne slides her over to Arthur again, lifts Arthur’s good arm, wraps it around her.

She’s stiff, uncomfortable, but trying. She reaches up and pats his cheek. “Hi.”

Arthur loses it.

It’s ugly crying, and suddenly he’s clutching her, even with his broken right hand.

Faroe is…

She’s badly startled, fully out of her depth.

But she doesn’t cry. She wants to make her daddy proud.

Hastur is proud.

He’s also terrified.

Faroe pats Arthur on the head. “Hey,” she says. “It’s okay. Hey, guess what?” And she starts to sing.

It’s the little lullaby Hastur has sung to her since she was first recreated from dust and memories.

A lullaby he’d never taught to her, but she’s smart, and so, he did not have to.

“Sleep my baby on my bosom, Warm and cozy will it prove. Round thee father’s arms are folding, in his heart a father’s love.”

Oh…

It works. Arthur’s horrible sounds slow and quiet. His breath still hitches, but suddenly, he’s rocking her, and he’s singing, too.

“There shall no one come to harm thee. Naught shall ever break thy rest. Sleep, my darling babe in quiet; sleep on m… father’s gentle breast.”

They sound good together, horrifyingly good together, and something deep in Hastur feels like it’s twisting.

“Gross,” says Kayne, and walks toward Hastur.

He cannot move. Cannot pull back. Knows no spell that would keep him safe .

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” says Kayne, crunching over ruined floor. “You hate him.” Arthur. “He hates you.” The Piece growls in agreement. “Thanks to this shit, he also hates her.” The Piece hates Faroe? “And Arthur’s just fucked, but only mostly.”

“He said bad words,” Faroe whispers to Arthur.

Arthur makes a sound that could be a broken laugh. “He did.”

“You know what I hate?” says Kayne. “Found family. It’s all forgiving, and loving past differences, and closer than a brother, and all that shit. But you know what I don’t hate?”

Silence, apart from Arthur’s still hitching breaths.

“I axed you a question,” says Kayne, light and sweet.

“What do you not hate?” Hastur manages, unable to take his eyes from Faroe.

“Forced family.” Kayne’s smile is terrible. It is supernova. It is world-wide plague. It is extinction and the finality of galactic collapse. “Everyone grinding in misery, suffocating, unable to escape or find relief or reach consensus. Everyone desperate to get away, willing to do whatever—leap over the side and drown, marry the wicked baron, whatever—but they can’t. Hey, Faruffin! Come here. I need to say sorry.”

She kisses Arthur’s cheek, makes a face at how wet it is, then heads right for Kayne, her little sandals slapping.

Why, Hastur thinks, did he never teach her of danger? Why did he keep her so safe, always protected, unaware of and unprepared for the realities of the universe?

“Love,” says Kayne. “It makes you stupid as fuck, didn’t you know? Oh, Faroe, I did it again! I said bad words. Aren’t I just awful?”

He does it with such exaggeration, with such faux warmth, that she giggles. “You should say sorry.”

“I’m sorry. I said bad words. Do you forgive me?”

“Yes!”

“Good girl. Now, run to your daddy.”

Which was pointed.

Which hurts Arthur all over again, and he flinches as though stabbed at the quick sound of her tiny feet racing away from him and toward another.

Wasn’t this happening because Arthur had broken? What the hell did Kayne want?

Hastur gathers her up. Hides her again. Knows it’s pointless, knows he can’t protect her.

There is nothing else he can do.

“You’re all going home together!” says Kayne. “All of you!”

What? snarls John. He’s back to touching Arthur with that hand, grounding, wiping at those unceasing tears.

“A miniseries works great at about six episodes, you feel me?” says Kayne. “So I think six years is a fair amount of time.”

For what? I’d sooner explode the fucking sun than go near him.

“Uh, did you even hear a word I said?” says Kayne. “That’s the point. Six years of absolute misery with each other until I decide whether to renew… or cancel with prejudice.”

“I don’t understand,” says Hastur.

“Heh. Maybe I’ll spice it up mid-way with more forcing. I’m thinking Larson and Yellow. What do you think, Snippet?”

What the fuck? No!

“Who?” says Hastur, baffled.

“That little sliver you’re missing?" Kayne says to Hastur. "The teeniest, tiniest bit? Don’t tell me you didn’t notice—that’d just be depressing! Oh, I stuck him in a century-old psychopath. He’ll be super spicy by the time he comes on board.”

Don’t you dare!

Kayne ignores him. “Arthur’s musical. You need music shit, right? Dancers, all of that? A composer?” says Kayne.

Were they still having the same conversation?

The slice—yes, Hastur had noticed, but it had happened when the Piece disappeared, so he’d assumed…

He can’t keep up with this. “I… I have a royal composer,” says Hastur.

“Oh, you’re right! Hnnng…” Kayne pretends to strain for a moment. “Welp, now you have a royal opening.”

“What? What?” Fuck. Hastur feels it, feels the shock of his people, feels the cries he cannot hear.  Karloff is dead. “What?”

Composer? The Piece sounds furious. That’ll hurt him!

“I seem to be getting through to you people very slowly, so I’m going to dumb it down,” says Kayne. “I don’t give a fuck about the pretty little princess right now. She's no fun to play with at this age. However.”

He lets the pause stretch just enough, like sinew tightening around everyone’s hearts.

“She won’t be boring forever. And I can’t imagine what I might get up to if I don’t have something else to watch when that time comes. Get it? So Arthur has a new job making music for his arch nemesis. Snippet—you’re gonna have to fix him. I’m not invested enough to fuck around with that.”

What? says John.

“You, Hastur, my ugly little decapodiform, are going to have to make space for all of that to happen. You’re going to have to do it while Snippet over here plots your death, ‘cause he doesn’t seem the forgiving type to me.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me?” says Hastur, defaulting to a phrase he puts zero thought into because he’s so overwhelmed.

“It should. I suspect li’l Arthur’s welfare is the only thing standing between you and… well, lemme put it this way: I’m not the only one of my caliber drawn by the note John’s soul sang when you succeeded in your fucking stupid plan.”

More Outer Gods?

Hastur can’t feel them. They’re so far beyond his power, which has always felt like enough, that he can’t even tell they’re there.

