#author-morgan | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moeitsu · 1 month ago

Text

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 26 - I Care Not To Repeat

Summary: Arthur’s unexpected act of kindness sets the stage for a fragile alliance between two men shaped by loss and loyalty. Upon returning to camp, they must work quickly to prepare for yet another journey.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: I really enjoyed writing this chapter, I can't wait for you guys to meet Eagle Flies. 10.7k words, lot's of feels and dialogue. Enjoy!

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

Eagle Flies strained against the ropes binding his wrists to the wagon wheel, the coarse fibers digging deep into his skin. His arms ached from the unnatural angle, muscles screaming as they fought against the restraints. The bindings stretched his chest taut, leaving him exposed and unable to twist away from the brutal blows. Each punch and kick jarred his body, the pain carving fiery paths through his nerves. But he swallowed it, crushed it, and turned it inward. His pain was fuel. His anger, the fire it stoked.

He would not give these men the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

Rage simmered beneath the surface, dark and seething. These men—these white men—thought they could break him as easily as they had broken the land, the rivers, the trees, and his people. They came with their laws, their machines, and their greed, carving scars deep into the earth and tearing apart lives without a second thought. His hatred for them burned as hot as the sun over the plains, scorching and absolute.

A fleeting pang of guilt pierced through his fury, unwelcome and bitter. What would his father think? No—what would his father do when he found his son’s broken body, lifeless and abandoned? There would be no surviving this.

The two men who had come with him—boys, really, no older than Eagle Flies. Were dead already. Their youthful pride and reckless defiance had crumbled under the weight of reality. They had believed, like him, that they could strike a blow for their people, that their small acts of resistance could echo louder than the roar of a train engine or the bark of a rifle. They had died for that belief, their lives snuffed out like embers.

And now, he was left alone to face the consequences of his own pride. He had thought himself strong enough to fight back, to make these invaders pay for what they had done. For the children left starving, for the elders forced to watch their homes burn. For the rivers choked with filth and the sacred grounds trampled beneath boots.

Someone had to fight back. Something had to be done.

His father’s endless talks of peace felt hollow to him, a dream clinging desperately to a world that no longer existed. The People had tried peace, and what had it brought? More death. More land stolen. More humiliation.

Another fist connected with his chin, snapping his head to the side. Pain shot through him, but Eagle Flies spat a mouthful of blood onto the man’s boots, glaring up at his captor with a defiance sharper than any blade. The man said something, mocking and cruel, but Eagle Flies didn’t bother to listen. The words were muffled under the ringing in his ears, and even if he could hear them clearly, he wouldn’t care.

English was their language—an ugly, foreign thing forced down his throat in his youth. His father had insisted he learn it, calling it a necessity in a changing world. But to Eagle Flies, it was a language of lies and theft, of broken treaties and empty promises. It didn’t belong to him, and it never would.

The two men who had been beating him paused their assault, muttering to each other in low voices. They thought he was hiding something—an ambush, a larger group of savages lying in wait. The thought made him laugh. The sound was hollow, like dry thunder across a dark sky. If only that were true. If only there were more of his people ready to strike back. If only they had more warriors. But there weren’t. He was alone, the last of his group. A pitiful excuse for a warrior who had let his anger carry him too far from home.

One less mouth to feed. Eagle Flies thought with resentment, already bartering with what would come of his pointless death.

His father would never know the truth of his death. Rain Falls thought his son was off seeking the spirit world’s guidance, healing from the wounds of his soul. Instead, Eagle Flies would die here, tied to a wagon wheel, far from the burial grounds of his ancestors. His bones would be left to the vultures and scavengers.

And his soul would be condemned to wander this earth, alone—untethered, for all eternity.

When his tormentors finally left, replaced by two guards who barely spared him a glance, Eagle Flies slumped against the wagon wheel, his body betraying his rage by giving in to exhaustion. The smell of roasted meat wafted through the camp, his stomach growling in rebellion. A cruel reminder of the basic needs that tethered him to life, even as his spirit burned with the weight of despair.

He refused to let himself slip into unconsciousness. Pain and anger anchored him, a stubborn refusal to succumb to the humiliation these men sought to inflict. Just as his head began to droop, he noticed movement by the firelit tent. A shadow slipped inside, barely discernible in the flickering glow. Moments later, the muffled sounds of a struggle reached his ears—fists meeting flesh, air being stolen from lungs.

Death had come calling.

The sounds were all too familiar. He strained to listen, each nerve alive despite the ache in his body. The scuffle ended abruptly, and silence hung heavy in its wake, broken only by the crackle of the campfire.

Before he could process what he had heard, a low whisper shattered the stillness behind him. Eagle Flies flinched, instinctively yanking at the ropes.

“Easy, kid,” a deep, calm voice murmured. “M��gonna cut you loose. Once I do, you get those horses ready while I deal with the guards. Understand?”

Eagle Flies froze. The accent was unmistakably white, but the tone carried no venom. Suspicion flared in his chest, but he nodded stiffly. A moment later, he felt the cold bite of a blade slicing through the ropes. As the bindings fell away, he rolled his wrists, wincing at the painful rush of blood back into his numb hands. When he turned to look at his rescuer, the man was already gone, swallowed by the shadows.

Staggering to his feet, Eagle Flies forced his battered body toward the horses. His movements were fueled by nothing but adrenaline and sheer defiance. Fumbling with the saddles, his hands trembled from exhaustion, but the rhythmic task gave him a sliver of focus amidst the chaos in his mind.

The faint sounds of a fight echoed nearby—grunts, the dull impact of blows. A new surge of anger roared within him, hot and volatile. Part of him yearned to join in, to finish what the stranger had started and exact vengeance on the men who had brutalized him. But his legs wobbled beneath him, his strength already stretched thin. He would only be a liability. With his clenched jaw, and swallowing his frustration, he tightened the final strap on the saddle.

Footsteps crunched behind him. Instinct took over. Gripping a knife he had pulled from the saddlebag, Eagle Flies spun around, his arm raised to strike.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growled sharply, despite the exhaustion weighing it down.

The figure stopped, raising both hands in a gesture of peace. The man stepped into the dim moonlight, and Eagle Flies studied him. Strong, rugged, a man who looked like he could wrestle a bear and win. Yet his eyes carried no malice—only a calm sincerity that gave Eagle Flies pause. He replied slowly, as if speaking to an animal prone to startling. “S’alright now. Those men are gone, I took care of it.”

“Who are you?” Eagle Flies demanded, his tone wary. “Why did you free me?”

“Arthur.” The man sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as if the weight of the world rested there. “Name’s Arthur Morgan,” he said. “You’re Rain Fall’s boy, ain’t ya?”

Eagle Flies stiffened, shame and anger bubbling beneath his bruised skin. “Did my father send you?”

Arthur shook his head, stepping closer to take the reins of one of the horses. “No, he didn’t. But I’m guessin’ he don’t know you’re here, does he?”

Eagle Flies glared, his pride refusing to let him answer. Pulling himself into the saddle with a wince, he felt Arthur’s steady gaze on him, unyielding but not unkind.

“Your father asked me to help with the peace talks,” Arthur continued, voice calm but firm. “He’s tryin’ to stop Cornwall from takin’ more of your land.”

“I remember you now,” Eagle Flies scoffed, his bitterness spilling over like a dam breaking. “Father thinks you can stop a man like Cornwall? A man who burns our homes and kills our people like it's some kind of sport?”

Arthur shrugged as he mounted his own horse. “Don’t know. Maybe not. But I do know dyin’ out here, tied to that wagon wheel, won’t help him none. You alright?”

“Sure,” Eagle Flies replied bitterly. “I enjoy being tortured. Clears the mind.”

Arthur let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as his horse shifted beneath him. “Well, you’ve still got your tongue. That’s somethin’.”

Eagle Flies frowned, spurring his horse to follow as Arthur turned toward the shadows of the forest. His body ached, every movement a reminder of how close he had come to death, but his mind was sharper now, hyper-focused on the man leading him away. The man who saved his life.

Arthur Morgan. He’d heard that name before. He and his father met with this man some weeks ago, when they were trying to renounce the new oil rig on their land. After pleading with the mayor of Saint Denis at his garden party. It struck him how he didn’t recognize him sooner, though the darkness and his swollen eyes made that nearly impossible. There was something different about the man he encountered tonight. There was something in the way Arthur carried himself, a weight to his words that hinted at a deeper story.

“You don’t look like the kind of man who sits at peace talks,” Eagle Flies said after a stretch of silence. His voice was edged, testing.

