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moeitsu · 6 days ago

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 24 - The Story of That Past

Summary: Tension runs high as Arthur grapples with the weight of impossible choices, his loyalty to the gang tested against his growing desperation to protect Kate. Meanwhile, Kate endures her own silent battle, caught between the chilling reality of her imprisonment and the lingering hope that Arthur will not abandon her.

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AN: This is a shorter chapter (8k words), a bit of a break from what happened in the last one while also setting up what's coming....

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

**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

In the center of the clock, inside the now–choices gather, waiting to be made. The swamp is alive with anticipation. Dangers and saviors. Lovers and predators. The lie is in the separation. The truth is always growing. ~ Lily Brooks-Dalton

The darkness begins to dissolve with the dawn. The morning birds take up their chorus and claim the day as the encroaching sun warms the land and chases the fog. Arthur trudged toward Shady Belle; their home, their refuge. A kingdom of lesser glory, nestled within the embrace of the bayou. His clothes clung to him, damp and heavy, a physical reminder of the regret and fury that weighed on his soul. The events of the night replayed endlessly in his mind, each iteration amplifying the bitter truth: he had lost her.

Kate was gone—taken prisoner.

The woman he loved was in the clutches of the law. Being held in a cell he knew was meant for someone like him. The money they'd risked so much for was swallowed by the Lanahachee.Whatever riches they had, slipped from their pockets in their escape. The river's hungry waves lay claim to the treasure.

Time was of the essence now, the ticking clock posed the next greatest threat. Like a predator nipping at his heels. Arthur needed to act fast, before a fate that should have been his own was inflicted upon her. He couldn’t bear the thought of the noose tightening around Kate’s neck, of the life they’d barely begun slipping away forever.

At camp, the day unfolded with routine indifference. Figures moved sluggishly through the morning haze: Pearson cracking eggs and humming an off-key tune, the girls gathering laundry into baskets, and others nursing steaming cups of coffee as they shook off the remnants of sleep. A few greeted Arthur, their voices warm and casual, but he ignored them. His gaze locked on the weathered table where Dutch, Hosea, John, and Micah sat in conversation, and he made a beeline for it.

“Arthur!” Dutch called cheerfully, a smile curling beneath his mustache. “You look like you’ve seen better days. Where’s your companions?” His eyes flicked to the muddy, damp clothing and Arthur’s lone arrival.

“Riverboat was a bust,” Arthur snapped. “We lost the money—and they took Kate.”

The atmosphere shifted in an instant. Hosea and John turned toward him, their faces mirroring his urgency—first shock, then confusion. Dutch sighed, leaning back in his chair and swirling his coffee lazily. “That’s a shame,” he mused. “There was a lot of money on that boat.”

Arthur’s anger boiled over, his fist slamming onto the table with enough force to rattle the plates and cups. “Did I stutter?” he growled in a low roar. “The law has Kate, we need to hit the prison before they hang her!”

His outburst drew the attention of the entire camp, heads swiveling to watch the confrontation. Hosea raised a calming hand, his tone measured but firm. “Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, son. They’ve no reason to hang her—not yet. Most likely, she’ll get a trial.” His gaze softened as he gestured for Arthur to sit. “But we need to know exactly what happened on that boat.”

Arthur leaned forward, his fists pressed against the splintered surface of the table, knuckles whitening under the strain. His breath hissed out, slow and measured, as he fought to temper the storm building inside him. “Same thing that always happens, ‘Sea,” he began, low and ragged. “Ran into some fella that recognized me. Didn’t have time to think—I killed ‘em before he even drew. You know how the rest goes.”

John tilted his head, his curiosity cutting through the tension. “How’d he recognize you? From Blackwater?”

Arthur shook his head sharply, his lips pressing into a grim line as guilt weighed on him like a millstone around his neck. There was no time to dwell on the how or the why, not now. But the truth corroded the edges of his mind—this was his fault. It always was.

Having lived his life with a heavy hand, Arthur carved his way through the world with the kind of cruelty that had been beaten into him from the start. It was all he knew, but that didn’t make it right.

If only he’d done things differently—if he’d been kinder, softer, more patient. Or maybe if he’d refused to help Mary altogether. His chest tightened at the thought, a bitter cocktail of regret and remorse. If he’d turned her away, none of this would’ve happened. Kate wouldn’t be rotting in a cell because of his choices. But there was no going back, no undoing the path he had carved.

“Does it matter?” He didn’t wait for an answer, the words tumbling out in a growl. “Javier and I damn near killed every lawman on that boat. Civilians got caught in it too.” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. “Kate’s pianist...he—” Arthur stopped himself, swallowing hard. “None of it matters. What matters is Kate’s not well, hasn’t been for some time. She’s alone in that cell, and she’s countin’ on me to get her out.”

The table fell silent, John and Hosea exchanging somber glances. Hosea leaned back in his chair, his face creased with thought, while Dutch smoothed the edge of his mustache, staring off into the distance as if searching for answers in the murky swamp beyond.

Dutch exhaled slowly, setting down his coffee with deliberate calm. “Arthur,” he said finally, measured yet edged with caution. “I understand how you feel, but breaking her out right now? That’s suicide. The law’s probably on high alert after last night, and Saint Denis is crawling with Pinkertons. You’d get yourself killed—or worse, all of us.”

Arthur straightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “She ain’t just anyone, Dutch. She’s one of us.” His voice cracked, betraying his anger and desperation. “We can’t just leave her there to rot.”

“We’re not leaving her,” Hosea gently reminded.

Dutch countered, his eyes narrowing. “We need to be smart about this. Rushing in without a plan isn’t going to help anyone, least of all her.”

Micah, who had been lounging in his seat with a smug grin, leaned forward, tapping the table with his finger. “Now hold on a second,” his oily voice drawled. “Ain’t the Saint Denis Bank on the same block as the jail?”

The air went still, everyone turning to look at him. Micah’s grin widened as he leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Two birds, one stone, gentlemen. We plan it right, we hit the bank and spring the lady. Walk out with Kate plus a whole lotta money.”

Arthur shot Micah a look of pure disdain. “What the fuck are you gettin’ on about? This ain’t about the goddamn money, Micah—”

“Now, wait a moment, Arthur,” Dutch interrupted cautiously, leaning forward with a glint in his eye that Arthur had seen too many times before. The gears in Dutch’s mind were already spinning, and his voice took on that same smooth edge, the one he used when trying to sell his schemes to the gang. “That… is certainly an idea,” he said, a finger rising to punctuate the thought. “This might be a new opportunity for us.”

John scoffed audibly, shaking his head with exasperation. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dutch,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It never ends with you, does it?”

Arthur could feel the heat rising under his skin, his anger simmering close to the surface. He stared at the man he had devoted his life to, the man who was supposed to lead them—not gamble their lives for profit. “You want to rob the bank and break Kate out at the same time?” His voice dripped with disbelief, tinged with bitter disappointment. “That,” he emphasized, shaking his head, “is how you’ll get her killed.”

“You’d be risking her life, Dutch,” Hosea added firmly in agreement, carrying the weight of reason. Arthur felt a flicker of gratitude for the older man’s support, but it did little to cool the fire inside him.

Dutch waved them both off with a dismissive flick of his hand, taking a deliberate sip of coffee as though the conversation didn’t warrant urgency. Before anyone could speak again, Micah leaned forward with that snake-like grin, slick and taunting. “She knew the risks when she started sleepin’ with ya, cowpoke. Hell, I’m surprised—the women you touch don’t seem to live long—”

The words barely left Micah’s mouth before Arthur lunged across the table, his hand gripping Micah’s collar and yanking him forward with a crash that sent cups and plates flying. The sound of clattering metal rang out as Arthur hauled him over the table, his voice was venomous. “You got somethin’ to say to me?” Arthur snarled, eyes burning with fury. “Go on, say it again—I’d sure love to shut you up right now.”

Dutch shot to his feet, his chair tumbling back against the dirt floor as he shouted, “That’s enough!”

His voice carried a commanding weight, but Arthur didn’t let go, his grip on Micah tight as iron. Dutch stepped closer, grabbing Arthur’s arm in an attempt to pull him away. Arthur wrenched free with a sharp jerk, his glare snapping to Dutch.

“We need money, Arthur!” Dutch bellowed, his gravelly voice echoing through the hollow, rotting camp of Shady Belle. “We need more money! Or do you think this world is just gonna hand us a goddamn miracle?”

Arthur released Micah with a rough shove, sending him sprawling backward, but his fury didn’t fade—it only burned inside him, bitter and heavy. The tension around camp was substantial, every gaze locked on the fractured core of their so-called family. Their fearless leader and his right-hand man.

With a growl Arthur shot back, “you’re gamblin’ with her life, Dutch. Or is she just another pawn in your grand plan?” His eyes darkened with anger.

“You lost the money and the girl. What do you expect me to do? March in there, guns blazing, and demand her release? Oh, and while I’m at it, maybe ask for ten thousand dollars too?” Dutch snapped, sharp with irritation as his patience wore thin.

Dutch’s words hung in the air, unyielding, echoing with the desperation of a man who had tied his soul to his schemes. Arthur didn’t need to hear any more to know the truth: Dutch wasn’t thinking about Kate, or the gang, or even their survival. It was the allure of money, of power, of proving to the world that he was still the man with all the answers.

It burned in his eyes, that unrelenting need to reclaim what he thought he deserved. Arthur could see it clear as day, a fire that consumed everything—loyalty, love, even common sense. No matter how much Arthur wanted to fight it, to question his authority, he knew it was already too late.

The weight of it settled in Arthur’s chest like a stone, pressing down with every breath he took. He’d been through this too many times before—watching Dutch chase an ideal that was as hollow as the promises he made. Arthur’s heart twisted with something deeper than anger, even deeper than frustration: it was betrayal.

Using Kate’s imprisonment to achieve his greed goes far beyond Arthur’s moral code. It was unforgivable.

A bitter realization that no matter how hard he fought, how much of himself he gave, he was losing the man he had once believed in. Kate’s life, the gang’s safety, his own hopes—they were all just collateral in Dutch’s endless pursuit of an impossible dream.

Arthur turned away, his gaze falling to the dirt beneath his boots, as if he could find some clarity there. But all he saw was the shadow of what they had been and the ruin they were becoming.

Hosea cleared his throat and stood up cautiously, his movements slow like he was approaching a spooked animal. “Dutch, please,” he said, soft but firm. “I insist we discuss this in more detail before making any rash decisions.” He gestured toward the decrepit manor, trying to guide Dutch away from the growing tension and toward a calmer space where reason might prevail.

“Indeed,” Dutch nodded, the fire in his eyes momentarily dimming. “Let’s work out the kinks, old girl. We could pull this off as soon as a week from now,” he mused, already envisioning the glory of his next big scheme.

The words hit Arthur like a physical blow. A week? The thought of leaving Kate alone, vulnerable, for even another hour gnawed at him like a caged wild animal. As Dutch passed by, Arthur reached out, his hand clamping down on the older man’s shoulder with restrained force.

Leaning close, he growled in his throat, “all these years Dutch, you’ve had my devotion. But you know, I can really hate you sometimes.”

Dutch stopped, his expression unshaken, the picture of calculated calm. “You can hate me all you want, son,” he said, his tone almost paternal, as though scolding a rebellious child.

“But you will respect me. I know this woman means a lot to you, but these people,” he gestured broadly to the camp, “they follow me. And when I’m gone, they’ll just find another monster. Do you know why, Arthur?”

He leaned in close, dropping to a near whisper, heavy with the weight of his convictions. “Because they have to. They have to justify their wages. You’ll see.”

Arthur’s glare lingered, his fists tightening as Dutch walked away with that same confident stride, the one Arthur had once found reassuring. But now, it filled him with bitter resentment. The man he’d followed so faithfully, the man he’d believed in, felt more like a stranger with each passing day. Every decision Dutch made seemed to pull them further into chaos, and Arthur could feel the threads of his loyalty fraying, unraveling one by one.

His mind drifted to Kate, the only constant in a life of shifting sands. She was the one who truly held his loyalty, the one who knew his heart. And now, she was alone, locked away in a cold, unforgiving cell, likely wondering if he was coming for her. He wanted nothing more than to pull her out of this mess, to take her far away from Dutch, the gang, and the endless trail of blood and lies. For once, he longed to devote himself to something pure—someone who had become his entire world. His reason for breathing.

The weight of his past chained him to this life, and the thought of breaking free left him torn between duty and desire.

Micah stood next, brushing off his shirt as he sneered at Arthur. “You should be thanking me, you know,” he drawled, grin cutting like a dagger. “I just saved your girl’s ass back there— I’d say she owes me more than you do.” With a snide chuckle, he sauntered off, leaving Arthur’s fists clenched and his jaw tight with rage.

Only John remained at the table, leaning back in his chair as he watched the others disperse. After a moment of silence, he spoke, steady and reassuring. “You know I’ll help you, Arthur. I owe you that much.” His words carried a quiet resolve, a loyalty that Arthur felt down to his core, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.

Arthur let out a weary sigh, dragging a calloused hand down his face as if trying to wipe away the weight of the day. His body felt heavy, drained of energy, but his thoughts churned endlessly, circling back to Kate. She was strong—he knew that. Capable. But the thought of her sitting alone in that cell plagued him like a sickness. He clung to the small mercy that they wouldn’t hang her without a trial, and the trial was still days away.

There’s still time, he told himself, as much to convince his heart as his mind. It was a fragile hope, but it was all he had.

“Thanks, Marston,” Arthur muttered, his voice rough and quiet.

He didn’t wait for a response before turning and heading toward the manor, towards the room he shared with Kate. As he climbed the stairs he thought about how the space that once felt warm and alive, illuminated by her presence, now felt empty and hollow. He ached to change out of his damp, grimy clothes, to collapse onto that bed and let the weight of regret crush him fully. The anger that had burned so fiercely earlier had faded, leaving only a raw, consuming grief that settled deep in his chest like a parasite.

Arthur couldn’t help but toy with the thought of turning himself in to secure her freedom. He’d been a wanted man for so long—maybe it was time to finally hang up his old hat and face the reckoning he’d been dodging. But what good would he be to her if he was dead? The thought gnawed at him, twisting his insides. Maybe she’d be better off without him anyway, safer without his shadow looming over her.

A bitter voice in the back of his mind whispered that, after all this, she might not even want him anymore. Perhaps seeing the darker, unforgivable side of him had poisoned whatever bond they shared, leaving her with nothing but regret.

But it mattered little what she thought of him now, he would never leave her behind. Arthur loved her too much for that.

As Arthur finished buttoning his shirt and adjusting his suspenders, the momentary calm was shattered by a sharp, piercing cry that cut through the morning air. The weight of his exhaustion vanished in an instant, replaced by the familiar sting of adrenaline. Grabbing his revolver and rifle, he pushed through the bedroom porch door, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. His eyes scanned the camp, every muscle tensed for action.