He hadn’t known Kayne was there, either.

“Helpless is a good look on you! Yes. There are more. Gathering like vultures. Oh, we are all hungry for what he’s doing now—but lucky! I got here first. There are so many deals being dangled…” Kayne smacks his lips. “But mine is the only one that accounts for Arthur staying alive.”

John says nothing.

As if this is true.

As if he’s… hearing things Hastur cannot, offered only to him.

Stay with me, Arthur, he says instead, stroking Arthur’s face.

“Why?” Hastur demands, unable not to, so confused why something like Kayne would care about any of this.

“Dense! You’re nowhere near as fun as the other guy,” pronounces Kayne. “Still—you better hope John doesn’t just decide fuck it and take one of those offers. I suggest being nice to the human you loathe with all your being.”

Hastur looks at the Piece, then back. Arthur is back to limp, head down.

Hastur is repulsed.

Kayne’s not done. “And of course, if nobody does it right, she becomes the spin-off. Get it now? You want her happy and well and all that shit? You’re all going home together, one big forced family. You get to raise her together! As a village! There’ll even be days off!”

Hastur feels sick.

He can’t recall the last time he expunged, vomited, expelled.

He just might now.

Together?

He’ll have to share his daughter?

Kayne sighs, tilts his head back. “Ugh. Well. We’ll see if this is worth it. Make good, peons, I don’t have all century.”

And he’s gone.

Just gone, with no surge of power to indicate his departure, with nothing to tip anyone off whether he’s even still here.

But he must be.

What note does John’s soul sing?

I hate you, says John. This isn’t over. Not after what you did to him.

“We have bigger concerns, you fucking idiot,” says Hastur.

Tiny, from within his arms: “You said a bad word.”

Hastur trembles from curl to cowl. “I did, baby. I did. I’m sorry.”

Arthur. Did you understand what just happened now?

Hastur stares. He’s never heard his own voice so… tender.

Arthur takes a long moment to answer. “I had her. In my arms, I…”

She’s all right.

“She’s happy? Safe?”

Yes.

Arthur slumps.

But she won’t be if you… if we go.

Arthur has definitely not processed anything. “What?”

“Damn it,” Hastur mutters. Did Kayne mean it? He has to accept music from that? Arthur’s hand is broken. “Tell him to hold out his hand.”

No, says the Piece.

Hastur growls. “Karloff was obedient. Your Arthur’s going to have to learn.”

Karloff was a pompous, perverted ass, who’d sooner fuck a trumpet than compose anything of beauty.

Faroe pops out from Hastur’s arms. “Say sorry.”

John wants to hurt her.

Hastur inhales.

It is startling, frightening, sharp. John has fixated on her as the thing that broke Arthur, the wedge used to spread that crack and split him like a log.

And if she is hurt, Hastur will be, too.

That’s not rational. That will hurt Arthur more.

The Piece is not okay.

Somehow, when Arthur broke, the Piece broke with him.

How?

It shouldn’t have done that.

How?

“What is wrong with you?” Hastur says, evenly.

You really don’t get it? Really? Look at his face. Look at hers. They’re similar enough that you can use your imagination and apply his expression to her. I know you’re less than I am, practically stupid, but you can do that.

“Less!” scoffs Hastur. “What foolishness are you—” And he glances at Arthur’s face.

She does resemble him.

She’s healthy and he’s not, pristine and he’s not—but the base.

The base is the same.

And almost against his will, he pictures that hollow, blank, defeated look on Faroe’s face.

Hastur goes very still.

Faroe pats his arm. “Daddy. I’m hungry.”

She’s… she is not broken.

She—

“John, I don’t think I can do this,” Arthur says so quietly.

For her. I understand I’m not enough.

“John, that’s not what I—“

We’ll start there. If you go, she dies. That’s Kayne’s deal.

Finally, it’s gotten through. Arthur inhales.

And then he does something Hastur would have thought impossible: in every sense, internally and out, Arthur sits up.

“I won’t let him hurt her,” he says.

And it is… remarkable.

Damn it.

It’s like watching flowers bloom on a dead and broken branch.

Fuck.

Faroe is not used to her needs being delayed. “Daddy.”

Faroe is not broken.

Trying to think of what it would be like to see her done unto as Arthur…

Hastur is more afraid than he was when Kayne appeared. “Yes. Yes, we… should all have something to eat.” Fear like this isn’t natural to him. He doesn’t like it. He tries to focus on the practical. That damned hand—“Tell him to hold out his hand.”

I’m not doing anything for you. You want to do something, you fucking do it yourself.

“Hey.” Faroe frowns. “It is rude to use bad words.”

John is not okay.

Hastur doesn’t feel okay, either. “Arthur,” he says. “Hold out your hand so I can heal it.”

You’d think a simple command (with a reason given!) would be easy enough for him, but no. Like everything else, Arthur has to make this difficult.

Arthur ignores him completely.

Solid choice for his new composer. This would work out great. “Arthur!”

Ha! says the Piece, as though he’s won something.

Hastur wants to break more of him. “Arthur!”

“Not yet,” says Arthur.

“What?” Says Hastur.

“Not yet. I… the pain helps. I can’t… not yet,” Arthur says.

The hell did that mean? He wanted to suffer? “Arthur, Kayne has given you a job, which you will do. I need to repair your hand for it.”

Arthur doesn’t want the repair. He wants his broken hand to reflect how he feels inside.

“Daddy, I’m hungry,” says Faroe, who is too young to grasp delayed gratification.

“We are all leaving,” says Hastur. “Once Arthur’s hand is healed.”

For Faroe, Arthur submits. “Fine.” He raises it.

Every single thing was going to be a negotiation, wasn’t it? Disgusting.

Arthur. We’ll get through this, John soothes.

“We… we will,” says Arthur, showing nothing as Hastur works his hand, though Hastur knows it hurts tremendously. “She… she’s happy?”

She’s perfect, Arthur. And… if we do this, I think she might even be safe.

Arthur hangs his head again, though this looks like relief.

This plan had gone so wrong. “Why is an Outer God interested in you?”

Arthur. He’s interested in Arthur. And we don’t know because Kayne doesn’t know. Arthur’s a mystery.