Arthur didn’t turn, his broad shoulders framed by the faint glow of the moon. “I don’t. But your father asked, and I reckon he deserves someone listenin’ to him.”

Eagle Flies narrowed his eyes. “Why? What do you owe him?”

Arthur glanced back briefly, his face unreadable. “Nothin’. But he’s fightin’ for his people, not just himself. That’s rare these days.”

The young warrior mulled that over, his thoughts tangling with his anger. This man, this stranger, didn’t sound like the others Eagle Flies had encountered. There was no patronizing tone, no false sympathy laced with disdain. But there was something else—a quiet fury, buried but unmistakable.

It was in the way Arthur carried himself; the tense set of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched when he spoke, as though keeping a dam from breaking. That anger wasn’t directed at Eagle Flies, but it lingered like smoke around a fire that refused to die. This was a man who had fought battles, more than one, Eagle Flies could tell. He had carried the weight of those fights long after they were over. He recognized it because he felt it in himself: the simmering frustration of a world that seemed to grind down anyone who dared to stand against it.

That anger, though, was different from the reckless fury Eagle Flies often saw in his own reflection. Arthur’s wasn’t the kind of rage that exploded outward in wild defiance; it was sharper, tempered, like steel forged in a relentless fire. And yet, Eagle Flies couldn’t ignore the fresh bloodstains on Arthur’s hands, the faint tremor in his breath that spoke to the violence he’d unleashed moments ago. This was a man who had killed with purpose, not for glory but because he had no other choice. Eagle Flies didn’t need to ask how Arthur killed those men back there—he could see it in the haunted look buried deep in the older man’s eyes.

Whatever Arthur Morgan was shouldering, it was more than just the bodies left behind. There was a pain too, a grief bound so tightly to his anger that it had become inseparable. And for reasons Eagle Flies didn’t yet understand, that made him trust this stranger just a little more.

“You’re angry,” Eagle Flies said bluntly, watching for a reaction.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder again, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What makes you think that?”

“Because I know what it looks like,” Eagle Flies replied. “What it feels like,” he explained. “I saw it back there. It’s in the way you carry yourself. Like you’re always holding it back.”

Arthur was silent for a moment, guiding his horse through the underbrush. When he spoke, his voice was deep, and deliberate. “Maybe I am. But anger’s a dangerous thing, kid. It’ll burn you up inside if you’re not careful.”

Eagle Flies bristled at the comment. “You think I don’t know that? I have nothing left to lose, my anger’s all I’ve got. It’s the only thing that keeps me fighting.”

Arthur sighed, “I reckon you got much more to lose than that,” he muttered. His posture slumped slightly in the saddle. “Listen, I get it, kid. But fightin’ just for the sake of fightin’ doesn’t always get you what you’re after.”

Eagle Flies clenched his fists, the reins biting into his palms. “And what would you know about it? You’re not the one losing your home, your people—” He caught himself, his voice thick with emotion, and looked away, ashamed at the crack in his defiance.

Arthur slowed his horse, turning to face him fully. “You’re right,” he said simply. “I’m not. But I’ve lost plenty. And I know the kinda pain you’re carryin’. It ain’t gonna go away, no matter how many people you kill or fights you win.”

The sincerity in Arthur’s voice threw Eagle Flies off balance. He studied the older man again, searching for something, anything, that would betray insincerity. But all he saw was exhaustion, a heaviness in Arthur that mirrored his own.

“We’re not far now,” Arthur said, breaking the silence. “Come back to my camp. We got good people there. They’ll help you get cleaned up, get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out how to get you back to Wapiti.”

Eagle Flies hesitated, his pride warring with his fatigue. He hated needing help, hated being vulnerable in front of a man he barely knew. But the promise of rest, of even a brief reprieve from the weight on his shoulders, was too tempting to ignore.

“Fine,” he muttered, keeping his tone clipped. “But don’t think this means I trust you.”

Arthur smirked faintly, nudging his horse forward. “Wouldn’t expect you to. But maybe you’ll change your mind after you’ve had somethin’ to eat that ain’t your own tongue.”

Despite himself, Eagle Flies almost smiled at the dry remark. He followed Arthur into the night, his thoughts still clouded by anger but now tinged with something else—curiosity. For the first time in a long while, he wondered if he’d met someone who might actually understand his pain.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As Eagle Flies followed Arthur down a narrow path, the oppressive darkness of the bayou pressed in around them. Branches clawed at his legs and snagged on his clothes, while the undergrowth brushed against his knees, damp with dew. The air was thick and heavy with the tang of earth and decay, each breath feeling more like a drink of swamp water than air. He could barely make out the figure in front of him, relying instead on the steady squelch of Arthur’s horse’s hooves in the mud and the occasional clink of tack. The bayou was alive with sound—frogs croaking in the distance, the buzz of insects too close for comfort, and the occasional rustle that hinted at unseen creatures moving through the murk.

True to Arthur’s word, the camp wasn’t far.

The faint light of a campfire came into view, flickering weakly through the tangled trees, its dim orange glow struggling against the overwhelming dark. Arthur glanced back briefly, muttering that it was late and most of his gang would be asleep. He would take the lead so as not to startle them.

Along the way, Arthur spoke sparingly, revealing glimpses of himself. A bandit, an outlaw, a murderer—on the run from the law. I ain’t a good man, he’d said plainly, his voice rough with something between regret and resignation. Eagle Flies hadn’t offered judgment; he understood what it meant to take a life, to spill blood for survival, justice, or rage.

Whether in defiance or desperation, they both knew this world’s truth: it was eat or be eaten.

As they approached the camp, two figures emerged from the shadows, their voices cutting sharply through the night.

“Stop right there!” a woman barked, her gun aimed squarely at them.

“Who are you?” demanded a man, his voice steady and firm.

“It’s Arthur,” the cowboy called back evenly, his tone calm and familiar.

The tension melted almost instantly. Relief swept over the pair as they lowered their weapons and rushed toward him. Arthur dismounted with a grunt, and Eagle Flies, now able to see more clearly, studied the two strangers. The man had long black hair and dark brown skin, clearly one of his people, though his expression was softened with relief rather than suspicion. He clasped Arthur in a tight embrace, patting his back with a mix of joy and disbelief, while the woman—a fierce-looking figure with determined eyes—spoke rapidly about thinking he was dead.

Eagle Flies slid off the horse, his legs nearly buckling as he hit the ground with a dull thud. He grimaced, unable to stifle a pained grunt, and the sound instantly drew their attention. The native man, Charles, took a cautious step forward, his brows furrowing as though he recognized Eagle Flies.

“Arthur, is that—?” Charles began, tinged with surprise and concern.

Arthur raised a hand to cut him off, sighing heavily. “Yeah. Charles, this is Eagle Flies. Chief Rain Falls son.” He turned to the younger warrior, nodding toward the others. “Eagle Flies, this here is my friend Charles. And this,” he gestured to the woman who still regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, “is Mrs. Adler.”

Eagle Flies straightened as best he could, taking in their faces. There was something grounding about Charles’ presence, a quiet reassurance in his steady gaze. The woman, Mrs. Adler, radiated a sharp intensity that made him wary but also curious. These weren’t just Arthur’s companions.

They were his people.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur felt a wave of relief crash over him as he caught sight of Charles and Sadie, their presence grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. They were still here—alive—at this battered little camp they’d been calling home for the time being. He had no idea if any of the others had made it back, but just seeing their familiar faces eased some of the tension coiled in his chest. His heart pounded as his thoughts drifted to Kate, asleep in one of the cabins. She was safe, and for now, that was enough to keep him steady.

He’d been through hell to get here, but he’d walk through that fire a million times if only to see her again.

Charles looked between him and Eagle Flies, his brow creased with concern. Arthur could already feel the questions burning in his mind, but he got to the most pressing one first. “Found the kid tied to a military wagon,” he said briefly

“Were there others?” Charles asked, his tone sharp and urgent. His dark eyes flicked to Eagle Flies, searching for an answer.

Arthur hesitated, glancing at the young man. Eagle Flies gave a slight nod, the weight of it speaking louder than words. Arthur shook his head. “Just bodies.”

Charles sighed and looked at the ground, “I’m so sorry.” He said quietly.

The air grew heavy, the unspoken horrors filling the silence. Sadie cleared her throat, breaking the tension with a softer tone. “Looks like Arthur caught you at the right place at the right time. He’s good at showin’ up like that, when folks need him.”

