#dutch authors

[diana-andraste]

Cover collage for Piet Calis's compendium describing the Dutch underground's literary art movement during World War II and the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands.

[bones-ivy-breath]

Psyche by Louis Couperus

[sergle]

anime and fantasy are beautiful bc you can make blonde men attractive

[08melancholie]

Lessen your Stress. — Dutch Van der Linde/Micah Bell/Reader

tags: Post-Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Smut, Shameless Smut, Porn, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Sex, Spoilers, dont read if you havent finished chapter 6, theres spoilers to it that youll regret, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Anal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Orgasm, Multiple Orgasms, Mildly Dubious Consent, Abuse of Authority, Authority Figures, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Spit as Lube, Lube, Come as Lube, precum still counts i hope, Not Beta Read, no beta we die like micah bell

summary: What's one way to relieve the stress of losing your family, friends and entire gang you spent decades building? Dutch assumes it's getting his best friend to fuck his other still-devoted follower with him. It's another power trip of his you will never refuse.

a/n: initially the idea was reader and micah both trying to fight over dutch but then i was like why do we have to fightttt just let them both ruin users guts..... so here we are now. disclaimer: ive literally never written a threesome, i dont know what im doing honestly.... thank you to that one user on here who inspired this.

this is my longest fic up to date... yeah okay lets go touch grass.

words: 5,043 | AO3 LINK

A heap of shouting, spilling of secrets and killing later, the three of you regroup, all alone. Death is haunting you; you almost feel their blood on your hands, for some reason. You can't pinpoint why, but you feel guilty. Might be the fact you're still following Dutch, after he got them all killed.

Dutch might have officially lost his mind, right? You sometimes really wonder how he's made it this far, with such a good gang. Well, until now anyways. It's not until now that you notice a small flip in his head; a switch turning on for the first time. He's sat across from you, only a small fire between yourselves that lights up a small fraction of the area around you; up on a mountain, a small indent into the rocks it's built of serving as a cave of sorts. You're on the other side of the fire, laying down and watching Dutch really think for the first time, in a while. Your head is supported with the satchel you carry around your torso, visibly more uncomfortable than the plush pillows inside your old tent, now left behind. Sat behind you both is none other than Micah; staying forever loyal to the black-haired man lost in his own thoughts, his own pondering whilst his eyes illuminate the fire between your bodies. Micah is quiet; in fact, everyone is. Nobody dares say a word—not you, not Micah, especially not Dutch. Dutch doesn't feel grief, oh no; that isn't what this can be. You'd think that leaving two of your sons to die even after having the choice to save them both would make a man go crazy, but Dutch is clearly too far gone for that.

The fire crackles again, and you can't stand the silence any longer, opening your mouth to speak up. "We'll be fine, Dutch. Don't stress so much."

His head perks up from the fire, the flame-ridden irises of his catch your own. "Fine?" He repeats after your reassurance—not sounding all that reassured. You swallow and nod, always feeling so small under that dark gaze of his. "I would love to have even an ounce of your optimism." He barks, and you sink even lower. Well, it was a good try, if nothing.

He and Micah share a look, and it all goes quiet again. Fire crackles; animals howl in the distance; shrubbery whistles under the small wind blowing through the area. And all is quiet.

It seems as you'll be spending the rest of the night in here, so you decide to rest your exhausted body for today. You toss over and get as comfortably as one can, making an attempt at sleeping off the sour mood and thick tension in the air.

Your slumber only lasts you a few mere hours, both the very early morning sun picking at your eyes and gloved hands on your bare skin breaking you away from the little sleep you managed yourself. You grumble, turning to lay on your back. "Get'cho ass up," Micah, standing over you, takes a step back and moves his hands off you, the leather material slipping away from your waist. You sit up and rub your knuckles into your eyes, taking your satchel from underneath where your head was and standing up. "hoping you enjoyed Colter, darlin'." Oh, Colter; if hell was an icy, snowy blizzard, you'd assume they were talking about that part of West Grizzlies.

"Don't tell me we're going back." You hold off on groaning—only briefly as Micah nods and you can't help yourself, not at all fond of going back there again. "Why West Grizzlies, anyways?" You ask, watching him kick at the burnt-out campfire from last night.

Micah stomps out the ashy, black logs, turning back over to you with a shrug. "Dutch says so." Of course he does.

You hold back on rolling your eyes. "He at least in a better mood than yesterday?" You ask, very much still remembering his bite back to your simple attempt at making the situation you three were currently in a little more bearable. Micah starts walking off while talking to you, and you follow close behind, leaving the makeshift cave.

"Wouldn't put ma' money on it," He responds, voice getting quieter the closer he leads you towards Dutch—smoking a cigar, per the usual—and your three horses. "don't test yer luck, hm?" He gives a low chuckle, and you just sigh. Snow; low temperatures; blizzards; all things you wanted to leave and forget in Colter. But, here you were.

Dutch gives an acknowledging nod to both of you, which you swiftly return. "We ready to go, then?" Micah gives him another nod, and walks up to Baylock. You follow to your own horse, petting it briefly before getting up onto the saddle, mounting up as the two of them soon do the same.

The three of you start the long journey back up towards the mountains; almost feeling that familiar deja-vu-feeling kicking in.

The ride is long and definitely not friendly; the moment your horses get you to the snow, the wind picks up and so does the snow, plowing down on all six of you. It's almost unbearably annoying, having to ride with one hand on your reins and one covering the top of your eyebrows to block out the snow from your vision. It's only a long while later that the three of you get up on the snow-covered mountain of your liking, finding an abandoned area with a cabin, definitely big enough for the three of you, for now.

The three of you hitch your horses safely into a small stable-like area, making sure they wouldn't be cold in their spots. Afterwards, one after another, you enter the cabin and inspect it; it's a medium-sized hut-type room, a few cots still stable enough to sleep in and a kitchen on the other side, most cabinets left open and empty. Mere minutes of searching left you with a few cans of fruit and vegetables, but between you three, hunting will definitely be a must for nourishment. At least theres a run-down fireplace you can use to warm up your shivering bodies. Dutch sends Micah to get firewood, instructing you to work with him and make the place look a bit less messy. And, three of you get to work.

It isn't exactly homey, but it'll do. Can't be picky now, can you? You had a home, and it was Dutch's own fault everything at 'home' went to shit.

It's been about a week since, and you've gotten used to the spot you three settled into, you could even start calling it home. Well, no—nothing will ever replace the home that the gang provided, but that's something you'll have to simply cope with. You're still following Dutch, so really, do you miss them that much? Your trail of thought is broken up by the sound of the creaky cabin door opening, raising the volume of the small blizzard going on outside briefly.

Dutch and Micah enter after another, closing the door of the small cabin and blocking out the sound of wind outside. Your head perks up from the small book you were examining at the sound, and you nod in greeting. "Hey," Your gaze goes back to the book until Dutch clicks his tongue at you.

"Eyes up here."

You don't take even a second to comply, meeting his eyes but occasionally drifting them to Micah. You're slightly confused, they're acting odd. "You need something, Dutch?"

"Stand up."

Every command sends a small shiver to your spine, that much is sure. You place the book down and rise from your seat on the creaky cot, taking a step towards them to stand before the two men. Your compliance and submissiveness always sends one side of Dutch's mouth up slightly. "Got a.. proposition for you. Well... Not exactly, anyways." Micah matches Dutch's dark chuckle after the leader speaks up again, both looking down at you. "Listen now, it's been pretty cold, hasn't it, my dear?" As Dutch speaks to you, your eyes stay glued on him; but you can see Micah taking slow steps away from the leader, and around you. You focus on Dutch again, nodding. "That's what we thought. You see," He then takes a step closer to you, gloved hands clasping together in front of you. "we can keep ourselves warm without wasting so much firewood." At Dutch's words, you can definitely feel Micah so much closer to you, from behind your back. You're starting to feel something bubble in your abdomen; was it nervousness, anxiety? Lust, arousal? You couldn't exactly tell.

"Tell me, my dear," Another two steps; one in front of you, one behind you. You feel like you're being circled by sharks in an ocean, hunters on prey, making you feel small again. "you're a smart girl; you do know what I mean, don't you?" Oh, you do. You know it all too well as you've imagined it one too many times—late at night in your tent, your hands on yourself underneath the blanket, muffling the moans of their names into your palm—so it's not an unfamiliar feeling. Your words seem to only fail you further the more he speaks, so you just nod again. His moustache follows the curve of his lips when that devilish smirk arises again. "Thought so. Now..."

His gloves glide over your shoulders, leather on leather as he stands right in front of you now. "And surely, you wouldn't mind trying this new warm-up with us, would you?"

Like a cat playing with a mouse it's caught, toying with it until it breaks. Except, it's two big cats and one meek little mouse. A hot breath glides down to you, right over your shoulder when Micah draws himself closer, and you feel stuck in your spot between them—even more so when Micah places his gloved hands down to your sides, almost kneading at your waist. Now, how could you ever say no? It's Dutch Van der Linde and Micah Bell. For one, you've been imagining this scenario in the comfort of your tent, late into the many nights that turned very hot, very quickly. But also, do you really have a choice? Your boss; your leader, asking such a vulgar and intimate thing of you? What would he say if you refused? Would he let you refuse? Is this all another power-trip he'll hold over your head?

No time for questions when Micah squeezes your waist to bring you back to reality. "He asked 'ya a question, doll." He purrs—its low and sultry, right next to your ear, accompanied by another knead to your body. You feel almost lightheaded by your current situation. Your hands have been unconsciously balled-up, digging into your trousers in an attempt to ground yourself. "C'mon, answer the man." And all you can manage is a nod, again. A moan would probably leave your mouth if you opened it, which.. would also be an answer. Your nod was really all it took, a silent consent more than enough for Micah's hands to travel to your hips and for Dutch's to find the sides of your neck.

"Good girl, always listening to me like this. I know you wouldn't disobey."

The feeling is indescribable, really—Micah touches you with urgency and carelessness, almost selfishly and greedily; his hands map out the contour of your body, almost as if trying to mould your curves to his liking. Dutch, however, takes it hellishly slow; thumbs brush over the front of your neck while the tips of his other fingers dig into the sides, almost as if trying to coax you to relax into whatever they have planned for you. "Oh, she's good, boss." Whenever Micah speaks, it ends up right next to your ear, and you feel that familiar shiver down your spine. An agreeing chuckle leaves Dutch's mouth, which is very close to your face; your own lips. You're clueless as to what you have to do—should you stay stiff? Touch one of them? Say anything at all to their comments and wandering touches?

Dutch's slow pace slips up when he can't hold himself back from giving himself a taste of yourself, dipping his head down to latch onto your lips. It's nice and quick, and your hands find themselves creeping up his coat and resting on his shoulders, whereas his move under your jacket and place themselves on your ribs and under your chest. Micah is pressed right up to your back now, one hand leaves your hip to move your hair away from your neck, sliding your jacket collar down as he starts to pepper the side of your neck in kisses, occasionally sucking on the skin while pressing his hips to your backside—you can already feel him through both of your clothes. Dutch takes a moment to lick your lip, coaxing you to open your mouth up for him. You comply and your lips part an opening for Dutch's tongue, hands squeezing at his shoulders.

His tongue explores around your mouth with profound efficiency; with experience. It makes the feeling in your abdomen all the more prominent, and you slowly feel a heat rushing to it. Micah isn't any worse either, the mixture of his gentle kisses, rough sucks and sometimes licks up your neck all make you more worked up than you'd ever want to imagine. He's still pressed up to your rear, hands at the very top of your outer thighs, roughly handling you like previously. Then, Dutch starts unbuttoning your jacket. Slowly, each one gets undone, and your jackets pools between yours and Micah's boots, who carefully kicks it aside, just to continue marking up your neck. His stubble and beard occasionally brushes against your sensitive neck, making you let out little sounds into Dutch's mouth. Oh, how they're enjoying this.

Dutch momentarily breaks away from you, leaving you to finally breathe in. "You know, I always liked how you followed me so blindly," Dutch's hands move up and brush over your chest, then cup both of the muscles. "it was so damn hard to not take you right then and there, in camp." You gasp and sigh when his hands start massaging and fondling you. This much foreplay has never gotten you so worked up in your life, and you can definitely feel the dampness between your legs growing with each moment. Then, Micah's hands move. They're getting impatient, seen so by the man behind you who starts groping your rear, breathing oh-so-sweetly down your neck. "I'mma have my fun with'chu, sweet thin'." His hums have goosebumps running up your body. His hands squeeze your ass a final time before moving, sliding down onto your inner thighs. You almost think that he can tell how wet you are, from the low laugh he lets out into your neck.

Impatience really overtakes both of them when they break away and start stripping. Coats, vests, undershirts, trousers; all the many layers you need to survive the coldness of West Grizzlies. Once they're almost bare, left in their underpants, they walk to one of the cots and coax you to follow, taking a seat next to each other and gesturing for you to stand in front of them. "Your turn, my dear." Dutch commands, leaning back slightly.

"Make sure to give us a good show, darlin'." Micah adds, following Dutch and also leaning back. And a good show, they shall receive. You start with your undershirt, slowly and almost teasingly unbuttoning it, exposing yourself inch by inch, moment by moment. "Oh, she's good." Micah purrs to Dutch, looking at you intently and never breaking his eyes away from your body. Dutch gives an agreeing hum, nodding to the other mans' words as you move to your jeans, shrugging your undershirt off while undoing the restraints of your jeans. You slip them off and toss both clothing articles to your jacket, standing in only your garments, now only covering your chest and mound. Their eyes are still so predatory, it's almost killing you. Then, finally, Dutch gestures with his hand for you to move closer, and you step up right in front of them. They part slightly to the side, and Micah pats the space between them on the bed. You understand instantly and comply just as quickly, sitting between them now. "Attagirl... how'd 'ya train 'er to listen so well, boss?"

Neither of them say more, as Micah leans in to get his lips onto yours himself now, kissing you with speed and want; need. Dutch's hands go to your back, fiddling with your bra to get it off of you. Oh, but the best part is Micah's hands; one reaches down between your legs instantly, swiping across your slit over your undergarments. "Oh shit, 'yer this damn wet already?" Both men laugh in sync, dark and low chuckles filling the cabin. His fingers find your clit under the fabric and start rubbing, coaxing you to moan into his mouth which you do. He loves how your meek little gasps and whimpers echo down his throat, and he rubs faster. The other hand of his tangles itself in your hair, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. Dutch finally undoes your bra clasps, working it off of you without disturbing Micah and his workings on you. Your bra is tossed elsewhere, and one of Dutch's hands instantly finds your chest, fondling one while latching his mouth onto the other. Your hands grip one shoulder of theirs each, nails digging into the skin as your moans vibrate into Micahs mouth, hips already twitching into his two fingers working your bundle of nerves perfectly. Micah only breaks himself off your lips for a brief moment, "Can't wait to see this pretty cunt stretch around me." his mouth is back on yours, and the sentence alone has you grinding into his two fingers. Where's your dignity now?

Dutch's lips kiss around your nipple, teeth graze and pull oh-so-perfectly, and you already feel like you're close. They handle you with very different paces and things in mind; Micah is clearly trying to humiliate, get you to cum for him as quick as he can to give his ego a boost. Dutch however, he's now teasing; torturously slow pace on both of your tits, yet it works you up just as well as Micah's finger and mouth. And both are equally as blissful.

"Think she's ready for us?" Micah slows his fingers down and moves away from your lips to Dutch's question.

"Oh, surely, see how she's try'na fuck herself on my fingers? Poor, little thing. Bet she wants more."

"Well," Dutch leans away from your chest, standing to get his undergarments off. It's not long before Micah follows, and you can barely look at them; nude as the days they were born, with two almost equally as big cocks twitching for you, some precum at both their tips. It's a sight. "reckon she knows what she has to do—" He turns from Micah to yourself. "—doesn't she?" You swallow. Call it practice for what's to come, literally.

You shuffle off of the bed, and your knees meet the wood floors. Their grins down at you leave your panties practically leaking your own arousal. Looking between them, unsure where to start, you choose the leader—obviously. You get on-level with his hips, placing your hands on his thighs. "Oh, now don't leave my partner out, my dear." Dutch takes one of your hands by the wrist, guiding it to Micah's lower abdomen. "Show us both some love, baby." You can barely breathe at this point, and your hands might even be trembling slightly. Now, you've given maybe one blowjob/handjob in your life; but both, at the same time? This is overwhelming. Nonetheless, can't disappoint your boss, now can you? You push your thoughts down and slide your hand around Micah's shaft, running your thumb over his precum-covered tip to slicken it slightly, while simultaneously licking a stripe up the underside of Dutch's cock, collecting the leaky substance for a taste. Their faces are full of arousal and pure bliss, they almost make you feel proud. Dutch raises a hand to run through your hair, tugging on it. "We're old, impatient men, my darlin'. Get to it."

You take half of Dutch in your mouth, and start pumping your hand up and down Micah, earning a few praising groans and another tug to your hair, trying to draw you closer. You take Dutch until he hits the back of your mouth, and you barely suppress gagging on him. Don't need to inflate his ego that much. You move and bob your head, saliva slickening Dutch's dick up and painting your lips, some gathering at the corners of your mouth. Your hand works Micah in a slightly faster pace, seeing as it's easier to pump your hand over his shaft than take one in your mouth—especially one Dutch's size. You're used to average men, so this might as well even be nice. Not so much when he'll be stretching you open, but we'll get to that problem later. You continue your demonstrations, getting both of them to groan and even chuckle sometimes, looking down at you. They always looked down at you, you knew so much—but only ever figuratively. Never literally.

It's not long before Dutch grabs your head and just fucks himself into your mouth at his pace, which makes it easier to focus on your hand that's working Micah. You increase the pace of your hand, occasionally teasing the tip to see it twitch before continuing. "Wouldn't be surprised if you was a whore before 'ya joined us, so good at this." Micah's comment should make you mad, but you're definitely more turned on than anything. "Keep working dem pretty fingers around me, 'm close." And you absolutely will.