A lone figure approached on horseback, and Arthur’s heart skipped as he saw the women scattering in distress. His eyes narrowed, and he lifted his rifle, ready to take aim. But as the figure drew closer, he saw Mary-Beth running toward the rider.

Her voice breaking as she screamed, “Oh God! It’s Kieran!”

Arthur squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, but the grotesque sight made his blood run cold. Kieran, once a quiet member of their gang, was now an unrecognizable horror. His head, gruesomely severed and held in his hands, revealed empty sockets where his eyes had once been. Mary-Beth’s horrified wail pierced the air as she reached for him, but Tilly pulled her back, sensing a deeper threat.

The horse reared, and Kieran’s lifeless body slumped to the ground with a sickening thud, the wet crunch of his fall echoing through the camp. The silence stretched on for a moment, as everyone anticipated what’s next. Arthur’s stomach churned, but there was no time to grieve. The trees at the edge of the camp shifted, and figures began to emerge—more men.

The O'Driscolls.

Arthur’s blood turned to ice. “Everybody take cover!” he shouted, voice carrying over the chaos.

Their quiet morning was changed in an instant. He moved swiftly, taking shelter behind the railing and firing off shots, his mind racing as he aimed with precision. Colm O'Driscoll had finally found them, and was taking his revenge. The time for sorrow and regret was gone. He couldn’t afford to hesitate now.

The sight of Kieran’s brutal end ignited a new rage in Arthur, but it was quickly buried under the cold resolve that had become his second skin. The gang was fractured, and their world was falling apart—the bitter truth was that there was no saving it. Dutch was blinded by his obsession with power, and the others were powerless without him, each consumed by their own sins and survival.

There was no hope in this place, and there hadn’t been for a very long time.

But for Kate, Arthur knew he had to make it out alive. He reminded himself he had to keep fighting for her. He wasn’t going to let her die in a cell, forgotten and abandoned. No, he would tear through every O'Driscoll in his path, and when this war was over, he would go to her. Even if he had to crawl on his knees.

He would make damn sure of it.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate stirred in the darkness, the cold seeping into her bones as her consciousness clawed its way back to the surface. Flashes of the previous night's event assaulting her mind in fragments. Her body felt impossibly heavy, her limbs unresponsive as she lay curled on the rough, cold bench of the jail cell. A sharp chill ran through her, and the air reeked of unfamiliar smells, making her stomach churn. As her senses slowly returned, her head began to spin, a pounding ache radiating behind her eyes. She squeezed them shut, but the motion only made the dizziness worse. Her vision blurred when she finally forced them open, the dim light of the jail swimming before her like a mirage.

Her mouth was dry, her throat raw, and bile rose to the back of her throat. She tried to make a sound, but all that came out was air. Panic gripped her chest as she realized she was going to be sick. She tried to push herself up, her weak arms trembling beneath her. A distant murmur of voices caught her attention, faint and distorted, as though underwater.

“She’s waking up,” one of the guards said, sharp and impatient.

Another voice, gruffer and closer, barked out an order. “Get her a bucket before she makes a mess of herself.”

Heavy boots echoed down the corridor, each step reverberating in her pounding head as Kate struggled to focus on the sound—anything to ground her swirling thoughts. Her stomach churned violently, her trembling body coated in a cold sweat as she desperately fought back another wave of nausea. Darkness threatened to close in around her again, and she feared she might lose consciousness. The sharp clang of the cell door unlocking jolted through her like a gunshot, intensifying the ache in her skull. The heavy door groaned open, its rusty hinges protesting, and a metal bucket clattered to the floor in front of her, the noise cutting through the suffocating silence.

On cue, her stomach lurched violently, a wave of nausea sweeping over her with crushing force. She barely managed to grab the edge of the bucket they had shoved toward her, retching up what little remained in her stomach. The sound was harsh and guttural, echoing through the small cell. Her chest heaved uncontrollably as she gagged, the sharp spasms making it nearly impossible to catch her breath. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the drool that clung to her trembling chin.

Shame washed over her like a tidal wave, burning hotter than the fever she could feel building in her body. She imagined how pathetic she must look to the guards watching, and the thought made her throat tighten with fresh humiliation. The effort drained what little strength she had left, her limbs trembling as the world tilted dangerously. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, and as the cold stone pressed against her cheek, she gave in to the pull of unconsciousness once more.

In her senseless state, Kate dreamed she was riding with Arthur through endless fields of tall golden grass, the warm sun bathing them in a soft glow. Lorena’s steady breaths beneath her thighs were a comforting rhythm, and Arthur’s smile—a real, genuine smile—made her heart flutter with a fleeting sense of peace. She wanted to linger in the moment, to hold on to the rare sight of his happiness, but a creeping dread began to seep in.

The sky darkened, and a massive black wave rose on the horizon, surging forward with roaring ferocity. Its foaming white edges swept over the field like a predator’s teeth, and before she could react, it tore Arthur away from her. The distance between them grew vast, and she reached out, calling his name in desperation as the wave swallowed the light and left her alone in the void.

Kate woke with a startled cry, her body convulsing as her stomach churned violently. She lunged for the rusted bucket, pulling it into her lap with trembling hands, her knuckles bone-white against the cold metal. She heaved, dry and fruitless, each spasm tightening the iron vise around her throbbing head. The pounding pain drowned out her senses, and it wasn’t until a calm, authoritative voice broke through that she realized she wasn’t alone.

“You don’t look too well, Miss McCanon,” the man said, carrying a weight of control that sent a shiver through her fevered body.

Something about it scratched at the edges of her memory, but before she could piece it together, another wave of nausea hit. She doubled over, dry-heaving again, the sound pitiful in the quiet cell.

The man turned sharply, addressing a guard with a harshness that cut through Kate’s misery. “I want a doctor in here, now.”

“Sir, we have strict orders from the chief. No outside contact,” the guard replied hesitantly, his words laced with unease.

The man’s growl was filled with impatience. “Your chief takes orders from me. Go get the doctor.”

His voice cracked like a whip, and the command froze Kate mid-breath. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth, the lingering taste of bile stinging her tongue, and watched as the man unlocked the cell door and stepped inside.

He carried a stool in one hand, a small tray with food and water in the other. Each movement deliberate, he bent to set the items on the stone bench, and Kate’s breath hitched as recognition struck her like a blow to the chest.

Agent Andrew Milton, lead detective from the Pinkerton Agency.

Her heart sank, ice spreading through her veins as she stared at the man who had haunted their every step, the very agent of destruction threatening to unravel Arthur’s world—and hers—with a noose. She had crossed paths with him twice before, each encounter a warning she and the gang had barely escaped. Now, there was no running. No one to shield her.

Milton settled onto the stool, his gaze boring into her as if cataloging every weakness. Kate’s mouth went dry, her eyes flickering to the cup of water on the tray. It tempted her, offering the promise of relief to her parched throat and knotted stomach. Milton followed her glance and gestured toward the tray with an open palm. The gesture caught her off guard—calm, almost courteous, yet it felt like a mirage to something more sinister.

Leaning back on the stool, Milton’s fingers drummed a steady rhythm on his thigh as a cold smile tugged at his lips. “What an unfortunate circumstance we find ourselves in,” he said smoothly, as though they were sharing afternoon tea rather than a cell.

Kate ignored him, her trembling hands reaching for the cup. She drank deeply, the water cool and soothing against her raw throat. It felt like heaven, a small mercy in the nightmare she was living. Setting the cup down with a soft clink, she reached for the plate. The apple slices and crackers were humble offerings, but to her, they were a feast. She bit into an apple slice, the tangy sweetness stinging her cracked lips, and chewed slowly, savoring every bite.

“Why bother calling for a doctor if you’re just going to hang me?” she rasped, her voice hoarse and brittle, a faint shadow of the woman she once was.

Milton chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m not a monster, Miss McCanon. I’m simply a man doing his job,” he replied casually, as if he were commenting on the weather.

Kate scoffed, the sound rough in her throat. She bit into another slice of apple, her jaw working mechanically as her mind raced and throbbed with every pulse of her heart.

Clearing his throat, Milton shifted his tone to one of authority. “We’ve been digging into your past,” he started in a light voice, but his words carried weight. Kate’s stomach tightened, her heart pounding in her ears. She kept her focus on the plate, refusing to meet his eyes.

“The second-born child of Italian immigrant Madeleine Biviano and Englishman Thomas Walker,” Milton recited like a storyteller weaving a tale. “Raised on a modest dairy farm outside Boston. Your first tragedy was the Wollaston train derailment in ’78. Lost your mother and little sister in the wreck.”

Kate’s chest tightened as the memories clawed their way to the surface, raw and unrelenting. She was only twelve years old at the time, but that day had shattered her childhood. Clenching her jaw, she forced herself to chew, as if by continuing to eat she could stifle the rising tide of pain. The story of her past was one she had spent years burying beneath layers of resolve, yet here it was, laid bare by the stranger across from her. Her mind whirled, trying to untangle the threads of why this man was weaving her history into his game.

“The farm was lost a few years after their deaths. So you and your father moved in with family friends. Where you met your deceased husband Noah McCanon. Then your brother took up work in the mines, only to meet his end in a collapse in ’86.” He shook his head, his mock sympathy dripping with condescension. “And poor old daddy couldn’t handle the grief. Tough break.”

Leaning forward slightly, he continued, “Kate McCanon,” emphasizing her name like he was peeling away a mask, “orphaned. Widowed. Childless after the red death claimed what was left of your family. You’ve had a hard life—a long way from Boston now, aren’t we?”

Kate’s fear tightened its grip around her throat, but she swallowed it down. “You don’t know anything about my life,” she bit out, sharper now, though it wavered at the edges.

“Oh, I know plenty,” Milton said evenly. “I know you fell in with savages after leaving home. Played Injun for a while before striking out on your own.” His gaze was steady, pinning her in place.

Kate turned her face away, her mind racing. How could he know all of this? How had they pieced together her past—a life she had buried so long ago? None of it mattered now. The truth wasn’t her ally here; it was his weapon. He would twist it, use it, until there was nothing left of her to defend.

“We only brought justice to those who deserved it,” she said quietly though the words rang hollow.

Milton clicked his tongue, “doing my job for me, I can imagine.” He quipped sarcastically.

“I was a different person back then,” Kate countered, though the effort was futile.

Her heart raced as Milton leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk curling the corners of his lips. “We talked to a few people in town after Van Der Linde fled. Picked up a kid in Rhodes, heir to the Gray family fortune. Beau, as I’m sure you remember.” He paused, watching for her reaction. “He was a chatty kid. Only had pleasant things to say about you.”

Kate’s eyes darted up, her breath catching in her throat. Confusion settling over her pallid features. “What does he have to do with this?” she asked.

Milton raised a brow, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on his thigh as he shrugged. “Well, it’s not every day we come across someone with such fond memories of a criminal,” he said casually. “Beau told us all about Miss McCanon. How you stood by his side when nobody else would, helped him stand up to his family. Even mentioned how you wanted to leave that gang behind for good.”

Kate’s stomach churned, the apple slices she had forced down threatening to come back up. “If you’re trying to guilt me, it won’t work,” she bit out, though her voice trembled with the effort.

“Oh, I’m not here to guilt you,” Milton replied smoothly. “Just pointing out that you’ve got a history of helping people in need. As you can imagine this came to me as a surprise. It’s admirable, really.”

The subtle compliment aroused something in her, giving her a morsel of confidence. Straightening herself she answered, “like I said, I’ve changed.”

“But it does make me wonder…” He leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into hers. “What is a woman like you still doing with Arthur Morgan?”

Kate was quiet, and the silence stretched between them for what felt like an eternity. “Arthur he’s—,” Kate said quietly. “He’s just trying to protect his own.”

Milton’s expression hardened. “He’s a degenerate murderer, same as that maniac they all follow so blindly. Don’t tell me you’re naive enough to think otherwise. The rose-colored glasses have to come off, Miss McCanon. He is a killer. Last night should’ve been enough to prove that to you.”

Kate swallowed hard as fractured memories from the night before clawed their way to the surface. “Th-there must have been a reason,” she stammered. “We weren’t there to hurt anyone—”

“Yet innocent people always seem to end up dead wherever he goes,” Milton interrupted, his voice biting.

Images she had tried to suppress flooded back: lifeless bodies crumpled on blood-soaked floors, the screams of panicked bystanders, and the chaos that seemed to follow in Arthur’s wake. Her stomach churned as the memory of Vin, her pianist, lying among the carnage, forced the air from her lungs, tightening her throat. She clenched her fists, willing the nausea to subside, the weight of Milton’s words pressing down on her like a stone.

What had happened? Kate's mind raced, desperately trying to piece together the chaos of the previous night. Something had gone horribly wrong—she’d known it the moment she saw the hollow, detached look in Arthur’s eyes. The memory of his body pressed against hers brought a painful mix of longing and grief. Even in the throes of his rage, he had shielded her from the damage, clinging to the last shreds of his humanity.

She was the thread holding him together, the link between the man he was and the man he was trying to be. The weight of that realization made her stomach twist violently. Reaching for the bucket, she retched, the taste of bile and apple burning the back of her throat.

As if on cue, the sound of heavy boots echoed down the hallway. The guards approached, a doctor trailing in their wake. Milton greeted the physician and stood, gathering the stool and empty tray with ease.

Before leaving the cell, the agent paused, cold eyes settling on her. “I know you and Mr. Morgan are quite fond of each other,” he said smoothly.

“I’m counting on that connection to bring him right to me.”

Kate’s chest tightening as the weight of Milton’s words settled over her. Her hands trembled, curling into the fabric of her skirt as she watched him leave. The cell felt colder, smaller, as if his threat had sucked the air from it. Her mind raced, the implications twisting into her gut like a knife. Milton wasn’t just toying with her—he was using the situation to his advantage. Kate was the bait, and Arthur was the prey. Her heart ached with equal parts dread and guilt, knowing that her capture might lead him straight to his death.

The doctor set his worn leather bag on the bench and knelt down, his weathered face creased with both age and a quiet concern that seemed out of place in this grim setting. His hands trembled slightly as he rummaged through his tools, the faint metallic clink of instruments filling the tense silence. When his gaze met Kate’s pale, sweat-dampened face, his eyes lingered on the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the unsteady tremor in her frame.

“You’re in a bad way, miss,” he said softly, his voice carrying a kindness she hadn’t anticipated. He adjusted the glasses resting on his nose and leaned in closer. “Let’s get a proper look at you.”

Kate sat still, her fingers gripping the edge of the bench as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She winced as his fingers pressed gently against her throat and around her temple. Every touch sent a fresh wave of pain radiating through her skull. Her throat burned with each shallow breath, and her heart thudded unevenly in her chest.

“Dizzy spells? Vomiting?” he asked, his tone calm but probing. Kate nodded weakly, unable to find the strength to respond aloud.

He worked methodically, his hands steady as he pressed along her scalp, searching for signs of injury. She flinched when his fingers found a tender spot at the base of her head, drawing a quiet hiss of pain from her lips. The doctor pulled back, his brow furrowing. With a heavy sigh, he sat back on his heels, folding his hands on his knee.