Eagle Flies shifted uneasily, his jaw tight as he scanned the faces around him. He didn’t speak, but his reluctance was written in the way his shoulders hunched and his fists clenched at his sides.

Charles stepped closer, his voice gentler now. “Eagle Flies, I know this isn’t easy, but we need to know what happened. Where were they keeping you? How many soldiers were there?”

There was a heavy pause before Eagle Flies finally spoke, his voice rough and barely above a whisper, “Near the river. West of here. There were more when they captured me... but only four on duty when Arthur came.”

His words hung in the air, the weight of them like the dampness of the bayou, thick and suffocating. Charles turned to Arthur, his gaze sharp with unease, the question lingering with all the dangers they had faced to get here. “Were you followed?”

Arthur shook his head, weariness etched into his every movement. “Not unless the dead start walkin’,” he said, carrying the faintest edge of dark humor.

“Good,” Charles said flatly, though his tone carried the kind of finality that didn’t invite further reassurance.

Sadie stepped forward, her voice like sunlight breaking through a storm. “Well, you’re here now,” she said, her smile warm but deliberate. “Let’s get you somethin’ to eat and cleaned up. You’ll feel a damn sight better after that.”

Arthur nodded toward the fire, his tone softer. “She’s right. Go with Mrs. Adler, kid. She’ll fix you up somethin’ proper.”

Eagle Flies hesitated, his eyes flickering between Arthur and Charles, as if gauging whether this was another trap or a rare moment of genuine kindness. Finally, he gave a small nod. Sadie motioned for him to follow, her steps and voice were steady as she coaxed him away from the smoldering tension of the conversation.

When the sound of their footsteps faded, Charles turned to Arthur, his eyes narrowing as he searched the man’s face. Arthur felt the scrutiny like a weight pressing into his chest.

“What happened back there?” Charles asked in a low voice, careful, but tinged with an urgency that betrayed the steady calm he was trying to maintain.

He hesitated, his gaze catching on the hollowness under Arthur’s eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders carried an unbearable weight. “Arthur, are you okay?”

Arthur exhaled shakily, his gaze darting away as he nodded, though they both knew it was a lie. “Hosea’s gone. Lenny too,” he said abruptly, the words cracking the air like dry lightning.

He cleared his throat, trying to disguise the tremor in his voice, but there was no masking the way the grief clawed at his neck, choking him from the inside.

It struck him how casually the words had left his mouth, like spitting venom that burned on its way out. The weight of them wrapped around him, suffocating, as their faces flickered in his mind; Hosea’s fatherly wisdom, Lenny’s fierce loyalty. Their final moments haunted him like ghosts clinging to his battered soul.

How could he face Kate now? How could he ever explain to her that it was all because of him—because of his failure—that her life had been put in danger, that Hosea and Lenny were dead? He had promised her safety, promised her that they would survive together, but instead, he had dragged her into a war she never asked for. He had been the one to bring danger to their doorstep, to shatter whatever peace they might have had. And now, as the weight of their deaths settled like a stone in his chest, he couldn’t help but feel the crushing truth: He had failed them all. He couldn’t face Kate, not like this.

What words could he possibly say to her? How could he break the news of the ones they had lost, when he couldn’t even face it himself? Arthur’s mind raced with the questions, but there were no answers. Only comforting lies to offer her. He was the reason they were gone, the reason she had been imprisoned. His failures cut deeper than any mortal wound.

Arthur’s heart ached for her, knowing the hurt she would feel, the fear she might have when she found out the truth about what had happened on that boat. How could he look her in the eye and tell her that he had failed to protect the people he loved most, that his poor choices had led to so much loss? In that moment, Arthur felt like nothing more than a shadow of the man he used to be—broken, hollowed out by his own mistakes.

Undeserving of the woman he risked everything for.

“Dutch was givin’ ’em hell by the time I took off,” Arthur said in a rush, his words tumbling out as if trying to outrun the grief. “Think he must’ve made it into a building or a boat or somethin’. Heard the law was still lookin’ for him when I high-tailed it.” His shoulders sagged under the weight of his words, his exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

Charles closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the news. The implications for the gang settled heavily between them like a stone dropped into a still pond, rippling outward. “And Milton? Is he alive?”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, his voice heavy with fatigue. “Don’t know. Didn’t look back after I left Saint Denis. Been tryin’ to get here in one piece. That’s when I found the kid. Those soldiers were ready to kill him.”

Charles nodded solemnly, his voice was steady but laced with quiet conviction. “You did the right thing, Arthur. Rain Falls will be grateful for your help.”

Arthur swallowed hard, the words like a bitter pill. Rain Falls’ gratitude wouldn’t erase the losses or the guilt that churned in his chest. Eagle Flies was alive, but Hosea and Lenny were gone, and nothing could ever make that right.

After a moment of silence, Arthur turned his gaze toward the cabins, his trembling voice barely audible over the sound of the chirping night frogs and humming cicadas. “Kate,” he murmured. “Is she—?”

Charles’ expression softened, sensing the unspoken fear in the question. “She’s okay. The girls took care of her. She’s asleep in your cabin.”

"Thank you, Charles," Arthur whispered, his voice wavering as he let out a shaky breath.

The relief that flooded him was like a warm wave breaking against the shore, but still, his feet felt heavy, as though bound to the earth itself. His heart, a drum in his chest, screamed for him to move, to run, but his body refused to obey. His pulse was a frantic, disjointed rhythm, a sharp contrast to the stillness that seemed to envelop him.

Would she look at him with eyes full of sorrow, with disappointment? Would she be ashamed of him, afraid of the man he’d become? The thought gnawed at him—those quiet moments when their lips had met, when he'd held her close and whispered promises of a future together. Could she still see the man she had loved in him, or had he destroyed that too? The questions, each a shard of doubt, raked through his mind, pulling him deeper into a sea of self-torment.

"Go to her," Charles' voice cut through the turmoil, gentle, like the caress of a summer breeze. "She needs you, Arthur."

The words were the key that unlocked something inside him—something raw and aching, pulling him from his paralysis. With a quiet, desperate breath, Arthur turned, his body moving almost of its own accord, his steps slow but sure. Each movement was laden with the weight of his sins, each stride heavy with the burden of loss, yet still, his heart surged with an undeniable need.

I need her. The thought clung to him like a lover’s whisper, a mantra he couldn’t escape. No matter how much he resisted temptation, he would always lose.

I need her. The world outside was cold and unforgiving, but the thought of her—the warmth of her smile, the softness of her touch. Was all that kept him from breaking entirely.

I need her. And so, with that single, desperate prayer, he walked toward the cabin, toward the one thing in this world that still felt like home.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The voices outside stirred Kate from her restless sleep. The stiffness in her limbs protested as she sat up, the worn cot creaking beneath her. She winced as she stretched, her body heavy with exhaustion despite the hours she had spent lying still. The first rays of morning filtered through the cracked wooden walls, mingling with the bitter, familiar scent of coffee drifting through the camp. Her stomach growled in response, a harsh reminder of how little she had eaten.

Swinging her legs over the side of the cot, Kate stood, but the world tilted sharply around her, forcing her back down onto the blankets. She pressed a hand to her temple, willing the spinning to stop. Anemia, weak blood, whatever they called it. This sickness made her feel like she was moving through quicksand. No matter how much she rested, her strength never seemed to return. The weight of it all pressed down on her as she glanced at the blankets where Arthur’s journal rested, its leather cover worn and familiar. The sight sent tears pricking at her eyes, but she blinked them away, dragging herself upright.

The gang needed everyone's strength right now—she wouldn’t let this weakness consume her.

The blinding light outside the cabin made her squint as she adjusted to the day. Her gaze swept over the weathered camp, the leaning cabins half-swallowed by the swamp’s creeping vegetation, and the rancid smell of decay hanging in the air. She spotted Charles in the distance, her lips parting to greet him, but the figure standing beside him rooted her to the spot.

Her heart leapt into her throat. "Arthur?" she called, trembling with disbelief. Her lover turned towards the sound of his name, his figure draped in sunlight like he was an angel sent to whisk her away. She didn’t wait for a response, her feet carrying her forward in a rush.

“Arthur!” The cry broke free from her lips as she threw herself into his arms. His embrace enveloped her, strong and steady despite the weariness she could feel in him. She clung to him, her hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt as if he might disappear if she let go.

Arthur buried his face in the crook of her neck, the rasp of his breath against her skin a sound that made her chest ache with both relief and longing. “I missed you Kate,” he murmured, heavy with emotion.