Dutch, however, doesn't give you a warning like Micah; he suddenly cums down your throat with a groan, and you have to focus on not gagging all over his dick as it empties itself out into your mouth, and you swallow every drop like if it were holy water. Unfortunately, you're not given a breather when he withdraws his hips from your mouth, as Micah pulls your hand away from his cock and brings your closer to it, grasping your jaw and squeezing so that your lips part. "Open." You don't feel like being painted all over with his cum, so you comply instantly, and he jerks himself a few times before spilling into your mouth like Dutch, your hands finding his thighs to brace yourself.

"Damn, she's good." Dutch seats himself back on the cot with a small creak, palming himself—somehow still semi-hard. Micah lets go of your jaw after he's spent, and you can't stop yourself from coughing as you swallow practically every drop, only a few around your mouth still. Micah chuckles down at you before grabbing you by the sides, his hands grasping your waist as he brings you back to your feet. "Come on then, you ain't done yet, or are 'ya, babydoll?" You're guided over to Dutch, turned to face him as both men help position you over him to straddle the leader. Micah's hands are replaced by Dutch's ones, who immediately moves your panties off and guides your folds around his shaft to slicken himself up again. "Still practically dripping. Oh, you poor thing. We won't be selfish no longer, my dear, you shall get your own, too." His tip slides to your entrance, and you have to grasp his shoulders to keep yourself steady, your lips slightly parted in pleasure. Slowly, Dutch's tip presses into you, and you squeak out a moan as you feel that small stretch you were dreading. "I'll go slow, don't wanna split our new toy in half, do we darling?" Well, that's exactly how you're feeling, oddly enough.

You're gasping and moaning as every inch of his disappears into your slick walls, the lewd noises mixing with Dutch's small praise and breathy exhales as you sink down on his cock, feeling it twitch inside you a few times. "Good girl, taking all of me like that." He gives you a moment to adjust before lifting your hips up and slamming right back down, earning a strained moan out of you, nail indents marking his shoulders up as they dig into the flesh, which just makes him laugh. "Love how tight you are, like it's sucking me right in. Your cunt loves me stretching you out, huh." His hips slowly begin to slap against you, filling the cabin with the suggestive noises of skin-on-skin and moans.

As you finally get used to his size, you feel hands on your waist from behind. You almost forgot Micah was there, seeing how quiet he was being. Then, one hand trails down to your rear, and a thumb circles your anus. "Can't leave me out again, can 'ya?" His thumb slowly draws itself into you, and you have to bite down on Dutch's shoulder. Jesus, you did not expect them to try and fuck you at the exact same time, even less from behind. He briefly extracts his thumb to spit at your entrance, circle it and then stick it right back in, trying to loosen your muscles up for his—much fucking bigger, may you add—member. They find a similar pace, Dutch is rutting you down onto his dick while Micah's thumb stretches your other hole out, readying it for his cock which is already leaking in anticipation. You brace yourself when he moves his thumb out and spits again, this time on his own cock to moisten it up again, mixing the saliva with his precum. Then, his tip slaps against your ass a few times, before it slides to your opening. Dutch has slowed his thrusts down to let Micah get in as well, and you haven't stopped biting at his shoulder since you started, almost drooling around it. Even if it's only the tip, as soon as Micah eases it in, you shudder and gasp into Dutch's flesh, biting down harder as your asshole feels every little stretch it's getting from Micah's thick cock. Thankfully, it's sliding in somewhat-easily after a few moments, Dutch's hands squeezing your hips as he shushes you to relax you, and Micah's caressing your backside as he slowly sinks into you.

The first thrust is the worst, obviously. You almost immediately shiver when Micah slowly slips out of you, to the tip, before drawing his hips right against your ass again. Dutch coos into your ear to keep you collected as Micah gets you used to his size, kissing your slightly sweaty spine briefly. "Come on, 'ya can take me, girlie." He sinks his whole length into you, almost as breathless as you. Then, they slowly find a synced pace and fuck into you from both holes as you gasp against Dutch's shoulder and shudder into him. "We'll let'cha cum too, don't worry doll." Micah slides a hand over to your abdomen, and his thumb circles your clit once more. You're on cloud nine—hell, you've never been high, but it's probably similar to this feeling. Your holes are tight around their cocks, all three now audibly gasping and moaning in sync. It's possibly the lewdest trio you've ever heard. With how they're thrusting into you, you're reduced to a goddamn mess; gasping, moaning their names, your cunt and anus tightening and squeezing, your mouth open and tongue slightly sticking out—you look like a dog, almost. Their bitch, that's for sure. From now on, anyways. You don't see how this could ever be a one-time-thing.

You can feel your orgasm building again, and you've honestly been doing pretty well, all things considered. "Can't cum in that pretty cunt, but I can back here." Micah's comment runs goosebumps over your body, and you already dread the feeling of that. His breath brushes over your skin as he kisses up your back again, reaching the nape of your neck and grazing his teeth over it, all while his hips slam into your ass. Dutch is stroking your sides, his cock twitching even more inside you. He's close—Micah's close—you're close—you might all just come at the same time.

That's exactly how it goes down. You're first to hit your orgasm, one that causes you to squeeze around their cocks once more, which is enough for both of them to hit their peaks with you, Micah staying buried deep in your guts while Dutch pulls out and jerks himself dry over your mound and his stomach, gasping for air in sync with you. Micah draws his spent member out of your asshole slowly, some of his cum leaking out and down your thigh. He takes a breather on your back and hugs around your waist, heaving into your spine. Your body relaxes over Dutch's, who can barely hold all three of you up. It takes all three of you a moment of no movement to calm down from your highs, before Micah is first to move off your back and help you off Dutch, slowly seating you next to him. "Well, goddamn, princess. Dutch was right; 'ya didn't disappoint for even a moment." He hums, getting to the nightstand and tossing a rag over your stomach. He shuts the drawer and sits down next to you, cleaning Dutch's spent off of your stomach while you gather your thoughts, before wiping his shaft and tossing it over to Dutch.

"I'm sure you know we aren't leaving you be after that performance, my dear." Dutch adds as he wipes him self clean, and you just wordlessly nod, laying back slightly. "I guessed so." He chuckles, and Micah chimes in with his own breathy laugh, standing to walk over and grab everyone's clothes, giving them out to you and Dutch before starting to get dressed himself.

And you're damn sure you won't want to stop anytime soon either.

Kudos on AO3 appreciated, as always! This fic killed me omg its my longest one up to date and its got me in a chokehold. fuck i wanna be between them so bad.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 12 - Though Mine Beat Faster Far Than Thine (Part 1)

Summary: Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God in a world that is ugly with violence and hate.

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Content Advisory 18+: This chapter contains graphic depictions of bodily torture, unsettling imagery, themes of death and child loss, grief, mourning, blood, gore, bodily fluids, and implied sexual assault. If you are sensitive to these adult themes, please approach with caution.

This is your warning: The content within this chapter is intense and may not be suitable for all readers.

A/N: Part 2 of this chapter will probably come out next week. I was originally going to do it in one part but this chapter alone is 13.5k words. I apologize in advance for what's about to unfold. Pls don't hate me.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig

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

Story Tags: Widowed, Original Character(s), High-Honor!Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby!Arthur Morgan, Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort,Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Infant Death, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Torture, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Aftermath of Torture, Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Self-Hatred, Night Terrors, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

Under the blazing Lemoyne sun, finding relief from the heat was like chasing a mirage. But in the heart of Clemens Point, life thrived despite the drought. The grass was a vivid green, speckled with bursts of colorful flowers that seemed to defy the arid conditions. Birds filled the air with their lively chatter, while bees and butterflies danced among the blossoms, competing for the sweet treasures hidden within.

Meanwhile, Arthur, Dutch's trusted right-hand man, was as busy as ever. Always on the lookout for opportunities to line the gang's pockets, his latest adventure had involved a risky venture to rob the Valentine bank. Alongside Bill and Karen, they'd pulled off the heist with typical outlaw flair, though not without facing down some trigger-happy lawmen on their way out. Despite the thrilling danger of the heist, Arthur couldn’t help but shake his head, wondering when this will finally be enough. 

Arthur had grown accustomed to Dutch's evasive responses whenever he attempted to discuss the gang's plans. Each time, Dutch would offer vague reassurances that everything was under control, leaving Arthur feeling more frustrated and in the dark than ever. The mention of Tahiti had become little more than a running joke among the gang, a distant dream that seemed increasingly out of reach with each passing day.

And then there was Micah, always worming his way into Dutch's good graces with flattery and false admiration. Arthur watched with a mixture of disdain and apprehension as Micah spun his tales of Dutch's unparalleled brilliance and leadership. Despite Dutch's apparent blindness to Micah's ulterior motives, Arthur saw through the facade, recognizing the dangerous influence the sycophantic outlaw wielded over their leader.

Arthur leaned against the post at the back of the gang leader's tent, as Dutch and Micah strategized inside, his gaze drifted to the shoreline. There, he watched Kate teaching Jack to skip stones, her laughter carrying faintly on the breeze. Each moment with her seemed to deepen his feelings, from the gentle touch of her hands to the genuine concern he felt for her safety. He found himself constantly drawn to her, seeking her out in quiet moments when he wasn't consumed by work. Yet, despite the intensity of his emotions, he couldn't find the words to express them.

As the afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the scene, Arthur wrestled with his growing affection for Kate. Her presence had become a beacon of warmth and solace in his turbulent life. He longed to confide in her, to bare his soul and share the depths of his feelings. But fear held him back, fear of rejection, fear of vulnerability. And so, he remained silent, his emotions simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge. Her words a constant echo in his mind; don’t keep hidden what matters, even from yourself. 

“Are you even listening to us, Morgan?” Micah’s voice sliced through Arthur's reverie. With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he pushed himself off the post, turning to face the tent. Inside, Dutch lounged on his cot, a cigar dangling from his fingers, while a map sprawled across his nightstand. Micah, on the other hand, stood opposite him, arms crossed with a casual arrogance that made Arthur's skin crawl.

As he glanced around, he noticed Molly sitting just outside the tent, her presence a silent witness to their conversation. The ongoing disputes between her and Dutch had become a constant source of tension within the gang, their arguments echoing through the camp at night. Despite the turmoil, Molly still remained by Dutch's side, despite how miserable she appeared. Always resisting the efforts of the other women to draw her into their daily routines and conversations. Arthur felt sympathy for the young woman.

With a weary sigh and a shake of his head, Arthur responded, “Yeah, I heard you. And it sounds like a load of horse shit.” The weight of frustration hung heavy in his words as he braced himself for the inevitable clash of wills.

Earlier that day, Pearson had approached Micah with intriguing news. According to him, he had encountered some of Colm O'Driscoll's men in town. They professed a desire for peace, claiming that Colm wished to negotiate a parley with the rival gang. Arthur immediately smelled a trap. He couldn't fathom a man like Colm harboring anything but pure hatred in his heart. The feud between Colm and Dutch ran deep, stretching back to a time long before Arthur had joined the gang as a child.

Micah, however, seemed unfazed by the potential danger, dismissing Arthur's concerns with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Well, since you've been running around digging us into even deeper shit, I reckon this might just lighten the load a little," Micah retorted, his tone dripping with arrogance.

Arthur's jaw clenched as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Placing his hands on his gun belt, he took a step closer to Micah, his voice laced with irritation. "You mean your shit, Micah. Pearson ain’t got half the brains to con this mess. This has your dumbass written all over it," he shot back, the jingle of his spurs punctuating each step on the wooden floor of the makeshift room.

Micah's words hung in the air, thick with false hope and calculated manipulation. “You’re always tellin’ us Dutch, do what has to be done…but don’t fight wars that ain’t worth fightin’. Maybe Colm finally wants peace.” He explained.

Arthur's gaze hardened as he watched the scene unfold, his brows furrowing in frustration. The way Micah twisted Dutch's principles to suit his own agenda made Arthur's stomach churn with anger.

Hosea's timely interruption added a layer of gravity to the situation. His voice, filled with wisdom born of experience, cut through the tension like a knife. "Colm wants a parley?" he questioned, his tone laced with skepticism. "It's a trap," he asserted, his words carrying the weight of undeniable truth.

Micah's sigh of resignation seemed almost rehearsed, his arms extending in a theatrical display of defeat. "Well, of course, it's probably a trap," he conceded, his tone dripping with sarcasm. But then, with a pleading look directed at Dutch, he continued, "but what have we got to lose finding out?"

Arthur gritted his teeth at the sight, his frustration boiling beneath the surface. The way Micah spoke to Dutch, manipulating him with false hope and veiled threats, made Arthur sick to his stomach. He couldn't understand how Dutch could tolerate it, let alone seem to enjoy it. 

"We could get shot," Arthur interjected bluntly, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. 

Dutch's silent nod of agreement spoke volumes. "Colm ain't one to do things so… gentleman-like," he mused, his expression clouded with uncertainty.

Micah's dismissive shake of the head implied that the concerns were unfounded, mere misunderstandings in his eyes. "We ain't gettin' shot, because you'll be protecting us," he stated confidently, his hand resting heavily on Arthur's left shoulder. It was clear from his tone that he had already made up his mind; he would appoint himself as the right-hand man during the parley, regardless of Arthur's objections.

Arthur shot a disapproving glance at Dutch, silently pleading for his support. But Dutch's expression betrayed no hint of intervention; he seemed to be already envisioning how the situation would unfold.

"If it's a trap, you shoot the lot of them. If it's not…" Micah's voice trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

With a frustrated huff, Dutch walked past them, his irritation palpable. "I'm not really seeing the point in any of this," he muttered, making his way over to the table where Hosea sat, reading the paper.

Micah followed behind like a persistent nuisance, his voice bordering on whining. "It's a chance we gotta take!" he insisted.

Dutch sighed heavily, leaning his arms on the table as he shared a somber revelation. "I killed Colm's brother... a long time ago. Then he killed a woman I loved dearly." The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, casting a solemn pall over the group.

A moment of silence passed amongst them, punctuated only by Micah's sympathetic hum. But he quickly interjected once again, his tone brimming with impatience. "As you say. It was a long time ago, Dutch."

Dutch gazed out at the water, his mind undoubtedly consumed by the weight of their shared history. With a final puff of his cigar, he threw it into the dirt, his decision made. "Alright. Let's go then. You and me, with Arthur protecting us," he declared, his voice firm with resolve.

Arthur's frustration was evident as he shook his head, a deep furrow forming between his brows. With a muttered curse under his breath, he threw a hand up in the air in exasperation, a gesture of his growing annoyance. Resigned to the unfolding events, he fell into step behind Dutch, his footsteps heavy with irritation as he made his way to his trusty mare, waiting patiently nearby.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but the weight of Arthur's frustration and concern in his voice drew her curiosity like a moth to flame. Along the grassy shoreline, she quickened her pace until she caught up to Arthur just as he was about to mount Belle.

Drawing his attention by placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, she couldn't help but inquire, "What's this I hear about a parley?"

Turning to greet her Arthur let out a heavy sigh, his irritation palpable. "Micah seems to think Colm O'Driscol wants peace, apparently," he muttered, his tone laden with disbelief.

"Peace? From the same man who's been chasing you lot since Blackwater?" Kate's incredulity rang clear in her voice.

"Yep, that's the one," Arthur replied, his spirits low.

Kate exhaled sharply, frustration evident in her features. "That's clearly a trap," she remarked, stating the obvious.

"I know," Arthur admitted, his voice tinged with resignation.

"Then why are you going along with it?" Kate pressed with unmistakable concern.

Leaning against the side of his saddle, Arthur gave her a sympathetic look. "Someone's gotta make sure Dutch doesn't get his head blown off."

"If he's foolish enough, I say let him. Maybe they'll shoot Micah as well," Kate quipped with a roll of her eyes.

A brief chuckle escaped Arthur's lips, her irreverence momentarily lifting his sour mood. "Wouldn't that be somethin’,” he mused. “But I can’t let it happen. I'll be up in the hills with a rifle, trained right on Colm. Just in case he tries anything."

Kate let out a deep sigh through her nose, her brows pinching with unease. "I still don’t think it’s a good idea. If you’re protecting them, who's protecting you?" Her tone carried a weight of seriousness, the gravity of the situation settling heavily upon her shoulders.

With a soft chuckle, Arthur reached out and gently squeezed her hand. "I don’t need protecting darlin’. I'll be just fine," he reassured her, though the lines of concern etched into his features betrayed his words.

"What if I come with you?" Kate suggested, brushing aside his reassurance with determined persistence.

Arthur shook his head slightly, his expression turning somber. "I don’t want you gettin’ roped into all that. Colm’s a nasty man, and I don’t need him comin’ for you too." His eyes bore into hers with genuine concern. He wished he didn't have to involve himself in Dutch's risky schemes, but loyalty demanded otherwise. If there was one thing he could protect Kate from, it was getting entangled in Dutch’s dangerous endeavors.

With a defeated sigh, Kate lowered her gaze. "Just promise me you’ll be cautious? And you’ll shoot him if he tries anything," she implored, her words more of a command than a request.

"I promise, Kate," Arthur vowed solemnly, his tone tinged with determination. With a final nod, he mounted Belle and tipped his hat in farewell before riding off into the camp to catch up with the others, leaving Kate behind with a heart heavy with worry.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows across the camp, Kate found herself amidst the nightly routine of caring for her beloved mare, Lorena. Yet, unlike other evenings, Lorena seemed unusually restless, her ears flicking nervously, her hooves stomping the ground, and her pacing creating a small cloud of dust around her. Kate furrowed her brow in concern, attempting to soothe her companion's nerves with a gentle song, though she couldn't discern the cause of her distress.

Observing Lorena's behavior, Kate couldn't help but notice the absence of her mare's newfound companion, Belle. The two horses had formed a deep bond, she often watched them grooming each other, playing together, and even sleeping side by side. It was a testament to the camaraderie that extended beyond the human members of the camp. Kate suspected that Lorena's unease stemmed from Belle's absence, as any disruption to their nightly routine tended to unsettle her.

