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sunshiline-writes · 12 days ago

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A Rose Amidst Thorns #24: The Shroud of Death

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A/N: Hello everyone! We're here at the beginning of the end! I hope you enjoy this! Big thanks and shout out to Henry @whump-card and the bestie Ev for beta reading !! Work count: 6.1 K

CW: minor character death, blood, gore, blink and you miss it reference to noncon, broken bones, gunshots, some reference to OCD-like thinking, burning of a dead body

___

There is something about time that slows down when someone is waiting for something big to happen. The world moves differently: too slow and too fast all at once. Time was strange like that. Solomon realized that time was not something that you run out of, it was something that you run into. He was running into the grasp of time and at the end of the road, death waited with open arms.

Solomon felt as if he were running faster toward the end than he had ever before. There was an aching pit in his stomach as the days went by. He was allowed to stay with Miguel for most of them. There was something different about Miguel that he couldn’t quite place. Ever since those two days spent with a dangerously high fever, barely clinging to life, Miguel had awoken with a new rigor.

His mother used to tell Solomon a story—a story of a man who had walked in the underworld for a day and half. The man had seen the most damning things and the most beautiful things. He had been shown the worst to come and the best to come. Afterwards, the man had a choice: to live or to die.

The man chose to live.

There will always be good, the man had said, always bad, but the choice to live will always be the right one. To live is to suffer, his mother always said, but it also means to love. As long as you have love in your heart—be it for a person or for a thing—there is always room to live.

Solomon missed his mother. His family. Gods, he missed his little brother. It was half why he was agreeing to this plan. The prospect of leaving—of going to see his family again—was too good to pass up. There was also the idea of introducing Miguel and Henrietta to his family. What would he say?

“Hello, Amá, these are the people who saved my soul from darkness”? How do you introduce people who are part of your soul? Who came into your life when you were lost and brought you back from the inbetween?

Solomon had always been warned of the people who walked aimlessly, the wanderers who went nowhere, no direction. The people who went through life half dead. Solomon hadn’t realized he had become one until he’d met Henrietta. Henrietta, who pulled him back with her incessant questions and willingness to talk to him. No matter how hard he tried to ignore her, she never stopped trying. Eventually, she’d gotten through to him, brought him back. Brought back his soul, his willingness to tend to others. She had reminded him of his duty of care.

As a doctor, as a friend, as a person, Solomon had a duty of care. It was important. It was his reason, the reason he was still here and the reason why he still had people to love.

He often wondered if his mother was still alive to even meet Henrietta and Miguel. Solomon had been in his twenties when he left home, determined and on a mission. Now he was sixty-two and so tired. It was improbable that his mother was still alive. He dreamt of her in the form of an owl once, around ten years ago. Solomon had known in his heart after that dream that she was gone. She had passed on waiting for him. Visiting him in a dream as the omen of an owl with his mothers eyes. Owls were death, they were a sign of a death that had happened, or a death yet to come. He had woken from that dream crying. Solomon had prayed that she forgave him for leaving. It was never the plan to be gone so long.

Still, he liked to fantasize about that meeting. Perhaps even introducing Miguel as his son, Henrietta as his best friend. All of them were idle dreams, but dreams were still dreams, no matter how improbable. Years ago, he would have never thought this probable. He would have never dared to dream. Now dreams felt like all he had.

Solomon was waiting. Waiting for something big to happen. Watching and feeling. He knew it would never be in the daylight. Yet he still expected it to happen. The day had gone by too fast, too slow. He was running into the time at full speed and he could feel death lurking over his shoulders like a cloud. This would not be easy. But it was never supposed to be, was it? Life was never as simple as you wanted it to be. This was the one and only truth.

When the sun went down he had counted all the materials in his bag over and over, making sure that everything was there. He had a terrible fear that he hadn’t packed enough or that he’d forgotten something. Solomon kept counting, barely realizing that hours had ticked by. He had his herbs, his knives, his bandages and medicines. Why couldn’t he feel like it was enough? The world came to a close for a second. If he didn’t have one thing, just one, everything would go wrong, he was sure of it.

He didn’t look up until someone had knocked on the door. Three times. Henrietta.

“Come in,” he mumbled as he sorted his things on the bed again.

“Sol?” she asked, voice soft. “What are you doing?”

“I am making sure I have everything. If I miss anything...”

A hand gently grabbed his bicep and he turned toward her. He frowned as Henrietta gently smiled. “Do you want to list the materials for me? I can help make sure everything’s there.”