He pulled back just enough to brush kisses against her cheeks, his calloused hands cradling her body. Deep blue eyes roamed over her as though he was trying to memorize every detail, though her pallor and dark circles gnawed at him. Even so, she was still the most breathtaking sight he’d ever seen.

“Look at you,” he said softly, his lips quirking into a tender smile. “Still as pretty as a magnolia in May.”

Kate flushed, the warmth of his words wrapping around her like sunshine. When he finally set her back on her feet, she bombarded him with questions, her hands running over his shoulders, his chest, searching for injuries. “How—how did you make it out? I thought Milton was going to—” Her words faltered as her eyes caught the dried blood on his shirt and the red crusted into the cracks of his hands. “Arthur, are you hurt?”

Arthur chuckled softly, a weary sound that held a trace of his usual charm. “I’m alright, darlin’,” he said, taking her smaller hands in his. His thumbs brushed over her knuckles before lifting them to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Just a little rough around the edges, that’s all.”

“When did you get back? Are the others with you?” Kate glanced around, her eyes scanning the camp for signs of new arrivals.

Arthur hesitated, the question he’d been dreading hanging heavy in the air. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. “I made it back last night,” he said finally.

Her brow furrowed, a flicker of hurt crossing her features. “Last night? Oh, Arthur… why didn’t you wake me?”

The crack in her voice struck him harder than he anticipated. Oh god, how was he ever going to tell her the truth now. He opened his mouth, searching for the words, but they felt lodged in his throat. “You needed the rest sweetheart,” he said softly, though his voice was rough with guilt. “I didn’t want to wake ya… didn’t want to trouble you with all this, not after everything you’ve already been through.”

Little did Kate know, Arthur had gone to her last night. Every fiber of his being ached to climb into the cot beside her, to feel her steady breathing against his chest and let the storm inside him settle, even if just for a moment. But when he had stepped into the cabin, the sight of her had stopped him cold. She lay there, her features softened in sleep, her mouth slightly parted, disheveled waves of hair spilling over his old blue button-down that wrapped her body in a way that felt like a claim he wasn’t sure he had the right to make anymore. His journal was tucked protectively under her arm, as though even in her sleep, she clung to him.

It was a picture-perfect moment, one he felt certain would shatter under the weight of his touch. Everything he had ever loved, everything he had ever cared for, seemed to crumble in his hands. His chest tightened as the thought crept in like poison: maybe her illness was his fault, too. He should have been there for her more, done more to provide for her, to protect her. Keeping her safe was the one thing he had vowed to do, and Christ, he had failed even at that.

Arthur’s hand had lingered on the edge of the cot, fingers itching to reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face. But instead, he had withdrawn, retreating like a coward. He had spent the night perched on an overturned crate, keeping vigil as she slept. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, the faint flicker of her eyelids as she dreamed. And as the hours dragged on, his mind wandered to darker places, weighed down by the ghosts of his failures and the ever-growing burden of his sins.

Now, as they stood face to face, the weight of her scrutiny felt heavier than any bullet wound. Kate frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly, unconvinced by his vague answers. “Trouble me with what, Arthur?” she pressed, cautious but insistent.

Before he could muster a response, Charles, who had been standing nearby with the patience of a saint, cleared his throat softly. The sound was a polite interruption, but it still made Arthur flinch. As if on cue, Sadie and a young man stepped out from one of the nearby cabins and joined their circle.

Kate’s gaze shifted to the newcomer, her brows knitting together in surprise. The bruises mottling his face made her wince inwardly, but what struck her most was how utterly out of place he looked amidst the ragtag group of outlaws.

“Kate,” Charles began evenly, his calm voice breaking through the tension, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Arthur placed a hand on the small of her back, a grounding touch for both of them, and gestured toward the young man. “This is Eagle Flies,” he introduced, as if they were old friends. “I met him and his father, Rain Falls, some weeks back. After the mayor’s party,” he added, his explanation brief but pointed.

Kate’s lips parted slightly as she processed the introduction. “Eagle Flies,” she repeated, testing the name as though committing it to memory. A small smile touched her lips, warm but weary. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard much about your father,” she said, offering her hand.

The young man accepted her handshake with a single, firm shake before stepping back. His eyes, dark and restless, flitted between Arthur and Charles before settling back on her.

“What brings you this deep into the bayou?” Kate asked, though she wanted to know how he got the bruises on his face. Something in her heart told her she already knew. She could see something flicker there—shame, perhaps, or embarrassment—but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

“We were sending a message to those men in uniform,” Eagle Flies said evenly. His tone was steady, betraying neither pride nor anger, but there was a subtle tension in his voice. “But we didn’t—” he hesitated. “There were too many of them…” His jaw was tightening as he searched for the right words. “Arthur… he saved my life last night.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final, as if any further discussion on the matter would only deepen the wounds of what had transpired. Kate’s eyes darted back to Arthur, her heart twisting at the sight of the exhaustion etched into his features. The tension in his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes, the way his body seemed to sag with an invisible weight—it was all there, plain as day. She reached out instinctively, her hand brushing against his arm. Something happened last night that he wasn’t telling her.

“What is the military doing this far south?” Kate asked, filled with unease as her eyes scanned the familiar faces of her friends. She wasn’t expecting an answer, but the silence that followed only heightened her anxiety.

Sadie, always the first to speak her mind, leaned on her rifle with a scowl. “Been wonderin’ that myself. There’s Pinkertons crawlin’ around the muck too. I reckon they’re workin’ together.”

Kate felt a flutter of panic in her chest, her heart beating faster as her thoughts spiraled. “Good Lord, for what reason do the Pinkertons need to get the military involved?” Her voice pitched higher, the concern clear in her tone.

Arthur exhaled heavily, a sound that seemed to press down on his soul. “Sweetheart,” he said, low but firm, “we just made a mess of that jailhouse. Took a fortune from a bank that don’t much like partin’ with its gold. And that cavalry out there? Well—they ain’t here for the scenery. We’re the reason.”

Kate’s stomach twisted at the blunt truth of his words, but before she could respond, Eagle Flies stepped forward, his voice laced with quiet anger. “That’s not the whole of it,” he interjected. “Since Cornwall turned his back on my father’s treaty, he’s had soldiers planting their flags all across the counties. He’s doing all he can to leave my people with nowhere to run and nothing but the wind to call home.”

Sadie let out a sharp laugh, devoid of humor. “That goddamn velvet-vested plutocrat. Ain’t nothin’ noble about a man who climbs to the top by steppin’ on necks,” she muttered before spitting in the dirt, her disdain evident.

Charles nodded, his face somber. “Which is exactly why you need to leave.”

The words struck Kate like an arrow, and she blinked, momentarily stunned. “Leave? Charles, wouldn’t that just draw more attention? The military ain’t gonna turn a blind eye to a caravan, especially if they’re watching the borders.”

She was so caught up in her concern for the camp’s safety that she didn’t immediately notice the word you. Arthur wrapped an arm around her, his thumb brushing soothing circles against her arm. His touch was gentle, comforting her in the midst of her growing panic.

“He means the three of us,” he said quietly.

Kate turned to him, her wide eyes filled with worry. Arthur could see the gravity of the situation racing through her mind, the weight of what this meant for her and for them. “We… have to leave? But where would we go?”

“Wapiti,” Eagle Flies answered confidently. “You’ll be welcome among my people. I can promise that.”

Kate stammered, voice wavering with desperation. “B-but the camp, the girls… what if the others come back? What if someone attacks while we’re gone?” Her words tumbled over each other, already imagining the dangers of the journey ahead.

Charles stepped closer. “Dutch and the others are still out there, and we’ve no way of knowing when they’ll ride back. Sadie and I will keep watch here, but things are getting too hot for the three of you. The law’s breathing down our necks, and the military’s not far behind. It’s best you head up to Wapiti, let the dust settle some. Couple weeks should do it.”

A couple weeks? The thought screamed in Kate’s mind, sending a fresh wave of anxiety crashing over her. She couldn’t deny that a reprieve from the chaos was needed, desperately so. But the journey terrified her. She was a wanted woman now, traveling with two men who were just as hunted as she was. A million things could go wrong, and her heart wasn’t sure it could take any more heartbreak. Not after the hours she had spent believing Arthur was gone for good.

“We’ll ride out tonight, when the moon’s high,” Arthur said gently, but resolute. “We’ll make for Annesburg, rest for the night, then head west come the first light. Eagle Flies knows the way—the trails are old, no soldier’s foot has touched ’em in years. We’ll be out of their reach before they even know we’re gone.”