“You’ve got a nasty concussion, likely from a blow to the head,” he said gravely.

Kate didn’t respond, her grip tightening on the bench as her vision swam slightly.

The doctor moved on, lifting her wrist to check her pulse, his lips moving silently as he counted. He pinched the skin on the back of her hand, watching how slowly it settled back into place.

His frown deepened. “You’re anemic,” he announced, his voice edged with clinical detachment.

Kate blinked at him, her mind slow to process the words.

“Your blood’s weak,” he explained. “Could be from malnourishment or blood loss. Either way, you’re in no condition to withstand much. You need iron-rich foods—beef liver, beans, leafy greens—and plenty of rest and fluids. When was the last time you ate properly?”

Her memory felt fragmented, the previous night already blurred by exhaustion and trauma. “I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor straightened with a groan, his joints popping as he stood. He turned to one of the guards stationed outside the cell. “She needs proper meals, quiet, and a few days to recover,” he said firmly. “Don’t expect her to run—she doesn’t have the strength for it.”

The guard gave a curt nod, his expression impassive.

The doctor gathered his tools, casting one last glance at Kate as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Try to rest,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “It won’t be quick, but you’ll mend.”

Kate nodded faintly, watching as he exited the cell. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating in her aching skull.

Leaning back against the cold wall, Kate closed her eyes and let her fingers trail over the frayed hem of her dress, the coarse fabric grounding her in the present. Her thoughts churned, a dark cocktail of worry for Arthur combined with Milton’s threatening words.

She longed for him—the warmth of his presence, the way he always knew how to calm her fears, how he had shielded her from the cruelty. How he spoke to her softly despite the intensity of their situation. But now, in the cold silence of her cell, his absence was a weight that crushed her chest. The doctor had said she would mend, but she felt as though she were unraveling piece by piece—and somewhere in the shadows, the storm was only beginning.

Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, her breath hitching in quiet sobs as she struggled to hold onto the hope that by some miracle Arthur would come for her, even as Milton’s words echoed in her mind.

Threatening to tear everything apart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The smoke of gunfire still hung heavy in the air around the shattered remnants of their camp. Arthur leaned against the crumbling fountain in the courtyard, his body burdened with exhaustion. His breath came in shallow gasps, the adrenaline that had carried him through the attack now ebbing, leaving a dull ache in its place. The old wound on his shoulder throbbed deeply, the pain radiating in waves with his drumming heartbeat. He was so terribly tired.

Arthur’s hands trembled as he reloaded his revolver, though the threat had passed for the moment, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t over—not truly.

“Arthur,” Charles’ steady voice broke through the haze. He approached carefully, his bow slung over his shoulder, the faint lines of concern etched into his face. “You alright?”

Arthur nodded stiffly, though he knew he didn’t look it. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, and his legs felt like they might give out any second. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered, waving Charles off even as the other man’s steady gaze lingered.

“You should try to find some rest,” Charles said, his tone leaving little room for argument. “You’ve been carrying too much lately.”

Arthur managed a bitter chuckle, his gaze averting to assess the damage of the rest of camp. “Ain’t nobody else gonna do it,” he muttered under his breath, though he knew Charles heard. The truth of it was a weight he couldn’t put down. No matter how hard he tried.

Charles sighed and sat on the edge of the fountain beside him. “Colm can really hate,” he said after a moment, his eyes trailing to the lifeless O’Driscolls littering the ground. His gaze lingered on Kieran’s body, a stark reminder of what loyalty cost.

Arthur rubbed a hand over his jaw, saying nothing. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant murmur of the gang regrouping. Charles tried again, his voice softer this time. “I heard what happened to Kate,” he said. “Part of me is glad she wasn’t here to see this.”

Arthur turned to him, and in his eyes, Charles saw the weight of unspoken words. Sorrow. Remorse. Anger. A storm of emotions that spoke of a burden far heavier than exhaustion. It wasn’t just the weight of the world that was crushing him, but Kate as well. He had let her down.

“Oh, Arthur,” Charles said quietly. “She’ll be okay. She’s alive—that’s what matters right now.”

It was the only solace he could offer, though he knew it would never be enough. The truth hung heavy between them: they were all at the mercy of uncertainty now, clinging to hope in a world that offered none.

The others were emerging cautiously from their hiding spots, murmuring amongst themselves as they took stock of the damage. A few broken crates, some scattered supplies—but no one was hurt. For that, Arthur was silently grateful, though it didn’t ease the gnawing pit in his stomach.

His gaze drifted toward the central campfire, where Dutch’s figure loomed. Assessing the damage and the situation they’ve found themselves in. Arthur hated to admit it, but they needed him now. More than ever. The gang was shaken, uncertain of their next steps, and as much as Dutch had steered them wrong in recent days, his voice was the only one they’d follow.

“Arthur,” Dutch’s sharp voice cut through the heavy stillness of the aftermath, carrying an edge that demanded attention. His measured strides crunched against the dirt, his eyes flitting over the wreckage of the camp and the wary faces of the gang. “We need to get moving.”

Arthur straightened with an effort, his body screaming against the weight of his fatigue. His shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed him earlier, but he pushed the pain aside. He was the gang’s anchor, the one who couldn’t afford to falter. His jaw clenched as Dutch stopped in front of him, his expression unreadable. Whatever Dutch had to say, it would come with consequences.

“You thinkin’ we should start lookin’ for another camp?” Arthur asked quietly, careful not to stir the simmering tension among the others.

Dutch’s lips curved into a thin smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. Before he could answer, John and Hosea approached, their steps slow and cautious. Charles rose to stand beside them, his stance rigid and ready, like he was bracing for a fight.

“You’re not thinking big enough, Arthur,” Dutch said finally, carrying a note of patronage. He gestured broadly to the ruined camp, the lifeless O’Driscolls scattered across the ground. “You’re focused on the small picture—survival. I’m looking at the bigger game. Vast problems require vast solutions. And opportunities.”

Arthur shook his head, standing to meet Dutch at eye level. “I’m not sure I get what you’re sayin’, Dutch,” he said, though the weariness in his voice gave it a sharper edge than he intended.

Dutch’s grin widened, his expression almost feverish, like a man on the brink of revelation. “Oh, you will, son,” he said with unnerving confidence. He turned, addressing the small group that had gathered. “We can’t stay here. Colm’s made sure of that. He’ll bring heat down on us, and we can’t afford the attention.”

Arthur folded his arms, his frown deepening as Dutch’s words sank in.

“Tomorrow,” Dutch continued, “we move deeper into Lagras. We’ll find a temporary camp, and after we regroup, we start preparing.”

“Prepare for what?” Arthur snapped, his exhaustion sharpening his tone. “We’ve been scramblin’ for more money for six months, Dutch. You really think another move’s gonna fix all this?”

Dutch’s gaze darkened, but he kept his composure, tilting his head like a patient teacher lecturing a stubborn student. “The bank,” he said simply, his voice cutting through the growing murmurs of unease.

Charles let out a low sigh, and John shook his head, muttering something under his breath. The tension was thick, every man weighing Dutch’s words against the grim reality they faced.

“We hit the bank tomorrow,” Dutch declared, his voice rising with conviction. “We send a group ahead to set up camp, and the rest of us get what we need to leave this hell behind for good.”

Arthur felt his blood start to boil, the fatigue giving way to something hotter and more dangerous. “And what about Kate?” he insisted, voice rising despite himself. “You just plannin’ on leavin’ her behind in all this mess?”

Dutch raised a hand, silencing Arthur with a single commanding gesture. “Kate,” he said, drawing out her name like a curse. “She’s coming with us. You, Hosea, and a few others will go get her from the prison. While myself and the others rob the bank.”

As he spoke, Dutch stepped closer, placing a heavy hand on Arthur’s injured shoulder. Arthur’s teeth clenched against the dull pain, but he didn’t pull away. The weight of Dutch’s hand was no comfort—it was a warning.

Dutch’s voice dropped, low and menacing, just for Arthur to hear. “I’ve got a plan, son. It’s all coming together. But if you keep doubting me, you’ll be the one who doesn’t make it out alive. And poor Katie…” His lips curled into a cruel smile. “She’ll be waiting on her loyal cowboy for the rest of her goddamn life.”

Arthur felt a chill crawl up his spine, but he refused to flinch. Dutch leaned in even closer, his voice a venomous whisper. “I need that loyalty, Arthur. But I have a feeling you’ll betray me in the end.”

Dutch pulled back, his expression smoothing into something almost fatherly as he addressed the rest of the group. But the words he’d left in Arthur’s ear burned hotter than the ache in his shoulder. Arthur swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides, the weight of Dutch’s manipulation pressing down like an iron shackle. The mask was finally starting to crack, and Arthur was seeing the ugly man beneath it.

Tomorrow.

The word echoed in Arthur’s mind, heavy with both hope and dread. It was a promise he clung to—Kate would be with him again soon. But Dutch’s plan, reckless as it was, turned that hope into something fragile, like a thread pulled too taut. His gut churned at the thought of what lay ahead. To use her escape as a distraction for robbing the bank—it wasn’t just risking her life. It was risking everything. The dwindling trust, and what little sense of unity the gang had left.

Arthur’s mind raced, playing out the million ways it could go wrong. Colm O’Driscolls might already be planning another attack, the law could close in too fast, or Dutch’s obsession could spiral into chaos. And yet, what choice did he have? She was in this mess because of him. Every path forward felt like it sent them two steps back. And it always ended in blood.

But no matter how it all played out, Arthur would shoulder the responsibility. He always did.

There was no room for hesitation. No time to dwell on the "what ifs." Arthur rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers coming away grimy from the sweat, dirt and blood that clung to his skin. He needed to pack, needed to meet with Dutch and Hosea to finalize the plan, needed to keep moving.

Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not now. Not until she was safe in his arms again. Even if he tried, he knew the voice in the back of his mind would rob him of any rest, whispering doubts, fears, and guilt like an unrelenting ache.

The weight of what was coming pressed on Arthur’s chest, squeezing his resolve tighter with every shallow breath. He didn’t deserve absolution, not from Kate or anyone else. But still, a quiet, desperate plea slipped through the cracks of his battered soul.

Please, forgive me Kate.

AN: Alright guys, another heavy chapter coming up next. I'm really excited to get into the next several chapters, I've had them planned out since I first began brainstorming this fic and I can't believe it's finally time to work on them!

I'm going to try and work on Ch 25 throughout the week and have it up before Christmas but I can't make any promises because I'm going to be so so busy with the holidays. So at the latest, hopefully two weeks. Thankfully, I work for a public school so I have the entire holiday break off :)

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #ao3 fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x original female character #red dead fandom #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x oc #ao3 author #ao3 #fanfiction

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songoftrillium · 1 year ago

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Meet The Art Team

Hello Kinfolks!

I've been really looking forward to this post for a while, and it's now time to unveil the art team I've assembled to put this project together! They're some heavy hitters that y'all ought to recognize, so without further ado let's meet them!

Mx. Morgan (They/Them)

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Mx. Morgan G Robles (they/them) is a freelance artist and illustrator based in Seattle, Washington. Their work is best known for its use of macabre themes, animals, and nature. They use these themes to explore mental illness, gender identity, or simply to make neat skulls.

They're known for producing book covers for several major publishers, and they've been brought in to design our book covers as well. In addition, they've developed a number of inside pieces as well!

Dogblud She/Her (Dogblud is no longer a part of this team)

Dogblud (she/her), is a Midwestern cryptid working as a freelance artist and writer. Her work is near-exclusively sapphic, centering primarily around werewolves, werebeasts, and their strong thematic ties - horrific or otherwise - to all forms of womanhood.

A long-time fan of Werewolf: the Apocalypse, she's joined our team to produce all of the tribe artwork for the book, in addition to a number of other contributory pieces!

Meka (Any Pronouns)

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Meka is a Scottish comic artist with a flair for the dark and extremely bloody and a long-standing love of monsters and what they let us all explore-- for better and worse. Vehemently underground, they build stories about horror, grief, depersonalisation, and the isolation that comes with being just a little too weird and too angry to swallow whole. Art and catharsis go hand in hand, as far as she’s concerned.

In a throwback to the original game series, Meka has joined to produce a 22-page fully illustrated comic for the series entitled Cracking the Bone. A postgraduate in traditional comic artistry, we're extremely fortunate to have them on the team.

M.WolfhideWinter (He/Him)

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He is a part-time freelance illustrator from Scotland. His work is heavily inspired by the rugged terrain (and rain) of Scotland with a focus on werewolves inhabiting the wild landscapes both past and present. He explores themes of mental illness, societal stigma, dark folklore, and sad werewolves in the rain.

WolfhideWinter has joined our team as our monster-maker, dedicating their time towards depicting our primary antagonists of the garou: The Black Spiral Dancers, and the Wyrm's brood! We can hardly think of a body horror artist more fitting for the role.

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As a final addendum, we have an additional writer that's joined the team at the last minute.

J.F. Sambrano (They/He)

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J. F. Sambrano is an author of horror and (urban/dark/depressing?) fantasy and an advocate for indigenous rights. He lives in Washington (the state) and is originally from Los Angeles (the city); the differences are staggering but the ocean and the I-5 are the same. He is Chiricahua Apache (Ndeh) and Cora Indian (Náayarite). He may or may not be a believer/practitioner of real world magic. If he were, he would not be interested in your hippy-dippy, crystal swinging, dream-catcher slinging garbage. But magic is real, let’s not fuck around.

Beloved Indigenous World of Darkness author J.F. Sambrano is joining our team to depict the Bastet in the Dawn Tribes! A friend and frequent topic of discussion on this blog, we are honored to have him on the team to bring the Werewolf: the Apocalypse he's long-felt the world deserves to life!

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gellavonhamster · 2 months ago

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Obsessed with Bliss & Blunder by Victoria Gosling tbh. Yeah, the King Arthur tech bro modern AU book. Morgan and Guinevere who were best friends as teens, who meant the world to each other and then broke up because of Guinevere's stupid brother and everything, who still cannot help but miss each other. Morgan and Arthur - not related here - who bonded as bullied kids on the school bus, exchanged letters in college, fell in love but fumbled it. Morgan who isn't sure she wasn't in love with Guinevere. Morgan trying to get justice for murdered women. Guinevere who is deeply unhappy in her glossy Instagram paradise and deeply out of fucks to give, Guinevere who thinks raising her adopted son Mordred is the only good thing she's done in her life. Sweet, quiet, deeply unwell Lancelot. Guinevere horrified by what Elaine did to Lancelot. Gawain whose characterization at first surprised me until I realized that in the present-day timeline, Gareth is already dead. Mordred who's an edgy troublemaker with an all-black bedroom but also just an eighteen-year-old boy who loves his mom so much. Galahad the genius young hacker with white hair and pronouns. Gawain's arrangement with Lord Bertilak and his wife. Canon Galadred. A Shakespeare's character who isn't even Arthurian is there for some reason? Everyone is miserable but trying their best. Everything is about old friends except when it's about war except when it's about forgiveness except when it's about sexism except when it's about stories that are doomed to repeat but maybe can go differently this time.