With Belle on her mind, Kate couldn't shake the thoughts of Arthur and the conversation they had shared before he departed. Though Dutch and Micah had returned to camp hours ago, Arthur was conspicuously absent. Kate brushed aside her worries for the time being, reminding herself that Arthur often sought solace away from camp. However, he never failed to return by dinner, and Kate found herself eagerly anticipating his return, awaiting to hear about the outcome of the supposed parley.

As the night wore on and Arthur's absence stretched into the hours after dinner, the seeds of doubt began to sprout in the back of Kate's mind. She couldn't shake the feeling of unease, her worry growing with each passing minute. Arthur was never one to linger without reason, especially not when the job was risky.

With a worried brow, Kate contemplated seeking out Dutch for answers. Perhaps Arthur had mentioned something about his whereabouts before he left. It wouldn't be the first time he had set out on one task only to find himself entangled in another. Determination spurred her forward as she made her way over to Dutch's tent, the crackling of the fire and the gentle lapping of water providing a somber soundtrack to her troubled thoughts.

To her surprise, Dutch was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by Molly, sitting quietly under the warm glow of an oil lamp, her pen scratching across paper. Kate hesitated, unsure of how to interrupt her at such a late hour. Molly's dark orange curls framed her face as she looked up, a hint of surprise in her eyes at Kate's unexpected presence.

"Hi Molly," Kate greeted awkwardly, fidgeting with her hands. "I um, I was just wondering if Dutch mentioned anything about Arthur?” Molly looked puzzled at her question. “You know, from the parley with Colm earlier. I haven't seen him return yet."

Her expression softened with sympathy as she processed Kate's inquiry. "No, I'm sorry," she replied gently. "Dutch didn't say anything to me."

With a heavy sigh, Kate nodded, her heart sinking with disappointment. "Oh, I see. Sorry for bothering you."

But before she could turn to leave, Molly offered a small reassurance, sensing Kate's distress. "Arthur's always disappearing," she said softly. "I'm sure he's alright."

Kate forced a small smile, though her worry remained palpable. "So I've learned," she murmured, her thoughts clouded with concern as she retreated into the night.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur awoke to a relentless pounding pain that felt as though his skull might split in two. Each throb sent waves of agony crashing through his head, leaving him disoriented and gasping for breath. Slowly, he forced his heavy eyelids open, only to be greeted by a swirling mass of black stars dancing before him. The night air was frigid and thick, seeping into his bones as he lay sprawled on the unforgiving ground. Wrists and ankles bound. 

As his vision began to clear, he realized he was not nestled safely by the campfire at Clemens Point. No, the harsh reality of his surroundings sent a shiver down his spine. He was alone in the darkness, surrounded by eerie shadows that danced menacingly in the flickering light of a distant campfire. Panic surged within him as he struggled to piece together the events that had led him to this desolate place. The last thing he remembered was a hazy blur of faces and voices, fading into the abyss of his memory.

Fear gnawed at his insides as he fought to push through the fog of confusion that clouded his mind. Had he been ambushed? Kidnapped?

The memory of the parlay with Colm played like a haunting melody in Arthur's mind. He could feel the weight of his rifle against his chest as he lay hidden in the tall grass, his breath shallow with anticipation. The tension in the air was palpable as Dutch and Colm exchanged terse words, the promise of peace slipping through their fingers like sand. Arthur's jaw clenched as he watched the failed negotiation unfold before him, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to act if things took a turn for the worse.

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. As Colm turned to leave, his gaze seemed to linger on Arthur with a chilling intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. Before he could react, the world spun violently as a blinding pain erupted in his head, the sickening crunch of bone meeting metal echoing in his ears. Darkness swallowed him whole as he succumbed to the ground, the last thing he saw were the menacing silhouettes of his assailants looming over him like specters of death.

Arthur's mind swam in a turbulent sea of pain and confusion, each wave crashing against the shores of his consciousness with merciless force. The memories of being hoisted onto the back of a horse, his body dangling limply over the beast's flank, stirred a sickening cocktail of nausea and disorientation within him. The rhythmic bounce of the horse's gait only served to intensify his queasiness, threatening to unleash the contents of his roiling stomach onto the unforgiving ground below.

In the midst of his torment, a grim irony dawned on him like a blink in the night. The sensation of being transported as prey, his captors seemingly relishing in his helplessness, echoed the plight of those he had pursued relentlessly in his own chase as a bounty hunter. It was a bitter realization, one that clawed at the fringes of his consciousness as he struggled to maintain his tenuous grip on reality. That must be it, Arthur thought to himself. He chalked it up to be a group of bounty hunters, looking to turn in his head for the $5000.

As consciousness ebbed and flowed like the tide, Arthur's senses gradually sharpened, revealing the harsh reality of his captivity. With painstaking effort, he managed to pry his leaden eyelids open, his vision obscured by a haze of pain and exhaustion. Through the murky veil that shrouded his perception, he discerned the silhouettes of his captors seated by a crackling fire, their voices a distant murmur in the vast expanse of his disoriented mind. With a grunt of exertion, he attempted to shift his weight, the world tilting dangerously on its axis with each agonizing movement.

Arthur's heart hammered in his chest as he dragged his body across the unforgiving earth, the coarse ground tearing at his skin with each agonizing inch. His bound hands clawed desperately at the soil, fingers digging into the earth as if grasping for a lifeline in the depths of despair. Every movement sent waves of searing pain coursing through his battered frame, a relentless reminder of the brutality he had endured. If he could just reach the horses, he could escape. 

In the dim glow of the campfire, the shadows danced like demons, casting sinister shapes upon the ground as Arthur's tormentors remained oblivious to his silent struggle. With every labored breath, he willed himself forward, his mind consumed by a singular purpose: escape. The rhythmic cadence of his groans mingled with the hushed whispers of the night, a haunting symphony of suffering that echoed through the darkness.

But as Arthur's faltering movements drew the attention of his captors, the weight of their scrutiny bore down upon him like a suffocating shroud. The sudden cessation of their conversation sent a chill down his spine, the air thick with anticipation as their gazes fixed upon his trembling form.

In the eerie silence that followed, the voice of a young Irishman pierced the night like a dagger, his words laced with contempt and malice. “Well ye just gonna sit there and let the bastard git away?” 

"Calm down, Nolan, he ain’t goin’ nowhere," came a voice, tinged with a cold indifference that sent shivers down Arthur's spine. He heard the heavy thud of boots against the earth as one of his captors rose to his feet and approached.

"Well evening, sugar," the man sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as he loomed over Arthur's broken form. "You ain’t dead yet, is you?" With a cruel shove of his boot, Arthur was forced onto his back, the impact sending shockwaves of pain radiating through his broken body.

The man chuckled darkly, relishing in the sight of Arthur's mangled visage. The bruises on his face had blossomed into grotesque shades of purple, his features marred by cuts and dried blood. "F-fuck you," Arthur managed to spit out, his voice hoarse amidst the agony that consumed him.

The man merely tsked in response, his amusement palpable as he delivered another vicious blow, his boot connecting with Arthur's ribs with brutal force. As Arthur curled in on himself like a child, gasping for air through the haze of pain, he realized with a sinking heart that his torment was far from over.

In the darkness, Arthur's fingers scrabbled desperately in the earth, seeking refuge in the jagged contours of the rocky terrain. If he could just grab something, anything. Even a small rock could be deadly in his hands. But his efforts were swiftly thwarted by the cruel descent of a heavy foot, grinding mercilessly into his hand. The bone-chilling crunch of his fingers being crushed beneath the merciless weight elicited a primal cry of agony from deep within his chest, muffled by the suffocating grip of pain.

Nolan's voice returned, dripping with sadistic anticipation, cut through the night like a blade. "Once Colm gets his hands on him, we're gonna be free as birds," he gloated, as if reveling in Arthur's torment was the key to their liberation.

The mention of Colm sent a wave of fear down Arthur's back, his thoughts a murky whirlpool of anguish and bewilderment. Through gritted teeth, he fought to rise again, a glimmer of defiance flickering in his eyes as he attempted to leverage himself against the unforgiving ground. 

Above him, the voices of his captors continued their sinister discourse, the weight of their words heavy with ominous implications. "Are we really turning them into the law? If it were up to me I’d say he ain’t worth the risk," the one closest to him questioned, his skepticism palpable in the darkness. 

But Nolan's response offered little solace. "Quit bein' stupid, Connor. That's his plan, remember?"

"Do you really think he gives two shits about this washed-up cowboy?" Connor's voice dripped with disdain, his words laced with a venomous edge.

The irritation in his tone was palpable as he continued, "Colm says he knows how to play Van der Linde. Once he realizes we have him, his whole posse will fall right into his trap."

Arthur knelt in the dirt, his body trembling with a mixture of pain and fear. With a herculean effort, he pushed himself to his feet, each movement an agonizing battle against the relentless grip of gravity. Stumbling forward, he fought to maintain his balance, his vision swimming with dizziness. Desperation fueled his every step as he clumsily veered away, a fleeting moment of hope igniting within him as he drew nearer to the horses. If he could just reach one...

But his hope was shattered in an instant as a bullet tore through his ankle, sending searing waves of pain coursing through his shattered limb. With a gut-wrenching cry, he crumpled to the ground, his world engulfed in a haze of excruciating agony. Blood pooled beneath him as his legs quivered with adrenaline, a futile attempt to numb the relentless torment that consumed him. Gasping for air, he rolled onto his side, his breaths ragged with panic as he struggled to suppress the rising tide of agony threatening to overwhelm him. Tears threatened to spill down his blood stain cheeks. 

As he lifted his gaze, he was met with the sight of the two men looming over him, their faces twisted with sadistic amusement. The one who had fired the shot let out a cruel laugh, his eyes alight with malice. "Did I kill ya yet?" he taunted, the callousness of his words echoing through the darkness like a death knell.

Arthur's attempts to speak were drowned out by a guttural moan, a haunting sound that echoed through the desolate night air, mirroring the agony that gripped his shattered body. Fear and desperation clawed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to engulf him in its heavy embrace.

“Let’s see if you survive this,” Connor’s voice taunted, each word full of tormented amusement, a cruel promise of further suffering.

A chill swept over Arthur as he felt the icy touch of metal against his left shoulder, the unmistakable sensation of the barrel of a rifle pressed against his flesh. With a sharp intake of breath, he braced himself for the inevitable onslaught, his heart hammering in his chest like a thunderous drumbeat.

Searing pain ripped through him as a bullet tore through his shoulder, sending shockwaves of anguish coursing through his already beaten form. The world around him blurred into a hazy fog of suffering, his consciousness slipping away into the abyss as darkness swallowed him whole.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The passage of time seemed as fleeting as the shifting clouds above, their transient dance across the sky mirroring Kate's restless thoughts. With each passing moment, her imagination wove a tapestry of dread, painting vivid scenes of tragedy. For every dire scenario she conjured, she grasped desperately for the slender threads of reason, clinging to the hope that Arthur's absence was merely a benign twist of fate. Dutch would have surely said something had the parley gone awry. 

But like a persistent tick embedded deep within her psyche, the gnawing sense of unease persisted, burrowing beneath her skin and refusing to be ignored. Despite her best efforts to quell the rising tide of fear, it lingered in the recesses of her mind, a haunting whisper of uncertainty.

Engulfed in a flurry of chores, Kate sought refuge in the mundane tasks of camp life, each action a feeble attempt to distract herself from the relentless thunder of worry. Yet, amidst the hustle and bustle, the absence of Arthur's reassuring presence weighed heavily upon her, a silent void that echoed with unanswered questions.

Yearning for solace, Kate longed to confide in someone who understood. With Sadie and Charles occupied elsewhere, she found herself adrift in a sea of unease, her anxious pacing along the shoreline of the camp a silent testament to her inner turmoil.

Beside her, Lorena mirrored her distress, her restless movements a silent plea for communication. Kate had to hitch her to a tree just shy of her tent, or else she feared Lorena would take off. Chasing, or running from something; Kate did not know. 

As the night stretched on, their shared distress only deepened, casting a shadow over their sleepless vigil. In the quiet darkness, they stood as silent sentinels, bound together by the unspoken fear that lurked just beyond the edge of sight.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

In the embrace of unconsciousness, Arthur drifted through the realm of dreams. The reality of his situation melted away like morning mist beneath the sun's gentle caress. In his coma, he found himself in a fantasy of domestic bliss, woven from the threads of his deepest longings and desires.

He stood within the sturdy confines of a wooden cabin, its walls shielding him from the world outside. With each breath, the scent of crackling firewood mingled with the sweet melody of Kate's voice, a symphony that filled the air with her warmth and comfort.

Looking around he saw tables and chairs worn by the effects of time, a home filled with comfort.

Summoned by the will of his imagination, Kate stood before him with her back turned. A vision of radiant beauty bathed in the golden hour of the sun. Her silhouette cast against the rustic walls, each line and curve a testament to her grace, her beauty. It framed her like a shining halo. In that moment, she was not just a woman, but an angel sent to soothe his weary soul. 

His own corner of personal heaven. Perhaps whatever God watched over him truly was a forgiving one.

With each step forward, Arthur felt the weight of the world fall away, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment that he had waited his whole life for. With arms outstretched, he enveloped her in a tender embrace, the warmth of her body a balm against the chill of his uncertainty.

With whispered words of love and adoration, he pressed his lips to her cheek, each kiss a vow of eternal affection. Her giggle felt like warm honey against his skin. In that fleeting moment, everything else ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them, bound together in his dreams.

Amidst his tender kisses, a symphony of innocence pierced the air—a soft patter of footsteps. Arthur turned, his heart aching, to find a shadow of a child standing in the doorway, a small horse plush nestled in his tiny grasp. Wordlessly, the child reached out, beckoning to be cradled in the safety of Arthur's embrace.

As he lifted the boy into his arms, a sudden chill seeped into his soul. His gaze drifted over the features of the boy's face, and realized it was son Isaac.

No, no this can't be –  He recoiled slightly at the icy feeling that lingered on his skin like a ghostly touch. 

Sorrow and confusion washed over him. He looked back to Kate for some explanation, and he froze. In her place stood another woman, a face from a past life. A life he fought to keep buried. Her apparition draped in the hues of bygone days. 

The sunlight waned, its golden tendrils fading into shadows that enveloped the cabin in an embrace as cold as death itself. And there, amidst the encroaching darkness, Arthur's worst fears took shape—a vision of Eliza.

Arthur felt like a fool to think he could ever be given a chance at redemption. Heaven would always be beyond his reach. 

Eliza's porcelain skin bore the scars of untold suffering, her once-vibrant eyes now veiled in a haunting white mist. A silent scream echoed in the depths of Arthur's soul as he beheld the gaping wound that marred her chest—a stark reminder of the violence that had torn her from this earth. In her last act as a mother to shield her child from the blow; his child.

With a heavy heart and trembling hands, Arthur attempted to retreat from the weight of his sin before him. The grief bearing down upon him like a heavy wet blanket. Cold, damp, and suffocating. 

As he cradled the lifeless form of the child in his arms, he could only utter a prayer—a whispered plea for forgiveness in the face of a tragedy too cruel to bear.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Eliza. I should have been there. I'm sorry. 

Eliza stood before him, undead. Her lips parted in a voiceless plea, a mournful wisp of breath that stirred the stagnant air. With hesitant steps, she approached Arthur, her gaze a haunting orchestra of longing, despair and pain. 

Arthur recoiled from her embrace, his heart aflutter with a tempest of emotions. Panic gnawed at his senses, the oppressive burden of the cabin's walls bearing down upon him like the burden of his guilt. 

Each of her steps echoed through the old cabin; her cabin. Once a warm bustling home, that he only visited in fleeting moments. Avoiding his duty as a father at almost any cost. 

Beneath his trembling feet, the floor lay slick with the crimson tide of regret, a macabre testament to the lives lost in the wake of his relentless pursuit of hatred and vengeance. Amongst the faceless of the fallen, he glimpsed the lifeless forms of Eliza and Isaac, their silent reproach a damning indictment of his failures. And yet, amidst the sea of carnage, Eliza stood undaunted, a haunting reminder of the family he had forsaken and the wounds that could never truly heal.

I was a fool Eliza, a goddamn fool. I know I shoulda been there for you and the boy. And I suffer for it everyday. 

With Eliza drawing near, Arthur found himself cornered, his back pressed against the hard wall. Yet, even in the throes of despair, he clung to Isaac's lifeless form, as if his embrace could breathe warmth back into the cold hands of death.

As Eliza's lips parted, a chilling sound pierced the silence—a twisted echo of Arthur's own voice, a haunting refrain of his darkest truths laid bare. Each word echoed through the chamber of his soul, a relentless cascade of self-condemnation that tore at the fabric of his being.

"I was born sick, unloved, and unwanted. But I am the master of my own torment," his voice whispered, a lamentation of a soul consumed by the flames of its own creation. "A prisoner of my own choosing, condemned to walk the path of the damned. I am just a vessel of violence, a predator in the shadows, thirsting for the blood of innocence."

In that moment, Arthur faced the reflection of his own sins, mirrored in the eyes of the woman he had failed, and the child he had forsaken. And as the weight of his remorse threatened to engulf him, he knew that redemption lay beyond the grasp of a soul consumed by the darkness within.

Arthur shut his eyes tight. Grief flooded him in waves that threatened to escape his eyes in hot tears. This must be a nightmare. He prayed it was only a nightmare. Unsure how he would deal with himself if this was his eternal damnation. Facing his past was a worse fate than death. 

Eliza continued, as he steeled himself, her sound began to grow louder in his ears. 

“I am not worthy of a woman such as Kate. I am a shadow in her light. I am like a cancer that thrives on her warmth. With every touch, I know I will take a piece of her body, mind, and soul with me as I am dragged into the darkest pits of hell. As heaven is not fit to house a man like me, and my love will never be enough.

But I fear I will do it all again anyways.” 

—

Arthur awakens with a groan, the sound distant and detached, ripped from a place within him he cannot recognize. At first, there is no pain, just a dreamlike fog enveloping his senses. Slowly, he peels open his heavy eyelids, feeling the weight of them threatening to fall from his skull. As the darkness begins to clear, he discerns the faint glimmer of light and the outlines of two figures. Blinking against the sliver of sun filtering through the cellar door above the stairs, he realizes where he is.