Kate’s body trembled slightly against him, and Arthur’s heart clenched at the sight. He rubbed small circles into her back, hoping the motion would ease her nerves. It hurt to see her like this, afraid and uncertain, but there was no other choice. Charles was right—they weren’t safe here anymore. And Eagle Flies wouldn’t make it there alive on his own.

Sadie had told him about the Pinkertons’ movements while he was gone, and he could feel the snare tightening around their camp. Ready to strike at a moment's notice. He hated to push Kate like this, but it was the only way to keep her safe. The road ahead would be hard—harder than she probably realized. But once they reached Wapiti, he harbored a faint, fragile hope that the peace of the reservation might help her heal.

And maybe it would provide the time and space Arthur needed to muster the courage to tell her the truth of what happened that night that led to this mess.

Kate’s voice was soft, hesitant. “Do you really think it’ll be safe there?”

Arthur cupped her cheek, tilting her face toward his. His blue eyes, tired but unwavering, met hers. “I’ll make sure of it,” he promised, heavy with conviction.

Kate searched his face, finding something in his expression that steadied her. A flicker of trust, fragile but enough. Yet there was something else there, something he was shouldering alone. The hollow look in his eyes told a story of their own. She nodded, though her heart still raced. “Alright,” she whispered. “I’ll be ready, Arthur.”

Arthur pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering for just a moment before pulling back. “Thank you,” he said softly. And though his words were quiet, they carried a world of meaning and relief.

The night ahead stretched like an uncharted canvas, painted with shadows of danger and uncertainty, yet amidst the darkness, a fragile ember of hope flickered within her heart. A hope that somewhere along this perilous path, they might discover not just safety but a bond so unwavering it would entwine their souls. An unbreakable thread destined to endure beyond the tricks of time.

Perhaps Arthur was finally ready to leave his outlaw life behind.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The fire flickered weakly in the still air, casting soft shadows on the girls who sat around it, their spirits as dim as the fading embers. The stew Pearson had prepared for dinner, a questionable concoction of swampy fish and muddled flavors, sat untouched before them. Kate pushed her bowl aside with a quiet sigh, her stomach in knots. The stench of the stew mixed with the dank earthiness of the swamp, but starving seemed a less miserable option than swallowing another spoonful.

“I’m really going to miss you girls,” Kate’s voice broke the silence, gentle yet heavy with all the unsaid things.

Abigail, her face drawn and pale, looked up briefly but said nothing. Jack was curled in her lap, small and peaceful in his sleep, the weight of her grief tucked quietly in the lines of her face. Kate could see the toll it had taken on her—she had barely left Jack’s side since their arrival, and though Abigail was always a tough one, it was clear her sorrow ran deeper than words could ever express. Kate felt a pang of guilt twist in her chest. Arthur had come back, and yet Abigail's husband still hadn't. That familiar ache—a never-ending cycle of worry, of waiting for someone who may never return. Was one Kate knew all too well.

Tilly, ever the optimist, cleared her throat and gave a small, strained smile. “Ain’t gonna be long. We’ll be back together gossiping over a wash bin before you even know it.” Her attempt to lighten the mood was feeble, but Kate appreciated it nonetheless. “Ain’t that right, Mary-Beth?”

Mary-Beth nodded, but her smile was empty, her eyes hollow with the weariness of their uncertain lives. “Sure, can’t wait for things to go back to normal,” she said, the sarcasm dripping from her words, but even that felt like a defense mechanism she couldn’t quite control.

Kate could see the struggle in her—Mary-Beth was holding on by a thread. They all were. The days had blurred together, grief mixing with fatigue, and the weight of uncertainty was beginning to feel unbearable. Kate’s thoughts strayed briefly to Kieran, the empty space he left behind, and the relentless ache it caused.

“I’m so sorry, Mary-Beth... for everything,” Kate said softly, voice betraying the helplessness she felt. She could apologize all she wanted, but the damage was done, and apologies couldn't heal the wounds time had carved.

Mary-Beth sighed, her gaze distant, as she put her bowl down and wiped her hands on her skirt. “S’not your fault. Things are just changin’,” she said, her words a weak attempt at reassurance. Without another word, she stood and made her way to her cabin, “I’m turnin’ in ladies. I wish you all the best Kate.”

Kate’s heart sank as Mary-Beth disappeared into the shadows. It was hard to ignore the feeling that their bond was slipping away, as if the very fabric of their family was unraveling. Mary-Beth’s words somehow felt final. Did they think she wasn’t going to come back? She looked around at the others, her eyes searching for some sense of comfort, but it only deepened her sense of isolation. They were all so different now. The carefree days of laughter and camaraderie felt like a lifetime ago, replaced by the cold weight of their fractured lives. And now, she was leaving too.

“Has anyone seen Molly?” Kate asked, looking between the remaining girls around the fire.

Abigail and Tilly exchanged worried glances before shaking their heads. “She wasn’t with us when we moved,” Tilly explained.

Kate’s heart lurched. “What?” Her voice caught in disbelief.

Molly, always so unpredictable, so caught up in her own turmoil, had vanished. Kate’s mind chased the unanswered question—had she truly ran away?

Karen, sitting off to the side, her eyes half-lidded from too much alcohol, let out a slurred chuckle. “That poor bird probably took off soon as Dutch left her sight. That kind of love will drive a woman mad.”

Kate’s stomach turned at Karen’s words, but there was a bitter truth in them. Molly and Dutch had been at odds for as long as Kate could remember. No matter how hard she tried to help, it had always felt like she was fighting a losing battle. But still, a part of her hoped that Molly had found some peace, even if it meant leaving them all behind.

After a long stretch of tense silence, Kate spoke again, barely a whisper. “When Dutch and Hosea come back, they’ll know what to do,” she murmured, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew they were just a half-hearted attempt at comforting herself.

Karen’s laughter cut through the quiet like a predator, harsh and unforgiving. “They ain’t comin’ back, sweetie,” she mocked, loose and shaky from the alcohol.

Kate froze, her heart pounding in her chest. “Why wouldn’t they come back?” she asked, though a sinking feeling in her gut already told her the answer.

“Arthur didn’t tell ya?” Karen asked, dripping with something close to malice only exacerbated by the liquor.

Tilly shot her a sharp look, hissing under her breath, “Karen, don’t. He’ll tell her when she’s ready.”

But Karen wasn’t done. She leaned forward, her face contorting with drunken bitterness. “Katie’s a big girl, she deserves to know!” she practically yelled.

Kate’s pulse raced as the truth hit her like a tidal wave. “Know what?”

“Dutch is gone, probably took off with the money.” Karen’s words were venomous. “And poor old Hosea and Lenny are dead.”

The world went still, Kate’s breath caught in her throat, as if the air itself had been stolen from her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, only stare at the woman who had just shattered her reality. “N-no… they can’t… wh-why would Arthur keep something like that from me?” Her mouth was dry like it was filled with cotton. Voice cracking with the sob she’d been holding back finally breaking free.

Karen gave a lazy shrug, her movements sloppy. "Don’t ask me," she muttered, slurred with liquor. "But I’ll tell ya, he ain’t nowhere near as dumb as he seems. Draggin' you outta this mess and runnin' off to play nice with the Indians. Ain’t that somethin’?" Her words hung heavy with bitterness, the sourness in her tone clear as day.

Abigail, her tired face filled with shock, snapped, “That’s enough, Karen!”

Kate’s legs wobbled beneath her, and her vision blurred with tears. She stood abruptly, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was. “I’m so sorry.”

Without waiting for anyone to stop her, she turned and fled into the night, the weight of grief, confusion, and heartache pressing down on her with each step. The darkness swallowed her whole, but she couldn’t escape the pain gnawing at her from the inside out. This wasn’t how she wanted her last moments with her sisters to be. But as she wandered into the swamp, she sought refuge in the one thing she could always count on.

Lorena.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The task Arthur had given Eagle Flies was simple enough: prepare the horses for the journey to Annesburg. Yet, to Eagle Flies, every small duty carried weight. Even if only to take his mind off his throbbing bruises, though these wounds were not the worst he’s faced. He approached the task with the same reverence as if he were preparing for a hunt or a battle. Arthur’s white Arabian, Belle, would carry him and Kate on the trail ahead, as she was too weak to ride alone. That left Eagle Flies to choose his own steed from the herd.

Arthur’s trust in him was a quiet honor, though unspoken. And Eagle Flies did not take such things lightly.