#it does suffer from 'the author wants to include SO MANY references to canon and sometimes does it clumsily' modern AU syndrome #but idc i still enjoyed it #bliss & blunder #victoria gosling #arthuriana #arthurian legends #gella talks arthuriana #talk talk talk #morgan le fay #guinevere #king arthur #lancelot du lac #gawain #mordred #galahad

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08melancholie · 2 months ago

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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

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ghostpoetics · 9 months ago

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Yeah, this is a normal book.

#writing #lucifer #normal morgan dante protagonist moment #when you love judas iscariot but you secretly hear him say jesus’ name while cranking one out 😔#cue my brother telling me I'm the only catholic he knows who would write something that would send me to hell #which is NOT true I'm in this fight with at least 5 other authors #the saint of heartbreak

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that-butch-archivist · 7 months ago

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"Pearls" by Morgan Gwenwald

source: The Femme Mystique, edited by Lesléa Newman

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freethebook · 8 months ago

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Would you give up everything you have, if it meant getting everything you want?

For Morgan Pajpjow, normalcy is perhaps a relative term. To most, moving to a new town twice a year would be a bit unusual, but that's Morgan's normal, and he's resigned to it. After all, what's the point of making new friends when it would just be wasted effort? So he keeps his head down, content to be ignored by most, and staves off the meddling and antagonism of the few who won't.

But when Morgan finds a silver branch waiting for him on his way home, normalcy abandons him. Down a disused fork in his driveway, he tumbles headfirst into the Otherworld--a land of arbitrary laws ruled by capricious fairies. A dance, a gift, or an invitation suddenly become waiting snares, eager to bind him into servitude. Now, far from home, Morgan will have to learn how to embrace vulnerability and ask for others' help, or face being stranded in the Otherworld forever.

______________________________________________________________

So since April is apparently Indie Promo Month, let's try this again.

Hi Tumblr, I'm Kurt and this is my debut novel! Morgan and the Fey sits squarely in the space where Garth Nix's Keys to the Kingdom meets the Nibelungenlied. If you're interested in stories about:

Lonely queer teens discovering friends and support,

Pan-European fairylore,

Getting lost in strange worlds,

Magic, whimsy, and maybe a touch of terror,

then this might be your book!

You can find Morgan and the Fey available for purchase as an ebook at any of the locations below:

Amazon

Apple Books

Rakuten Kobo

Smashwords

Everand

Palace Marketplace

And, if you're interested, you can also purchase directly from me at my Payhip!

#Morgan and the Fey #Kurt Becher #writeblr #booklr #portal fantasy #isekai #queer fiction #LGBT fiction #queer fantasy #LGBT fantasy #adventure fantasy #YA fiction #own voices #authors of tumblr

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queer-ragnelle · 4 months ago

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I hate when a retelling is going well and then the second a female character is introduced the author’s integrity deteriorates so quickly.

#this happens with any books of course but you can tell a lot about an author #based on how they introduce Morgan or Guinevere #also how they write Gawain with women that can be an early clue too #authors be normal about women challenge #my post

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criminalmindsfanantic · 4 months ago

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yeahhhhh just gonna leave these here…

Thanks to @ginnyw-potter for these banners!

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intimidatingpuffinstudios · 3 months ago

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To the anon who sent me a literary badge, thank you!!

🥹🥹🥹🙏

#morgan rambles #author appreciation #intimidating puffin studios

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moeitsu · 14 days ago

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 23 - To Call Up Their Shadowy Forms

Summary: In a chaotic, adrenaline-fueled poker game, Arthur and Kate find themselves ensnared in the deadly consequences of their choices during a fine night of debauchery.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: 15k words (holy hell). Please don't look too deeply into the schematics of how this night plays out. I don't know squat about poker, and I loosely followed the game mission for this chapter. So I hope that makes it all the more interesting! It's going to be a very wild ride ;)

TW: Descriptions of blood, gore, and violence.

Credit to @ arthurlicious on X for the Arthur photo!

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

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

The Lanahachee Riverboat loomed grandly in the distance, its regal silhouette framed against a setting sun that bathed the world in molten gold. The river’s surface mirrored the heavens, a shimmering expanse of pinks and fiery oranges rippling with each subtle current. Lanterns already glowed along the vessel’s decks, their warm light twinkling like stars as the evening settled in.

The Grand Korrigan was no mere boat—it was a floating palace, a monument to wealth and decadence, its every detail demanding admiration.

The harbor itself seemed unnervingly still. Despite being so close to the lively heart of Saint Denis, the usual bustle of docks and murmurs of workers were absent. The silence wrapped around Kate like a heavy cloak, amplifying the drumbeat of her thoughts. Too quiet, she mused, though she wasn’t sure if it was the harbor or her own nerves drowning out the noise. She shifted in her seat as the stagecoach jostled over uneven terrain, her gloved hands fidgeting in her lap.

Strauss and Trelawney’s voices droned on, rehearsing the evening’s intricate plan yet again. Kate had long since stopped listening to the specifics, their words blurring into the rhythmic clatter of wheels and hooves. Across the cramped space, she caught sight of Arthur. He sat stiffly, grumbling under his breath as he fumbled with his ascot tie. The sight made her smile—a rare flicker of humor breaking through the mounting tension. His polished black suit and golden cravat gave him a dashing air. But the way he tugged at his collar made it clear he’d rather be wearing his old, familiar coat. He looked utterly out of place, yet undeniably handsome.

Her own gown was an exquisite contradiction—beautiful yet burdensome. The deep black fabric shimmered faintly as if caressed by the fading sunlight, it reminded her of Lorena’s midnight coat in the dying light. Its ruffled skirts cascading around her legs like a waterfall, trimmed in gold lace. Each thread of embroidery on the corset seemed to hold a story of elegance. Cinched tight, it stole the air from her lungs, leaving her breath shallow and measured. The puffed sleeves barely clung to her shoulders, a precarious balance that made her feel both exposed and weighed down all at once. Kate glanced down at the opulent layers pooling around her feet. It was a dress meant to captivate, to draw every eye in the room. But standing there on the edge of the plan, she didn’t feel like the dazzling centerpiece she was meant to be. She felt like an imposter, masquerading in another woman’s splendor. A pigeon parading as a peacock.

“Remember Arthur, you’re new money from the oil fields. Loud, drunk, and maybe a little too proud. Don’t overdo it, but don’t be subtle either,” Trelawny instructed, his voice clipped and precise. “Watch Strauss. He’ll signal you when it’s time to act.”

Arthur grunted, adjusting his cravat with an exaggerated scowl. “I’ll try not to embarrass myself too much, but don’t expect any miracles.”

“And absolutely no shuffling and mumbling. Puff your chest out, get outside yourself.” Trelawny continued, berating him like he was a scoundrel.

With a huff Arthur waved him off, “yeah, alright alright. This ain’t Hamlet.”

Kate barely registered their words. The stagecoach rolled to a halt, and her eyes were drawn to the Grand Korrigan. Its lanterns glimmered like a constellation against the encroaching night, while finely dressed gentlemen filed aboard, their laughter and chatter carrying faintly over the dock. She forced her gaze away, focusing instead on the tight coil of nerves in her stomach. Tonight, she wouldn’t just be part of the plan—she was the plan. The centerpiece. The singer. The distraction.

“Kate, my dear, are you listening?”

Trelawny’s voice snapped her back to the present. She blinked and nodded, offering a tight smile. “Sorry. The suspense is killing me.” She answered half-heartedly. Her voice was calm, but inside she was anything but.

“Oh, don’t be so jaded. It’s all just a bit of innocent fun,” Trelawny said with a grin, offering his gloved hand as she stepped down.

Innocent fun. Kate nearly laughed at the thought. When had anything Dutch orchestrated ever been innocent? She couldn’t even remember how she’d been roped into this role—Dutch’s charm had a way of clouding specifics. It was easy to see why Arthur and John clung so tightly to their faith in him. That kind of persuasion was hard to shake.

The salt-tinged air hit her as soon as she stepped out. It was sharp and heavy, carrying the mingling scent of the river. She tried to take a deep breath to steady herself, but the corset refused to let her. As she walked toward the glowing riverboat, Arthur passed by her side. He gave her a small, confident nod. No words were exchanged, but the meaning was clear—a silent promise that they’d get through this night together.

Kate ran over her role in her mind, repeating the name she was meant to embody: Marietta Sacchi, a renowned Italian singer. Her task was simple, yet the weight of it felt anything but. She would sing in her mother’s native language, captivating the room while Arthur and the others worked the tables. Speak as little as possible, Hosea had instructed. Let the allure of mystery do most of the talking.

And pray that none of these drunken card sharks could tell the difference.

Tonight, Arthur’s target was Desmond Blythe, a man who exuded wealth and arrogance in equal measure. Known for his indulgence in all things luxurious, Blythe wasn’t shy about gambling big, nor did he seem to care much when he lost—so long as it was on his terms. The hosiery magnate had a reputation for keeping extra collateral close at hand, tucked away in a safe nearby whenever he ventured out to gamble. It was this cache, more than the game itself, that had caught Dutch’s interest. Arthur’s job was simple in theory: cheat Blythe at poker, rake in the winnings, and push the stakes sky-high to draw out the collateral. The haul could mean a fortune, enough to pull the gang out of their latest mire of trouble.

Ahead, Javier waited on the dock, his posture rigid in a police uniform that suited him almost too well. The sight was both reassuring and unnerving. The air buzzed with faint music and the hum of conversation as Arthur and the group approached the dock, the glowing riverboat looming like a floating palace.

Javier, clad in his borrowed uniform, smirked as they neared. “Well, would you look at that?” he called out, his tone teasing. “From toad to prince! You’re looking like a lucky man tonight Arthur.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, his hand tugging at the too-tight cravat around his neck. “Sure, feelin’ luckier than a turkey that survived Thanksgiving,” he drawled sarcastically, his lips curving into a faint grin.

Javier turned his attention to Kate, his expression softening. He reached for her gloved hand with an exaggerated flourish, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Ay, hermosa,” he said warmly. “Beautiful as always.”

Kate smiled, her nerves momentarily soothed by the familiar company. She dipped into a small curtsy, her layered skirts rustling softly. “Grazie, amico,” she replied, her Italian accent smooth and practiced.

Arthur's eyes lingered on her, drawn against his better judgment. Kate was breathtaking, radiant in her gown of black and gold, her movements elegant enough to belong among the wealthy elite. Yet, he knew better. Knew her heart, her strength, and the lengths she’d go to for the people she cared about. It made him both proud and uneasy, stirring something fierce and protective deep inside. He worried constantly—for her safety, her health, her happiness. The job tonight only added to the weight pressing on his shoulders. But Kate had insisted. She promised him this was the last job. Now all they needed to do was make it through the night.

He prayed the payoff would be enough to break free from the endless cycle of running and scheming. Enough to finally put this life behind them.

Leaning close, his voice low and gravelly, he murmured near her ear, “Still not too late to turn back, darlin’.”

Her laugh was soft, warming him despite the tension in the air. “Oh, don’t you start that now,” she teased, brushing past him with a wink that carried far more confidence than she felt. Waving for the rest of the men to follow her.

Kate moved ahead, her steps deliberate as she led the group toward the boat. She was a vision of poise, her head held high, but Arthur could see the faint hesitation in her movements—the cracks beneath the polished surface. She was good at this, though. Hosea had made sure of it.

He’d taken time with her, teaching her the nuances of her role. Going off of what she remembered from the garden party. He reminded her how to hold herself with a dignity that came naturally to the wealthy. Confidence, Hosea had said. That’s all it takes. Just fake it till you make it. Kate had clung to his lessons, grateful for his patience and guidance. Now it was her time to prove it.

The dock creaked beneath their feet as they approached the towering riverboat, the Grand Korrigan glowing like a gilded jewel against the darkening sky. The faint scent of brackish water and wood polish hung in the air. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting warm light on polished brass and lacquered railings. Kate’s heart pounded, adrenaline dulling the lingering fatigue that had plagued her for days. She could do this. She had to do this.

At the ticket booth, she paused, addressing the attendant with a measured tone that mirrored the airs of her fabricated persona. Introducing herself and her companions. The man barely glanced up, his practiced professionalism working in their favor. With a perfunctory nod, he waved them through, welcoming them aboard with a flourish. And just like that, they were in.

The weight on her chest eased slightly as her heels clicked against the polished deck. She tried to let herself breathe, though her dress left little room for air. The grandeur of the boat swallowed some of her nerves for a moment. The soft hum of music drifted from the main hall, mingling with the distant clink of glasses and polite laughter. The night had begun.

Kate led the way to the left, her golden train sweeping behind her as she found the entrance to the stage room. Pausing at the doorway, she glanced back over her shoulder. Her gaze found Arthur, and for a moment, they shared a silent exchange. Her eyes were steady, filled with determination. He gave her the smallest nod, and she knew he would be close by.

Strauss and Trelawny veered right, disappearing into the main room to mingle with their marks. Arthur moved to follow, but his hand shot out, grabbing Javier by the arm.

“Need you to do somethin’ for me,” Arthur said quietly, his tone urgent.

Javier tilted his head, his expression serious. “Whatever you need, hermano.”

Arthur’s grip tightened. “Don’t let her outta your sight. Not for a second.”

Crossing a finger over his chest, Javier nodded. His eyes flicked toward Kate as she stepped into the stage room. “You have my word.”

Arthur released him, watching as Javier followed after her. Only when she was out of sight did Arthur turn away, his jaw tight. Tonight had to go right. There was no room in their tumultuous lives for anything else.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate paced the small room, her heels tapping against the gleaming mahogany floor with a rhythm that betrayed her nerves. The faint scent of cigar smoke and brandy drifted through the air, a reminder of the indulgent crowd just beyond the walls. From where she stood, she could hear the low murmur of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter—a sharp contrast to the raging of her own thoughts.

The ship’s interior was nothing short of opulent. Brass sconces lined the walls, their light warm and flickering, as though from real flames. Heavy velvet drapes in a deep, blood-red hue framed the windows, muting the faint glow of the setting sun. Everywhere she looked, there was an excess of detail: gilded mirrors that reflected the light in soft, golden ripples, carvings that twisted and curled like ivy along every edge. The atmosphere was almost suffocating in its grandeur.

Her gaze wandered through the open archway ahead. The stage awaited her—a small, raised platform that seemed dwarfed beside the grand staircase curling elegantly to the second floor. The staircase was a masterpiece in itself, with railings that gleamed with gold and ivory steps polished to a shine. Above it, a chandelier cascaded like frozen rain, scattering shards of light across the room. Swaying gently as it rocked with the rhythm of the moving boat. It was stunning. Intimidating.

Only the crimson curtains separated her from the spotlight. Kate's gloved fingers traced the cool brass of the banister, the distorted reflection staring back at her. It almost startled her how well she fit the role tonight. She looked every inch the part—poised, regal, like a queen ready to command her court.