The voices of men reach his ears, and suddenly, pain floods through him like a relentless tide. A weeping moan escapes his lips as consciousness slowly returns. His vision is blurred, everything tinted red with blood. Each beat of his heart sends a throbbing ache through his head. His toes barely graze the ground beneath him as his wrists are bound above his head, a tight knot cutting off circulation to his arms. Suspended from the ceiling, his left arm remains numb, unable to twitch even his fingertips. Waves of burning sensation radiate from the rifle wound in his shoulder, coursing through his body like white flames.

Arthur strains to look down at himself, his neck protesting against the movement. Panic shrieks through his mind as he takes in the sight. Clad only in his red union suit, the buttons ripped down to his underwear, his stomach laid bare like a gruesome canvas. Yellow and purple bruises mar his skin, mingled with shallow cuts and the cruel imprints of cigarette burns.

Turning his head to the left, he gazes at what remains of his shoulder. His undershirt peeled back, sticky with blood and soot, the fabric singed at the edges. His eyes fall upon a black crater, a mutilating wound that sends waves of pain unlike anything he’s ever known coursing through his body. His side is soaked in his own blood, thick and cold, a chilling testament to the violence inflicted upon him.

Time becomes a blur as he hangs there, suspended in agony. He doesn’t know if it has been hours or days since he was captured. Fear gnaws at him, the weight of his own body threatening to tear his arm from its socket. Agony drowns out any coherent thoughts, burning hot and filling every pore of his body. Arthur mewls pathetically as he tries to move, his feeble attempts to escape futile against the overwhelming pain.

“Fuck, I think the ugly bastards finally awake.” Arthur was yanked from his haze by the voice of the young Irish O’Driscoll. He fixed his eyes on where they sat at a dusty and broken wooden table.

"Shit, and I was just gettin’ to the good part!" Connor's voice dripped with sarcasm as he tossed a leather book onto the table.

Sickened, Arthur felt the urge to curl into a hole and rot. He recognized that old binding anywhere—they were reading his journal. His most personal inner thoughts laid bare for these boys who hunted him, mercilessly beat him, to know the depths of his very soul. Every guilt, shame, love, and loss spilled across those pages. His darkest, most tormented thoughts exposed to the cruel light of day.

Arthur's spirit felt raped in a way it never had before.

Connor rose to his feet, sauntering over. Arthur could only stare at his legs, unable to lift his head to meet his eyes. Suddenly, the man pulled out a knife, and Arthur braced for the sting. But instead, he felt the rope above his wrists being cut. In the next instant, his head collided with the ground as his heavy body collapsed hard. Arthur coughed as the air was knocked from his lungs, his whines sounding wet and pained.

Nolan's voice cut through the air, dripping with snark, "Ya think that Kate girl will show up with the rest of 'em?"

"I'm counting on it. Colm might even let us keep her," came the dark chuckle of his companion. "As a reward."

A guttural noise clawed its way from Arthur's throat, a desperate denial. “Nghh-no.”

A flirtatious whistle pierced the tension as Nolan flipped through pages upon pages of drawings of Kate. "Christ, this fella's obsessed with her. You think he's some kind of pervert?" He tore one of the sketches from the journal, holding it up to the light. "She's a pretty thing. I bet she screams real nice too," he added wickedly before pocketing the paper.

Arthur's heart hammered in his chest. Would Kate arrive with Dutch and the gang? Was she walking into danger? He writhed on the ground, grappling with the dirt beneath him, consumed by the need to warn or stop them.

The conversation between his captors resurfaced in his mind. "When the law shows up, they'll fall right into his trap," they had said. Colm had orchestrated it all.

Images of Kate flashed through his mind, her face contorted in pain. He envisioned the horrors they might inflict upon her, and the realization struck him like a hammer blow. It would be all his fault, his negligence costing yet another innocent woman her life.

With a desperate cry, he attempted to rise from the ground, his belly scraping against the dirt. But before he could make any progress, a thick-heeled boot pinned him down, forcing the air from his lungs in a desperate squeal.

"You have something to say, piggy?" Connor spat, pressing down on Arthur's back.

"I-I'll kill,” he huffed, “y-ou," Arthur managed, his breaths coming in wheezes.

Connor chuckled, dismissing Arthur's threat with a wave of his hand as if he were a child. "What do you wanna do with 'em, Nolan?" he asked, ignoring Arthur's gasping for air.

Nolan rose from his seat, looming over Arthur's broken body. "Colm won't be here till tomorrow. I say we have some fun with 'em. Long as he don't die."

The pressure on Arthur's chest eased, allowing him to suck in a dusty breath that sent him into a fit of coughs. Before he could fully recover, he was yanked up by fistfuls of his hair, eliciting a wince of pain. He tried to grab the man's arm in vain.

From behind, the other man reached around, grabbing Arthur's bound wrists. A scream tore through him as his shattered shoulder was wrenched backwards. His ripped union suit slid off his shoulders, exposing his vulnerable chest. Kneeling before his captors, he felt utterly helpless.

"Mmf-st..stop.." he pleaded, his voice raw and dry.

"Aww, I think piggy's a little thirsty," Nolan taunted, his voice dripping with malice.

His lips were suddenly greeted by the cold, unyielding touch of a bottle. The overpowering scent of whiskey flooded his senses, drowning out any rational thought. Before he could even think to hold his breath, the fiery liquid surged down his throat, choking him.

Gagging and coughing, Arthur attempted to move his head, to resist the forceful flow of alcohol, but it was futile. One hand gripped his hair, holding his head in place, while the other shoved the bottle deeper into his mouth.

With no other choice, Arthur was forced to swallow. He sputtered and struggled to keep up with the relentless stream, the liquor dribbling down the sides of his mouth and soaking his chest. His feeble attempts to resist earned him a punishing blow to the gut.

"Quit wastin' it, I'm bein' generous!" the man boasted callously, releasing his hold on Arthur's head, leaving him to collapse under the weight of the pain. Arthur coughed violently, his nose burning with each harsh exhale, the sound of his hacking mingling with the haunting laughter that filled the room.

"Guess the fella can't handle his booze," the Irishman taunted, bending down to Arthur's level.

Arthur groaned, his body wracked with agony as he struggled to alleviate the pressure on his throbbing shoulder. The pain, coupled with the fiery sensation in his belly, left his chest heaving with each labored breath. Nausea churned in his gut like a relentless storm, threatening to overwhelm him. With a desperate effort, he managed to rise slightly from the ground, the weight on his knees straining his body. As he lurched forward, a warm sensation crept up his throat, signaling the imminent release of his body's revolt.

"Hurl on me and I’ll kill you right now, big fella," the man warned before delivering a punishing blow to Arthur's stomach with his boot.

A strangled groan tore from Arthur's throat, raw and primal, like the cry of a wounded beast. He couldn't control it—his stomach convulsed, expelling its contents onto the filthy floor and down his chest. Acid scorched his throat and nose as he desperately turned his head to avoid drowning in his own vomit.

Violent tremors wracked his body as he fought to stay upright, struggling to draw in breaths amidst the agony. Hot tears and saliva mingled on his chin, his chest heaving with the effort to gulp down air. He wanted to plead for mercy, but he felt utterly powerless already.

The O'Driscolls reacted with disgust, their chorus of revulsion echoing in the dimly lit cellar. One of them approached Arthur, leaning in close to his ear with contempt dripping from his voice. "Filthy pig," he spat, his saliva landing on Arthur's face. "You're going back to sleep."

A heavy hand seized Arthur's neck, forcefully pressing his head into the solid ground, into his own sickening mess. His vision blurred, the world spinning as darkness enveloped him once more.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As the sun dipped on the horizon of the third day, Kate's resolve solidified. She could no longer abide by the passive whispers of concern that lingered unspoken in the shadows. Arthur's absence loomed like a gaping wound, and she refused to tiptoe around it any longer.

Seated alone by the fire, she felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon her. The flames flickered, casting dancing light upon her face as her mind whirled with plans. No longer content to wait for answers that may never come, she made a silent vow to look for Arthur herself.

With each passing moment, her determination grew stronger. Nobody in camp seemed to question Arthur’s absence, and it drove Kate mad. Had no one else thought the parley was suspicious? No one questioned Dutch on what happened? There were missing pieces to all of this, and Arthur left the biggest hole in her puzzle. 

With a resolute nod, Kate rose to her feet. She knew she couldn't rely on anyone else for this task. Charles and Sadie were miles away on their own assignments, leaving her to face this alone. Setting her sights on Rhodes, she vowed to start her search at the sheriff station

As Kate turned, she collided with Molly O’Shea, the unexpected impact nearly causing her to stumble backward. "Oh! Sorry, Molly, I didn’t hear you walk over," she apologized quickly, her movements indicating her intention to go around her.

Molly's eyes held an air of unease that mirrored Kate's own for a fleeting moment. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Kate paused, her concern evident in her voice as she spoke. "Is everything okay?"

“I heard Dutch say last night that Arthur was supposed to meet them after the parley,” Molly blurted hastily, her thick Irish accent hushed with urgency. “But he didn’t.”

Kate felt the heat drain from her body as her mind raced to process Molly’s words. She realized with a sinking feeling that it wasn't Dutch who was in danger—it was Arthur.

Struggling to find the right words to convey her gratitude, Kate's mouth went dry as she attempted to speak. Before she could utter a single word, Molly gently grasped Kate's wrist, her touch imbued with a sense of urgency. “I snuck a look at Dutch’s map. The meeting was held between the twin stacks path. Arthur was supposed to be on the slope facing Emerald Ranch,” Molly whispered, her words echoing in Kate's mind as she repeated the location to herself.

"I-I don’t know how to thank you, Molly–" Kate stuttered, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Good luck, Kate,” Molly whispered in response, before walking away as if their encounter had been nothing out of the ordinary.

Without another word, Kate hastened toward her horse, Lorena, whose restless movements reflected her own unease. As she mounted her steed, Lorena reared up, pulling at the reins with a sense of urgency. Before Kate could fully settle into the saddle, her mare was already in motion, galloping like a bolt of lightning out of Clemens Point and down the winding path that led to the fateful meeting spot where she and Arthur had first crossed paths.

Molly returned to her seat in the solitude of the empty tent she shared with Dutch. Cooling herself with a paper fan. She had been a silent witness to Kate’s nightly ritual of pacing the shoreline, her silhouette framed by the moonlight reflected off the water. Each night Arthur had not returned Molly felt a pang of empathy. She knew all too well the ache of devotion, mixed with fear. When the one you love vanishes without a trace.

It resonated within her own heart, the longing echoed in her soul. Her thoughts drifted to Dutch, the man she loved dear. Though he had not disappeared from her physically. Each day she felt him slipping away, morphing into a man she did not recognize. A ghost of the person she once knew. She prayed her information had spared Kate from that kind of torment. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Nothing I do is ever good. Nothing I do is ever good enough. 

Time becomes a blur for Arthur, lost in the dark confines of the cellar-turned-prison. Pain surges through him in relentless waves, crashing against the shores of his consciousness like a violent storm.

When he awakens, it's with a sharp intake of breath, his vision swimming in a haze of stars and swirling shades of red and brown. He realizes he's been moved, his captors stringing him up by his ankles while he was lost in silent, dark unconsciousness. His head hangs just a few feet from the ground, blood trickling down his legs once more, the shackles around his ankles digging deep into his flesh under the impossible weight of his own body.

Gazing up at his toes, now swollen and blackened, Arthur feels a sickening dread grip his heart. The blood pounding in his head threatens to burst his eyes from their sockets, forcing him to tightly shut them against the unbearable pressure.

Every inch of his body screams with agony, a symphony of torment orchestrated by his captors' relentless brutality. He feels broken, bruised, numb; yet aflame with searing pain.

Amidst the haze of suffering, distant voices drift in and out of his awareness. Arthur longs to retreat into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness, or perhaps even embrace the release of death, anything to escape the unending torment.

But he is not granted reprieve. Unseen hands assault him, tearing at his clothing and underwear until he is completely exposed to the biting chill of the cellar air. Violated, helpless, he endures their cruel touch, their probing fingers exacerbating his wounds, their blows landing like thunder against his battered form.

Silenced by the agony of his soul, Arthur can only shudder and gasp, his protests drowned out by the symphony of his own suffering.

The cruel banter of his captors cuts through the stale air of the cellar, their words dripping with venomous amusement. "Look at the size of this fella," the Irishman sneers, his tone thick with bitterness. "No wonder that Kate lass is stickin' around. Probably only usin' 'em for his cock."

Their laughter echoes like the cawing of carrion birds, feasting on the remains of a fallen prey. "Well, he's got three holes now," another voice chimes in, laced with malicious glee. "I reckon that mouth of his is soft and warm like her cunt."

Arthur's stomach churns with revulsion and fear as he listens to their degrading remarks, feeling utterly defenseless in the face of their cruelty. The sound of shuffling fabric signals Nolan's approach, his presence looming over Arthur like a shadow in the darkness. His hips suddenly inches from Arthur’s face.

In a moment of desperate reprieve, Arthur's consciousness fades into blackness, a merciful respite from the fear, shame, and agony that threaten to consume him. When he awakens, it's with a choking cough, his own sickness coating his face.

With a trembling hand, he wipes away the vile residue, his body racked with pain and exhaustion. The cellar's frigid air hangs heavy with the stench of vomit and decay, suffocating him further as he struggles to draw breath.

Each inhale is a laborious effort, his lungs rattling with the strain as they gasp for oxygen. With every passing moment, the weight of his battered body grows heavier, his limbs hanging limp and lifeless in the oppressive darkness.

As the cellar door groans open, Arthur stirs from his fitful slumber, the sound of three distinct sets of footsteps descending the stairs sends a chill down his spine.

"Arthur Morgan," a familiar cloying voice, slices through the darkness like a dagger. Arthur winces as the figure steps into the flickering candlelight, casting ominous shadows against the damp stone walls. Unmistakably Colm O'Driscoll.

A wave of dread washes over Arthur, and he recoils instinctively as Colm draws near. "How's that wound treating you?" His words drip with false concern, a mockery of compassion.

Coughing weakly, blood staining his parched lips, Arthur manages to murmur, "c-can’t…fe-feel it any…more," his voice trembling with pain and despair.

Colm leans in, his expression twisted with disdain as he inspects Arthur's festering wound. The skin was turning black and yellow. The putrid odor assaults his senses, and Colm's lip curls in disgust. "You ain't allowed to die yet," he sneers. "I wanna see the look in your eyes when Van der Linde and that so-called family of his gets a bullet to the skull."

Arthur croaks, “D-dutch…is-is he…” His mind whirls with thoughts of Dutch, Hosea, and Kate, their faces blurred by anguish and uncertainty. He struggles to recall why he's here, and if his friends are even still alive. Perhaps they've already fallen into his trap, and he's the lone survivor, kept alive for Colm's sadistic pleasure.

Colm grips Arthur's hair tightly, yanking him closer with a cruel smirk etched upon his ugly scarred face. "Could've saved yourself a lot of pain if you'd worked for me," he taunts. "We could've been partners in crime, making real money together."

Rage surged through Arthur like a wildfire, fueled by a defiance that refused to be extinguished. It was never about the money to him. "I-I'll fu-fucking…k-ill y-you," he spat, the words punctuated by a wad of blood and mucus aimed at Colm's face.

Colm's features contorted with fury as he jerked Arthur's head back, sending him swinging on his shackles. Dazed and nauseous, Arthur felt the impact of a heavy fist against his stomach. A sickening warmth spread down his body, mingling with the stench of blood and vomit. He realized with horror, the fullness of his bladder now emptying uncontrollably, adding another layer of humiliation to his degradation.

Drenched in his own bodily fluids, Arthur trembled with fear. "P-please," he choked out, his voice a desperate plea for mercy. "Just…l-le…let me go—" His words dissolved into sobs, his pride shattered by the harsh reality of his helplessness. He knew he sounded pitiful, weak, but in this moment, all he could do was beg for the slightest glimmer of hope, completely at the mercy of Colm's tenacious grip.

"The way I see it," Colm continued, his voice flowing with disdain, "the law gets Van der Linde, and they forget all about little ole me." He taunted, his filthy fingernails tracing over Arthur's bruised abdomen, descending to the tangled hair below his navel.

Arthur only whimpered in response, his body squirming and contorting under Colm's touch, indifferent to the pain shooting through his ankles. He kicked his feet desperately, not caring if he ripped the flesh. A futile attempt to escape, accompanied by the distant snickers of the other O'Driscolls.

"We grab all of ya, let the law have their fun…then we disappear. Leaving you here to rot in your own shit," Colm continued, his grin sinister as he yanked a fistful of hair, as if trying to tear it from the follicle. Arthur's breath hitched sharply, coughing up more blood onto his lips.

"Ngh..s-stop…please," he pleaded, his voice strained with anguish.

As the fog in his mind began to clear, Arthur realized the gravity of Colm's words. He had been kidnapped not for ransom, but as bait for Dutch and the gang. They would come charging to his rescue, only to fall into a trap orchestrated by Colm, sealing their own fates.

"You're his right hand man, Arthur, oh he would be so mad if he knew what I'm gonna do to you." Colm's laughter echoed through the cellar, cruel and triumphant, as he used his grip on Arthur's hair to spin him wildly. He thrashed in agony, his cries drowned out by the darkness.

Abruptly, Colm halted the motion, leaving Arthur's head spinning with dizziness. In the haze of his vision, he caught sight of Colm retrieving a small knife from his pocket.

“Get m’f-fuck…away fr’m-me!” He mustered, his voice broken like a beaten dog. 

Before he could even brace himself for the inevitable blow, Colm thrust the knife into his belly.

The scream that tore from Arthur's lips was primal, guttural, a symphony of agony that reverberated through the cellar. Like the sound of an animal being burned alive. Breathing heavily through his teeth, the pain engulfed him. Splintering inwards. A relentless torrent that seared his insides with a fiery intensity. Blood and bile rose in his throat, threatening to choke him with their suffocating heat.