The horses were tethered to withered fence posts in the clearing, a rare dry patch amidst the swamp’s endless muck. His moccasins sank with every step, the mud seeping in like cold hands gripping his soles. He glanced down, scowling at the state of his footwear. When he returned to Wapiti, he would ask Quick Buffalo to make him a new pair. The elder’s skill with leather was unmatched.

With the saddle slung over his shoulder, Eagle Flies surveyed the herd. Shadows and moonlight painted their shapes in the clearing, their coats glinting faintly in the silvery glow. Most horses shuffled away as he approached, wary of the unfamiliar. A few stood their ground, indifferent to his presence. But one caught his eye—a black Hungarian mare, standing apart from the others, untethered and proud.

She had a presence about her that was undeniable. Her midnight coat seemed to drink in the darkness, and her stance radiated strength and defiance. There was something spiritual about her, as if she were an echo of the wild itself.

Eagle Flies felt his breath catch. Horses were sacred to his people, their spirits intertwined with their own. But this mare wasn’t just a beast of burden. She was a spirit in her own right.

“Hinhanni wašte, good evening friend,” he murmured, low and soothing. He extended a hand, letting her catch his scent. “Taku eniciyapi he? What is your name?”

The mare’s ears flicked forward, her dark eyes fixing on him as if she understood the question. Eagle Flies felt a pang of bitter doubt. Was she stolen from his people? Her presence stirred something familiar in his chest. It was not unheard of for their horses to be taken in raids. The thought made him hesitate, his hand faltering mid-air.

But the mare didn’t flinch. She leaned forward, her warm breath brushing against his fingers. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

He set the saddle down on a nearby post, pulling a brush from its bag. As he worked, he let his thoughts drift. Arthur had saved his life—a debt Eagle Flies couldn’t repay with words alone. He had doubted the white man at first, but Arthur had proven himself to be different. Perhaps this was meant to be, the world guiding him toward a path he didn’t yet understand.

A flicker of movement on the far side of the mare snapped his focus back to the present. A voice followed, soft and unexpected.

“Lorena emaciyapi. Her name is Lorena.”

Eagle Flies straightened, nearly slipping in the mud. He steadied himself against the mare’s sturdy frame, his eyes narrowing as he peered around her. Kate stood on the other side, her figure shadowed but unmistakable.

“You startled me,” he admitted, his tone a mix of wariness and curiosity.

Kate stepped closer, her boots squelching in the mud. Her pale face was streaked with tears, her eyes rimmed red. She looked fragile, as if the swamp’s weight had pressed on her more than anyone else’s. Yet, there was something in her voice, in the way she’d spoken Lakota, that caught him off guard.

“Owakahnige sni,” he said, his disbelief evident. “I don’t understand. You speak my people’s language?”

“Eya. A little,” Kate replied, her voice rasping with exhaustion.

Eagle Flies tilted his head, studying her. Her accent was smooth, practiced, nothing like the clumsy attempts of others. There was history here, though he couldn’t piece it together yet.

“Lena nithawa thasunke? Is she your horse?” he ventured, more curious than before.

Kate nodded, wiping at her cheeks with a trembling hand. “Hiya. Yes.”

He ran a hand along Lorena’s back, rounding the mare to stand face-to-face with Kate. Up close, he could see her fatigue more clearly. It wasn’t just physical, her pain clung to her like a heavy fog.

“Lorena is owanyang wašte. Beautiful,” he offered gently. He wasn’t sure why he said it, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Kate managed a small smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Sdodwaye. I know.”

Eagle Flies hesitated, his brush pausing mid-stroke. There was something about her that drew him in, a quiet strength beneath the sorrow. He realized, in that moment, that perhaps his path wasn’t only meant to cross Arthur’s kindness.

“Toniktuka hwo makha? Are you okay?” he asked softly, filled with genuine concern that betrayed his usual behavior.

Kate’s silence lingered, her gaze fixed on the ground as if the swamp mud held answers she couldn’t find elsewhere. Eagle Flies didn’t press her. Silence was familiar to him, and often more telling than words. He resumed brushing Lorena, his strokes steady and deliberate, giving her space to speak if she chose it.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said finally, her voice was thin and unconvincing. She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers clutching at her sleeves like they were the only things holding her together. “Wicakha. I’m fine.”

Eagle Flies glanced at her, his hand stilling for a moment. “I don’t believe you.”

Kate’s head lifted, startled by his bluntness. Her brows furrowed under the scrutiny, but when she met his eyes, there was no accusation in them, only calm sincerity. He shrugged lightly, resuming his task.

“I meant no offense. You just don’t look like someone who’s fine.” Eagle Flies added after a moment.

Kate let out a weak laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “You’re very observant.”

“Not hard to see,” he replied gently. Gesturing subtly towards Lorena. “Even the strongest horses stumble when the weight is too heavy.”

For a while, neither spoke. The swamp buzzed with the hum of insects, the faint rustle of leaves carried on the breeze. Moonlight turned the world to silver and shadow, and Eagle Flies thought of his home—the clean mountain air, the sparkling rivers, and the resilience of his people. It felt entirely far away now.

It was once a place of laughter, stories, and unbroken connections to the land, unlike this swamp, where the earth itself felt weary under the weight of what had been taken. Much like the people who were staying here. Their fear and uncertainty was a familiar feeling, something he saw in his own tribe every day. Their suffering was the oil to his flame. He felt his anger burning bright again, like it always did when he thought of his family slaughtered, the rivers choked with filth, and the sacred places desecrated. They had taken so much, leaving scars on the land and in his heart, yet still, they always wanted more.

His gaze shifted to Kate, and the fire softened. Her sorrow was like the sickness in her body—clinging and fierce, draining her spirit as surely as the swamp water threatened to swallow him whole. She carried her burden silently, her exhaustion as plain as the tremor in her hands.

Yet, something about her reminded him of home, perhaps it was how easily she had spoken his native language. Or how she had sought comfort in her horse, during her time of need. He could not erase her pain, but he could offer what his people had always taught him: helping each other was the greatest form of strength.

Eagle Flies finally broke the quiet. “We have a medicine woman on the reservation,” he said, conversational and purposeful. “Her name is White Dove. She knows how to heal the wounds we can’t always see.”

Kate’s brow softened, “thank you,” she gave a small shake of her head. “But, I don’t think she could heal this.”

Eagle Flies knew she was referring to her grief. He shrugged a reply, “sometimes it’s something you have to decide yourself. ”

Something flicked in her expression. It wasn’t confusion, but rather the curiosity of someone who had lost touch with such an idea—or perhaps hadn’t heard it in a very long time. She studied his face, looking at him with a new sense of familiarity.

Eagle Flies studied her face in return. Her features were hardened over the years yet softened by weariness, her pale complexion a stark contrast to the women he knew back home. She didn’t look like someone who belonged to this kind of life. Constant danger at every turn, hiding in the shadows like cornered animals.

“Are you close to her?” Kate asked after a moment, her voice cautious. Changing the subject.

“To White Dove?” He smiled faintly. “She’s like my grandmother. Right now, she’d be scolding me for walking in this swamp and ruining her good leather,” Eagle Flies gestured to his tattered, muddy shirt. “She would try to make me a new one, and then laugh when I tried to refuse it.”

Kate smiled at that, though it didn’t quite chase the shadows from her face. “She sounds very kind.”

“She is,” Eagle Flies agreed. “She’s helped a lot of people with their pain.”

Kate blinked, slightly taken aback by his observation and insinuation. “Eagle Flies, I’m fine. Just a little stressed about the journey. That’s all.” She replied, almost pleading. Trying to hide her weakness behind a show of strength.

“I know what I see,” he said simply. “You carry something heavy, but you don’t let it break you. You remind me of a warrior.”

For a moment, she looked as if she might cry again, but the tears seemed to dry as soon as they came. Instead, she let out a soft laugh, followed by a warm smile that genuinely surprised him.

“You remind me of someone,” she admitted, warmth coloring her tone. “He was a warrior too.”

“Really?” Eagle Flies raised a brow. “What was he like?”

She sighed. “There was never a right way to describe him.” Kate hesitated. “He was... angry, the kind that came from a deep sadness. But he taught me everything about strength and surviving.” She spoke of him like he was no longer in her life.

A faint shadow crossed Eagle Flies’ face, his jaw tightening for a brief moment before he nodded. “I’m angry too,” he said honestly. “The world gives me plenty of reasons to be. It’s why I fight so hard for my people.”

Kate met his gaze, her expression softening as she saw the truth in his words. While also taking in the extent of his wounds and what it had cost him.