For a fleeting moment, she let the thought play out: a famous singer, adored by audiences, traveling the world in luxury. The image shimmered in her mind, tempting and hollow. It was a life of applause and adoration, but it was also a life without Arthur.

That version of herself—a woman untethered by love or loyalty—felt foreign to her now. It wasn’t a life she wanted. She had new dreams, new hopes. And all of them included her rugged cowboy. Kate exhaled softly, letting the thought fade, as the sound of a voice behind her pulled her back to the moment.

“Marietta Sacchi, wow.” The words carried a youthful awe.

She turned and found herself face-to-face with a young man who couldn’t have been more than seventeen. His face was smooth, untouched by the weight of years, and his bright green eyes practically shone with admiration behind a pair of round glasses. Thick waves of dark brown hair framed his features, neatly combed to one side, though a few rebellious strands fell across his brow. He stood tall in a crisp black-and-white suit, looking like he was trying to embody the very idea of sophistication.

“An honor to meet you,” he said, thrusting out a hand, his excitement barely contained.

Kate blinked, momentarily taken aback by his earnestness. After a moment’s hesitation, she smiled, slipping her gloved hand into his for a polite shake. She reminded herself of Hosea’s advice: keep conversation to a minimum, maintain a sense of mystery.

“Vincent Dupont,” he introduced himself, his grip firm and eager. “But please, call me Vin. I’ll be your pianist tonight.” He gestured toward the stage, a proud grin lighting up his face.

Kate’s smile didn’t falter, but her mind churned. A pianist? This wasn’t part of the plan. She quickly assessed the situation, deciding she’d have to improvise.

“A pleasure,” she replied, her tone warm but measured.

Vin beamed. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Sacchi. I’ve been playing since before I could walk. Whatever song you choose, I’ll match you note for note.”

“That’s wonderful,” Kate said, her voice even, maintaining the poised demeanor she’d been coached to adopt.

Vin took a step back, his gaze wandering over to the windows, eyes reflecting the last golden tendrils of burning light. “This night is going to change everything,” he said dreamily, almost to himself. Returning to her, he explained. “When the administrators at Berklee find out I played on the Grand Korrigan, they’ll have to let me attend.” His enthusiasm bubbled over, and he laughed.

Kate felt a pang in her chest. He was just a boy; innocent, wide-eyed and full of dreams, entirely unaware that this moment was part of a carefully staged illusion. She thought of the young Beau Gray and his fierce passion for life, love, and change. The memory was bittersweet. But there was no room for honesty here, she couldn’t risk exposing the truth. Instead, she leaned into her role.

“Berklee, you say? Boston is a beautiful city,” she replied, with an accent that fit her Italian heritage.

Vin’s face lit up at her response. “Oh, it’s the best city in the world! Have you been? The parks, the music halls, the smell of roasted peanuts in Fenway—there’s no place quite like it.” His words tumbled out with the unchecked enthusiasm of someone deeply in love with a dream.

Kate smiled softly, letting his excitement wash over her like a balm. “I lived there once,” she said smoothly, practically the only small truth she would allow herself to tell this evening. “Many years ago. It was… charming.”

“Charming,” Vin said with a grin, his enthusiasm lighting up the dim room. “That’s the perfect word for it. It’s where I’m headed after this, you know. Been saving every penny, practicing every day. My father says I’m not good enough, that it’s too big a leap,” he paused, seemingly lost in thought. “But what does he know,” he muttered.

“Boston is huge, and Berklee? Well, that’s the top of the mountain, isn’t it?” He paused, his confidence wavering for just a moment. “I—uh, I’m sorry. I must sound like I’m rambling.”

A faint smile tugged at Kate’s lips as a wave of nostalgia swept over her. She pictured cobblestone streets, towering buildings, and the distant hum of life that once filled her days. She remembered her mother, and their Sunday trips to church as a family. She wondered if her parents could see her now, would they be proud?

Boston was no longer her home, it hadn’t been for a very long time, but the memories of a bustling city—so much like Saint Denis—felt strangely close. The details blurred in her mind, but the feelings were vivid, like a familiar melody playing faintly in the distance.

She could tell Vin was a bright and passionate young man. Though they were both chasing dreams tonight, he deserved the spotlight more than she did. His whole life awaited him.

“Not at all,” Kate said, her smile growing softer. “It’s good to have dreams. And it sounds like you have the grit to match your talent. They’d be fools not to take you.”

Vin’s cheeks flushed a light pink, and he rubbed the back of his neck, his grin turning bashful. “You’re too kind, Miss Sacchi.”

The noise from the main room outside quieted, a telltale sign that her performance was drawing near. The tight fabric of her gown clung too closely, making her breaths feel shallow. She twisted her gloved hands together, her nerves bubbling to the surface despite her best efforts.

Vin noticed, his sharp green eyes softening as he reached out to place a steadying hand on her shoulder. She flinched slightly, caught off guard by the gesture, but his voice was gentle, almost calming. “Forgive me for saying so—but you look nervous.”

Kate straightened, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Nervous? No, no. Just… eager to get started,” she replied, though her fingers betrayed her, fidgeting with the edge of her glove.

Vin tilted his head, his expression knowing but kind. “You don’t have to put on a brave face for me,” he said quietly. “I get nervous too, every time I sit at the keys. But here’s the thing—we’re performers. We get to decide what they see, and who we want to be. To them, you’re a star. Just be yourself, Miss Sacchi and shine as bright as you can”

Kate hesitated, the weight of his words pressing gently against the truths she couldn’t share. If only it were that simple. She wasn’t a star—she was a liar, playing a role and deceiving him from the moment they met. Yet, there was something so genuine about Vin’s belief in her, his unshakable confidence in her ability to shine. It stirred something in her, something bittersweet.

She was taken aback by his innocent sincerity, his earnestness. It was rare to see such pure kindness, especially in a setting like this.

“Thank you, Vin,” she said softly, her voice losing some of its practiced air. “That means a lot.”

He smiled, clearly pleased that he’d reassured her. “We’ll make a great team out there, you and me. I promise.”

Before Kate could respond, a voice called from beyond the curtain. “Miss Sacchi, Mr. Dupont, we’re ready for you.”

Vin offered her an encouraging nod and extended his arm. “Shall we, ma’am?”

For a fleeting moment, Kate forgot the charade, the stakes, and the lies. She saw only the hope and sincerity in Vin’s eyes, and for the first time that night, she felt a small measure of calm. Placing her hand lightly on his arm, she allowed herself a genuine smile. “Let’s.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur trailed Trelawny down the narrow corridors, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet beneath. The walls were lined with ornate sconces, their golden light casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance mockingly in his peripheral vision. He tugged at his cuff sleeves, an anxious habit he couldn’t quite shake. Something about tonight gnawed at his conscience, a restless unease that made his skin crawl. Was it Kate’s frail health and the risk she was taking? Or the fact that he felt naked and exposed in this den of lions, his gun left behind at the door? Every step felt heavier as his mind raced with the myriad ways this could spiral into chaos—and how he could ensure Kate’s safety when it did.

“You seem unsure, Arthur,” Trelawny’s voice cut through his thoughts, light and tinged with that ever-present air of smug confidence.

Arthur barely registered the servant they passed, who offered them a polite greeting. His focus remained on the knot tightening in his chest.

“Forgive me,” Arthur said, thick with sarcasm. “Robbing a heavily armed boat while my woman stands like bait in the middle of a pack of hungry wolves…” He shook his head, his lips curling into a bitter smirk. “Tends to bring out the self-doubt in me.”

Trelawny stopped, turning to face him with a placating smile. “These people are practically idiots, my boy,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Simple stuff. Stick to the plan, and all will go swimmingly.” He motioned for Arthur to follow as they approached the grand double doors ahead. With a flourish, Trelawny pushed them open. “Now, let’s have a good time.”

Arthur stepped into the main room, his senses assaulted by the atmosphere. A faint haze of cigar smoke hovered in the air, mingling with the heady aroma of bourbon and expensive cologne. The clink of glasses, the rustle of fine fabric, and the occasional burst of laughter from the card tables filled the space, yet it all felt distant to him. His eyes darted around, scanning every corner, every detail.

His gaze locked onto the lawmen standing rigid against the posts that supported the second floor, their presence as imposing as the staircase that curled upward. More officers lined the balcony above, their watchful eyes scanning the room with cold precision. The pit in Arthur’s stomach grew heavier. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to memorize the layout—the exits, the entrances, the obstacles. If this went south, he needed a way out.

Arthur exhaled sharply through his nose, steeling his shoulders as he made his way to an open card table. Relief flickered briefly when he noted the proximity to the stage. Just beyond the velvet curtains, he knew Kate waited, a sense of calm in the storm brewing in his mind. He adjusted his coat and took a seat, settling into the role he was here to play.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a nonchalant wave. “Arthur Callahan. Apologies for my tardiness—had to tend to some unfinished business at the bar.”

The man across from him offered a curt nod. “Desmond Blythe,” he replied smoothly. “Not to worry. Welcome to the game, Mr. Callahan.”

Arthur forced a grin, his hand brushing against the stack of poker chips in front of him. The table was surrounded by well-dressed men, their eyes sharp and calculating. It felt like a world he didn’t belong to—a stage he didn’t want to be on. But at the end of the day, he was a cheat, just like the rest of them. Only dressed in finer clothing.

But he would play his part. For Kate. For her safety. For the sake of their future. His grip on the chips tightened slightly as he leaned forward, projecting an air of ease to conceal the storm inside.

As the dealer shuffled the deck with methodical precision, the room seemed to hold its breath. Arthur’s focus drifted, the rustle of the cards fading as he caught the sound of the curtains lifting. It was a delicate, almost intimate sound, like a lover’s whispered promise in the quiet of night. The chandelier overhead dimmed, softening the room’s sharp edges. The smaller lights above the card tables glowed like scattered stars against the backdrop of cigar smoke and shadow, as if suspended over a foggy sea.

A servant stepped forward, his voice a polished announcement that faded into the distance of Arthur’s mind as Kate stepped into the spotlight.

And suddenly, the air left his lungs.

The moment her eyes met his, the world seemed to narrow, folding in on itself until nothing existed but her. Those luminous eyes, shimmering with adoration, strength, and devotion, sliced through his soul with the precision of a blade. They didn’t just look at him; they saw him, baring his soul in a way that made him feel both vulnerable and whole. She was everything—divine and untouchable, yet undeniably his. In that instant, Arthur felt unworthy and utterly captivated.

The pianist settled behind her, fingers poised above the keys. A gentle tune began to rise, like the first rays of dawn spilling over a quiet landscape. Kate swayed to its rhythm, her movements subtle but mesmerizing, as if she carried the music in her very bones. The delicate melody wrapped itself around her like a silken veil, enhancing her beauty in ways Arthur couldn’t have imagined possible.

She waited for her cue, and Arthur could feel her energy building. He had heard her rehearse this song with him countless times—each note, each breath etched into his memory—but seeing her here, now, was entirely different.

The song she chose was a ballad from her past, Ancora Qui—I’m Still Here. The notes spilled forth, hopeful yet tinged with mourning, weaving a story of longing, nostalgia, and the quiet ache of time’s passage. Each word seemed to hang in the air, lingering before it drifted into the hearts of everyone in the room. But for Arthur, the song felt like a thread connecting them, a fragile but unbreakable bond.

“I’m still here, you're still you,

but now I know who you are,

who you will always be

and when you see me again,

you will remember.”

It was like she had mastered the language, flowing from her tongue effortlessly. But Arthur knew their meaning. Her voice was a revelation, soft but commanding, carrying the weight of her story, their story, and all the stories left unsaid. It was as if she sang not just for the room but for him alone, a message that spoke of resilience, longing, and the quiet promise of enduring through life’s storms together.

“And I hope you will forgive me.

You, with the same sad eyes.

Look like you are coming back

to ask me about myself.

And how it feels,

here from the other side,

how does it go.”

Arthur’s chest tightened as the melody poured over him, his hand unconsciously curling into a fist on the table. Every note resonated deeply, as if her voice were the anchor keeping him steady in a chaotic sea. In that moment, he wasn’t Arthur Callahan, the gambler at the table, or even Arthur Morgan, the outlaw who carried too many regrets.

He was simply hers, and she was his.

The dealer began passing out the cards with precision, the smooth shuffle and snap of the deck cutting through the soft hum of conversation and song. Each card landed effortlessly in front of the players, who instinctively reached for them. Arthur forced himself to tear his gaze away from Kate, her voice still lingering in his mind like the tender caress of her lips against his flesh. It wrapped around his shoulders, steadying him like the wings of a guardian angel, urging him to focus.

With a deep breath, he donned his best poker face, masking the unease roiling in his gut. He needed the night to go by quickly and without incident, a tall order in a room full of armed egos and thinly veiled threats.

Desmond Blythe, seated across the table, leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on Kate as she performed. A sly grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “I’d like to place my winnings on her tonight,” he mused, his tone oozing confidence and arrogance.

The other men chuckled, nodding in agreement, their laughter grating against Arthur’s ears like nails on a chalkboard.

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he picked up his cards. He forced himself to glance at his hand, taking note of his spread. The ache in his chest grew sharper with each passing moment, but he couldn’t let it show.

He scoffed, shaking his head. “You couldn’t afford her,” he muttered under his breath, low enough to feign indifference but loud enough to make his point.

Desmond’s eyes flicked toward Arthur, his grin sharpening. “Ah, a man with a tongue,” he said, his voice cool but amused. “You seem like a player, Mr. Callahan. Been too many cowards at these tables recently.”

Arthur met Desmond’s gaze with a shrug, his expression unreadable. “Nothing less dignified than a man afraid to lose a little money,” he replied casually, though there was an edge to his voice, like the crack of a whip.

The table went quiet for a moment, tension curling in the air like the smoke from Desmond’s cigar. Then he chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that carried a challenge. “I think this is going to be an interesting night, my friend.”

Arthur didn’t respond immediately. His fingers drummed lightly against the table as he studied Desmond. The man was sharp—too sharp for Arthur’s liking. But also arrogant, the type of gambler who liked to bait his opponents into reckless moves. Arthur knew the type well; he’d been up against men like this before. And he knew how to use it to his advantage.

“I guess we’ll see,” Arthur said finally, calm and almost bored. But beneath the surface, his mind was working fast.

“The green grass, the warm air

on my feet and on the flowers.

Some wind rises up between the colors,

it looks nearly like you.

Even the sky changes its name,

so white that the cotton

which is fast, which moves

lost inside the blue.”

As the next hand began, Arthur risked a quick glance toward the stage. Kate was still singing, her voice calming his fraying nerves. She moved with an effortless grace, commanding the room without breaking a sweat. He tightened his grip on his cards, grounding himself in the knowledge that she was here, within sight.