What?

That thing?

Hideous, flawed, hypocritical?

How could—

He looks down at the tiny human in his arms.

At Faroe, who watches him expectantly, waiting to be swept away and given what she needs, trusting him with such intensity that it feels like she’s caught him in a spell.

Hastur looks at Arthur and absolutely cannot see any of that.

But Arthur bloomed after being broken.

But Arthur entangled with the Piece to the point of self-destruction.

But an Outer God is paying mind.

So maybe he was remarkable, too? Somehow?

Arthur? Arthur Lester?

Fuck.

“Macaroni,” says Faroe.

“Apples,” negotiates Hastur.

Faroe makes a face. “Macaroni and apples.”

“Eat your apples, I’ll give you some macaroni.”

Arthur makes a tiny sound. It might have been… a good sound. Which would make sense, because Faroe is adorable.

Which… Arthur cannot see. Ugh. He’s still blind. Hastur sighs. How is the stupid human supposed to compose anything blind? Is Hastur going to have to fix everything himself?

Faroe isn’t done. “And a cookie.” She looks positively sneaky.

“No cookies until dinner.”

“But I made friends,” says Faroe.

This was true. “One cookie.”

Arthur reaches with his right hand and grabs his left. “I need you.”

Eh?

John makes a low sound. I’m sorry, Arthur. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve… should’ve protected you, somehow.

“I… you are enough, John. You are enough.” Arthur's voice breaks.

John’s responding sound is… a sob?

Some terrible sound, rife with feelings Hastur has never had and does not want to experience.

Whatever disgusting thing is going on there, he will not be a part of it. “Come. Composer and Piece. As if we have any choice.” He opens a portal.

It is such a relief to be able to do that again. To feel his powers again.

Though now, after this, they feel so small.

He has a daughter to feed.

He has plans to remake.

He has six years to ensure she is safe from an Outer God.

That isn’t possible, as far as he knows.

There has to be a way.

“I get to watch her grow,” whispers Arthur. “Should I be grateful?”

He took her from you! The only thing you should have toward him is hate.

“No. I… I lost her with my own hands, John. I can’t hate someone else for that.”

Ugh. Hastur’s not listening to this. He goes through the portal.

Six years.

John is growling as Arthur follows, trusting John to guide him. More to your left. He’s going to pay for what he did to you.

“I don’t care,” says Arthur.

I do.

Was Hastur going to have to protect her from the other half of himself, too?

No. No.

If Arthur is actually remarkable, and the Outer God isn’t full of shit, then Arthur will sway the Piece.

Faroe might do it on her own, too.

She’s good at love. It’s uniquely human magic, and Hastur knows no defense.

“Daddy?” says Faroe. “Who’s Larson?”

He has no idea how to answer that.

Maybe Kayne was… right.

Maybe raising her together, with others to help, would be better for her.

It would hurt him.

But if she would benefit, then… so be it. “I hope you’re ready to answer that, John, because I have no fucking clue.”

Faroe sighs. “Daddy, you aren’t supposed to say the bad words, especial.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He hides her in his arms.

It’s all that he can do.

----------------

NOTES:

Ouch?

I don’t know. The bug bit my brain and I had to write it. My apologies.

Might I suggest this for something fully lighthearted to wash out your mouth, as needed?

What’s going to happen in six years? Oh… I have thoughts, but I decided to leave it open.

Does it count as found family if they’re forced? Kinda a difficult question, isn’t it?

The music Faroe is learning to play at the beginning is Faroe’s Music Box, composed by Harlan Guthrie. It’s part of CODA, the episode of the podcast that literally inspired this fic.

The lullaby Faroe sang to Arthur is here, with "mother" swapped for "father." It’s traditional Welsh, and honestly one of the loveliest things I’ve ever heard. Obviously, I’ve linked a big old orchestral version, but it works super-well in tiny voices, too.pain

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

5 times Merlin does something that requires a considerable amount of strength;

+1 time the gang has time to actually bring it up.

Everyone is baffled, half distracted by Merlin’s surprising buffness and half amused by Arthur’s gay panic:

1)

The clearing fills with the sounds of a brutal fight. 

The Knights of Camelot, along with their King, had given up on trying to figure out how bandits always managed to find them in the woods. It seemed impossible for there to be so many mercenary groups that it was just coincidence for them to stumble upon each other so often, but equally, the knights moved quietly and always covered their tracks well, so... yeah, who knows.

The point is, they’re outnumbered three to one, and all of them were starting to regret not listening to Merlin’s earlier suggestion that they keep riding for another hour or so; their camp was destroyed and the fight was tiring them out.

Three to one weren’t bad odds, especially for knights with such a high level of skill, but it was exhausting and time consuming and they just wanted it to be over. Merlin was having similar thoughts as he stumbles through the middle of the crowd, trying to get out of the way. He was keeping an eye on them of course, but his friends were winning so his magical intervention wasn’t really needed; he was just annoyed that Arthur was almost certainly going to make him clear everything up afterwards.

His attention is suddenly caught when Percival’s voice rings out across the clearing:

“Merlin! Behind you!”

All of the knights’ gazes whip to the servant when they hear the giant’s yell, and they all abandon their own battles to step towards him despite knowing that they were too far away to be able to help in time. The servant takes in a sharp breath at Percival’s warning, becoming suddenly aware of a fast-moving presence behind him; he forms a fist and turns, swinging blindly with all his strength and following through even when his knuckles crunch with surprising accuracy against the temple of a bandit.

The man, not expecting the rapid attack, doesn’t have time to move out of the way, and his head jerks to the side, his entire body following as if an afterthought. He crumples to the floor gracelessly, unconscious before his head makes contact with the trampled undergrowth.

Merlin hisses at the pain bursting through his knuckles and up into his wrist, shaking his hand out as he steps over the bandit’s still form without even blinking, back to focusing on attempting to find a tree to sit behind and sulk, as if nothing had happened.

The knights only have a fraction of a second to freeze in shock before they’re dragged back to their own fights, forced to defend themselves lest they get skewered. 