“I lost two men because of my anger,” he continued. “But we’ll lose hundreds more if we don’t fight back.” Eagle Flies' mind thought back to last night, remembering the faces of those who are now long gone. A fate that was nearly his own. “I owe Arthur a great debt for saving my life.”

Kate said nothing, but her eyes glistened in the moonlight. Like the mention of Arthur’s name brought her turmoil to the surface again. Whatever she was facing, it was hard for her to ignore. She wiped at them quickly, turning her attention back to Lorena.

“And I owe you,” he added with a faint smile, attempting to lighten her mood. “For letting me borrow your beautiful horse.”

Kate chuckled softly and Eagle Flies didn’t push her further. He knew that trust wasn’t built in a single conversation, but some burdens could be lifted by words alone. A distant voice called out to them, approaching from the cabins. Arthur was asking if the horses were ready.

With one last brush to Lorena’s coat, Eagle Flies then slung the saddle onto her back with practiced ease. “She’s ready,” he said softly. “Are you?”

Kate nodded, taking Belle’s reins as she followed him out of the muck and into the firelight.

Eagle Flies watched her for a moment longer, then turned to lead his own horse, Lorena. They had a long night ahead of them, and even more traveling after that. But he felt more confident with his new friends, the anxiety and fear eased momentarily.

Kate’s voice was a whisper behind him, “Pilamaya, Eagle Flies. Thank you.”

AN: AHH I've been waiting for soooo long to write about Eagle Flies. I can't believe it took me 26 damn chapters to get here. But I'm really excited to get into the Wapiti plot. We're so close! I was going to include the journey to Annesburg in this one, but it felt long enough already.

I hope people don't mind the use of Lakota language. I fell into a rabbit hole while doing my research and I tried not to make it too excessive. There's also not a lot of phrases that I would use, so my options were limited.

Hope you all had a great holiday, thanks for reading! <3

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #ao3 fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x original female character #arthur morgan x reader #red dead fandom #arthur morgan x oc #ao3 #eagle flies #rains fall #ao3 author #archive of our own #fanfiction

47 notes · View notes

08melancholie · 4 months ago

Text

Patch up, Cowboy. — Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan

tags: Tension, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Tension, Mild Smut, Non-Graphic Smut, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Gay Panic, Sexuality Crisis, enemies to whatever the fuck they are, Jealousy, Jealous Micah Bell, Micah Bell Is His Own Warning, Toxic Yaoi type shit i love them oh god, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Toxic Yaoi

summary: Law always finds itself around Micah and Arthur, no matter what job they do. This time, though, they get surprised by a bunch of bloodthirsty O'Driscolls and one hell of an ambush. Put your differences aside and patch up, cowboy.

a/n: my first character/character fic thats posted woah, were making history here chat

words: 3,040 | AO3 LINK

A red rag draped over his leg, medical alcohol between his thighs and Micah's chin in-between his index and thumb, holding up a clean cotton cloth to his mouth and collecting blood.

"'Ya gotta stay still." Arthur's voice grumbles, slightly strained. The fire next to them crackles loudly and the night is silent, all for the occasional cricket or animal howl in the far distance or moving shrubbery. "I can't do it if you're squirmin' around the entire time." He holds onto the chin of the other with a firmer grip, trying to wipe his bottom lip of the leaky red substance. Micah's hand stay in his lap, palms squished between his thighs as he leans his head back, looking down at the other cowboy.

He snarls when the alcohol-infused material brushes over his busted lip, trying to jerk his head away—to no avail, as Arthur's grip keeps him exactly where he is, unmoving. "Damn it, Morgan.. thought you was a gentleman." His laugh is a small wheeze, the hot breath escaping his mouth and landing on Arthur, who tuts at him and shakes his head at the comment.

—————————————————

A nice little homestead that needed urgent clearance and robbing—deemed perfect for Arthur and Micah, by Dutch. Clearly not, by Arthur's protest to the idea. Micah gives a very offended scoff at the other man. "Come on, Morgan. You an' me, it's a perfect team." Arthurs' eyes practically roll to the back of his head, but he can't find it in himself to go against Dutch's word, no matter how much he may hate the blonde snake.

He gives Dutch a look, very obviously, before sighing and calling Micah to follow over to where their horses were hitched up. They rode mostly in silence, every attempt at small-talk between Micah and Arthur lasting a measly few minutes, if that many.

The homestead looked partially abandoned when they arrived. "This don't look good," Arthur wanted to listen to his gut and turn back, or find something else that actually looked promising, but of course, Micah was having none of it.

"Oh, don't be like that," He rode Baylock closer to Arthur and pulled on his horses reins. "thought you was one of them.. 'don't judge a book by it's cover' fellers." He mocks, trying to get Arthur to keep riding towards the homestead. With more reluctance, Arthur follows along. "That's the spirit." Micah makes sure to comment, looking over his shoulder to where Arthur is riding close-by. They hitch up a safe distance away—you never know, even if it looks abandoned. "Follow the lead, cowpoke."

Micah's got his hands on his two DAs, fidgeting with the handles while they slowly creep up the area, heading straight for the little house. Arthur puts his bandana up and places his hands on his gun belt, walking to Micah's left. They approach the front porch, making their way up the small set of stairs and up to the door. A quick glance to each other, Micah puts up his own bandana and nods for Arthur to have the honours.

The door swings open into a worrisome silence, nothing but the slow creaking of the old hinges as the door slows its pace and hits the wall. "Well, looks like nobody is home." Arthur glances at Micah at his quip, narrowing his eyes before walking by the man.

He gets straight to business; opening drawers and cupboards for anything useful. Micah does the same—kind of. He looks here and there while mostly just exploring the house. Soon, Arthur is left alone in the main room, a living room and open kitchen. He's looking through the kitchen drawers when the silence gets abruptly disturbed; a gasp, metal clanking, a gunshot. Arthur is quick to stand up from his crouching position and draw his revolver, checking the corners over to the room where the noise came from. As much as he'd love to see Micah shot, he doesn't need that right now.

One of the doors down the hall is ajar, and theres a scent of gunpowder coming from the room. A quick cock of his revolver, huff and prayer before Arthur enters the room; just to find a grinning Micah, leaned on the wall and playing with his revolver. "Didn't know 'ya cared that much about me, cowpoke." Arthur is just about to berate the blonde for the idiotic quip, before he's met with Micah's wide eyes— "Shit!" —and a quickdraw. Micah shoots right past his shoulder.

Arthur grips his gun and turns, to see a man on his front bleeding out on the living room floor. "The hell?" Both of them exit the room, Micah first.

Micah walks up to the dying man, using his boot to kick the mans gun out of reach, just in case. He crouches down and grabs a fistful of his hair, lifting the body up slightly. Nothing that could make him stand out—except a bright, neon green neckerchief. "What's an O'Driscoll 'ere for?" Micah murmurs between the two men before using his brain to connect two and two together, releasing the dead mans' hair and instantly standing to his feet, walking and shutting the front door.

Arthur catches on just as quickly, instantly readying his gun. "O'Driscolls ain't ever travel alone..." He comments, and he's very correct—proven so by the sudden gunshots that smash the house windows, glass flying over the floorboards as both of them duck, away from the view inside of the house through the broken windows. It's at least four other people shooting, against the two of them. They've dealt with worse, surely; this will go smoothly.

They're ducked under one of the two windows each, peeking out to shoot. Theres a few more than four, seven instead. Which is odd, as O'Driscolls never really go out in bigger groups than of three or four, which makes Arthur and Micah assume this was very planned. That's an afterthought, for now, as they need to focus on shooing them all dead. First three go down easily, until the other four start getting closer to the door. Something Arthur and Micah don't notice, is the O'Driscoll right at the door just waiting for the right moment. When it does come, it almost ruins the entire mission. The door opens, hitting Arthur in the side and shielding him from whats happening on the other side when the O'Driscoll busts in. Micah, thankfully, has a good reaction time and manages to stand up and move before getting shot. Unfortunately, it isn't enough as he gets shot in the thigh by the O'Driscoll before Arthur can close the door and shoot him. Micah hisses as the bullet penetrates his skin, clutching it and spitting out blood from his mouth, having bit the inside of his his lip open during the small stumble to the ground. "Get up, Micah!" Arthur's back is pressed to the door to prevent anymore surprises. Micah regains his composure with a low grumble, spitting on the floor before getting up and grabbing his guns again.