Arthur spotted Strauss lounging in a chair to the right of Desmond, looking every bit the casual observer. He sipped his drink with an air of detachment, his eyes flicking lazily over the table as if he were merely a disinterested spectator. But Arthur knew better. Strauss was no idle onlooker. His role tonight was critical—he had already met with the dealer, familiarized himself with the cards, and devised a system of subtle cues to guide Arthur’s hand.

Each member of the gang had their part to play tonight, and Strauss’s calm demeanor belied the precision of his task. A tilt of his glass, a scratch of his nose, the way he adjusted his cuff—these seemingly innocuous gestures were the keys to Arthur’s success.

“It’s something in you.

it’s what will come back

as it already was.

How it feels

in this strange world,

how does it go.”

Arthur carefully picked up his hand and fanned the cards in front of him. A pair of tens and a jack. Not great, but not a disaster. He glanced at Strauss, who raised his glass slightly. Call. Arthur matched the current bet with a practiced nonchalance, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the table as the dealer burned a card and laid out the flop.

The first three community cards were a ten, a six, and a king. Arthur’s heart gave a small leap—three of a kind. He fought to keep his expression neutral, instead letting his gaze drift to Desmond, whose grin had only widened. Stretching across his face like a predator catching the scent of prey. The man leaned forward, placing a hefty stack of chips in the center of the table.

“Well now,” Desmond drawled, thick with smug assurance. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Callahan.”

Arthur smirked faintly, just enough to convey the faintest hint of amusement. His eyes flicked toward Strauss, seated unobtrusively nearby. The older man’s subtle adjustment of his cufflink was all the signal Arthur needed. Raise.

With a casual air, Arthur pushed a modest stack of chips forward. His movements were deliberate, his confidence measured—not too eager, not too indifferent. “I think I’ve got enough to keep you interested,” he replied, calm and edged with just enough arrogance to match Desmond’s.

The dealer’s hand moved like clockwork, revealing the turn card: a queen. Arthur’s stomach twisted slightly, the potential for a straight on the board setting his nerves alight. He glanced toward Strauss again, noting the man’s nonchalant sip of his drink. It was a subtle gesture, but one that reassured him. Stay steady.

Desmond leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight as he studied the table. Fingers working along the lines of his greasy mustache. His eyes flicked to Arthur, sharp and devious, before he reached for his chips. The move was slow, calculated, meant to unnerve. He tossed another large stack into the pot, the satisfying clink of chips echoing in the air.

“Interesting spread,” he remarked, with a casual curiosity that belied the sharp edge of his intent.

Arthur let a small grin tug at the corner of his mouth as he leaned slightly forward, resting his forearms on the table. “That it is,” he replied easily, though his mind was a flurry of calculations. Was Desmond bluffing, or was there something more behind that grin?

The other players shifted in their seats, their eyes darting between Arthur and Desmond. The tension at the table had thickened, the unspoken stakes rising with each passing moment. Arthur glanced down at the pile of chips in the center of the table—a small fortune, and growing.

Arthur picked up his cards, running his thumb along the edge as he feigned a moment of indecision. He reached for his chips. Adding to the pot, his stack noticeably smaller than Desmond’s but enough to keep the game moving. He was playing a risky game, betting it all on Strauss’ cues.

Desmond chuckled low, the sound rumbling in his chest like thunder. “Oh, I like you,” he said, settling back into his chair. “Let’s see if you’re really worth something.”

“You will come back and I will come back.

You will remember, and I will remember.

I will remember you.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Several hands and countless whiskey glasses later, Arthur’s confidence had ballooned alongside the growing pile of poker chips in front of him. The other men at the table had already folded, their pockets emptied and their spirits dampened, leaving only Arthur and Desmond in the game. Arthur leaned back in his chair, a cocky grin stretching across his face as he watched Desmond spiral, his cool demeanor slipping with every hand lost.

The dealer laid out the community cards: a seven, a ten, and a jack. Arthur glanced at his hand, the alcohol lending a loose swagger to his movements. His confidence only grew when Desmond called his bet and revealed his cards—a pair of jacks.

“Ain’t that interestin’,” Arthur drawled, his southern accent exaggerated by the whiskey warming his veins. He set his cards down with a flourish, two queens staring up from the table. “Pair of cowgirls,” he smirked.

The dealer methodically revealed the turn and river cards—a king and a three. Arthur’s grin widened as the realization sank in: the pot was his. A cool $500 lay before him, and Desmond had nothing left to play with.

Arthur slapped the table and laughed heartily, scooping the chips toward him in a show of triumph. “I guess my luck held.”

Desmond stared at the table, his face reddening as he tossed his cards aside in frustration. “Shit… SHIT!”

Arthur’s grin didn’t waver as he continued to stack his winnings. “Is that you done?” he asked, his tone light and dripping with feigned indifference.

Desmond looked up sharply, narrowing his eyes. “Done?”

Arthur counted out a few chips, letting them clink dramatically as he spoke. “You know, bust. Or, uh… you got something else to play with?”

This was it—the moment Arthur had been angling for all night. The final part of the plan was to push Desmond into a corner, leaving him with no choice but to wager his collateral. He needed to make Desmond believe there was one last shot to redeem himself.

“Meaning?” Desmond’s tone was cautious, his pride warring with suspicion.

Arthur leaned back, shrugging with calculated indifference. “Well, I heard there were some big boys on this boat,” he mused, picking at an imaginary speck of dust on his sleeve. “Maybe that’s not you…”

The bait was set, and Desmond took it. His fist came down hard on the table, sending the poker chips scattering and earning a sharp look from the dealer. “Sit your hillbilly ass back down,” he growled.

Arthur arched a brow, his grin fading just enough to feign curiosity. “Why?”

Desmond straightened his posture, puffing up like a rooster in a cockfight. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, voice low and gravelly. “I got a watch. An expensive one, real fine. A Reutlinger, no less. It’s in the safe upstairs.” He paused, lighting a cigar with the ease of a man trying to reclaim his composure. “It’s worth more than your life.”

Bullseye. Arthur’s grin returned, wider and more predatory this time. The fool had taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker.

“Well, now,” Arthur said, settling back into his chair with an exaggerated air of ease. He tossed a hefty pile of chips into the pot, letting them fall with a satisfying clatter. “As you wish. Let’s play.”

Desmond grinned back, but it was strained, his confidence already faltering. The tension at the table was unmistakable, the stakes higher than ever as the game continued. Arthur, for all his swagger and charm, remained focused on the end goal. The plan was working, and Desmond didn’t even know it.

It was almost too easy, like taking candy from a child. Desmond, desperate to claw his way back to the top, leaned forward with a cocky grin, his voice slick with overconfidence. “All in,” he declared, shoving his remaining chips into the pot.

Arthur masked his pride with a show of reluctant hesitation. He sighed heavily, furrowing his brow as if genuinely troubled. “Guess I can’t back out now,” he muttered, his tone laced with just enough doubt to sell the act. Slowly, he pushed his pile of chips toward the center of the table.

The dealer glanced between them, his disinterest barely masked by the motionless raise of an eyebrow. “Gentlemen,” he muttered, dealing out the cards with practiced precision.

Desmond, unable to contain himself, slapped his cards face up on the table before the community cards were even revealed. “Ha! Pair of Aces,” he announced triumphantly, leaning back with a smug grin.

Arthur blew out a measured breath, placing his cards to the table with exaggerated care. “Pair of kings,” he said casually, though his tone betrayed a flicker of amusement.

Desmond’s grin widened. “Very good, Mr. Callahan,” he said, dripping with patronizing satisfaction. “But not good enough.”

The dealer began flipping over the house cards. A nine, an ace, and a four came first. Desmond smirked as a fire ignited in his eyes, like a dog begging for a bone. He was already tasting victory. But then came the jack, followed by a two—both diamonds.

The dealer gestured to Arthur’s hand with a flourish, his monotone voice cutting through the room. “Mr. Callahan wins with an ace-high diamond flush.”

For a moment, the room was utterly silent. Then Arthur leaned back in his chair, letting out a low whistle before he reached forward to collect the mountain of chips. “Yes, you little beauty,” he said with a broad grin, examining his cards as though they had been blessed by the gambling gods.

Desmond’s face twisted in rage before he quickly masked it, sucking in a sharp breath and forcing himself to sit back down. “God damn you,” he hissed, his voice trembling with barely restrained anger. Catching himself, he added, “N-no offense.”

“None taken,” Arthur replied easily, his grin widening with a chuckle. He continued stacking his chips, whistling a jaunty tune under his breath as though this were just another day on the job. “Now, forgive my lack of discretion, but, uh... where might I find this watch of yours?”

Desmond exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as his mind worked furiously to save face. “It’s upstairs,” he said finally, standing with stiff movements. He smoothed his jacket with an agitated flick of his hand. “Shall we go have a look?”

Arthur rose from his seat as he straightened his coat. “Why not,” he said nonchalantly.

The two men made their way toward the staircase, Desmond leading the way with a thin veneer of composure while Arthur followed, his eyes scanning the room with the relaxed confidence of a man who knew he had already won far more than a card game.

The path to the grand staircase was alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter from one of the tables. The air buzzed with energy, the evening in full swing. As Arthur and Desmond made their way toward the opulent structure leading to the second floor, Arthur’s gaze instinctively drifted to the stage.

Kate was there, leaning casually against the piano as she exchanged a few words with her accompanist. Taking a break between her performances. Her soft laughter cut through the ambient noise, warm and genuine, like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She was smiling, her face radiant under the glow of the stage lights. Arthur’s chest swelled with pride, the weight he was carrying momentarily lifted from his shoulders.

She had nailed her performance. Every note, every calculated smile, every subtle gesture had landed perfectly. The room had been wrapped around her finger, just as they’d planned. Arthur’s concerns from earlier seemed distant now, dissipating like the smoke from a cigar.

As they passed, Kate glanced up and caught his eye. For a brief moment, their gazes locked. Arthur gave her a subtle nod—confident, assured. We did it. Her lips curved into the faintest smile, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. The exchange was silent but powerful, a shared acknowledgment of a job well done. Arthur felt a surge of pleasure, a rare moment of triumph coursing through him. The thrill of a successful heist always had him feeling sublime.

For the first time in weeks, the prospect of a better future didn’t feel like a dream. The gang could finally move on, leave the chaos behind, and start anew. This could be the turning point. This was the start of their future.

He forced himself to look away, though the image of her smile lingered in his mind. The night wasn’t over yet, and he couldn’t afford to lose focus. But the thought of the evening’s success—and what it meant—had his blood humming with anticipation. He could hardly wait to tell her how proud he was in the private space of their room, though words wouldn’t be his chosen medium of expression.

Desmond’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You there,” he called, addressing the guard stationed opposite the stage.

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat when he realized the guard was Javier. His trusted friend had been keeping watch, his rifle at the ready. Arthur felt a flicker of unease at the interruption. Javier’s job was to keep an eye on Kate, ensuring her safety. He didn’t like the idea of him leaving his post.

Desmond gestured toward the stairs. “Perhaps you could escort us up to the office?”

Javier straightened, nodding crisply. “Yes, of course, sir.” He picked up his rifle with a practiced ease and stepped forward. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

Arthur hesitated, his instincts bristling. But the tension slipped away as he reminded himself that they were nearly at the finish line. The hardest part was over. Now it was just a matter of tying up loose ends and walking out with the prize.

He shot one last glance toward Kate, her laughter ringing in his ears. Then, with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he followed Desmond and Javier up the stairs, the promise of victory spurring him onward.

“Do you know that woman?” Desmond asked casually, his voice just light enough to sound conversational, yet laced with curiosity.

His sudden question came like a bolt from the blue as they ascended the grand staircase.

Arthur faltered, missing a step. “What? N-no, we just met—well, no, I, uh…” His tongue tripped over itself as he tried to find his footing. “I’ve never met her. This is my first time hearin’ her sing.” His words spilled out clumsily before he managed to rein them in. “Why you askin’?”

Desmond chuckled, a sly grin tugging at his lips as they reached the top of the stairs and veered left down the carpeted hallway. “She’s been undressing you with her eyes the whole night. You must have some serious luck on you, sir.”

Arthur felt his face grow uncomfortably warm, a sharp contrast to the cool air drifting through the hallway. “Yeah,” he said with a short, uneasy laugh, scratching at the back of his neck. “I guess so.”

They trailed behind Javier, who moved with purpose through the corridor, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder. The hallway opened into a lavish lounge where the decadence of the riverboat came into full display. A second bar was alive with activity, bartenders expertly pouring drinks for a crowd of finely dressed men and women of questionable repute. Hookers lounged in booths, draped over their clients like silk scarves, while other patrons whispered in tight circles, their gazes following Arthur as he passed.

The men’s eyes were cold, predatory, like snakes sizing up their prey. Arthur’s skin prickled with unease. A flicker of doubt wormed its way into his chest, tightening his breath. He hated the idea of leaving Kate downstairs, away from him. Strauss and Trelawny had their own schemes to juggle, and if anything went sideways, she’d be on her own.

Javier led them through a set of polished double doors, stepping out onto the bow of the ship. The sudden rush of night air was startlingly refreshing. Arthur inhaled deeply, letting the chill cut through the thick haze of cigar smoke and liquor clinging to his senses. The icy breeze kissed his flushed cheeks, his breath puffing visibly in front of him like a phantom as they climbed another flight of stairs toward the captain’s office.

“I think you’re going to like this watch, Mr. Callahan,” Desmond said, his tone dripping with the kind of casual arrogance that only money could buy. “It really is a handsome piece.” He smirked, as though this were just a minor inconvenience—a trivial dent in his wealth. “Right this way.”

Javier pushed open the door to the captain’s office, revealing a well-appointed room with polished oak furniture and brass fixtures gleaming under the gaslight. Arthur’s sharp eyes caught the two men already present: the ship’s captain, a stout man with a neatly trimmed mustache, and a uniformed guard standing rigid near the desk.

Desmond raised a hand, signaling for Arthur and Javier to wait. Arthur nodded, stepping back slightly as he clasped his hands behind him, his gaze drifting over the room. The faint creak of the ship beneath his boots and the distant hum of activity from below filled the silence as Desmond moved to the safe against the wall.

The faint click of the safe’s lock disengaging was a sound Arthur had heard countless times before, but just as Desmond began to turn the handle, another door opened at the far end of the room. Arthur’s eyes snapped to the figure stepping inside. Their gazes locked, and for an instant, everything stopped.

His pulse thundered in his ears, his breath catching in his throat. The man’s expression shifted, recognition sparking in his eyes like a struck match.

Arthur’s heart dropped.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate gave a short bow from center stage, the spotlight warming her skin, her gown flowing like liquid gold around her as she finished her song. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt alive—a rare sensation these days, at the mayor’s garden party she felt beautiful and elegant only for a fleeting evening. But tonight? Tonight, she was the star. The crowd’s admiration filled her chest with a different kind of confidence she hadn’t known in years, and for a moment, the weight of her illness and the strain in her body had melted away. A smile graced her cheeks as she realized she was having genuine fun.