The battle only lasts a few more minutes; despite being outnumbered, the knights far outmatch the bandits in skill (and sufficient armour) and Merlin was correct in his assumption that they wouldn’t need any of his DIY luck, which is a good thing really, considering how much his hand is throbbing. He peeks his head around the tree when things go suspiciously quiet, getting up and making his way to the abandoned bag of medical supplies when he sees the knights victorious.

The servant runs a quick gaze over them, taking stock of any potential injuries as he makes his way through the clearing, injured hand clenched tightly and held to his chest. He may have knocked the bandit out, but that just meant that the punch was hard enough to do damage to his hand as well as the other guy’s head. When he finds nothing more than the odd bruise on the others, he grabs a roll of bandages for himself, quickly wrapping his hand almost painfully tight, before turning to Arthur with a scowl:

“I told you we were too close to the road, I told you we should’ve kept on going. But do you ever listen to me? No, because you’re-”

He’s cut off by The King stepping towards him and taking his bandaged hand, cradling it gently and looking to Merlin in concern:

“Merlin, are you alright?”

Merlin just rolls his eyes and huffs, snatching his hand back and retreating to check on the horses, thankfully tied and uninjured at the edge of the clearing:

“No, my hand fucking hurts, because, surprisingly enough, these idiots have skulls almost as thick as yours. We need to move camps, like I said earlier. Prat.”

Arthur frowns, looking down to Merlin’s unconscious bandit at his feet, and then glancing back to the other knights, who all just shrug with wide eyes. The King sighs, reluctantly nodding at Merlin’s assertion as he stares up at the darkening sky, deciding that Merlin must’ve... hit a pressure point or... something:

“Everyone pack up, I want to be moving on in three minutes.”

2)

Merlin had foregone his jacket and rolled his sleeves up in the surprising Spring heatwave.

Which was a sight in itself.

But what really made the knights look twice (I mean... Arthur was just outright staring, but Leon had long since glared the others into not mentioning The King’s little... crush) was the way the supposedly wimpy servant had two sets of chainmail folded on one shoulder, his arm curled over them to keep them balanced, and a few odd bits of mismatched armour clutched in his other hand. He was making his way from the training field up to the castle, presumably to find an empty room to sit quietly and clean them.

Elyan waves at him across the field, the movement just about catching the servant’s gaze as he twists around, flashing a bright, sunny grin in place of waving back. 

Arthur gulps, eyes drawn to the vein standing out from Merlin’s uncovered neck; apparently the heat had encouraged him to abandon his neckerchief as well. The King takes a deep breath, sending a scowl Merlin’s way to cover his... surprise, holding in a smirk when the servant just rolls his eyes and turns back to the castle.

His stride was strong, and though his arms were straining against the weight, he looked entirely unbothered, not even breathing deeply as he picks up his pace, jogging up the citadel steps.

Training had all but stopped at this point, the roundtable knights staring in confusion as Merlin carefully pulled the door open, making sure he wouldn’t drop anything, before nudging the door shut again with his hip. Gwaine was the first to break the silence, quirking one of his eyebrows up as he speaks in a slightly surprised tone:

“Didn’t know he had it in him. Wearing one set, when the weight is evenly distributed, is hard enough, let alone carrying two sets. And armour. Up steps. Huh.”

Arthur clears his throat, looking away with a slight blush as he asserts:

“Yes, well, knights carry the same weight in armour and weapons everyday, if not more. If you’re that impressed Sir Gwaine, perhaps you should work on your strength.”

Gwaine turns to him with a smirk, but Leon’s warning glare stops him from teasing, or saying anything else that could be considered treasonous. Instead, he rolls his eyes at the first knight before humming non-committedly and pointing his sword at The King:

“That, Princess, sounds like a challenge.”

Arthur, blush forgotten, looks up with raised eyebrows and a chuckle, noting with satisfaction the way the other knights spread out to form a circle around the two of them, swords lowered and expectant looks on their faces:

“Does it now? I suppose you’ll have to take me up on it then, won’t you?”

3)

The knights were on some stupid (in Merlin’s opinion) quest.

The group was currently making their way through a complicated cave system. They had maps, thankfully, but they were old, and provided by a small village of locals who hadn’t spoken common very well. 

They’d had to trade away half of their supplies in return for the maps, so Arthur was already in a foul mood, but a dotted line on the page across the path they were following was worrying him. The note written next to it was in some old, almost lost native language, so The King had just resigned himself to carrying on and hoping for the best.

Which is why he let out a series of echoing curse words when they turned a corner to find a ragged overhang, about eight feet above the path. The wall curved in on itself before jutting out again at the top, making it impossible to climb, even without armour and swords and packs.

Elyan is the first to break the tense silence after Arthur’s outburst, his tone half amused, half annoyed, as he mutters:

“That’ll be why the locals kept pointing at that ladder then.”

Arthur huffs, glaring at the knight with a rare venom, but Leon gestures to the map in his hand before he can retort:

“We can always go back, or is there another way around?”

Arthur huffs louder, letting out a short growl as he thrusts the maps to Leon’s chest and paces closer to the overhang:

“Feel free, if you can find an alternative route, please, enlighten me. The village is a day’s journey away, we don’t have time to go back.”

Leon covers his annoyance at Arthur’s harshness well, but Merlin scowls at The King openly before moving to stand at the junction between the wall of the corridor, and the overhang in front of them:

“Don’t be an arse, Arthur, it’s not Leon’s fault that none of us can understand Old... whatever it was. And it’s not that high, just-”

With that, Merlin braces his foot against the wall, bending his knees slightly before pushing off and jumping up, reaching out and grabbing the overhang, his feet dangling off the ground. The knights stare in shock, but before they can say anything, Merlin swings his feet forwards, and backwards, and forwards again. When they swing back for the second time, he uses the momentum to pull himself up, his arms locking out straight beneath him as he lifts his knees up, crawling over the edge and onto the floor above them.

Arthur blinks, looking from the floor, to the wall, and up to Merlin again, trying to figure out how the hell his manservant had enough strength in his arms and core to pull himself up; he hadn’t even taken his pack off.

Lancelot clears his throat, tilting his head and frowning as he slowly speaks:

“That was... impressive. But we’re wearing armour, Merlin, I don’t think we’ll be able to manage that with all the extra weight.”