Some of the tension inside Solomon released.

“Yes, I would—” He paused for a moment. “—appreciate that.”

She nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, pointing and counting each item that he had on his list. When he was done she spoke:

“Everything’s here, Solomon.”

“Thank you, I just... am worried.”

“I know,” she said softly, “Everything’s here, you read it to me, I counted. It’s all here.”

Solomon nodded, starting to place it all back in the bag. All in place carefully, or else things would break and then it would be ruined again. Henrietta watched him, eyes soft. The knot that curled in his chest slowly unraveled itself as he sat down next to her on the edge of the bed. She grabbed his hand, placing it in her lap. Her thumb gently ran over the back of his hand. Henrietta took a deep breath and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Everything is going to work out the way it’s supposed to.”

Solomon wasn’t sure he was inclined to agree. He squeezed her hand, intertwining their fingers. She was his best friend. Perhaps in another life they were something akin to siblings. Or perhaps, in every other life, they were still best friends.

“I think everything will work out the way it will,” Solomon countered.

“But it will work out,” Henrietta finished. “Mm, it will.”

“Solomon, look at me.”

He followed the command easily and without fear. Solomon did not flinch when Henrietta unlocked her hand from his to cup his face. Gently, she ran her thumb over his cracked cheekbone that had sunken in. “Things will work out. We will make it. We are not alone here,” she said with such conviction, such determination, Solomon felt his soul become braver.

“You’re much too brave for your own good,” he replied, turning his face to lean more into her hand, bringing up a hand to cover hers. Her laugh sang in his ears. “I’ve been told that before.”

“Don’t let it go to your head now,” he chided softly.

“I’ve got to cook dinner. You know the signal, yes?” “I do.” “Good,” she said, slowly getting up. Then she reached for him and he bent down so she could kiss his forehead. “You’re ready, you’ve got this.”

Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.

Solomon felt like Death was no longer a cloud, but a shroud, right upon his shoulders.

***

Getting through dinner was a chore. Forcing himself to chew and swallow as Xavier read through the accounting books, going over the money. Xavier did not say a word over the course of dinner and neither did Solomon or Henrietta. The three of them ate in complete and utter silence until it was time to clean up. Xavier looked up as Solomon and Henrietta both stood, Solomon to retreat to his room for the night, and Henrietta to wash the dishes. They both stopped at the movement.

Xavier sat back and sighed.

“You know, if you got something to say to me why don’t you just say it?”

“No one has anything to say Xavier,” Henrietta attempted to soothe. The man shot her a look. No smile on his face as he closed the book he was writing in. He licked his lips. Hungry for something. Solomon wasn’t sure what.

“Solomon? You got something to say?”

“No,” Solomon said softly. “I am tired. I would like to go to bed.”

Xavier scoffed, leaning forward on the table, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure when Xavier last looked so tired. There was a thought, somewhere deep inside him, that Xavier was feeling guilty. Solomon was sure that was impossible. With everything he had done, the man was surely incapable of any emotion that wasn’t driven by anger.

“You’re getting old, ain't ya, Solomon? You won’t be around very much longer, will you?” “Xavi!” Henrietta exclaimed, as if it was something taboo to say.

Xavier raised a hand to shush her, his eyes fixated on Solomon.

Solomon stayed neutral, perfectly calm, staring back into the lifeless green eyes. His breathing stayed even and his hands stayed limp at his sides. The thing was, Xavier wasn’t wrong. He was sixty-two, far beyond his prime. Nearing the end of a road he never thought he’d ever walk. It might be in five years, it might be in a few months. His joints were creaky and his bones ached. Every moment was something he had to be careful with. Age did that, crept up without warning. Settled into your bones without permission. There was nothing anyone could do but accept the age and all its hardships as well as the gifts. To live was a gift, especially this long. His brother hadn’t gotten to this age, Terrance had barely gotten to nineteen, and Ximena had died young too. In truth, Solomon was very lucky to be at this age. To be here and alive to help the ones he loved escape from a monster.

“Perhaps not. But I am still here now. That’s all that matters, Xavier.”

“Yes. I guess so. Leave then, old man, go take your nap.”

“Everyone dies, Xavier,” Solomon said, before turning away. They would be leaving soon. Maybe not all of them would make it, but they were going to try, and perhaps that was enough.