Colm stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans with casual indifference, as if he had just completed the mundane task of skinning an animal. "We'll come wake ya when the party arrives," he spat, his voice laced with contempt. "Make sure ya get a front row seat for the show."

With heavy footsteps, Colm and his companions departed, leaving behind an oppressive silence that enveloped Arthur like a shroud. Alone in the darkness, his sobs mingled with the echo of his labored breathing, his fragile existence sustained only by the stubborn beat of his heart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

In the waning light, between the towering monoliths of the twin stacks, Kate stood alone, her gaze fixed westward toward Emerald Ranch. The memories of their first meeting still vivid in her mind. Every step forward felt heavy with dread, each breath drawn laden with uncertainty. She braced herself for the task ahead, steeling her resolve to confront the unknown. 

Amidst the barren expanse, an object caught her eye—a solitary figure in the dust. Arthur's hat, a weathered relic of countless battles, lay abandoned upon the ground. Its frayed edges whispered tales of long sunny days on the prairie, and cold rainy evenings as it shielded his face from the oncoming storm. A silent testament to his indomitable spirit.

As she reached out to retrieve the hat, a surge of anguish washed over her. Arthur's absence echoed through the empty landscape, like a gaping void in her heart. Yet the hat remained, a tangible reminder of his presence.

Kate brought the hat to her face, inhaling deeply the familiar scent of pine and musk mingled with campfire smoke. Arthur’s smell. A familiar scent she had begun to associate with home. Tears threatened to blur her vision as she clung to the cherished memento, her heart heavy with worry and longing. It was one piece of himself Arthur would never leave behind, not if he could help it. His gamblers hat was an extension of himself. 

Amidst the intruding darkness, she traced the crimson stains upon the rocky earth, following their trail with a sinking heart. Three sets of tracks emerged from the shadows, leading northward past the stacks—a grim indication of Arthur's fate.

Kate knew at that moment the law didn’t have him. The closest sheriff station was back east. Had he been arrested, news of his capture would be in the paper by now. The gang would have already planned to break him out. Before he would be hanged for his transgressions, his death a spectacle for the crowd. Like his life was nothing more than a circus act. 

Kate was no stranger to the harsh realities of the world, she had once wielded the blade herself, inflicting torment upon any who dared challenge her. If Colm's men had taken Arthur, she knew they would subject him to unspeakable horrors. Time was slipping away, and with each passing moment, his fate was slipping through her fingers.

Climbing back in the saddle she took off, following the tracks as the sun set to the west of her, casting a deep shadow onto the land. Like a bird in graceful flight, its silhouette gliding over the sun, the darkness mirrored its ghostly journey on the earth below.

"I'm coming, Arthur," she whispered, her voice carried away with the evening breeze. "Please, don't give up on me."

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Hours later, Arthur stirred from the depths of sleep, his body an orchestra of aches and throbs. Yet amidst the pain, the surge of adrenaline lent clarity to his thoughts. For the first time in an eternity, his mind emerged from the murky depths of fear and uncertainty, guided by an unseen force, a flicker of determination that refused to be extinguished. An arm of support that gently held his heart, and willed it to keep beating.

In the recesses of his consciousness, Kate's presence loomed large, her tender care a distant memory amidst his current turmoil. He recalled the night she had tended to his wounds, her gentle touch and warm words a soothing balm to his battered soul. Oh, how he yearned to hold her, to envelop her in an embrace and bask in the warmth of her presence.

Her words that night, soft as a whispered prayer, stirred a tempest within him. Regret washed over Arthur like a relentless tide, for not seizing the moment to bare his soul, to taste the sweetness of her lips in that fleeting moment. A vulnerability, veiled by fear, held him captive, yet now he feared the chance might never come again.

"I'm always here if you need a hand," her offer, a mere echo in the vast expanse of their shared moments, resonated deep within his being. Beyond the surface, he understood its true meaning, Kate had shown him time and time again that she was patient and resilient. She had already pledged unwavering loyalty, a vow to stand steadfast by his side. 

With certainty, he envisioned Kate riding alongside Dutch, her fate entwined with theirs, destined for a violent end. He could not bear the thought. It was like barbed wire around his throat. Arthur couldn’t allow that. He was the protector, he was the strong arm. He would shield her from every blow if it ever came to it. 

He would crawl home on his hands and knees if he had to, back to the gang, back to the closest thing he had to family. Back to her. 

In the dim candlelit room, Arthur's senses swam in a haze of crimson. His eyes, heavy as lead, strained against the oppressive darkness. Alone in the cellar, he listened to the distant crackle of a fire and the muffled voices beyond the stone walls. He quickly realized he was alone.

With a groan, he lifted his gaze to his body, bathed in the flickering light. His torn union suit exposed to the chill of the dank air, while the glint of steel protruded from his belly. The knife, a silent tormentor, surrounded by angry, swollen flesh, oozing rivulets of blood like winding red streams.

It was his only chance, a gamble with his own mortality. With a determined resolve, Arthur braced himself and grasped the hilt of the silver dagger. A muffled cry escaped his lips as he wrenched it from his abdomen. A rush of warmth flooded his side, pooling around him in a macabre embrace. As the wine red tide gushed, the world spun around him, threatening to engulf him in an abyss of darkness from which he might never return.

Summoning every ounce of strength, Arthur clenched his teeth and pulled up. With the knife gripped tightly in his good hand, he strained against the weight of his own body, reaching desperately for the lock that bound the shackles to his ankles. Each labored breath expelled blood onto his chest, a stark reminder of his life threatening state.

Years of Dutch’s patient tutelage in lock picking flashed through his mind, a skill honed in moments of leisure now turned to desperate necessity. With a primal cry, Arthur thrust the blade into the lock, his hands trembling with fatigue and adrenaline. Time seemed to stretch into eternity as he wrestled with the unforgiving metal, his fingers numb and unresponsive.

Then, with a sudden, almost miraculous click, the lock yielded to his persistence. The shackles fell away, and Arthur collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving floor, his body trembling with exhaustion. Every fiber of his being screamed for rest, for the sweet embrace of surrender. Yet, even as despair threatened to engulf him, a flicker of determination ignited within his soul. He refused to yield, refused to succumb to the weight of his own despair.

Despite the agony coursing through his body, Arthur mustered the strength to turn himself over, his groan echoing in the dimly lit cellar. The slick floor beneath him bore witness to the blood trail he left in his wake as he reached for his journal and satchel, discarded amidst his own filth.

With determination etched into every line of his beaten weary face, he stretched out his good arm, using the wall for support as he dragged his battered form inch by painstaking inch toward the door. Each movement sent waves of pain rippling through him, threatening to engulf him in darkness. Fueled by an unyielding resolve, he pressed on, driven by an instinctual tug toward freedom. Dragging his knees up each step of the cellar.

He refused to succumb to the pain, pushing himself forward with sheer force of will. Each labored breath threatened to be his last, but he refused to entertain the notion of surrender. This would not be his final chapter, and he would not allow Kate to suffer the same cruel fate. He held out hope that he would see her again, even if it was his final moments he would spare no time in warning her of the threat that loomed just out of reach. Waiting like a snake in the tall grass, ready to strike its unsuspecting victim. 

The fools had left the door unlocked, a small oversight that granted Arthur an opportunity. With a grunt, he pushed against the door, surprised by its lightness. In an instant, he was bathed in the cool embrace of the night air, a welcome respite from the stale confines of the cellar. The night air is fresh and crisp, but like a soothing balm against his weakened lungs. 

The darkness enveloped him in his embrace as he emerged, the stars above his only witness. In the distance, a flickering campfire cast dancing shadows, accompanied by the murmur of many voices. More of Colm's men lingered nearby, their presence a reminder of the danger that lurked. 

Arthur wasted no time, he needed to be quick before they realized he had escaped, frightened by the idea of what they would do to him if they caught him. With caution born of desperation, he lowered himself onto the dew-kissed grass, the sensation offering a fleeting comfort to his battered frame. Every movement was accompanied by a sting of pain as twigs and rocks scraped against his skin, but he persevered, inching his way toward the side of the house.

A sudden scuffle in the dark sent Arthur's heart into a frantic rhythm. He braced himself for danger, muscles tensed for a confrontation that never came. Instead, a soft whinny broke the silence, a familiar sound that stirred a glimmer of hope within him.

Arthur looked up, his vision swirled, but he would recognize that pearl white coat anywhere. Belle. His mare was hitched to a tree just shy of where he had been kept prisoner. With renewed determination, he quickened his pace toward her, each step a struggle against his battered body.

Reaching out to grasp her reins, Arthur was met with unexpected resistance as Belle recoiled, fear evident in her wild eyes. He coaxed her gently, murmuring soothing words as he leaned heavily against the sturdy trunk of the tree. In the dim moonlight, he noticed the dark crimson stains marring her once perfect white fur, a grim reminder of the violence that had unfolded in his absence.

"Oh, my sweet girl… What did they do to you?" Arthur's voice was a tender murmur as he reached out to her, his fingers brushing against her shaken form.  Belle trembled before him, her hind legs quivering like fragile branches in a fierce storm. "Shhh, shh. You're alright now…"

Belle's ears twitched nervously in response, but Arthur knew he couldn't linger. The pain pulsating in his side intensified with each passing moment, and the trail of blood he left behind painted a grim picture of his dwindling durability. Summoning the last shreds of his strength, he untied her reins and hoisted himself into the saddle, his movements slow and labored.

Every motion was agony, every breath a struggle against the darkness threatening to consume him. With great effort, he swung his leg over Belle's back, his body hunched over her pristine mane. Arthur held on tightly, the warmth of her presence offering a faint glimmer of comfort amidst the chaos.

As Belle began to move, Arthur rocked gently in the saddle, his body protesting with each jarring step. But there was no time to dwell on pain or weakness. With a surge of determination fueled by fear and longing for freedom, Belle broke into a gallop, carrying Arthur away from the shadows that had haunted them both.

The rush of wind against his face felt like a bittersweet embrace, a fleeting taste of liberty amidst the suffocating grip of captivity. And as the darkness closed in once more, Arthur surrendered to its embrace, his consciousness slipping away like a fading whisper in the night.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate felt like she was staring down death between its eyes. 

She had spent hours following the trail, a winding path that seemed to vanish and reappear at will. With the setting sun, darkness enveloped the landscape, making it increasingly difficult to discern the tracks from the myriad of others imprinted upon the earth. The prints of three riders merged seamlessly with those of the countless travelers who had passed this way before, creating a labyrinth of confusion.

Despite the growing sense of desperation gnawing at her heart, Kate refused to succumb to despair. With each passing moment, her pulse quickened with the weight of impending dread, the relentless march of time driving her forward. Each minute stretched into an eternity, a torturous reminder of the urgency of her quest.

Undeterred by the encroaching darkness, Kate retraced her steps, her eyes scanning the ground for any trace that might lead her to Arthur's captors. Determination burned within her, a fierce flame that illuminated the path ahead even as shadows threatened to consume her. She knew that she would search until the first light of dawn if necessary, unwilling to abandon her friend to the mercy of his tormentors.

As if guided by a twisted hand of fate, she stumbled upon a vantage point overlooking a serene waterfall. Bathed in the ethereal glow of the moonlight, a sudden glimmer of white caught her eye amidst the darkness, resembling a fleeting star in the night sky. Squinting against the veil of shadows, she discerned a figure sprawled on the ground below.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she approached on horseback, the air thick with anticipation. Realization dawned, and with a desperate urgency, Kate flung herself from the saddle and rushed to Arthur's side. His body lay crumpled in the dirt, a haunting sight that sent shivers down her spine.

A surge of panic gripped her, rendering her mind blank as she absorbed the gravity of the situation. It was as if she was staring into the abyss of death itself, uncertainty clouding her thoughts like a turbulent storm. With trembling lungs, she dared to wonder: am I too late?

In a sudden moment of awakening, Arthur emitted a low groan, stirring Kate from her daze. With tender hands, she reached down and cradled his battered face, the chill of his skin a stark contrast to her warmth. Once handsome features now bore the brutal marks of violence—black and blue bruises adorned his visage, while deep cuts marred his brows and lips.

“Oh, Arthur,” she murmured softly, her voice a delicate whisper as if afraid to disturb a baby from its fragile slumber. A tremor coursed through her lip, tears welling in her eyes and blurring her sight.

“Arthur,” Repeating his name like a sacred invocation, she sank to her knees in the dirt, wrapping one arm around his torso. Her breath hitched at the sight of the gaping wound carved into his left shoulder, a dark abyss that seemed to swallow the very essence of hope. Gently easing him onto his back, her throat constricted with a wave of anguish as she beheld the extent of his injuries.

His torn undersuit left him exposed to the unforgiving elements, his stomach and chest stained with a mixture of blood and dirt. Bruises, a tapestry of purples and yellows, painted almost every inch of his battered skin. But it was the festering wound in his stomach that seized her attention, a steady bubbling stream of blood served as a grim reminder that she was still running out of time. 

She couldn't fathom how he managed to escape, but in that moment, it didn't matter. Arthur was back in her embrace, and time was their only remaining lifeline.

As Kate attempted to lift him, he winced in agony, his eyes fluttering open. Once a beautiful deep blue, they were now swollen and obscured by blood.

Arthur had shed copious amounts of blood since extracting the small steel knife from his side, his mind teetering on the edge of delirium. Hovering between the realms of existence and oblivion, he questioned the reality before him. When the familiar warmth of Kate's hands caressed his cold, weary face, he entertained the notion that perhaps she had been his guide all along, a psychopomp leading his fractured soul into the unknown.

She spoke to him, but her words were drowned out by a deafening ringing in his ears. In that moment, he felt it might be his final breath, but he found solace in the thought of resting beside her, his last act of devotion to warn her of the impending danger.

"Kate," he managed to rasp, his voice strained, "it’s…it’s a t-trap." With trembling fingers, he reached out to grasp her arm.

Her voice, a soothing melody in the chaos, reached him, "I know, honey, I know," she reassured him, her thumb tracing gentle circles on his cheek.

Arthur's urgency escalated, "Th-they'll k-ill… you," he struggled to rise, his efforts met with a wince of pain, "Dutch, I… I-I have to… warn him." He fought against the agony, his body writhing on the ground in an attempt to compose himself.

"Shh, easy, honey, I'm right here," Kate comforted, her words a balm to his panicked soul, "I'm going to take you home." She knew Dutch wouldn't come for him. She was his only hope.

Tears, warm as summer rain, streamed down her cheeks as Kate beheld him in agonizing pain. She longed to erase the brutal images of his torture etched in her mind, willing to claw her own eyes out to rid herself of the haunting sight. Regret gnawed at her, wishing she had searched for him sooner, trusting her instincts and her faithful mare who sensed the danger from the start. If only she could shield him from suffering, but all she could do was cradle him in her arms and summon the strength to lead him home.

His breaths quickened, lips trembling, cheeks shimmering in the moonlight as tears mingled with blood and grime. Kate pressed her forehead against his, placing a tender kiss on the bridge of his nose. "I'm so sorry, Arthur," she murmured amid her own silent tears. "I promise to bring you home. You're safe now. You're safe," she repeated, a whispered mantra of hope and solace.

The moonlit night felt strangely empty, punctuated only by the distant murmur of the nearby waterfall. With a sharp whistle, Kate commanded Lorena to kneel, bringing her closer to the ground.

Bracing herself, Kate wrapped her arm around Arthur's waist, feeling the weight of his pain with each whimper that escaped his lips. "I've got you, Arthur," she murmured, determination lacing her words. "I won't let go. Just hold on tight to me, alright?"

His labored breaths filled the night air as she maneuvered him into the saddle, settling herself in front of him. The task seemed insurmountable; she needed one hand for Belle's reins, the faithful mare bearing the burden of her own torment. With her free hand, Kate clung to Arthur, his cold, wet form pressing against her skin. He seemed to embody death itself, his scent a sickening mixture of the metallic tang of blood and bodily fluids.

Kate's heart pulsed with the weight of his condition, each beat echoing like a stone sinking into a tranquil pond. His body, cold and broken, found solace in the warmth of Kate's embrace. She was his guiding light, a beacon amidst the darkness that enveloped them. In her arms, he felt a sense of security, akin to a child cradled in the arms of a loving mother.

With his trembling hand clutching her tightly, he whispered her name, “Kate…” his voice a desperate plea for solace, for reassurance, for escape from the torment that surrounded them. Kate could offer nothing but her unwavering presence, her words a gentle murmur of comfort as they embarked on the long journey home.

As Lorena maintained her steady stride, the passage of time stretched before them like an endless expanse. With her hands occupied, Kate placed her trust in her faithful mare, each hoofbeat a testament to their shared urgency.

Alone with her thoughts, engulfed by the fear that Arthur might slip away from her grasp, Kate turned to the only refuge she knew: prayer.

She prayed to her mother for strength, her father for wisdom. With a heavy heart, she sought solace from her siblings, urging them to extend their gentle hands of comfort to both her and Arthur. In the depths of her anguish, Kate's prayers reached out to her husband and daughter, silently imploring for their support and guidance. She longed for their presence to envelop them both, for she needed their reassurance now more than ever.

The ache of losing yet another loved one gnawed at her soul, a pain all too familiar. Kate feared she would not withstand the agony if Arthur were to slip away. The thought of starting anew, of becoming someone else after this loss, felt unbearable. It was as if God had marked her hands since childhood, decreeing that every soul she held dear would be untimely ripped from her embrace.

A poignant memory of River flooded Kate's mind, the day he mourned the loss of his wife and child. Amidst his anguish, he had railed against his God, offering his own soul in exchange for theirs. He had once confided in her that their God watched over them, listening to their pleas. Sometimes it intervened and sometimes it did not. 

In a moment of desperation, Kate cried out into the chilly night air, invoking the ancient tongue River had taught her—a language born of the elements: water, fire, air, and earth. “I will make a deal with you,” she cried. To whom she addressed her plea, she could not say. "If this is our fate," she implored, her voice trembling, "so be it. But spare him and take me instead. I offer myself for his salvation," her words echoed through the silent darkness. "I was given a chance at redemption long ago, but please, give him a chance to seek his own. His heart is pure, I know it."