No one mentions that they don’t think they could do it even without armour.

Merlin just rolls his eyes and sits on the edge, his feet dangling below him as he gestures vaguely:

“Well if you just get your hands on the ledge then I can pull you up. Take your packs off and throw them up first if you’re so worried, you can give each other a hand up, and Percival can go last because of how tall he is. Come on, it wasn’t that hard.”

Lancelot shrugs, taking his pack off and throwing it up with all his might. Merlin leans out, catching it with ease and chucking it behind him as he motions Percival to interlock his hands. The knight does so, allowing Lancelot to step on them and throw himself up, just about managing to catch the ledge and groaning at the strain in his arms. Merlin brings his feet back over the overhang, bracing his heels against the stone as he reaches down, gripping Lancelot’s wrists and hauling him up and over the edge.

Lance yelps as Merlin yanks him up, rolling onto his back and panting at the ceiling as he blinks in surprise. Merlin doesn’t pay him any attention, frowning down at the others and gesturing at them to hurry:

“Come on, I thought we were in a rush?”

With that, they all huddle below, taking turns to be thrown up and hauled over the edge. Merlin drags Elyan up on his own, Lance still recovering from his slight shock, but the more people gather at the top, the less work Merlin has to do. Which is good, because he may be strong, but he’s not sure he could manage Percival on his own. The giant has to take a running leap at the ledge, and it takes four of them to pull him up without dislocating any shoulders or throwing out any backs.

When they’re all successfully at the top, Merlin wordlessly picks his pack up, shrugging it onto his shoulders as he begins a quick pace along the corridor as if he hadn’t a care in the world; the knights break out of their stupors and jog to catch up, knowing that Merlin was right and they needed to hurry.

4)

Arthur was glaring resolutely at the floor, trying to psych himself up to confront whatever arsehole had managed to get the drop on him and his six best knights. The others were arguing in whispers around him, trying to figure out some way to escape the dungeon unscathed, though The King kept silent, knowing that the only way out was if someone unlocked these infernal chains first.

They’d only been there for around an hour, so no one from Camelot would have realised they were missing yet; their only hope was that Merlin was making his way back to the city to get help. He’d been off gathering firewood, and he’d already been gone half a candle mark when they’d been ambushed; Arthur would never admit it, but he had faith that Merlin would be able to sort everything out.

The King harshly shushes the knights as he hears the guards begin to yell, but frowns in confusion when he hears “They’re going crazy up there!” and “What the fuck?!” before the unmistakable sound of armoured boots running up the stairs and away from the dungeons reaches them.

The knights all look to each other in confusion, straining against their chains to try and see through the small barred window at the top of the door. A shadow passes through the square of light on the floor, and they all shuffle back against the wall, staying silent. None of them manage to hold in their surprised yelps however, when the door suddenly bursts in, the wood around the lock splintering violently and spreading shards across the dungeon floor.

A strong arm extends out, stopping the now broken beyond repair door from swinging shut again, and the knights look up, taking in sharp gasps when they see Merlin stood there, scowling disapprovingly with a ring of keys in his other hand and one foot in front of the other, as if he had... as if he had kicked the door. Leon is the first to break the silence:

“Merlin?? What are you doing here?”

Merlin’s scowl deepens as he glances down the corridor before stepping into the dungeon, sorting through the keys to try and figure out which one would open which set of chains:

“Well I’m rescuing you lot, obviously. I leave camp for barely a candle-mark and you get yourselves kidnapped. Honestly, how hard is it to not find trouble, for once?”

Arthur is too busy staring at Merlin’s apparently muscled legs to say anything, even when Elyan clears his throat and kicks him, so Percival is the next to speak as Merlin unlocks his chains:

“Why not just... unlock the door?”

Merlin doesn’t look at the largest of the knights as he moves on to the others, unchaining them one by one as he responds, his scowl still firmly in place:

“The key was on a separate ring and I only had time to grab one, figured the door would be easier to break than the chains.”

Arthur finally blinks and shakes his head free of.... distracting, thoughts as Merlin finally turns to him, holding his hands out to be unchained as he clears his throat and says strongly, forcing the waiver from his voice:

“How did you distract the guards?”

Merlin finally smiles at that, standing and reaching into his pocket to pull out a lumpy looking bit of plant:

“Snuck in and pretended to be one of their slaves, laced all the jugs with mandrake root. They’re all going loopy with hallucinations upstairs, a few of them vomited and I think one guy might have shit himself. The guards went to see what was wrong, so we don’t have much time, come on.”

Arthur nods impressed, and was the last of the group to sneak from the dungeon, pausing briefly to run a hand over the splintered wood and warped metal of the kicked-in door, before shaking his head and following the others out of the not-quite-abandoned fort.

5)

It had been almost a year since Merlin had last seen his mother, so when the servant requested two weeks off to visit home, wanting to help the village out with repairs before the winter set in, Arthur agreed immediately, on the condition that he and a couple of the knights could tag along.

Merlin reluctantly gave in, but only after insisting that he wouldn’t be Arthur’s servant, and whoever came would have to dig in and help out. To be honest, Arthur was mentally exhausted after months of work on repealing the magic ban, so Merlin was silently grateful that he was coming; The King needed a break, and Merlin knew how secretly fond the man was of Merlin’s mother, and her simple country life. 

In the end, Leon and Mordred were the only ones who could come; Lancelot and Elyan were left in charge of patrols, Percival and Gwaine were left in charge of training, and Guinevere, Gaius, and Morgana were left to oversee the council and the general running of the Kingdom. Arthur wasn’t worried to be honest, they were only going to be gone for two weeks, and if disaster set in they were only a two day’s ride away at most.

It was chilly, the winter was setting in early so Merlin and Hunith were eager for work to start as soon as possible. There were numerous leaks and fences to fix, and one of the village’s barns needed clearing out so it could filled with grain over the snowy season.

That, and as much firewood needed to be collected as possible so they could stockpile. They normally barely had enough to last them through the winter; Arthur had nodded in approval when Merlin had meekly asked if they could take a cart of wood with them from Camelot, but they still had a lot to gather.