Her voice, steady and rich, wove through the night air, each note hit with precision, capturing the room’s attention and holding it there. They were all watching her, their eyes fixed, entranced by the music and the way she commanded the space. Some even paused their card games and drinking to listen. The energy in the room, buzzing and alive, lifted her high.

But through it all, there was one constant—Arthur. His broad, familiar frame and that confident grin lighting up his face. The storm of nerves and excitement she felt every time she sang seemed to quiet in his presence, as though his very gaze could calm the jittery flutter of butterflies of her stomach. Yet even as his presence steadied her, she couldn’t quite ignore the sharp ache in her chest, the weariness in her bones. The ship swayed beneath her feet, and despite the thrill of the night, her illness clung to her like a shadow.

She knew she was pushing herself too far, but she couldn’t stop—not now. The applause, the attention, the sense of purpose—it was intoxicating. But after a few more songs, she made the decision to let herself rest.

The poker players had already finished a few rounds by then, their voices drifting up from below, blending with the soft laughter and clinking glasses. Some had moved to the second floor to socialize, others to the bar for another drink. Arthur passed by her, making his way up the grand staircase, shooting her a smile that told her everything she needed to know. The night was a success.

Her pianist, Vin, was a steady presence beside her, the perfect musical companion. His fingers had danced effortlessly over the piano keys, matching her every note, creating a melody that intertwined with her voice like magic. His talent was undeniable, and Kate found herself grateful for his partnership tonight. He was young—so much younger than she—and his skill was extraordinary. She had no doubt that one day his name would echo across the great concert halls of the world.

Vin leaned toward her, his voice warm with mirth as he carried on their conversation. “My father wants me to join the union, slaving away in the coal mines with him. But I think I’d rather die first.” He laughed.

Kate chuckled softly, shaking her head as she adjusted her posture leaning against the piano. “Well, you’re not your father. You’re your own man,” she said, gentle but firm, as though she were offering him the world’s most precious secret.

She watched him for a moment, his youthful face lit with the fire of his dreams, and it made her heart ache in a way she hadn’t expected. He reminded her so much of her brother—so young, so full of life. It was the cruel hand of fate that had stolen her brother away so long ago, and she couldn’t help but feel the sting again. The same coal dust, the same mines, had taken his life far too early.

Her expression softened, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Man? No," she corrected gently, almost to herself. “You’re just a kid. Your life is just beginning, Vin. You’ve got so much ahead of you. You’re smart, you’re talented... you’ve got all the time in the world to make this life whatever you want it to be.”

She gave him a smile, not just for him but for the hope she wished for herself— a hope she had nearly forgotten. Her hand subconsciously rubbed over her belly.

Vin returned the smile, and looked down bashfully, a flush creeping up to his ears and he idly poked at the ivory keys. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, when a sudden noise caught her attention.

From three stories up, the sound of gunfire cut through the air like distant whispers of thunder. The cracks were faint but sharp, the rhythm unsettling—three quick pops in succession. Each shot seemed to linger for a moment, hanging in the air before it scattered, ricocheting off the walls, fading into the chaos below. The noise was swallowed by the hum of the crowd, as though it never happened at all.

Kate's heart skipped a beat, the fear shooting up her spine like a dart lodged in her back. Her blood ran cold, instincts prickling with warning. She glanced frantically around the room, but no one else seemed to notice the gunfire. The patrons of the hall continued to talk and laugh, the click of dice and the shuffle of cards blending together. There was no panic, no rush to take cover. They were completely oblivious.

She shook her head, trying to push the unease away. Maybe it’s just the nerves from the performance, she thought. Maybe it’s nothing. But the faint, hollow pops still echoed in her mind, each one sending a ripple of dread through her chest. Something wasn’t right. Her instincts told her to act—she couldn’t ignore it.

Excusing herself from the stage, she moved quickly towards the bar, weaving through the dense crowd of gamblers. The noise was a blur of voices and clinking glasses. Her dress, heavy with layers of fabric, caught on chair legs, tugged by the movement of people passing by. With each step, she huffed out an annoyed breath, lifting the ruffles of her gown to avoid tripping. She quickened her pace, heels clicking against the wooden floor.

Trelawny was chatting casually with a group of patrons leaning against the bar. She caught sight of him, laughing too loudly, his voice thick with alcohol. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with the kind of joviality that only came from too many drinks. Kate’s eyes narrowed. There was no time for small talk.

She reached him, placing a gloved hand firmly on his shoulder. He turned to face her with a broad smile, his mannerisms exaggerated, as he was putting on a performance for the crowd.

"Ah! The beautiful songbird graces us with her presence. To what do I owe the pleasure, my dear?" he said with a flourish, introducing her to the people around him like she was a guest of honor.

Kate’s fingers tightened on his arm. “I need to speak to you,” she said, voice low and hurried. Leaving little room for pleasantries.

Trelawny raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Oh my, a bit forward, aren’t we?” he teased, winking flirtatiously.

Her grip tightened, pulling him closer. She met his eyes with an intensity that stopped him cold. "Josiah," she said, steady but laced with urgency. "This is serious."

The teasing faded from his face. His eyes shifted slightly, reading the tension in her. His posture changed, becoming more guarded. “What troubles you?” he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper.

Kate glanced around the room, her gaze sweeping over the crowd to make sure no one was eavesdropping. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice to match his. “I think Arthur might be in some kind of trouble. Someone needs to check on him.”

Trelawny’s expression hardened, the playful air evaporating. He paused, processing her words, his mind calculating the possibilities. There was a long beat of silence before he nodded, his demeanor shifting into one of purpose. He started to move away from the bar, but then his gaze caught two familiar figures descending the staircase.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his smile returning but colder this time, voice pitched lower. "No need to worry, darling," he said lightly, though his eyes remained sharp. “Here comes the man of the hour himself.”

Kate turned, her gaze following his, and there they were—Arthur and Javier, descending the staircase with purpose. Their movements were quick yet deliberate, as if every step carried the weight of urgency. Relief washed over her when Arthur’s eyes met hers, but the feeling was short-lived. There was something behind his gaze she couldn’t place, something raw and unnerving, mirroring the anxiety that had been building in her chest.

He gave her a reluctant smile, but it was hollow, not reaching his eyes. When he reached the bar, he moved quickly, his hand coming to rest around her waist as he turned her away from the staircase, shielding her with his body. His grip was firm—too firm—and his touch burned with tension.

It was then she saw it. His knuckles, cracked and bloody, told a story he hadn’t yet spoken aloud. His shoulders were taut, his posture rigid, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. Ready to snap. The air around him seemed to hum with dread, his unease radiating off him like heat waves rising from the desert. Kate’s heart thudded heavily in her chest.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Before she could ask, the sharp cry of the steam whistle tore through the room, its wail slicing the noise. Ringing loudly in her ears. The sound reverberated off the walls, amplifying the panic that was spreading like wildfire among the passengers. People glanced around in confusion, voices rising in alarm. Across the hall, guards scrambled to ready their rifles, the metallic clatter of weapons adding to the chaos.

Kate’s breath hitched, and she spun to face Arthur. “Arthur, what did you do?” she shouted, strained as it fought to cut through the cacophony.

His eyes locked onto hers, and what she saw froze her in place. They were hollow, drained of color, as if a shadow had crept into his soul and stolen the light. He looked like a man haunted, his expression a mix of fear and something darker—surrender. As if he had given himself fully to the violence that often tore at his mind. His voice, when it came, was a low strained growl.

“I did what I had to.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Hugo Fucking Abernathy.

The same pompous, self-important collector Arthur had relieved of a prized family brooch for Mary’s sake just the day before. Abernathy moved with a stiff arrogance, his finely tailored coat doing little to hide the puffed-up ego of a man who thought himself untouchable—until Arthur had proven otherwise. The evidence of their encounter was plain as day: a swollen, purpling bruise encircled his left eye, and a single stitch upon a busted lip. The skin was still tender and angry. It was a gift Arthur had delivered with a well-placed fist, and by the stiffness in Abernathy’s posture, it was clear he hadn’t forgotten.

Arthur straightened, his jaw tightening as he adjusted his stance. He kept his head bowed low, hoping the dim light would shield him. He turned slightly, as if studying the ledgers piled on the captain’s desk, but his ears honed in on Abernathy's voice.

He risked a glance, only to be sure, his gaze flicking to Hugo’s face. The collector’s good eye twitched, his expression suddenly sharpening as if a thread in his mind had been plucked. His gaze lingered on Arthur for a fraction too long.

“Wait…” Abernathy’s voice faltered, a seed of recognition blooming into full blown panic. His hand shot out, pointing directly at Arthur. “It’s you! The thief! You’re the bastard who robbed me yesterday!”

The room froze, the accusation hanging heavy in the air. Arthur caught Javier's subtle fixed look from the corner of his eye. Silently asking, what now? The captain stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor.

“Now, let’s not be rash,” the captain said, his tone even but edged with caution.

But Abernathy wasn’t listening. His face flushed with anger and humiliation, and his hand darted toward his own weapon, fumbling with the holster. “Guards! Guards, this man is a criminal!”

The tension snapped like a taut wire. He nodded to Javier, who understood the assignment immediately. They needed to get out, and fast. Arthur surged forward, his instincts taking over as Abernathy’s hand closed around his pistol. The captain shouted something—perhaps an order, or maybe a warning—but the chaos drowned him out.

Javier raised his rifle with a sharp, deliberate motion, bringing the butt of it crashing down onto the temple of the nearest guard. The sound was sickening—a dull, wet thud followed by the crack of bone. The guard crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from a split in his scalp. Javier’s rifle swung back up in a fluid arc, now trained on Desmond, who staggered back with his hands raised, his eyes wide with terror.

Arthur’s chest heaved as his pulse thundered in his ears. His gaze locked onto Abernathy, whose pallid face was frozen in a grotesque mixture of fear and indignation. Arthur’s lips curled into a sneer, his voice a low, venomous growl. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

The words dripped with fury, but they weren’t just words—they were a promise. Arthur surged forward, a storm of rage and violence. His fist collided with Abernathy’s jaw, a brutal, bone-jarring impact that sent the man staggering. Arthur grabbed him before he could hit the ground, dragging him upright like a puppet.

Torment and doubt churned within Arthur, warring with the blinding fury that had taken hold. This was the part of himself he both feared and embraced—the part that felt nothing but the raw, savage satisfaction of dominance. He wasn’t a man in these moments. Not like a creature that was born, but rather a fire that was set. Consuming everything in its path.

“You’re a dead man,” Arthur hissed through gritted teeth, his breath hot against Abernathy’s face.

One hand clamped down around the man’s throat, fingers digging into the soft flesh, while the other wrenched the pistol from his trembling grip. Abernathy sputtered and clawed at Arthur’s arm, his nails raking against fabric and skin, but Arthur didn’t relent.

Abernathy’s eyes darted wildly, his lips moving soundlessly as if searching for some plea that might save him. Arthur shoved him against the wall, the dull thud of his skull meeting wood reverberating through the room.

The cold barrel of the pistol pressed against Abernathy’s chin, the metal slick with sweat and shaking ever so slightly as Arthur’s hand trembled—not with fear, but with uncontainable rage.

“Please…” Abernathy croaked, hoarse and wet with desperation.

Arthur didn’t hear it. Or maybe he just didn’t care. In that moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat, the deafening roar of anger that drowned out reason.

He pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was ringing in the enclosed space, a sharp, echoing crack that seemed to stretch into eternity. Blood sprayed upward in a crimson arc, splattering the walls and ceiling in a macabre display. Abernathy’s body went limp instantly, his lifeless eyes staring blankly as his head lolled to the side.

Arthur let the body drop, his hand still gripping the pistol tightly. Blood dripped from his knuckles, mixing with the crimson pool spreading across the floor. His chest rose and fell, each breath ragged and shallow.

Behind him, Javier shifted uneasily, his rifle still at the ready. “Arthur, we need to go. Now.”

Arthur didn’t respond. The fire in his chest hadn’t dimmed; if anything, it burned hotter. Slowly, he turned toward the captain who was already backing away, his hands raised in trembling surrender.

“Please, sir,” the old man began, his voice breaking as he tried to keep it steady. “Your quarrel with this man is no business of mine. Let’s all sit down and—”

Arthur raised the gun, and he froze mid-sentence, his lips parted. The words died in his throat as Arthur’s finger tightened on the trigger.

The second shot rang out in the confined space. The bullet struck him square between the eyes, snapping his head back violently. A red mist filled the air as it splattered across the wooden console behind him. The impact sent the man’s body careening backward over the ship’s wheel. He hit the floor with a sickening thud, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Arthur didn’t even flinch.

The room was silent for a beat, save for the sound of Arthur’s labored breathing. His grip on the pistol tightened, his knuckles white, as he stared down at the carnage.

“Arthur…” Javier’s voice was softer now, cautious.

Desmond let out a strangled gasp from the corner of the room. “Oh, God,” he whispered, his voice shaking as his hands rose defensively. “Please! T-take whatever you want from the safe! I won’t say a thing, I swear!”

Arthur turned to face him, the pistol still gripped tightly in his hand. His eyes burned with a cold, detached fury, but there was something else behind them—something darker, heavier. Regret. It clawed at his insides, twisting like a knife. Leaving scars on his soul.

Their luck had turned on a dime, but deep down, Arthur knew this was always how it would end. He felt like a fool for ever believing things might go smoothly. And he hated himself even more knowing he’d dragged Kate into this mess. The thought of her in danger because of his choices churned his stomach. He should’ve trusted his instincts. Should’ve made her stay home, even if it meant tying her to a chair. But he didn’t, and now the weight of that failure hung on him like a noose, tightening with every breath.

Desmond fell to his knees, his hands clasped together in a desperate plea. “Please, sir! I’ve got a family—a little girl! I-I’ll give you whatever you want! I’ve got money!”

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Arthur stared down at the sniveling man before him, his chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping his emotions in check. Desmond's once arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a pale, quivering mask of fear. Arthur’s jaw tightened as he took in the sight, a sickening satisfaction curling in his gut. It was his doing—his fury, his violence—that had shattered the man’s smug façade, and for a fleeting second, it felt like justice. But the satisfaction was hollow, tainted by the weight of everything it had cost them.

“You think I haven’t heard that before?” Arthur’s voice was low, almost gentle, but the gravity behind it was crushing. His hand trembled slightly as he raised the gun, the barrel leveling with Desmond’s forehead.

Desmond sobbed, his shoulders shaking. “I’m begging you, Arthur. Please I’m sorry—”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he fought against the tide of anger and sorrow threatening to overwhelm him. For a brief moment, he saw his reflection in Desmond—he pictured himself, on his knees, staring down his own death. The desperation, the fear, the willingness to do anything to survive.

A father begging for one more chance.

Kate’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, a desperate, pleading whisper begging him to put the gun down. To stop before it was too late. Do the right thing, Arthur. There’s still time. But her words felt distant, muted, like they were coming from somewhere far away, distorted as if he were submerged underwater. The pull of her voice fought against the roaring tide of his rage, but it wasn’t enough to break through.