But of course, nothing replied to her in the night. Save for the whisper of an owl and the rustle of leaves in the wind. "Take my soul for his," she whispered, her voice barely a murmur against the darkness.

Arthur stirred in his slumber beside her, his lips yearning for the kiss he once denied. In his dreams, they met, releasing the longing he dared not express.

The world seemed to unfold anew, reborn in her presence. Her voice, like the gentle morning, whispered into his soul, slowly emerging like the dawn. His heart swelled in her presence, lifting him to new heights, unwilling to look down.

--

AN: This chapter was so hard to write. I had to take frequent breaks just for my own mental health it was breaking my heart. Since Arthur doesn't have TB in this fic, this event will kind of be the turning point for him. His injuries are going to render him disabled and he'll be forced to confront the idea that his days as a gunslinging outlaw are finally at an end. You'll start to see more of that in the upcoming chapters. I wish I could say that the next chapter will be happier, but alas, it's now Kates turn to suffer. But she will do everything she can to save Arthur from his torment. As always thank you so much for reading/commenting/reblogging, this story has become so important to me and I appreciate every single one of you that's supporting me on this journey!

[renewing]

i made a few wallpaper sets from daniels merch design! download and repost to cheer the dr3 nation <3

!all design credits to respective authors (whom i couldnt find on the website) and daniel ricciardo's brand enchanté (is this a proper way of crediting? idk 😭 i hope it is)

[blackswaneuroparedux]

“There is a difference between Catholic and Protestant attitudes to painting," he explained as he worked, "but it is not necessarily as great as you may think. Paintings may serve a spiritual purpose for Catholics, but remember too that Protestants see God everywhere, in everything. By painting everyday things - tables and chairs, bowls and pitchers, soldiers and maids - are they not celebrating God's creation as well?”

- Tracy Chevalier, Girl with a Pearl Earring

[fatehbaz]

[T]he Dutch Republic, like its successor the Kingdom of the Netherlands, [...] throughout the early modern period had an advanced maritime [trading, exports] and (financial) service [banking, insurance] sector. Moreover, Dutch involvement in Atlantic slavery stretched over two and a half centuries. [...] Carefully estimating the scope of all the activities involved in moving, processing and retailing the goods derived from the forced labour performed by the enslaved in the Atlantic world [...] [shows] more clearly in what ways the gains from slavery percolated through the Dutch economy. [...] [This web] connected them [...] to the enslaved in Suriname and other Dutch colonies, as well as in non-Dutch colonies such as Saint Domingue [Haiti], which was one of the main suppliers of slave-produced goods to the Dutch economy until the enslaved revolted in 1791 and brought an end to the trade. [...] A significant part of the eighteenth-century Dutch elite was actively engaged in financing, insuring, organising and enabling the slave system, and drew much wealth from it. [...] [A] staggering 19% (expressed in value) of the Dutch Republic's trade in 1770 consisted of Atlantic slave-produced goods such as sugar, coffee, or indigo [...].

---

One point that deserves considerable emphasis is that [this slave-based Dutch wealth] [...] did not just depend on the increasing output of the Dutch Atlantic slave colonies. By 1770, the Dutch imported over fl.8 million worth of sugar and coffee from French ports. [...] [T]hese [...] routes successfully linked the Dutch trade sector to the massive expansion of slavery in Saint Domingue [the French colony of Haiti], which continued until the early 1790s when the revolution of the enslaved on the French part of that island ended slavery.

Before that time, Dutch sugar mills processed tens of millions of pounds of sugar from the French Caribbean, which were then exported over the Rhine and through the Sound to the German and Eastern European ‘slavery hinterlands’.

---

Coffee and indigo flowed through the Dutch Republic via the same trans-imperial routes, while the Dutch also imported tobacco produced by slaves in the British colonies, [and] gold and tobacco produced [by slaves] in Brazil [...]. The value of all the different components of slave-based trade combined amounted to a sum of fl.57.3 million, more than 23% of all the Dutch trade in 1770. [...] However, trade statistics alone cannot answer the question about the weight of this sector within the economy. [...] 1770 was a peak year for the issuing of new plantation loans [...] [T]he main processing industry that was fully based on slave-produced goods was the Holland-based sugar industry [...]. It has been estimated that in 1770 Amsterdam alone housed 110 refineries, out of a total of 150 refineries in the province of Holland. These processed approximately 50 million pounds of raw sugar per year, employing over 4,000 workers. [...] [I]n the four decades from 1738 to 1779, the slave-based contribution to GDP alone grew by fl.20.5 million, thus contributing almost 40% of all growth generated in the economy of Holland in this period. [...]

---

These [slave-based Dutch commodity] chains ran from [the plantation itself, through maritime trade, through commodity processing sites like sugar refineries, through export of these goods] [...] and from there to European metropoles and hinterlands that in the eighteenth century became mass consumers of slave-produced goods such as sugar and coffee. These chains tied the Dutch economy to slave-based production in Suriname and other Dutch colonies, but also to the plantation complexes of other European powers, most crucially the French in Saint Domingue [Haiti], as the Dutch became major importers and processers of French coffee and sugar that they then redistributed to Northern and Central Europe. [...]

The explosive growth of production on slave plantations in the Dutch Guianas, combined with the international boom in coffee and sugar consumption, ensured that consistently high proportions (19% in 1770) of commodities entering and exiting Dutch harbors were produced on Atlantic slave plantations. [...] The Dutch economy profited from this Atlantic boom both as direct supplier of slave-produced goods [from slave plantations in the Dutch Guianas, from Dutch processing of sugar from slave plantations in French Haiti] and as intermediary [physically exporting sugar and coffee] between the Atlantic slave complexes of other European powers and the Northern and Central European hinterland.

---

Text above by: Pepijn Brandon and Ulbe Bosma. "Slavery and the Dutch economy, 1750-1800". Slavery & Abolition Volume 42, Issue 1. 2021. [Text within brackets added by me for clarity. Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[alt-ternaivemu-sic]

seeing authors i like add to the käshtag on AO3 makes so happy. all i think about is käsh and it's only a matter before i start writing my own! käsh authors, pliis never change!

[johnmarstonisawolf]

Chapter: cancer of everything

Chapter Summary: John reflects on his strained relationship with Dutch and has a troubling vision involving Arthur, Micah, and Dutch, leaving him shaken when he wakes up in the present.

Story Summary: John Marston thought he knew everything, but when he starts seeing an older Jack in his dreams, he realizes that maybe he knows nothing.

Even before he had a run-in with the wolves in Colter, John Marston grew up knowing death was always near. So what happens when after his fight with the wolves in the mountains, he starts seeing things—an older Jack and a familiar strange man—who keep telling him cryptic things about the fate of the gang? Telling him that if things don’t change… then maybe he isn’t the only one who is doomed.

[bones-ivy-breath]

Psyche by Louis Couperus

[mihai-florescu]

Hensemble Stars is about the beautiful love story between Tenshouin Eichick and Hibikip Wataru

[littlequeenies]

1974 - Bebe Buell posing as a "Star Chick" for Dutch magazine ME. Note she's credited as Beebee Rundgren.

This magazine included rock star's girlfriends and muses in their pages. Shared by Bebe from her instagram, unknown further details.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 13 - Though Mine Beat Faster Far Than Thine (Part 2)

Summary: Arthur’s life is ebbing out like the tide. Kate must work quickly and diligently to reverse the cruel hands of fate. She is aided by the help of an unexpected ally.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters  Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

TW: Blood, Body fluid. Injury recovery.

A/N: Low-key made myself tear up writing this one. ~7k words.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig

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

Story Tags: Widowed, Original Character(s), High-Honor!Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby!Arthur Morgan, Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort,Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Infant Death, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Torture, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Aftermath of Torture, Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Self-Hatred, Night Terrors, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

The journey back stretched on endlessly, each passing moment burdened with the weight of exhaustion and despair. Kate's body grew numb with cold, the blood from Arthur's wound staining her clothes, a chilling reminder of their ordeal. Arthur's once-warm body now felt icy against hers, his warm breath the only sign of life as he rested his head on her shoulder, his panting offered a fragile reassurance.

Exhaustion etched lines of stress and fear on Kate's face, her features reflecting the toll of their harrowing journey. Arthur had succumbed to unconsciousness shortly after they set out, leaving Kate to bear the weight of his limp form behind her. With trembling arms, she struggled to keep him upright, her own strength waning with each passing moment.

Lorena, too, felt the strain of their journey, her steady gait faltering under the weight of fatigue. Belle, injured and weary, added to the challenge, requiring constant coaxing to keep moving forward. Each tug on the reins filled Kate with guilt, knowing the mare's fear and exhaustion mirrored her own. But they couldn't afford to stop, not when time was their most precious commodity.

During their frantic journey back to camp, Kate made the decision to flick off the switch of her emotions. She knew that upon their arrival, she needed to confront the situation with a clear conscience. Despite her fear, she understood the gravity of suppressing her emotions and presenting a facade of strength. This was a matter of life and death, and she couldn't afford to let her trivial feelings interfere.

River had instilled in her the necessity of shutting off her emotions long ago, albeit unintentionally. He had warned her that her empathy would only serve to endanger her life, emphasizing the need to remain cold, unforgiving, and fully present in the moment. Following his advice, Kate embraced this mindset wholeheartedly.

As they burst back into camp, Kate's demeanor was that of someone leading a charge in battle. She disregarded any semblance of decorum, screaming for the others to wake up and rallying them to action. Her urgent cries echoed through the night, disregarding any concern for the late hour. With determination, she guided Lorena directly to Arthur's tent, paying no heed to the camp rules about horses in living quarters.

The first to respond to the commotion was Miss Grimshaw and the other women, their tent positioned adjacent to the camp's entrance. The shock on the old woman's face was palpable as she gasped, her hands instinctively flying to cover her mouth at the distressing sight before her.

Kate dismounted Lorena with a determined yet gentle grace, her arms already reaching out to lift Arthur's heavy body. He stirred from his sleep, groaning softly at the sudden movement. In an instant, Hosea and Charles appeared by her side, their faces etched with equal parts concern and fear. Together, they silently maneuvered Arthur to his cot, their actions speaking volumes of their care and solidarity.

As if summoned by the urgency of the situation, a small crowd gathered around the back of Arthur’s wagon. Composed of Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen, their nightgowns billowing softly in the night breeze. Fear and horror danced in their eyes, mirroring the turmoil of the moment.

"Is he going to be okay?" Tilly's voice quivered with worry, breaking the tense silence.

"Kate, what the hell happened?" Mary-Beth's question was laced with urgency.

"Jesus, is he even still alive?" Karen's comment hung in the air, heavy with concern.

Kate felt the weight of their questions pressing down on her, but she couldn't afford to be distracted. "Not now girls!" She replied sharply, her tone unintentionally dismissive. She knew they were only expressing their concern for their friend, but she couldn't allow herself to be pulled away from the task at hand. Despite the pang of guilt that stabbed at her heart, she pushed aside her own emotions, focusing solely on Arthur's well-being.

"Miss Grimshaw, I need you to bring me hot water and as much clean cloth as you can find," Kate instructed urgently, her voice carrying the weight of conviction. She turned to Hosea and Charles, her gaze unwavering. "Hosea, gather whatever tools you have for cleaning and stitching wounds. Charles, grab me the strongest alcohol we've got," she dished out her orders swiftly, each word heavy with a sense of importance. Time was slipping through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. "And find me something he can bite down on," she added hastily, her mind racing ahead. The two men nodded without question, already moving into action.

Kate wasted no time, swiftly lighting the few oil lamps beneath Arthur’s makeshift room. Miss Grimshaw returned moments later with a bucket of hot water and wads of fresh cloth. She placed them on the table behind Arthur’s cot, efficiently clearing the space for Kate to begin her work.

A nod of appreciation passed between them as Charles reappeared at her side, a large bottle of whiskey in one hand and a pair of Arthur’s leather suspenders in the other. "I can fetch more from the chuck wagon if you need," he offered, his concern evident in his voice. "The leather will be the most gentle on his teeth," he suggested, his eyes searching hers for approval. Kate accepted the supplies gratefully, taking the suspenders and folding them in on themselves to create a thicker object for Arthur to bite down on.

Arthur stirred, his groans morphing into soft cries as pain flooded his senses in relentless waves. He struggled to open his heavy eyelids, the whites of his eyes still tainted a violent red. "K-Kate... I-I have to w-warn–" he managed, his words fragmented by shallow, forced breaths. Confusion and agony clouded his mind, a lingering aftermath of his torment.

"We're home, honey. You're safe now," Kate reassured him gently, her voice a comforting anchor in the midst of turmoil. With efficiency, she retrieved her hunting knife from her belt, swiftly cutting away the remnants of his union suit. Each movement deliberate yet tender, exposing the rest of his battered form to the humid air of Lemoyne.

Arthur recoiled, a feeble protest escaping his lips. "Ngh–n-no, stop... p-please stop," he pleaded, his voice laced with anguish. Memories of humiliation and shame flooded his mind, unseen hands groping and poking his wounds, violating his most vulnerable spaces.

Undeterred, Kate continued to strip away the blood and filth soaked fabric, revealing his raw, wounded flesh. With a sheet draped over his torso, she shielded him from prying eyes, her touch gentle yet purposeful. "I know, Arthur. I'm sorry. But I have to. I need to see the extent of what they did. These hands won't hurt you, sweetheart," she murmured soothingly, guiding him through each step with care.

As she worked, Kate fought to suppress the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm her. Just a week ago, she had stitched a small wound in his side, marveling at his strength and resilience. Now, under the dim light, she beheld the extent of his suffering, his once robust form marred by bruises and scars. Shuddering at the stark contrast, she longed for the sight of him untouched and whole, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight.

Uncorking the weighty bottle of whiskey, Kate poured a liberal amount over her own soiled hands, tainted with dirt and streaked with his blood. "Arthur," she began softly, angling her head to meet his gaze directly, "we're home now," she reiterated like a sacred chant, "I'm going to take care of you, but I need you to bite down on this hard, okay?" Before he could object, she gently pried open his jaw and slipped the leather between his teeth. "It's going to hurt, but it will be over quickly. I just need to disinfect your wounds."

Hosea returned, clutching a small black box containing lock-picking tools, along with a needle and thread. "I've already sterilized them over a flame. They should be ready for use now," he explained briskly.

"Thank you, Hosea," Kate acknowledged, motioning for him to position himself on her other side. "I need you to hold him down if he starts to move." Hosea nodded in urgency, his hand already resting firmly on Arthur's uninjured shoulder, his gaze lingering on the gaping wound on his other side.

Taking a moment to steady herself, Kate drew a deep breath. Picking up the bottle once more, she held it poised over the wound in Arthur's abdomen. This was the most critical issue; she needed to staunch the bleeding first. "Take a deep breath, Arthur," she instructed, waiting until she saw the rise of his chest before pouring the whiskey over his stomach.

Arthur gasped sharply, his body recoiling at the searing pain coursing through him. Charles swiftly maneuvered to the foot of the cot, securing Arthur's legs to provide stability. Meanwhile, Kate seized a bundle of damp, warm cloth, swiftly commencing the task of cleansing the area surrounding his stab wound, a grisly mix of blood and filth. Biting the leather straps, Arthur let out a muffled groan, his jaw clenched in agony. "Keep breathing, Arthur," Kate coached, her voice steady and reassuring. "You're safe now. We're almost through."

As Kate worked, the sting of whiskey on his wound drew another pained whimper from Arthur, yet she pressed on, discarding soiled cloth as Miss Grimshaw replenished her supply with fresh cotton. Hosea, in his resourcefulness, passed her a pair of tweezers from his lockpicking kit. Beneath the faint glow of the oil lamp, Kate meticulously cleared the wound of debris, extracting dirt and tiny fragments of grass until it gleamed as clean as possible. With a final cleansing douse of alcohol, Hosea deftly threaded a needle, handing it to Kate who skillfully began the task of stitching him closed. Though the wound spanned a mere two inches, its depth hinted at internal damage. Kate silently prayed that her efforts had stemmed the bleeding, if only temporarily.

Approaching Arthur's tent, a new set of footfalls announced Dutch's arrival. "My son..." his voice trailed wearily, concern etched into every syllable. "Is he going to be alright?"

Annoyance flickered within Kate as Dutch finally showed concern, likely stirred by Arthur's cries that had surely pierced the night, rousing the camp from its slumber. They now loomed in the shadows behind Dutch, silent spectators unsure of their place.

Without lifting her gaze from her task, Kate's response was curt. "I'll let you know you when I'm finished," she retorted sharply, her exhaustion seeping into her tone. Her circle was reserved for those who truly showed care for Arthur, those who stood by him, aiding her in his need.

If only Dutch had said something about Arthur’s absence, perhaps this all could have been avoided. She placed a partial responsibility for his tortment on him. Why hadn’t he said something? Did Hosea know Arthur was supposed to meet them? Arthur spoke highly of Dutch, and Kate knew in a way he was like a father to him. Her questions festered in the back of her mind as they remained unanswered. 

With each discarded cloth, Kate worked diligently, ensuring the wound was clean enough to be wrapped. Charles and Hosea delicately maneuvered Arthur's body, allowing Kate to envelop his torso completely in the protective layers of cloth, securing it tightly above the injury.

Seated on a chair thoughtfully provided by Miss Grimshaw, Kate afforded Arthur a brief respite from the relentless assault on his body, allowing herself a moment to catch her breath. With gentle care, she reached out, tenderly brushing the sweat-dampened hair from Arthur's forehead, his distress evident in the beads of perspiration and the furrow of pain etched upon his brow.

"You've been incredibly brave, Arthur," she murmured, her touch soothing against his tear-stained cheek. His bloodshot eyes sought hers desperately, finding solace in her presence, as if she alone tethered him to reality, a lifeline amidst the darkness threatening to engulf him once more. With a reassuring tone, she continued, "I'm going to clean your shoulder now, alright? I'll be right here beside you, every step of the way." In that shared gaze, a silent pact formed, an unspoken trust that his life rested in her capable hands. Arthur's response was a subtle nod, a fleeting acknowledgment of their connection.