***

He sat in his room for a long time lost in his own prayers. On his knees, hands on the bed. Begging the gods and God, to be merciful. His faith at times was the only thing that kept him upright. God would take care of him, so would the Earth. Solomon was changed, his soul spotted and dark, but he was going home. It had been a long time. Perhaps he would be forgiven when he was back at home. The Spirits would move through him and release him from his pain.

The smell hit him first, the burning wood. He lifted his head and stood up, grabbing his medical bag. The old leather was frayed and worn. But it was a gift from his teacher and he couldn’t bear to part with it. Solomon seemed to be stuck in the past, but the smell of smoke pushed him forward. As soon as he opened his bedroom door, there was a sound that wasn’t supposed to happen yet.

The sound of guns firing filled the air.

His heart stopped for a moment. This was not part of the plan; they were supposed to be as quiet as possible. The fire was supposed to be the only distraction. Something had gone horribly wrong here. The guns firing did not cover the sound of Xavier slamming open his bedroom door, pulling his trousers up and buckling his belt.

“What the fuck is happening?” Xavier screamed at Solomon.

“I don’t know—I smell smoke,” he lied easily, pretending not to feel queasy as Henrietta came out from behind Xavier, looking flush, pulling up her dress on her shoulder. “Are those gunshots?” she asked, staring at Xavier with big doe eyes. She seemed legitimately surprised, worry lining her face. It was right to do so. None of this was part of the plan. The beginnings of panic started in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Both of you, downstairs. Now,” Xavier commanded, voice tight with anger. He pushed Henrietta aside, going back into the bedroom. Probably into the closet where he kept the guns. Neither of them were inclined to argue. They hurriedly made their way down the stairs together, standing awkwardly in the living room. The air around them was tense and Solomon looked toward Henrietta, grabbing her hand tightly.

“Did something go wrong?” she whispered, anxiety making her voice shake. They snapped their heads in the same direction where there was a chorus of yelling and gunshots. “Oh God,” she said, stepping forward to go outside. As she made her way to the door, it swung open. Yardly stood there, rifle in one hand, panting heavily.

At the same moment, Xavier was walking down the stairs, footsteps angry, making the house creak. The house was angry too. The air was steaming with it. Or perhaps it was Solomon’s own fear making him slick with sweat. “What is happening?” Xavier growled to Yardly. “We’re under attack, sir—people are at the stables, they’re on fire. Horses everywhere, people shooting. It’s fucking war out there.”

Xavier’s eyes flashed dangerously as he moved through the living room, holding his own rifle, pistol already in its holster at his hip. “Yardly, stay here with them, make sure they don’t make a move. They try, shoot Solomon.” “Sir, I should be out there with you,” Yardly tried to argue, but Xavier was already out the door, slamming it behind him. Xavier was walking toward the smoke, toward the screaming and the guns and everything that was ever going wrong.

“FUCK!” screamed Yardly, pacing around. “He really wants me to babysit while my men are out there, fighting some kinda bandits.” Yardly stopped, turning toward them, lifting his rifle to point at them. The safety clicked off. “I should just kill the both of you, save me the trouble. I could say you guys tried to attack me. I had no choice.”

“Then you would die,” Solomon said simply, the hand not holding the bag, raising in surrender. “He would kill you and it would mean nothing. You can go, we won’t stop you.” “But you’ll leave and I’ll die anyway,” Yardly growled.

“You can leave too. You don’t have to work here,” Henrietta chimed in, eyes wide. “He’s gone mad, you know that. He’s not fit to lead. You’ve been leading the others for a while now, Yardly. You don’t have to be under his thumb.”

The man stayed there for a second, thinking hard, actually contemplating their words for a moment. Solomon knew how hard it was to choose. Especially because Yardly had been here for nearly as long as Solomon, give or take a few years. Solomon and Yardly knew him before Ximena died, they knew him when he was still charming and full of life. When he gave as much as he took. When Xavier could hide himself as a good man. Xavier wasn’t always like this. None of them were who they were twenty years ago. Xavier had been kind once. Well, maybe not kind, but he had a respect for people, was able to form a connection and create an understanding. He’d been decent—to them at least.

“I know, Yardly. The loyalty is still there, I feel it too. But he’s not who he was. You don’t have to let him keep destroying himself, or you, just because he gave you a job and shelter.”

Yardly looked up, narrowing his eyes. He slowly started to lower the gun, standing up straighter. There was a blink of understanding in his eyes.