“I’m sorry too,” Arthur murmured.

The shot rang out, and Desmond’s plea was silenced. His body jerked violently before crumpling to the floor, blood pooling beneath him. Arthur stared down at the lifeless form, his grip on the pistol slackening as the weight of it clattered to the floor. What he’d done settled over him like wet cement.

He wasn’t a man anymore. He was something else, something primal and unforgiving. And yet, beneath the rage and violence, a deep sadness gnawed at him, threatening to hollow him out entirely.

“Arthur!” Javier’s shout snapped him out of his daze. “We’ve got to move. Now.”

Arthur nodded stiffly, his body trembling as he fought to steady his ragged breathing and calm the furious pounding of his heart. He tore his gaze away from the carnage, the metallic tang of blood heavy in the air and clinging to his throat. His boots squelched slightly against the floor, leaving dark, bloody prints as he turned toward the door. He didn’t dare look back.

Outside the office, the chaos was eerily quiet, the silence almost suffocating. Only the hurried thud of their boots echoed down the stairs and through the narrow corridors, each step dragging them closer to whatever fight awaited. Arthur’s hand came up to his face, wiping away a mix of blood and sweat, leaving smudges across his skin. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to focus, shoving the storm of emotions back into the pit where they belonged.

“The alarm will sound any second,” Javier muttered, glancing back. “We don’t have much time.”

Arthur’s reply was low, flat, and void of anything but grim resolve. “We regroup with Kate and the others,” his words like iron. “Then we get the fuck off this ship.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Complete disorder and anarchy poured forth in the blink of an eye. Screams filled the air as passengers scattered like leaves in a storm, overturning chairs and smashing glasses in their frantic bid to escape. The cacophony of shouts and breaking glass was deafening. Kate's chest tightened, the panic clawing up her throat as the guards raised their rifles, their barrels gleaming in the dim light. Arthur moved without hesitation, his body a wall of protection as he pressed her against the bar, shielding her from their line of fire.

“Get down!” one of the lawmen barked, cutting through the din as he took aim.

Arthur’s hand shot out, seizing a barstool by its leg. With a roar of effort, he hurled it at the guard. The stool connected with a sickening crunch, sending the man sprawling to the ground. Kate froze, her wide eyes locked on Arthur as the raw power radiating from him seemed to fill the room. She thought she had known him—seen every facet of his being—but this primal, violent side was something else entirely.

He said something to her urgently, but it was drowned out by the thunder of gunfire and the pounding of her own heartbeat. Her corset squeezed her ribs like sin as she fought to draw breath, every inhale shallow and desperate. The metallic scent of gunpowder stung her nose, adding to the dizzying swirl of sensations.

Nearby, Strauss and Trelawny darted through the chaos, their figures disappearing into the sea of fleeing bodies. Javier was only a few feet away, his rifle barking round after round as he shouted something unintelligible over the melee.

Kate's instincts screamed at her to run. She had no weapon, and no means of defense in her heavy gown. Her pulse thundered as her feet moved on their own, ready to bolt for any semblance of safety. But before she could take more than a step, Arthur’s arm locked around her waist. With ease, he hoisted her onto the bar, his strength momentarily taking her breath away. Confusion flickered across her face, but it vanished as he shoved her backward, guiding her behind the bar's shelter.

“Stay down, and stay with me,” he commanded, edging with a desperation she could feel in her bones.

Arthur moved with purpose, reaching beneath the bar and finding the rifle stashed there—a precaution every barkeep worth his salt knew to take. Relief flickered in his eyes for a fleeting moment as his hands gripped the familiar weight of the weapon.

The sharp crack of gunfire punctuated the chaos, each shot tightening the knot of dread coiled in Arthur’s stomach. He moved on instinct, his mind a whirlwind of emotions buried deep beneath a layer of practiced focus. He couldn’t afford to be vulnerable, not with Kate's life hanging in the balance.

The anger he felt toward himself burned like a furnace, fueling his every motion. She shouldn’t have been here. He shouldn’t have let her come. He’d made a mistake—a deadly one—and now the weight of it pressed down on him as heavily as the rifle in his hands.

The words he couldn’t say clawed at the back of his throat as he scanned the room for their next move. Regret. Fear. Guilt. They all churned within him, but there was no time to dwell on them now. He tightened his grip on the rifle and prepared for whatever hell was coming next.

Kate’s breath was ragged, clawing at her chest as panic swirled within her like a storm. Her hands trembled as they fumbled at the tight corset, desperate to loosen the constricting fabric that seemed to tighten with every breath. The world spun around her, the ship rocking against the river, its erratic movement only adding to the dizziness in her head and roiling in her stomach. Her heart thundered in her chest, breaths coming in quick, shallow pants.

The stench of gunpowder mixed with the iron tang of blood made her stomach churn. She felt something wet beneath her gloves, sticky and foreign, and for a terrifying moment, she feared it was her blood. But when she looked down, all she saw were shards of glass and spilled whiskey pooling around her, dark and viscous, like fallen stars scattered across the floor.

“Arthur...” Her voice broke as it slipped from her lips—soft, desperate, and raw, like a wounded animal pleading for its life. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force her mind into focus, willing herself to breathe deeply, to regain control.

Suddenly, a sharp grip on her arm yanked her roughly to her feet. A strangled yelp tore from her throat as she jerked back, but the moment she looked up, she saw him.

Arthur Morgan.

Without a word, she leaned into him, her body trembling against his as she whispered, “A-Arthur, I can’t breathe.” The panic in her voice made his chest ache, his protective instinct kicking in as he tightened his grip around her.

“C’mon sweetheart, we gotta move,” he urged, softer than she expected, but it trembled with the weight of what they’d just been through. His heart wrenched when he saw the fear in her eyes, the way her body shook under his touch. He could feel her fear like a snake coiled around his own chest, crushing him.

She was trembling in his arms, but it wasn’t just from the chaos—it was him. He was the cause of this fear, of this vulnerability. And in that moment, it felt like the world had come crashing down around him. He wasn’t sure how to fix this—how to make it better. All he could do was hold her, guide her through the madness, and hope that somehow, they’d make it out alive.

Pulling her from behind the bar, Arthur tried his best to shield Kate from the horrors strewn across the room. The lifeless bodies, twisted and broken, lay in pools of blood that reflected the shattered lights above. Chairs and tables were overturned, glass shards glittering like jagged stars on the ground. The acrid stench of gunpowder mixed with a sickly metallic scent filled the air, suffocating and heavy.

Arthur led her after Javier, weaving through the carnage and into the narrow corridors in search of an escape. He knew the odds were stacked against them. They couldn’t just take a rowboat—the open water would leave them vulnerable, exposed. Yet, for Kate’s safety, he’d fight through every guard, every impossible hurdle, even the devil himself.

The sound of boots thundering down the hallway made Arthur spin, his hand on Kate’s arm as three guards rushed into view. Gunshots exploded, ringing sharply in the confined space as Javier fired off rounds. Arthur shoved Kate into the nearest room, slamming the door shut behind them.

The room was dark, the air stale and quiet save for the muffled chaos outside. A thin beam of light streamed through a gap in the heavy red velvet curtains that led to the main room. Kate’s breath hitched, her mind racing as realization dawned. This was the stage room.

“Vin?” she called, her voice trembling as she pushed herself off the wall. Ignoring the ache in her chest, she began frantically searching the room. Her hands tore open closets, peered into corners, and clawed through shadows, her voice growing louder, more desperate with every unanswered call.

Arthur stayed near the door, his back pressed to it as he fired at any movement in the corridor. Between rounds, he glanced back at Kate, her panic slicing through him like a blade.

Kate’s search slowed as her gaze fell on the curtains. They fluttered softly in the cold draft from the open door, beckoning her. A sick dread twisted her stomach as she pulled them aside.

There, on the stage, was Vin.

Her breath caught in her throat, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. His young body slumped against the piano, head lolled at an unnatural angle. Blood streaked the white keys, dripping onto the stage below. His face—or what was left of it—was an ugly ruin. The gaping hole where his eye had been was surrounded by torn flesh and splintered bone. Pieces of him, pieces she remembered so vividly—his wide grin, the dimple in his cheek, the light in his eyes—were now scattered across the black piano like a butcher’s table.

One of life's biggest cruelties; being caught in the wrong moment at the wrong time.

Kate staggered back, her vision swimming as bile rose in her throat. She turned away, clutching at the wall for support, and retched violently. Her stomach emptied onto the floor until there was nothing left, her body convulsing as sobs tore from her chest. The room spun, her knees buckling under the weight of her grief.

“Oh god,” she choked, gasping for air as tears blinded her. “Oh my god, Vin!”

Arthur was at her side in an instant, his hand steady and firm on her back as she heaved. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to offer empty words of comfort. Instead, he reached out and pulled the curtain closed, his jaw tightening as he caught a glimpse of the stage.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, the image searing itself into his memory. He turned back to Kate, voice low and urgent. “We have to go, Kate. We can’t stay here.”

Arthur pulled Kate’s trembling body up, his arm steady as he guided her toward the door. She moved like a ghost, her legs stumbling beneath her, her mind shattered.

“H-he was just a kid, Arthur,” she whispered, thick with unspeakable sorrow. The sound of it cut his soul deeper than anything ever could.

“I know, baby,” Arthur said, his tone soft, though the urgency in his eyes betrayed his own turmoil. “But we gotta keep moving. Just a little longer.”

Javier peeked into the corridor and nodded; the coast was clear for the moment. Arthur tightened his grip on Kate’s hand and whispered, “We gotta run now, alright? Just hold on to me.”

Kate swallowed the lump in her throat, her hot tears still streaming down her cold cheeks. With shaking hands, she wiped at her face and nodded. Arthur managed a small, pained smile and squeezed her hand. “That’s my girl.”

They bolted into the night, the bitter cold gnawing at Kate’s exposed skin like a predator. Her dress clung to her legs, heavy and dragging her down with every desperate step, as if the fabric itself sought to betray her. The wind howled around them, its icy fingers slicing through the thin material and biting at her cheeks until they burned. Her sobs, raw and unending, were snatched away by the roaring gusts, leaving her chest heaving in silence as her tears froze to her skin.

Arthur’s hand in hers was a lifeline, his grip strong and unyielding. The rough calluses of his palm pressed firmly into her own, grounding her in a way nothing else could. It was more than just a physical hold—it was a steady reassurance that no matter how dark and unforgiving the night became, he wouldn’t let her go. Through the biting cold and the pounding of her own heart, that grip was the only thing that kept her from sinking into darkness.

Javier led the way across the hull, and when they reached the bow, he glanced over his shoulder. “We gotta jump!” he shouted over the roar of the wind and water. “The others are already in the river. No time left—vamanos!”

Without hesitation, Javier vaulted over the guard rail and vanished into the churning abyss below. Kate froze, her breath catching as she stared at the Lanahachee River. Its dark waters twisted and writhed like a living thing, crashing against the ship with a relentless, hungry fury. Each wave clawed at the hull, rising and falling with a deafening roar. The white foam frothing like the teeth of a beast. The faint lights of Saint Denis flickered on the horizon, their serene glow a cruel contrast to the chaos around her, as if the city itself was mocking her terror.

It whispered to her—abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Arthur stepped over the railing, his boots squeaked as they gripped the slick metal. He turned to her, his hand outstretched. “C’mon, darlin’. I promise—it’ll be alright.”

But his words rang hollow, an empty comfort against the reality before them. The river was a churning tempest, its currents violent and unforgiving, ready to drag anything beneath its black surface. Even if they survived the fall, the odds of making it to shore were slim at best. Kate’s legs felt like stone, refusing to move as her heart thundered painfully in her chest, each beat a reminder of the uncertainty that loomed.

“I can’t,” she whimpered, tears returning to streak her already tear-soaked face.

Arthur glanced behind her, spotting the flash of metal and the heavy stomps of boots. The guards were closing in. He reached back and grabbed her waist, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m sorry love, but we don’t have a choice.”

“No!” she screamed, “No, no, please!” Pushing against him with what little strength she had left.

Arthur clenched his jaw, his heart aching at her resistance. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, more to himself than to her.

A massive wave slammed into the side of the ship, sending icy spray cascading over them like shards of glass. The deck bucked violently beneath their feet, tilting sharply as the world seemed to lurch sideways. Kate’s scream ripped through the chaos, raw and desperate, as she instinctively reached for Arthur’s steadying hand. But when the ship groaned and righted itself, the space beside her was empty.

He was gone, swallowed by the abyss below.

“Arthur!” she screamed, raw and ragged as she lunged for the edge. The spray soaked her dress, and her eyes frantically searched the dark, rolling waves. There was no sign of him, no reassuring voice calling her back.

Her knees hit the railing, trembling as she braced to throw herself after him, her sobs choked and frantic. But before she could leap, something hard and unyielding struck the back of her skull with a sickening crack. The world erupted in a searing burst of white-hot pain, her vision splintering into blinding stars. The cold bite of the metal railing dug into her ribs as she swayed, bile surging up her throat. The roar of the river below seemed to call her, and she teetered on the edge, her body dangerously close to collapse.

“Kate!” a familiar voice roared from the darkness, full of desperation.

Everything faded to black. Her thoughts dissolved into a void, and all the pain, fear, and desperation slipped away, leaving only an empty, cold darkness.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur’s mind and heart waged a brutal war, each strike tearing into the fragile remnants of his humanity. Clawing at his consciousness, rending the flesh of his soul, the agony was relentless. The icy water gnawed at his skin, but he barely felt it. The surge of adrenaline that kept his body moving was nothing more than a hollow echo in the void that had consumed him.

He stared, a deadened numbness suffusing his being, as the guards dragged her away. His woman. His Kate. His entire world. Ripped from him in a heartbeat, and it was all his doing. His fault.

A cruel, familiar voice slithered into his mind—a ghost from the days when he drowned himself in whiskey, trying to forget how he had failed the mother of his child and only son. Doomed to repeat the same mistakes.

Did you forget Arthur? No sleep for the wicked. Not for you.

The words coiled around his heart like a noose, pulling tighter with every beat. His gut twisted as the truth seeped into his marrow.

You have blood on your hands. On your lips. On your teeth.

The weight of it crushed him, suffocating him beneath the silence of his own guilt. The river surged around him, uncaring, as the voice whispered its condemnation.

You can’t outrun it. You never will. You’re a curse and death follows you like a shadow.

It’s mocking echo rang in his ears.

Smile, Arthur. You’re the Devil’s favorite joke.

AN: I fear this chapter was kinda all over the place. The switching POVs probably got a little confusing. But WHEW! Talk about that ending huh? I had a few ideas for how this would go, but I think this makes the most sense. I hate torturing them, the last scene with Arthur was gut wrenching to write. But the show must go on.

Thank you for reading, I really enjoy writing this fic and seeing all your feedback. It means so much to me <3

Below are some inspo pics for Kate's dress!!

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