It was the afternoon of their first day, Leon had been sent to a neighbour’s to fix a roof, Merlin was doing something outside, and Mordred was just about to head over to one of the livestock pastures to strengthen a few of the fences. Hunith was preparing the evening’s meal and Arthur stood politely in the doorway as he spoke:

“Merlin said that firewood had to be gathered? I can get started on that if you can point me in the right direction.”

Hunith smiles over her shoulder briefly, and Arthur ignores the warm fuzziness in his stomach at the sight as she speaks:

“Oh don’t worry about that, we’ve only one axe in the village and Merlin is out by the barn chopping wood now. I know there’s a leak somewhere in the basement of the village hall, a few of the boys are already down there if you’re looking for something to do?”

Arthur raises his eyebrow at Hunith’s insistence that Merlin, his lanky manservant, was outside with an axe chopping wood, and he glances at Mordred over his shoulder, who just shrugs, nodding to Hunith’s turned back. The King responds quietly, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice:

“Hmm. I’ll go check in with Merlin and then head down to the hall, if he doesn’t need help.”

Hunith hums in agreement, but otherwise doesn’t reply, mumbling under her breath about herbs and measurements as she stirs something into the pot. Arthur smirks at Mordred and the two of them head out, neither mentioning how Mordred was following Arthur to find Merlin instead of getting to the fences.

They walk in silence, though they both freeze on the spot when they turn a corner to see Merlin, once again with his sleeves rolled up, hefting around a huge lump of wood, a ginormous axe resting on his shoulder. He gets the wood where he wants it, stepping back and wiping his forearm across his sweaty forehead before lifting the axe and swinging it down again. The stump splits easily beneath the sharpened metal, and Merlin wastes no time in repositioning the new pieces of wood, ready to be chopped again.

Arthur doesn’t even realise his mouth is hanging open until Mordred looks at him and smirks, biting his lip before giving in and snorting quietly:

“You’re the colour of our capes, Sire, and you might want to shut your mouth. Don’t want to catch flies, do you?”

Arthur’s jaw snaps shut with a clack, and he frowns as his teeth begin to ache. Mordred chuckles slightly and though Arthur is grateful that the young knight is finally comfortable enough to joke around with him, he desperately wishes he wasn’t at Gwaine’s level of comfort.

Instead of retorting, Arthur just clears his throat and turns around, striding towards the village hall:

“It appears he’s got things handled. Those fences won’t fix themselves, Sir Mordred.”

Mordred only just manages to hold in his giggle, looking up to see Merlin staring confusedly at him and Arthur’s rapidly retreating back. He waves briefly, sending a quick “I’ll tell you later.” over their mental link before turning himself and heading in the direction of the pastures.

He knows full well that he has no intention of telling Merlin about Arthur’s crush; watching them tiptoe around each other was the funniest thing ever, and he didn’t want to ruin the bet that Gwaine had going.

+1)

The fight was vicious, more so than any of the skirmishes the knights had dealt with in the last several months.

They were vastly outnumbered, and the addition of four powerful sorcerers to the enemy ranks meant that Merlin and Mordred were quickly running out of energy, having to focus on both the magical aspect of the fight, and trying to keep everyone else alive.

The metallic scent of blood was almost overwhelming, and the constant clang of metal on metal mixed with the whooshing echoes of sorcerous fire and vines was deafening. The fight went on a lot longer than Merlin had thought it would; the enemy was clearly more skilled than predicted, but the Camelot knights did prevail eventually, Percival ending the fight with the smooth slice of his blade across the last mercenary’s throat.

Merlin wastes no time in running his gaze over the knights, giving special attention to Arthur as he searches for any injuries that need seeing to immediately. The last of the sorcerers had managed to escape, so they needed to get out of there as soon as possible: there’s no way they’d survive a second attack if he came back with reinforcements.

Merlin was relieved to see nothing too serious; Lancelot had a gash on his temple that would need a thorough cleaning and a few stitches, and Gwaine was holding his wrist to his chest in a way that told Merlin it was likely broken, but everyone was on their feet and no one was crying. That’s a good start.

Merlin relaxes, but his shoulders quickly tense again as Mordred’s voice echoes weakly through his head:

“Emrys... I’m... I’m tired...”

Merlin whips around quickly, his eyes wide and panicked as his frantic gaze lands on the young knight. He’s leaning against a tree, his eyes hooded and focused on the floor. Merlin leaps towards him, catching him just before his head lands harshly on a boulder, and pulling the collapsed younger man into a more comfortable position as Arthur rushes over:

“What’s wrong with him? I don’t see any blood, was he hit with magic?”

Merlin waves him off, checking Mordred’s pulse and breathing before he relaxes again, sending a tired, but relieved smile up to The King:

“He’s fine, just exhausted. This is the first time he’s used this much magic in years, he’ll need a little while to recover his strength, but we need to get out of here in case they come back.”

Arthur lets out a relieved sigh and nods, leaning down to take one of Mordred’s arms and waving Gwaine over to pick his legs up, but before either of them get even close, Merlin stands up, dragging Mordred with him and settling the armoured knight across his shoulders. He looks to Arthur next to him, not seeming to notice The King’s shock as he quickly says:

“I know you’re The King and all, but would you mind carrying my bag?”

Arthur nods dumbly, picking up Merlin’s dropped medical bag without taking his gaze off the Warlock, who wanders around double checking that the other knights were ok and that all the bandits were dead as if he didn’t have about 240 pounds of man and armour dangling from his shoulders.

Leon catches Arthur’s eye, nodding pointedly towards the path they needed to take, trying to pull Arthur back into the present before the others notice him gawping. Arthur gulps, blushing as he nods his thanks and moves away from the battlefield, Merlin’s bag secured on his shoulders as he confidently speaks:

“Merlin’s right, we need to get as far away from here as we can. I saw a cave about two hours’ back North, we can make camp there before heading back to Camelot in the morning. Gather as much as you can carry, we’ve no hope of finding the horses before nightfall, hopefully they can make their own way home.”

The knights all nod, following Arthur’s lead as he steps carefully through the underbrush, trying not leave any obvious pointers to their direction. He keeps his gaze resolutely ahead as he hears Percival ask:

“You alright, Merlin? Sure you don’t want a hand?”