"Keep breathing deeply," she coached, demonstrating with a slow inhalation, Arthur following suit, never breaking their gaze. "That's it, good. You’re doing great honey," she encouraged, her words a balm to his weary soul, wrapping him in a comforting embrace of reassurance amid his fear and exhaustion.

Once more, she seized the bottle, its pungent aroma of whiskey assaulting his senses before a drop even touched his skin. Arthur clenched his eyes shut, fighting back the flood of memories, anchoring himself in the present. Here, with Kate by his side, he was safe.

As the icy liquid cascaded over his shoulder, a fresh wave of searing pain tore through him, igniting his nerves like flames licking at his flesh. The mingling scent of whiskey and agony turned his stomach, each inhalation a struggle against the bile rising within him. His bite on the leather tightened as he clenched down, saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth. Yet amidst the turmoil, Hosea's reassuring touch pressed against his chest, grounding him. "Deep breaths, son," came his gentle whisper, a reminder to draw in each breath despite the growing discomfort. With effort, Arthur obeyed, each inhalation a battle against the rising tide of pain and unease.

Kate's voice drifted to him once more, a soothing melody in the chaos. "That's it, sweetheart," she murmured, “the worst is almost over,” her hands working diligently on his shoulder, the warmth of wet cloth cleansing away the layers of blood and grime, revealing the rawness beneath. Another pour of alcohol elicited a primal scream from his throat as his back arched in agony, the bullet wound laid bare and vulnerable.

With steady hands, Kate poured whiskey over the set of tweezers, the bullet still stubbornly lodged within. A glimmer of hope flickered in the darkness; perhaps Arthur's left arm would yet see use again.

Through panting breaths and tears, the overwhelming pain threatened to engulf him, each sensation pulling him closer to the precipice of unconsciousness. Kate's voice, a lifeline amidst the tumult, echoed in his mind. "You can let go, Arthur," she whispered, as if sensing his perilous dance with darkness. "I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."

With those words, Arthur surrendered to the bliss of sleep, his weary mind finding solace in its embrace. His eyes fluttered closed, the tension in his jaw releasing as he placed his trust in Kate's capable hands. In her words lay the promise of a future, each syllable a gentle encouragement driving every beat of his heart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Picture a man. Like a speck out at sea as you gaze upon him from the shore. He’s swimming beyond the breakers, like he’s done this all before. He sees the coming of the swell, and knows it will drag him out a greater length. Far beyond the shallows of the bay. But he knows his strength, he tries to gather it. And he swims on, turning back to shore again. He feels the rising of the wave and knows at once he will not withstand it. 

Like that man, Arthur sinks down into the depths. The water burns his lungs, his body aflame as he exerts himself to stay afloat. The darkness engulfs him, a starless night lost at sea. He fears he will drown, but then, her voice returns to him. Ushered down from the sky above him. Like a beacon in the night, a melody that lights the path before him. A distant lighthouse, guiding his willing soul to shore. 

Her words flow through him as he swims against the current. All of his loss threatens to pull him under, but all he can think of is her. The light that leads him, and the air that fills his lungs. Command a new life that breathes into him. 

Amongst the shadows, he witnessed two figures upon the shore. They gaze upon his struggling form. But he feels no fear, he swims on towards them. Kate's words command his every movement, keep breathing Arthur. All of her goodness is with him now. This woman, who never once asked him about the wrongs he committed. So persistent in her devotion. 

He was housed by her warmth; transformed, reborn. Like a bird he flew to her now, swimming against a sea of fire. The blinding light of her voice shown upon the figures in the sand. Arthur could see a large shadow, next to a much smaller one. They held out their hands, frozen like angels beneath her radiance. 

Their spirits reached for him, unfazed by the darkness of his heart. The waves leapt and violently crashed at their feet. Arthur could feel their love, though mere aberrations, their hands were warm and strong. Pulling him swiftly back to land. 

They laid him down soft and sweet, in her low lit light beyond them he could finally see the features of a man and a young girl. He blinked, realization dawned that a mere child had rescued him. Though their faces remained unrecognizable. 

The man reached down and helped him to stand, keeping a steady arm on his back. The young girl looked up at him with a familiar warmth in her smile, she took her small hand in his. 

“My momma is gonna take real good care of you Arthur.” 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate toiled tirelessly through the night and into the early embrace of dawn, the gentle symphony of birdsong heralding the arrival of a new day even before the first rays of sunlight graced Clemens Point. Sometime amidst the evening, Miss Grimshaw had taken it upon herself to gather extra canvas cloth, draping them around Arthur's makeshift abode, providing a semblance of privacy to his recovery

After extracting the bullet from his shoulder, Kate meticulously tended to the wound, carefully wrapping it in cloth to secure it tightly. Already, signs of infection were beginning to manifest, but she remained hopeful that with diligent cleaning, she could impede the progress of bacteria before sepsis set in.

As the night wore on, Kate turned her attention to Arthur's other injuries, dismissing Charles and Hosea to their rest. Though they hesitated to leave her side, she reassured them with a determined nod. Rest was a luxury she couldn't afford until she had assessed the full extent of Arthur's injuries, strategizing for his slow recovery. His life hung precariously in the balance, and Kate was resolute in her commitment to remain by his side, in his hour of need.

With steady hands, Kate fashioned a splint for the broken fingers of Arthur's injured left arm, the paleness of his skin betraying the severity of the damage. Despite the faint pulse she detected, she couldn't shake the fear that his arm might be lost if the sensation in his hand failed to return entirely. The bullet, though mercifully, hadn't shattered his shoulder completely,  which still offered a flicker of hope.

Turning her attention to his feet, Kate's heart sank at the sight of the swelling and the telltale blackness of his toes. Lacerations from shackles bruised his skin. The harrowing signs of prolonged suspension and the loss of circulation. She dared to pray that with time, the swelling would subside, though the realization of how long he had been hanging upside down twisted her stomach.

The bullet wound in his ankle presented its own challenge, having narrowly missed the bone yet tearing through muscle. It spared him the ordeal of shattered limb, but promised a long road to recovery, rendering walking a daunting task.

After cleansing his body with the last remnants of cloth, Kate reached for a salve crafted from sage, honey, and pine. With gentle strokes, she massaged the soothing balm into the myriad of cuts and burns that adorned his skin, paying particular attention to the rope burns on his wrists and the torn flesh around his ankles. It was a homemade remedy passed down by River, renowned as a 'Cure-All' within their tribe for its effectiveness in treating various skin injuries.

Satisfied with her ministrations, Kate settled back in her chair, her own needs forgotten as she watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Arthur's chest. Her eyes, heavy with dark circles, never left him. Slowly, exhaustion enveloped her. Attempting to blink back the darkness, she succumbed to its embrace, her head lolling as she drifted into a dreamless slumber.

Mere hours later, the soft glow of early morning seeped through the cracks of the small room, casting a gentle light upon the stillness within. The usual hustle and bustle of the camp was conspicuously absent, the tension of the previous night lingering in the air. Kate stirred from her sleep, roused by the faint sound of Arthur's muffled cough.

Blinking away the heaviness of fatigue, Kate's body protested against the soreness and hunger that gnawed at her. Arthur, writhing on the cot in discomfort, sought to sit up, his face twisted with pain. "Easy, Arthur, you're alright," she murmured wearily, her voice a tired yet comforting presence as she reached over to ease him back onto the cot. Knowing his agony must be unbearable, she thought to brew him an elixir, one of the remedies River had taught her, to alleviate some of his pain.

With sudden force, he pushed against her. “Mmf…m-ove,” his groans muffled yet urgent. Confusion furrowed Kate's brow as Arthur's movements grew more frantic, his right arm struggling to lift his heavy frame from the bed. Before he could tumble to the floor, Kate swiftly caught his head in the crook of her elbow.

"Arthur—" she began, her voice tinged with concern, her hands moving to guide him back onto the bed to prevent any further harm.

But Arthur's breathing escalated into dry heaves, his grip on her arm tightening as he pleaded, "Kate... m’move!" His words were strained, pushed out with desperate force. Before she could react, his head jerked forward, a guttural whine escaping his throat as warmth spilled over her arm, coating her lap and legs in sticky heat.

A chill washed over Kate as she looked down, her heart freezing at the sight of dark red blood mingling with the acidic contents of Arthur's stomach, forming gruesome clots. Her efforts had not been enough; he was bleeding internally, and there was nothing she could do.

Kate's breaths quickened, shallow and panicked, as she held him close. Arthur's body trembled with violent shudders, tears and bloody drool mingling as they cascaded down his chin. "M’sorry…m’so-sorry Kate," he mumbled, voice muffled against her arms. As he hid his face in humiliation.

Frozen with fear, Kate's arms trembled as she clung to him, a silent witness to the cruel fate that now enveloped them both.

Like the steady light of a distant train cutting through the quiet of a forest on a moonlit night, fragments of Kate's past came hurtling down the tracks of her memory. She couldn't help but recall her late husband, his figure fading in the dim light of their shared bedroom. His body was ridden with disease that cruelly spared her. Months of relentless coughs had ultimately led to the collapse of his lungs, his final breaths accompanied by the heavy wheezing that echoed hauntingly in her mind. Countless nights were etched in her memory, each one marked by his desperate struggle for air, the taste of blood staining their shared existence.

It was happening again.

With a heavy heart, Kate sat up, her hands tenderly cradling Arthur's head as if he were a fragile newborn. Slowly, she guided him back onto the cot, her voice trembling with emotion as she sought to offer comfort in the face of impending tragedy.

"S’alright, honey," she cooed, “not your fault.” Her words a fragile attempt to reassure him, though tears threaten to betray her facade of strength. Despite the weight of her own grief, she desperately tried to remain calm. 

The clamor lured Hosea to the tent, concern etched on his features as he approached. "Kate, what hap—" His words trailed off as he caught sight of her blood-stained attire and Arthur's bloodied mouth. With swift determination, he reached Arthur's side, quickly pulling the sheet from his torso, revealing the gruesome display beneath. Kate's breath caught in her throat.

Pale white, mottled skin surrounded his knife wound. Dark spider-like veins branched out like a twisted oak tree. 

As the walls of her resolve crumbled around her, Kate felt fear and trepidation seep into the cracks of her psyche. She fought valiantly to suppress tears, her gaze pleading with Hosea for guidance. "Hosea..." she whispered, her voice trembling with uncertainty, "I-I don't know what to do." The words choked out as the dam of her emotions finally burst.

Hosea, sensing the urgency of the situation, took in the sight of her with a gentle yet urgent tone. "We're getting a doctor," he declared decisively, wasting no time as he rose to his feet and strode towards the entrance of Arthur's tent. With a firm hand, he pushed aside the flap and called out to Lenny and Sadie, who sat nearby at a table. "You two, go to Rhodes and find a doctor! No excuses, spare no expense. Bring him back here, by any means necessary!" His words carried the weight of authority, a stern directive from a father to his wayward children.

Lenny and Sadie sprang into action, disappearing into the distance with a sense of urgency. Meanwhile, Kate struggled to steady her breathing, her chest heaving with each sob that wracked her body. Emotions boiled over, threatening to overwhelm her fragile composure.

Returning to her side, Hosea gently grasped her arm, his touch a comforting anchor amidst the turmoil. "No. No, Hosea, I can't leave him," Kate protested hastily, her eyes pleading for understanding even as her heart screamed for reassurance.

"You need to rest, Kate," Hosea's gentle voice broke through the haze of exhaustion, his concern palpable in the warmth of his suggestion. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes for a moment, summoning the last reserves of her strength before nodding in acceptance.

With his steady support, Kate rose to her feet, allowing him to guide her towards the entrance. His reassuring squeeze spoke volumes, a promise of gratitude and solidarity in the face of adversity. Retrieving his bandana from his vest pocket, he whispered softly, "You've been so strong for him. Thank you." As he tenderly wiped away her tears, Kate offered a tremulous nod, her lips quivering with emotion.

In a daze, she made her way to her own tent and bedroll, each step heavy with fatigue. Discarding her boots with weary resignation, she found herself lacking the strength to remove her soiled clothing. Instead, she stumbled towards the shoreline, the cool embrace of the water beckoning to her.

Sinking to her knees in the shallows, Kate began the arduous task of scrubbing away the blood that clung to her skin, each stroke fueled by a fearful urgency. Her nails scraped against her flesh as her breathing quickened with the intensity of her movements. The blood, stubborn and unyielding, seemed to taunt her, clinging to her body like a relentless specter of the past.

It was happening again.

Quiet sobs escaped her lips as panic tightened its grip around her, her body tensing with the effort to hold herself together. Her heart pounded in a desperate ritual of purification. 

Kate remained lost in her torment, oblivious to the sound of Charles's approach as he waded into the water. A startled gasp escaped her lips as he enveloped her in a comforting embrace. "It's alright, Kate, I've got you," his deep, reassuring voice washed over her, instantly recognizable and soothing in its familiarity. His arms encircled her, offering solace and protection.

In that moment, Kate allowed the walls she had built around herself to crumble. She sobbed openly into Charles's arms, her anguish pouring forth unchecked. "You did everything you could. It's okay," he murmured gently, his words a balm to her wounded spirit. "Arthur owes his life to you," he added, a testament to her unwavering dedication.

With a hiccup, Kate confessed, "It's happening again, Charles." Emotions long suppressed surged to the surface, memories of loss and grief flooding her mind, her late husband's foremost among them.

"Shh, don't speak like that. We're getting a doctor for him," Charles reassured her, his voice a steadfast anchor in the storm of her emotions. "Arthur is resilient, Kate. He's a fighter."

"When will it be enough?" she pleaded, her voice raw with anguish. In response, Charles simply sighed and pulled her closer, offering silent support as she wept in his arms, their shared grief binding them together in solidarity.

As Kate's sobs gradually subsided, Charles continued to hold her, the gentle lull of the water surrounding them like a protective barrier against the outside world. Sensing the weight of her burden, he spoke softly, his words infused with understanding and compassion.

"Kate," he began, voice tender, "you don't have to carry this alone. You've put on a strong arm for so long, but you don't have to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Kate's breath hitched at his words, a mixture of relief and uncertainty washing over her. For years, she had believed that strength meant shouldering her burdens alone, but now, in Charles's embrace, she allowed herself to be vulnerable, to seek solace in the arms of those who cared for her. 

"I'm scared, Charles," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt as if seeking an anchor in the tumult of her emotions.

"I know, Kate," Charles replied, his tone gentle yet resolute. "But you're not alone in this. We're all here for you, for Arthur. Every step of the way."

With a shaky exhale, Kate allowed herself to lean into Charles's figure, finding solace in the warmth of his presence. In that moment, surrounded by the soothing embrace of the water and the unwavering support of her friend, she felt a sense of relief ease off her tired soul. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

With just enough time to change her blood-soiled clothing and hastily consume a small meal of dried meat, Kate had brushed off Hosea's well-intentioned advice to rest. Though Charles's comforting presence provided some measure of relief, she knew that sleep would elude her unless she was by Arthur's side. His condition could turn on a dime, and she wanted to make sure she was there to comfort him. As the distant sound of approaching hoofbeats echoed through the camp, she emerged from her tent, her gaze fixed on the large wagon rumbling towards the entrance, its contents jostling on the uneven terrain.

Lenny's figure emerged from the midst of the commotion, leading a man towards Arthur's tent—the long-awaited doctor had finally arrived. Without hesitation Kate lept to greet them.

The sudden disruption caught Dutch's attention, his annoyance palpable as he emerged from his tent, demanding an explanation. Before he could voice his protest, Hosea intercepted him, offering a gentle diversion as he ushered Dutch back into his tent to address the matter in private. 

Meanwhile, a young black man clad in a gray suit, adorned with a vibrant purple vest, dismounted from the wagon, his demeanor professional yet compassionate. Kate was surprised at his age, most doctors she knew were older. She noted the side of his wagon; Dr. Renaud’s Traveling Medical Company. 

As they approached Arthur's tent, Lenny briefed the doctor on the situation. "Kate brought him in last night. He's in bad shape, Doc—bullet wound to the shoulder, knife to the stomach," Lenny explained tersely.

The doctor nodded solemnly, acknowledging the severity of the situation. With a sense of purpose, Kate accompanied them into the stuffy makeshift room. Lenny bid them farewell and goodluck before departing, leaving Kate alone with the newcomer, the supposed savior who held the key to Arthur's survival.

Surveying Arthur's broken form, “oh my lord,” he muttered to himself. The doctor pressed his fingers to his neck, checking Arthur’s pulse, then turning his attention to Kate. "I presume you're Kate?" he inquired, his voice carrying a mix of professionalism and empathy. Kate offered a hesitant nod in response.

"Dr. Alphonse Renaud," he introduced himself, extending a hand. Kate accepted the handshake, her movements awkward and uncertain, her mind racing with apprehension. Arthur's fate, and by extension her own, hung in the balance, resting upon the skill of this newcomer.

"Are you his wife?" Dr. Renaud's question jolted Kate from her anxious reverie.

"N-no," she stammered, her nerves palpable. Gathering her composure, she clarified, "I'm not his wife. Just a friend." The weight of responsibility settled heavily upon her shoulders, a silent acknowledgment of the magnitude of the situation. "I managed to stop the bleeding last night. But I'm afraid he's still bleeding internally, he was vomiting blood this morning." Kate explained, her words rushed and urgent, wasting no time in conveying the severity of Arthur's condition.

Dr. Renaud clicked his tongue in response. "A knife to the stomach will do that to a man. How did this happen to him?" he inquired, gently shifting the sheet covering Arthur's abdomen to assess the extent of the injury.

Kate hesitated, unsure of how much to disclose about their precarious circumstances. After all, Arthur was a wanted man. She couldn't just disclose to a stranger the details of a violent gang feud between outlaws, he would surely leave in a heartbeat. "Tortured," she replied tersely, her tone brooking no further discussion.