There was a movement from behind Yardly, something that Solomon couldn’t quite parce out quick enough.

“Jesse, no—!” Henrietta screamed, before blood splattered over Solomon's face.

His ears rang as he stumbled backwards, hearing the body collapse to the ground. Jesse stood where Yardly had spinning his pistol before putting it back in his holster. He immediately bent down to grab the rifle that had clattered to the floor and unholstered Yardly’s pistol. Solomon felt numb, his fingers went to the wet blood on his face. Eyes staring at the limp body that was on the floor. Someone who he knew, someone he’d sparked multiple conversations. A memory of trying to keep men alive during the war shocked his body into numbness.

Yardly was dead.

“He was never gonna let you go,” Jesse stated matter-of-factly. “He was gonna kill you either way.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I- why?” Henrietta and Solomon spoke at the same time.

Jesse flipped Yardly’s gun in his hand and walked over to Henrietta, holding the gun out to her by the handle. “I just knew.”

Henrietta was enraged, Solomon could see it as she grabbed the pistol from Jesse’s hand harshly. Looking at the bullets inside as she clicked the revolver back in place.

“He was listening to us,” Solomon said, voice cracking.

“No he wasn’t.” Jesse muttered. “We gotta go now. Isabella and Joseph are waitin’ with the wagon roun’ back. If you want to get Miguel any time soon, then we gotta go now.”

Solomon stared at the blood pooling around Yardly’s head. Lifeless body on the floor. There was a deep ache in his soul. Grief? Guilt? Yardly was dead—Solomon had to accept that and move on.

His grip on his medical bag tightened. Pushing away the feeling of darkness in his chest, he nodded. Jesse stood up and pulled a small bottle of kerosene from his bag. He poured it on and around Yardly’s body, expression grim and serious. Then he lit the match. “We have to go,” he said, flicking the match at the body. It exploded in flames and both Solomon and Henrietta stepped back, eyes wide. They stared, mouth agape, as the fire spread. Then Solomon started moving. They needed to leave before the fire consumed them, too.

Henrietta’s breathing was ragged, but she followed as Solomon and Jesse made their way to the back door, which Jesse held open for them. The wagon was waiting there and a blonde woman jumped from the front, and Henrietta was running as well. They met in the middle, hugging each other tightly. It was only a second before they moved to the wagon together getting in the back. Jesse shoved Solomon forward.

“Come on old man, fucking move.”

Solomon ignored the pang of hurt that hit his chest at the harsh words. Forcing himself to move, he climbed into the back of the wagon.

“Go! Go! Go!” Jesse hissed as he jumped into the back, as he readied the rifle. “They’re everywhere.”

They moved with a jolt and the raging fire came into view from behind the house. Horses ran amok, kicking up dust, smoke thick in the air. The stables were just fire, orange and yellow flames wild as the fences caught fire too. Ranch hands were shooting wildly at the desert around them or trying to catch the horses that had run. The world was on fire. The night sky was covered by smoke. Nothing would ever be the same.

The wagon jumped and creaked under the harsh treatment as they came to a halting stop in front of the barn. “Jesse–-” Solomon started.

“Comin’,” Jesse said, hopping off the wagon as Solomon clambered down. God he was old. Solomon shouldn’t be doing this at his age, but they hurried inside, Jesse leading him up to the hayloft. Each step up the ladder made Solomon's knees creak and he panted when they got to the top.

“Oh, I see,” said a voice from in front of him. Not Miguel. Miguel didn’t speak. Solomon looked up from the ground and saw Xavier near Miguel’s cot, hand tightly fisting Miguel’s hair in one hand while the other hand held a pistol up to the bottom of his jaw. Miguel was breathing hard, tears streaming down his face. He was still, seemingly paralyzed by fear. Solomon locked eyes with him and he tried to open his mouth.

“I fucking knew it was you, Solomon,” Xavier spat, craning Miguel’s head back so he was only looking at the rafters, adams apple on display. Vulnerable.

“Xavier, let him go,” Solomon said slowly, tasting bile. Jesse was quiet. Solomon knew he was fighting some internal battle. He would not expect any action from the boy next to him. His gun was raised but his finger was off the trigger.

“Just let him go,” Solomon repeated.

“Did you really think this was going to work? Setting my buildings on fire? My home? My stables? Did you think you’d burn everything and not face any consequences? I thought you were smarter, Solomon.” Xavier spat toward Jesse. “And you, you definitely know better, boy.” Jesse swallowed, stepping toward Xavier, finger shakily moving to the trigger.