Gunpowder fills the nostrils of the two men by the time the last one of Colm's men escapes for his life, rushing away on his horse before Micah or Arthur can shoot him down. "Damn it," Arthur holsters his gun and places his hands on his hips, looking over to Micah. "we can both agree that was planned, right?"

Micah is picking glass out of his boot, sitting on the couch inside the house. "Mm, yeah. Seems so." His thigh is still bleeding slightly, his chapped lip stinging. Arthur got him a towel from the bathroom to wrap around his bullet wound, try and stop the bleeding until they can get him taken care of.

"Can't stay here, might come back." Arthur comments, opening the door and checking the surrounding area before beckoning Micah to follow suit. He grumbles, getting up from his seat and putting his guns into their holsters, walking—a bit uncomfortably—around the shattered glass pieces and out the door. They're mostly silent for the walk back to the horses, given how theres little to say here. Micah mounts up on Baylock with a hum and pat to the steeds neck, Arthur soon following. It was getting dark, slowly but surely, as the sun started dipping down around the earth, deep oranges and pinks filling the sky, with faint hues of blue still present. "I say we camp out, don't trust going back like this." Micah shrugs neutrally, deciding on just going with whatever Arthur has to say. They ride a few miles away from the homestead, into a nearby forest.

With their horses hitched safely, the two outlaws set their tents up and Arthur starts a little fire while Micah tries cleaning his wounds up. His lip is absolutely busted, few smaller gashes and splits in the bottom one along with the bigger one he bit into his flesh. It's a hassle to clean, even more his thigh. One spot on the towel is fully soaked, absorbing Micah's blood like a sponge. Peeling it off brings a grumble out of Micah, turning it over to a cleaner side and dabbing at his thigh. Arthur finished up the fire and looks to Micah, who seriously looks like the doesn't know what he's doing. For a man so stubborn, Arthur knew Micah would never allow him to help the clueless outlaw.

"You know what you're doing?" He decides to speak up, getting up from his crouching position and placing his hands on his gun belt.

Micah looks up at him from his thigh with an annoyed pout. "Of course I do.." He continued to dab at his thigh, but starts slowing down. "..clearly."

Would his hatred for Micah win over, be more important than not letting him get a nasty infection? That's a million dollar question.

And here's your answer.

Arthur sighs before walking over to the man and casually seating himself right next to Micah, prying the towel out of his hand. Micah goes to protest, snarl at him, but Arthur shushes him. "Don't be an ass now, it'll get infected if 'ya don't do it right." Arthur places a two fingers on Micah'd thigh, stretching it slightly which causes some vulgarities to slip from Micah's mouth. "Ah, 'm sorry," he places the towel back down and goes for his satchel, digging out a flask-like bottle and a small rag, along with a mini-box; mystery item, woo. "Hope 'ya don't like these pants that much," Arthur draws his knife and, carefully but swiftly, cuts up a better opening to the wound through his trousers.

"These are practically all I wear, Morgan. Surprised 'ya haven't taken notice of it."

"One of the girls'll sew it up for you." Arthur replies. Micah rolls his eyes and sits back, letting Arthur work with no further quips or protests. Arthur takes the flask and pours some of the liquid onto his clean rag, removing Micah's towel. "What's that 'ya got there anyw—shit!"

Arthur presses the rag—now soaked in medical alcohol—down onto Micah's thigh, grabbing his knee with the other hand as Micah tries to jerk it away. "Don't be a baby, Bell." He keeps the other outlaws' leg close, not letting him pry it away. "You're fine, stop overreacting."

Micah grumbles again, still letting out little hisses to the burning-tingly sensation in his leg. "Could'da warned me, 'ya know?" He mumbles, placing his hands in his lap and looking away from the white rag on his leg as it slowly changes in color.

After a moment longer, he takes it away and drapes the slightly red rag over his thigh, moving to grab the box. He opens it to reveal a needle and some thread, for the stitching. Micah watches him place the end of the thin string piece in his mouth, observing the action. A little too closely, maybe. Arthur runs the thread through the hole in the needle, looking at Micah. "No snarky comment 'bout it?" Micah rolls his eyes while Arthur gives a brief huffed laugh, leaning down slightly. He places his whole hand on Micah's upper thigh, trying to use the campfire to better see what he's doing.

A few twitches here and there; a gasp or two; Micah's arm finding itself gripping onto the wood log they're sat on. He never liked getting stitches. Nobody did, to be fair, but he had an extra hatred for it. He let out a deep exhale when Arthur finally finished, relieved. "We still got that lip you chewed open." Arthur reminds him, which breaks Micah away from his moment of gratitude. "Come on, it ain't nearly as bad as this," Arthur gestures to Micah's fixed up thigh, and he just waves him off. Arthur puts the needle and thread away, thankfully, and instead gets another smaller rag out. I mean, damn, is he always this prepared? Micah angles himself slightly more to face Arthur, who dabs a bit of the alcohol onto the clean rag, making Micah grimace. "You'll be fine." Arthur sees his reaction and clicks his tongue at the man.

A red rag draped over his leg, medical alcohol between his thighs and Micah's chin in-between his index and thumb, holding up a clean cotton cloth to his mouth and collecting blood.

Despite how confident he sounds, Micah is sweating; his hands are clammy and his eyes are slightly widened, staring either at Arthurs hands or his eyes, switching frequently between the two. Arthur was mostly focused on making this less painful for Micah, surprisingly, so he didn't notice much about how Micah was reacting. Thank God.

The rag swiped over his gashes, sending little tingles through Micah's mouth, causing his slightly parted lips to twitch a few times. His eyes were on Arthurs' face, taking note of the slow flutter of his lashes every few seconds he'd blink; the crease in his eyebrows as he focused; his slightly crooked nose that's been broken a few times, something he knew of, because he was there for one of the instances before; the slightly plum-ish color of his mildly chapped lips and their mostly thin, yet soft look—stop.

He grimaced at his own trail of thought, and his lips clasped down closed—right over Arthur's thumb. The man glanced right up at Micah's face, which was getting more red by the second, his blood split between going to his face and his trousers. Arthurs' eyes flicked between Micah's mouth and eyes, just like Micahs' own two. The silence was deafening, awkward and felt so much longer than it truly was. What made it even worse was Micah opening his mouth, just for Arthur to keep his thumb there for a moment, staring intently at Micah. Both of them hadn't yet realised the very defined outlines of their erections, leaving little to imagination if any of them dared look down and check.

After what felt like years, Arthur clears his sore throat and retreats his hand, wordlessly starting to pack up the medical supplies. No words were needed, actually. Their new, little problems spoke volumes, that much was obvious. Micah slowly got up and instantly retreated to his tent, leaving Arthur to intently wait for Micah to close the flaps before hunching over and exhaling all his pent-up breath, head in his hands. What the hell was that?

He glared at his own boner when he leaned his head down, cursing at himself. The distaste he held for Micah was not strange to anyone; in fact, it was a known fact that Arthur simply did not like Micah. That's how its always been, and how Arthur planned to keep it. None of this... whatever it was, with Micah, will ever mean anything. Arthur knew what he was, like Micah did. Both of them were specifically only into women, and this was a simple reaction of touch-starvation, their bodies being confused. That's what they'll go with.

Now there's another problem to solve, in the tent right next to the culprits' own one.

The campfire had long extinguished itself by morning when Arthur walked out of his tent, instantly feeling a certain heat in his cheeks at the sight of Micah—the early-bird, obviously long awake by the time Arthur had gotten up. Micah doesn't dare look his way, the beige hat he wears covering his cheeks well enough. The mere knowledge of his presence brought color to the pale, weathered skin of Micah Bell.

The awkwardness of last night didn't even compare to the one of riding back to camp. It was quite the ride, a slow, silent and painfully on-edge trot through West Elizabeth and back to Horseshoe Overlook. Neither of the two spoke, not even small-talk was deemed possible at this point. They rode alongside each other for a few hours, silent and red in the face.

Seeing camp come into view might have been the highlight of this trip for the two of them.

They hitched up wordlessly, ready to part when Dutch's voice beamed through the campsite, making both men curse and reluctantly turn. "My boys! Tell me, how was that?"

The truth would make him lose his goddamn head.

Kudos on AO3 always appreciated! This ship has me in the worst chokehold known to mankind, they make me absolutely sick and make me want to bite my fingers off for writing this but..... toxic yaoi. Need therapy bad.

EDIT: I honestly left this a very open ending, and technically; a part two is possible. Please do tell me, on AO3 or here, if that's something you'd like to see! <3

44 notes · View notes