“Oh, my deepest sympathy for your friend,” he replied with a solemn nod. Dr. Renaud moved to open the flaps on the side of the tent, allowing sunlight to stream in and illuminate the extent of Arthur's wounds. As he gazed upon Arthur's face, now bathed in the soft afternoon glow, a flicker of recognition crossed his features. "Wait a moment," he murmured, gently turning Arthur's face towards him, "I know this man... Arthur, isn't it? Arthur Morgan."

Fear gripped Kate as she processed the doctor's unexpected recognition of Arthur. How could this man possibly know him? A myriad of troubling scenarios raced through her mind—had he seen the wanted posters plastered across towns? Or worse, had Arthur crossed paths with him in a less-than-favorable manner? The weight of uncertainty bore down on her, her heart pounding with dread. If Dr. Renaud refused to help them now, Arthur's fate would be sealed.

To her relief, Dr. Renaud's expression softened with understanding. "Mr. Morgan saved my skin a few weeks back," he explained, his voice tinged with gratitude. "Some racist fellas, calling themselves Lemoyne Raiders, stole my wagon. I knew if I went after them myself, they would surely lynch me. So Mr. Morgan set out to retrieve my belongings." Kate's breath caught in her throat as she released a shaky exhale, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

"He wouldn't even accept payment for his troubles," Dr. Renaud continued, his determination evident in the clasp of his hands. "Now, it seems fate has afforded me the opportunity to repay his kindness." Kate felt a surge of emotion welling within her. She wanted to cry; tears of joy, tears of hope, tears of heartbreak. Because of course, of course, Arthur had gone out his way to help this young doctor. That was just the kind of man he is. So clouded by his own demons, he still can’t see the pure heart that glimmers beneath the surface. By some twisted dance of fate, his kindness would grant him the opportunity for a second chance at life. 

In that moment, Kate knelt beside Arthur's cot with renewed purpose, her gaze fixed on Dr. Renaud with determination. "What can I do to help, Doc?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tumult of emotions swirling within her. This was their chance—a chance for Arthur to receive the care he so desperately needed, and for Kate to play her part in ensuring his survival.

Dr. Renaud carefully examined the wound on Arthur's stomach, his fingertips gauging the heat of the inflamed skin. "I can stop the internal bleeding," he observed, "but you'll need to keep a close eye on his recovery. Regularly cleaning the wound is crucial. Sepsis can be deadlier than bleeding out." Kate nodded eagerly, absorbing his instructions.

His focus then shifted to Arthur's shoulder wound. "You've done a commendable job stitching this," he acknowledged, but pointed out the yellowing skin around the starfish-shaped crater. Pressing gently, he noted the alarming signs of infection. "The infection's already taken hold here. It's eroding the muscle. If it spreads to the ligaments, he could lose his arm entirely.” Kate nodded quickly, understanding the gravity of the situation.

Taking Arthur's injured hand, the doctor examined it closely. Kate watched as he ran a fingernail over the calloused skin of his palm. Arthur's fingers twitched slightly, prompting a glimmer of hope. "That's promising," Dr. Renaud remarked. "And the bullet?" Kate nodded silently, confirming its extraction. "Excellent. You have a natural talent for this, Kate," he praised with a reassuring smile. Though Kate tried to reciprocate the smile, her concern for Arthur remained paramount, her gaze fixed on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, each breath a testament to his battle to remain alive.

Returning his focus to Arthur's abdomen, Dr. Renaud placed an open palm on his stomach, tapping it lightly. A swishing hollow sound reverberated in the air. "Hear that?" he asked, glancing at Kate. She nodded, her brow furrowed with concern. "It’s filled with fluid, most likely more blood. After I close the wound, his stomach will be sensitive for some time,” his tone gentle and informative. “He might struggle to keep down food and water, so make sure he stays hydrated, okay?" the doctor advised. With practiced ease, he retrieved a small vial of orange iodine and a pair of rubber gloves from his briefcase.

"Put these on and start applying this over his stomach. I'll go grab my tools from the wagon," he directed, handing Kate the supplies. She nodded in acknowledgment and began spreading the iodine as instructed.

As they worked, a gentle breeze wafted through the makeshift room, carrying with it the scent of lake water and grass. It offered a brief respite from the heavy atmosphere of blood and sickness. Refreshing her lungs with strength and clarity. Dr. Renaud administered a shot of morphine to Arthur, providing temporary relief from the pain. In focused silence, Kate followed the doctor's lead, handing him tools and meticulously cleaning the wound. 

Kate's breath caught as Dr. Renaud delicately reopened the wound on Arthur's stomach, using a slender blade to extend the incision. She gripped the forceps, holding them open. Steadying herself as he meticulously stitched the lining of his stomach back together. The tension in the air was static with urgency, each movement of the doctor's hands deliberate and controlled. Kate watched in silent admiration, marveling at his skill and composure amidst the lethal task ahead.

An hour later, Dr. Renaud had painstakingly resealed the wound, layering on another dose of antiseptic before dressing it in clean cloth. He then turned his attention to Arthur's bullet wound, methodically cleaning and rebandaging it. Explaining that he may never regain complete mobility of his arm again. 

He examined Arthur's eyes, reassuring Kate that the swelling and bloodshot appearance would gradually subside over time. Concluding his service by informing her that his feet should return to their normal color, but he may have difficulty walking on the ankle even after it heals. 

Kate’s heart throbbed with his every word. Arthur would never be the same after this, if he even survived. He was a cowboy, a gunslinger. His skills on horseback were carved into his identity. His quickdraw was paramount for the survival of his kind. Kate knew he prided himself in his work, afterall he was Dutch’s second in command. She understood what it felt like to have your integrity challenged in the face of death. To say goodbye to a part of yourself.

Dr. Renaud packed his things as he prepared to leave once he was satisfied with Arthur’s care. "It's going to be a challenging road to recovery," he remarked solemnly, "I can't make any promises, Kate. It's ultimately up to Arthur to fight through this."

"But what about the infection?" Kate interjected, her voice tinged with concern. No amount of determination on Arthur's part would matter if the infection spread unchecked throughout his body.

Dr. Renaud retrieved a small bottle from his briefcase and presented it to her. "This is a new antibiotic called penicillin," he explained, handing her the glass bottle containing small white pills. "It's groundbreaking medicine, but still in testing. I advise you, use it cautiously."

Kate nodded gratefully, clutching the vial of hope close to her heart. "Thank you, Doc. Please, let me pay for it," she insisted, reaching for her satchel. 

Dr. Renaud halted her with a gentle touch on her wrist. "As I've said before Kate, the debt is already settled. Medicine is my calling, and meeting Arthur breathed a new life into me. He gave me a second chance." He shook her hand firmly and bid a farewell, “we need more of his kindness in this world.” 

Kate remained seated beside Arthur, her ears catching fragments of Lenny and Sadie's conversation with the young doctor. Their voices drifted like distant echoes, discussing Arthur's condition and treatment plan. A surge of gratitude swelled within her, a profound appreciation for the doctor's expertise and the reassurance he provided. It was a stroke of luck, she thought, a lifeline thrown to them in their darkest hour. Kate couldn't shake the disbelief at their fortune, it was as if her prayer had been answered.

The depth of human connection astounded her, the way lives intersected in unexpected ways, offering solace and support when it was needed most. It was a testament to the human spirit. Kate knew Arthur was not a bad man, no matter how much he believed himself to be. So blinded by self-hatred he couldn’t see the kind loving man beneath it all. She longed to bring out that side of him. 

Tears pooled in Kate's eyes once more, a bittersweet blend of grief, relief, and gratitude. Leaning closer to Arthur, she pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, her gesture a silent declaration of love and unwavering devotion. "Someone up there is on our side, Arthur," she murmured softly, her voice choked with emotion. "We’re going to be okay.” A widow's vow to remain by his side, till death do them part.

---

AN: I'm pretty proud of Kate's development in this chapter. I feel like we see a lot more of her emotional struggles.The next chapter will include a lot of recovery as well as interactions with the other camp members as Arthur is healing. Lots of fluff and comfort too :)

(pls ignore how inaccurate the medical stuff is to the time period, I'm lazy)

[jayden-okayden]

Arthur, John, Dutch, Charles, Micah, Sean, and Kieran- “Their Insecurities”- SFW

ANONYMOUS REQUEST: Can I request a prompt where the reader is really in tune with the other persons mood, or something similar? like maybe Arthur, Kieran or John when they’re feeling insecure about themselves and reader comes in to make them feel better? Sfw please!

ABSOLUTELY. I love this request, thank you so much for sending this!! I hope you don’t mind me adding a few other characters that I thought would fit well with the prompt! Enjoy!!!

CONTINUES UNDER THE CUT

Arthur

-Well obviously the man has insecurities.

-As much as you push him to just talk to you, he never opens up about them.

-The only time he gets close to doing so is when he’s feeling particularly rough.

-This time you were sitting at the camp fire with the others. Javier was singing while playing his guitar, and after you tried (and failed) to get Arthur to dance with you, you sighed and went to someone else instead.

-Your alternative dance partner seemed thrilled at the offer, and the brunette frowned slightly as he watched you, the others ability to keep up with you souring his already bitter mood.

-He stood abruptly, sulking over to his tent.

-Of course you noticed, so you excused yourself and followed him.

-He was on his cot, pouting and scribbling something into his journal angrily.

-“You alright?”

-“I’m fine.”

-“I don’t believe that for a second.”

-“It’s nothing. Go back and dance with _____.”

-Ah, so that’s what it was. You sit down next to him on the cushion, and he shuffles awkwardly.

-“My love, it’s just a bit of fun. Besides, have you seen _____ dance? They’re terrible.”

-That seems to make him smile a bit, but it’s short-lived.

-“Wouldn’t you rather be with someone younger, though? Someone who can keep up with you, like Lenny, or Javier, or Karen?”

-“Arthur Morgan, are you breaking up with me?”

-He freezes, eyes widening as he finally turns to look at you fully.

-“Wh- No! No- I just- I know I’m not exactly a prize catch-“

-“Then be quiet, Arthur. I’m not interested in anyone else, because I love you. Ain’t nothin’ gonna change that.”

-He relents, and you don’t miss the sigh of relief as he melts into you, an arm snaking around your waist as he plays with a strand of loose hair.

-“Love you too, darlin’.”

John

-This is John we’re talking about.

-Naturally, after Abigail and him decided to separate, he’s felt inadequate in most aspects.

-Now that you’re together, he’s constantly asking you things that you know roughly translate to “do you still love me?”

-It would be amusing, and kind of endearing if you didn’t know the root of his insecurity.

-You were bandaging a wound on his arm that resulted from a job gone wrong. He was silent most of the time until you spoke up.

-“You’re awful quiet today.”

-“Sorry.”

-“What are you apologizin’ for?”

-He apologized again quietly, and you sighed, not knowing what you expected.

-“What’s on your mind, love?”

-He held back for maybe a second, before beginning his rambling. You simply listened, still holding his hand as he spoke.

-“I guess I’m just trying to ask, do you still like me?”

-you pretended to think about it, looking away from him and tapping your chin in mock-thought. He watched nervously until you looked back and rolled your eyes.

-“Yes, John, obviously I’m still in love with you.”

-He breathed a sigh of relief.

-“I know shit has happened between you and Abigail, and I know first hand how hard it is to let that kind of thing go, but I need you to understand I’m not gonna leave you, because you’re not the same man you were when you were together.”

-He sat, stone still as you spoke.

-“I love you, John, and I’ll tell you every minute of every day until it finally sets in.”

-You leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips and squeezing his hand in yours. He smiled against you, and you pulled back so your foreheads were just touching.

-“I love you too, sweetheart, I’m gonna try to get better at all this.”

Dutch

-Most would scoff at the idea of Dutch having insecurities. I mean, it’s Dutch. The “man with a plan.” He’s untouchable, and confident, and strong.

-That doesn’t change the fact that he’s aging, and he knows that all too well. And yes, he’s often found himself worrying if he’s satisfying you. (Sexually or otherwise.)

-He would take that secret to the grave with him if you weren’t so good at picking up on when he’s in a bad mood.

-One afternoon, he thought he had some alone time. You were supposedly helping Charles with prepping some game for provisions, and Dutch had time to mope privately.

-He was currently standing in front of the mirror in his tent, the flaps drawn and fastened. His vest and button-down were folded over a chair as he stared at himself, brow furrowed and lip tucked between his teeth in a grimace.

-He turned to the side, lifting his shirt and pulling a face while he examined his gut that stuck out a bit too much.

-Suddenly the tent opened, and you stepped in. Dutch jumped slightly, and saw you smirking at him.

-“Just can’t get enough of yourself, huh?”

-He made a noise of mock amusement, and cleared his throat when you raised a brow.

-“You alright?” No, he was not alright. But the man knew you already knew that.

-“C’mere.” He did, and you took his face in your hands, brushing the hair out of his eyes carefully.

-“Dutch, love, you’re perfect. I hate seeing you mopin’ about like you ain’t.” The outlaw melted into your touch, humming.

-“Thank you for comforting me, my dear, I love you too.”

Charles

-Your boyfriend is a gentle giant. Everyone in camp is aware of that. Whenever help with manual labor is needed, he’s the first to offer his assistance.

-And as much help as Charles is to the gang, he isn’t immune to self-doubt. He sees all the work everyone puts in to help their small community, and he wonders if what he does is enough.

-More often than not, you’re there to settle his thoughts, but sometimes, his worries consume him, and he ends up isolating, like he is right now.

-The ravenette was seated on a log as he was on guard duty, and you approached him as you left the camp.

-“You okay, my love?” You asked, and sat down next to him, listening quietly as he told you about what he was thinking.

-“I just don’t know if I’m doing as much as I can for this group.” You shook your head, patting his arm comfortingly.

-“You do so much, love. I’m ashamed you can’t see that. I would give you the world if I could.”

-“Thank you, flower. It makes me happy to hear you say that.”

Micah

-Much like the leader, Micah doesn’t outwardly show that he has any insecurities.

-Unlike Dutch, however, he is more in the habit of pushing those insecurities onto others.

-You’re well aware of this, so you and Micah sat down together one day and discussed ways to remedy his unhealthy behavior.

-It’s taken time, but the plan seems to be working. He hasn’t been picking on anyone, even Arthur, (much to the blondes chagrin) even half as much as he used to.

-But one evening, after supper, you left Pearsons wagon after helping clean to look for Micah. When you couldn’t find him for nearly ten minutes, you began to worry.

-Eventually, you catch him out of the corner of your eye over by the horses, talking animatedly to Kieran. You could only assume what he was doing, and made your way over as fast as possible.

-“Micah! Leave the boy alone!”

-That got his attention, and he spun around to look at you, knowing you caught him red handed.

-“Apologize. Now.”

-He did, albeit reluctantly, and you gave Kieran an embarrassed nod before dragging Micah off to his tent.

-“What’s going on? Why were you picking on Kieran?”

-Micah looked away, pouting, before turning back to you.

-“Was just messin’ around with him..”

-The look you gave him made him rephrase.

-“I was just.. Jealous of you spendin’ time with him. When you went fishin’.”

-You sighed, and pulled him into a lazy hug, petting his hair.

-“Kieran and I are just friends. It’s difficult to be in a gang and not get along with people. You know that better than most, love.”

-He scoffed, rolling his eyes, and you kissed his temple gently.

-“I love you, Micah. Sooner you know that the better.”

-A sigh, and he melted into your embrace.

-“You too, sunshine.”

Sean

-He hides it well, with his friendly, lighthearted demeanor, but the redhead often frets over whether he is good enough for you.

-Often times, he doesn’t bat an eye at you when you ask how he’s feeling, typically waving it off with a joke.

-But sometimes, when he decides to go heavy on his drinking, (he always does, but some nights are heavier.) his inebriated mood changes from drunken stupidity and flirtations to one more befitting of a man who has been through as much pain and suffering as he has.

-Every time, you will coax him back to your tent, and the Irish man will go on for hours, bringing to light each doubt and uncertainty in his heart.

-More often than not, you will spend the night with him, telling him everything you love about him, and simply letting him lay his head in your lap as you play with his hair.

-Come morning, he’ll have a massive hangover, and your boyfriend will apologize profusely to you for his ranting the night before, only for you to dismiss it.

-“My love, all I want is for you to be content in your own skin. I would happily comfort you every night like that if it were necessary, so please, don’t apologize.”

-Whenever you say things like that, Sean instantly tears up again, smothering you with kisses.

-“Oh god, what ever did I do to deserve this beautiful love of mine, and how do I make sure I never lose them?”

Kieran

-It’s Kieran. The boy has probably had insecurities since he was able to form coherent thoughts.

-Damn it all if you won’t do everything you can to make those thoughts disappear, though.

-Every chance you get, you’re leaning in, telling him how handsome he looks today, or how good of a job he’s doing taking care of the horses.

-It turns him into a red faced, blubbering mess each time, but to you, it’s worth it to make sure he knows you think the world of him.

-Whenever you leave camp without him, or the other way around, you find yourself thinking of the brunette more than anything else. You worry if he’s eating enough, sleeping enough, or if whoever he’s with is being kind to him.

-You know it makes you sound like an overprotective parent, but you’re aware of how much he’s been through, and you can’t help but want to look out for him.

-And heaven help the poor sod who decides it’s a good idea to pick on him. Even if you aren’t around to see it happen, you nearly have a sixth sense for when Kieran is upset, and you’re always able to get him to open up about whatever happened.

-One time in particular, you happened upon Micah harassing him, calling him disgusting names, and it took nearly five minutes, a broken nose, and a dislocated shoulder for both Arthur and Charles to peel you off of the blondes now-unconscious body.

-You always find yourself feeling guilty afterwards. Not for Micah, no, but for the way Kieran looks at you, an expression half between embarrassment and guilt that he created such a situation.

-The two of you end up sitting with the horses, your partner bandaging your bloodied knuckles in awkward silence as you both tried to think of something to say.

-“I’m sorry, my love, I just never want you to doubt that you’re the most precious thing in my life.”

-His face will redden, and he nods, leaning in when you begin to close the gap between you.

-“I know, sugar, I love you too.”

[tragedykery]

you know what? to be completely fair to dr victor hoppe, if that had happened to me, I, too would develop a complicated (read: fucked up) relationship with like. Everything