Despite keeping his gaze stubbornly forward, Arthur strains his ears to hear Merlin’s response, refusing to acknowledge the sudden weakness in his knees at what the Warlock replies with:

“Nah, it’s fine, he’s not that heavy.”

Leon subtly sidles up to walk next to The King, glancing behind him before leaning in close, talking quietly as they moved:

“Perhaps you should... let him know of you affections, Sire?”

Arthur’s blushing gaze quickly finds the older knight’s before he looks away again:

“I don’t know what you think you’re implying, Sir Leon.”

Leon just raises his eyebrow in an unusual display of amused defiance:

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Arthur. He’s been by your side for ten years, you’ve been through the unspeakable, both with each other and for each other. That, and he has a surprisingly... admirable physique.-”

Arthur’s blush deepens and he clears his throat, crossing his arms petulantly and staring resolutely ahead. Leon puts a hand on The young King’s shoulder as he continues:

“-You’re...-”

The knight sighs and bites his lip again, debating with himself over whether he should say it or not:

“-you’re head over heels for him, Sire, perhaps it’s time to do something about it? Gods know he feels the same, and the Gods also know that he’ll never make the first move. He’s still... nervous, about messing things up, I think. His-”

Leon glances over his shoulder again to make sure no one could hear him before dropping his voice to a whisper:

“-his magic being outed put him... on edge, even after all these months. He won’t do anything that he think could push you away or anger you.”

Arthur sighs and nods, before turning to him slowly with an embarrassed scowl on his face; he doesn’t shrug off Leon’s hand, which the knight takes as a good sign:

“Not a word to anyone, Leon, I swear to the Gods.”

Leon holds his hand up and uses his other to wave a cross over his heart:

“I swear, Sire. Though I feel the need to tell you that... at least three of the other servants, and I do believe Lady Bronwyn and Sir Galahad, also have... uh... their eyes on him, as it were.”

Arthur’s scowl gets impossibly deeper as he huffs, muttering to himself:

“They do, do they? Well, we’ll see about that.”

Leon just smirks again and rolls his eyes fondly before falling back to walk with Elyan.

~

They finally make it back to the cave, though it took them even longer without horses. Merlin had requested they stop around a candle mark in so he could remove some of the heavier bits of Mordred’s armour, passing them off to the other knights, but he had once again rejected any offers of help, saying that he was slowly siphoning his own magic into Mordred so he would wake sooner. Apparently they needed to be touching for that to happen, and though Merlin had been teaching them, none of them had enough knowledge on magic to know whether that was true or not, but they did know that Merlin was incredibly protective of the young Druid, so they let it be.

A fire was lit quickly and supplies were laid out. A map had been saved, thankfully, so they could figure out roughly where they were and how long it would take them to get back home as Merlin quickly treated Lance’s gash and Gwaine’s wrist.

Mordred begins to stir just as Percival serves up food, groaning slightly and rubbing at his eyes before struggling to sit himself up. Merlin had rushed to his side as soon as he felt the Druid begin to wake, and helps prop him up against the cave wall, handing him a water-skin as he stares at him with concern. Mordred takes a long drink, nodding his thanks and clearing his throat before speaking, his voice gravelly and slow:

“This... this is the cave we passed a few hours ago...”

His voice trails off, and Arthur answers the question in his tone:

“Hmm. We had no horses, so we were never going to make it back to the city, but we couldn’t stay where we were.”

Mordred nods, yawning widely and rubbing his eyes again as he asks:

“How did you get me this far without horses?”

Arthur clenches his jaw, blushing slightly as he looks away, but thankfully Gwaine butts in, answering with a grin on his face before anyone notices The King’s flush:

“Merlin here is stronger than he looks. Carried you the whole way, didn’t use magic or anything.”

Mordred turns his incredulous gaze to Merlin and he just shrugs absentmindedly:

“You don’t weigh that much, it was fairly easy.”

Elyan laughs and shakes his head, joining in on the conversation quickly:

“Are you kidding me? I mean... sure, I could’ve carried him for maybe an hour, if I was at full strength and it was easy terrain. You carried him for three, only took his armour off in the second hour, down what could barely be classified as a path, in a barely tamed forest, after a pretty hefty fight. That’s... impressive.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow, looking around the room in bafflement as he realises that everyone is staring at him with varying levels of impressed confusion:

“You guys... you guys know that I grew up in the country, right? I spent my childhood climbing trees and running away from predators, and my teenage years chopping wood, building things with barely any help, and fighting the odd bear. I then arrive in Camelot, only to immediately be given a job that involves carrying a shit ton of heavy stuff, including, but not limited to: armour, luggage, hunting equipment, and the occasional unconscious idiot.”

Arthur sits up straight and scowls slightly when Merlin gestures to him instead of Mordred:

“You have never had to carry me anywhere.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow, gaze sinking to the floor as he smirks and coughs out something that sounds suspiciously like “Sophia”.

Arthur’s blush deepens and he jabs an accusing finger in Merlin’s direction:

“That. Didn’t. Happen.”

Merlin bites his lip to stop himself from laughing, but his dimples still show through despite his best effort and he holds his hands up in surrender:

“Whatever you say, Sire.”

Arthur just clenches his jaw and sits back against the wall with eyes focused on his food and cheeks red, stubbornly ignoring the knights’ curious stares as everyone eats their food. Merlin fusses over Mordred for a few more minutes but is quickly waved away by the younger man; the Warlock huffs and rolls his eyes, but gives in to the fact that Mordred did not need, nor want, to be babied. He moves subtly around the cave to sit down next to Arthur, barely a foot of air between them despite the abundance of space elsewhere.

Arthur forces his blush down at Merlin’s proximity, refusing to think of anything but his food and the difficult journey home, desperately keeping his gaze on his meal instead of Merlin’s strong legs stretched out next to him.

The King doesn’t acknowledge him, but doesn’t move away either, which Merlin takes as a good sign as he settles in, wrapping himself in a blanket to protect his body from the impending cold.

The other knights have long since finished their meals, scarping the lot in a matter of seconds in an attempt to gain back a little energy after the hours of riding and fighting and walking; they quickly settle into the blankets and cloaks and bedrolls they had managed to carry, though Leon seems to deliberately move slower, waiting for Arthur to glance up at him so he can give a pointed look to Merlin, just finishing his food, before laying down and attempting to sleep.

Arthur blushes with wide eyes, but Leon turns around before he has time to glare at him, and The King huffs quietly, risking a glance to a shivering Merlin next to him. He quickly frowns, not moving his gaze away like he had intended to, instead whispering softly:

“Cold? Can’t you use magic to warm up?”

Merlin looks to him tiredly, leaning his head back against the wall as his eyelids droop slightly:

“Hmm. I gave most of my reserves to Mordred, he was worse off than I first thought so he needed a lot more magic than I realised to keep him alive long enough for his energy to build up again.-”

Arthur widens his eyes at the fact that he was so close to losing one of his knights, but then shakes his head, huffing as he glares at the Warlock disapprovingly, but Merlin closes his eyes and continues before he can get told off:

“-I’ll be fine by morning, I just need-”

He’s interrupted when his body is wracked by a particularly strong shiver:

“-I just need some sleep.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, shuffling into a more comfortable position before opening his arms, spreading his cloak wide as if they were a pair of majestic wings:

“Come here, you idiot. I can’t have you freezing to death because you refuse to look after yourself.”

In normal circumstance Merlin would’ve argued, but he really was cold, so when he cracks his eyes open to see Arthur ready and waiting, he doesn’t hesitate to crawl hurriedly over. Arthur ignores the flush rising on his cheeks as Merlin clambers over one of his legs, settling between them and shoving his head under the blonde’s chin; he wraps his cloak around the two of them and rubs his cheek into the Warlock’s soft hair. 

He can feel Merlin grin against his collarbone, and it’s enough to distract him from the surprising, but not unwelcome, weight of Merlin’s muscled form against his chest:

“You know, Arthur, if you wanted to feel up my muscles so badly you just had to ask. You stare far too often to think you’re subtle.”

Arthur’s flush deepens and his body goes rigid as Merlin giggles. He clenches his jaw and lands a punch, far softer than he would normally go for, on the other man’s shoulder, but that just makes him giggle harder, and Arthur has to hush him in fear of waking the others. Merlin looks up at him through thick eyelashes, blinking tiredly with a satisfied smile on his face:

“Just let me know if you ever want carrying around, I’m more than happy to help.”

Arthur gulps, refusing to make eye contact as he stares resolutely at the opposite wall and not acknowledging the red hue of his cheeks:

“When we get back to Camelot, I’m hanging you for treason.”

Merlin snorts quietly, re-burying his face in Arthur’s chest and curling up tightly in his lap to stave off the cold:

“Whatever you say, Sire.”

Arthur gives in, smiling slightly and rolling his eyes as he tightens his hold on the other man. He lets his cheek fall back to rest on his soft hair as he closes his eyes, allowing his exhaustion to take over and descending into an easy sleep.

~

THE END!!

We stan Arthur gay panicking and all the knights (bar Leon of course, who handles it as tactically as he’s able) ruthlessly taking the piss :D

I hope y’all enjoyed reading this, I certainly enjoyed writing it! Thank you anon, I loved writing this!!!

Same as always, someone wants to write it up in full, go for it!! Drop me a message and credit/tag me :)

[oscarpiastriwdc]

Arthur’s last name and the weight it carried was always a thing at PREMA. Unspoken, most of the time, but whispered about in empty hallways, embedded in slide glances. Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning when everyone had alcohol in their systems, brought up at parties in hushed, reverential tones, what it’s like to be in close proximity to someone who’s reached the dream everyone in the room is chasing. 

It always bothered Oscar, got under his skin. Not who Arthur was related to, but the way it made other boys talk. Formula One is the definitional nepotism sport, so what if Arthur’s last name is Leclerc? Every third person at PREMA is the relative of someone who did something in motorsports. 

That wasn’t to say Oscar didn’t care that Arthur’s older brother was Charles Leclerc: handsome, charming prince of Monaco, il predestinato, generational talent. He did care. Not because it had any bearing on Arthur’s racing, but because it’s Charles Leclerc. How could he not care that there was a remote possibility that Charles would stop in at a PREMA event one day, show up to talk to Arthur. Improbable, impossible even, but so’s the odds of becoming a Formula One driver. 

Either way, he and Arthur are friends, sometimes more when one of them gets lonely or bored or horny, and it’s nice. Fun. Oscar doesn’t bring up Charles, but occasionally Arthur does. Never bragging, but when they exchange childhood stories, reminisce on antics with siblings. 

Oscar doesn’t think it’s that wild when he develops a mild crush on Charles. Logan teases the secret out of him, laughs for hours when the truth comes out, but admits it’s not so crazy. It’s 90% hero worship, really, and 10% the undeniable fact that Charles Leclerc is genetically, factually, the most beautiful man on the planet. It’s a natural reaction, and Oscar eventually grows out of it, somewhere between a drunken hookup with Arthur and signing his contract with McLaren. No need for hero worship if Oscar will be lining up beside—or, more realistically, behind—him on the grid. 

A couple things do remain when all is said and done. First, Charles remains undeniably charming and painfully beautiful. Second, years spent pining after Charles and his ongoing friendship with Arthur leads Oscar to feel… well…. Prejudiced in his Ferrari opinions. 

Charles famously believes Ferrari can do no wrong but Oscar, proud McLaren driver and Leclerc supporter, would disagree. Ferrari does wrong nearly every weekend, almost always at the expense of Charles. 

It was already apparent when Oscar was in the back of Alpine garage, watching from the sidelines, and is more noticeable when he’s on the track, witnessing Ferrari’s failures up close. 

The rational voice in Oscar’s brain that sounds an awful lot like Mark Webber says that, for the sake of his future and career, he shouldn’t let all his resentment build up. No contract lasts forever, and you never know what team will magically produce a dominant car. Probably not Ferrari in this lifetime, but Oscar never knows.

So, in his best effort to keep the Ferrari haterisms at bay, all the aggression gets laser focused on one particular Ferrari employee. 

oscar hates carlos because he’s a toxic chirlie