“Tio–-” Jesse started, only to stop himself when Xavier dug the gun further into Miguel’s jaw. It sprung a whimper from Miguel. Solomon felt his heart drop to his feet with the sound. He should have expected this: for Xavier to go to Miguel first. He was the perfect hostage, small, young. No one wants to see a kid die.

“Shut the fuck up,” Xavier snapped, vitriol dripping from every word. “Xavier–-” Solomon started and the gun cocked.

“If you don’t want mutt brains all over this barn, both of you will shut up and listen,” Xavier growled out.“Put your guns on the floor and kick them toward me.”

Jesse’s face morphed into a snarl as he dropped the rifle, kicking it over full force like a child throwing a tantrum. He unholstered his pistol and tossed that over with a dull thud on the wood. Solomon slowly raised his hands again, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral.

“I don’t have a gun,” Solomon said, voice steady.

“Of course you fucking don’t.”

Solomon had never used a gun before, and he wasn’t going to start now, especially not if he was going to prove Xavier wrong. There were lines he would not cross, that was not a weakness, it was a strength. It was his only strength. He found himself shrugging slightly in response.

The gun slowly uncocked and moved away from Miguel’s jaw. The hand gripping his hair relaxed, letting Miguel face them again. He was crying, tears streaking down his face. His breath shuddering, eyes glancing up to Xavier every second or two. It was a standstill for a slow second, everything freezing in place. The world had stopped spinning, allowing them all a moment to breathe. A moment to think.

“You can let him go,” Solomon breathed. “You can let him go now, you have our guns. Please, just let him go.”

Xavier looked at him. His eyes were no longer green, they were black holes. They were graves. He was going to bury all of them. The man took a step back and a slow smile crept onto his face. “No, no I don’t think I will, Solomon.” The gun was now pointed at them. More accurately, it was pointed directly at Solomon.

Solomon started to pray inwardly. Creator, help us.

Frantically, Miguel twisted in Xavier’s grasp, turning his head downward to the forearm that was around his throat and bit down. Xavier screamed. The gun went off. Solomon's world staggered to the right and fell downward. Solomon was on his hands and knees, his eyes were on the floor and it took a moment to realize he was still alive. Jesse was the one screaming, falling backwards. Scampering toward the wall. The realization hit Solomon that Jesse had pushed him out of the way of the bullet's trajectory, getting himself shot in the process. “Jesse—,” Solomon called out, but a scream distracted him.

The scream itself was muffled as Miguel had latched onto Xavier’s forearm. Blood dripped down his chin and he released the bite to turn around and shove Xavier backwards. The man staggered away, starting to raise the gun again. God, Solomon would never make it.

He had to try. He had to try.

Creator, give me strength. It was like his body was not his own as he pushed himself to his feet and raced to Xavier and Miguel, who stood frozen at the sight of the gun being pointed at him. Solomon’s body collided with Xavier's, knocking them both off their feet. The collison rattled his bones and the gun went off again missing its mark. Solomon’s hands went to the gun in an attempt to wrestle it away, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder, ignoring every screaming instinct as he knocked the gun out of Xavier’s grip and it clattered a few feet away. They were a tangled mess of limbs and desperation as they both reached for the gun. There was blood everywhere, Solomon didn’t know whose it was. Xavier was draped over him, reaching, reaching.

Solomon was reaching too, and as his fingertips touched the gun, so did Xavier’s. Fingers managed to get the handle—Xavier’s fingers—and Solomon yelled in frustration.

He threw his elbow back into Xavier’s nose, causing the man to scream indignantly as blood flowed from his face and onto Solomon’s hair. He could feel it dripping down his neck, down his braids. Solomon pushed farther, his own hand reaching out and wrenching the gun from Xavier’s hand. He used all his strength to move his body to the side to throw Xavier off him. Xavier and him were on their sides, but Solomon was slower in getting up. Xavier clambered on top of him and gripped the wrist that was holding the gun tightly, bashing it on the floor. Solomon let it go, hearing his wrist crack under the force. His throat was raw with the scream he let out.

Where was Miguel? Was he going to see this? See his death? No child should watch their father-

The barrel of the gun pressed to his forehead, hot and heavy.

Creator, protect him…

Solomon did not close his eyes. He stared at the barrel of the gun. A bubble of hysteria made him laugh, feeling lightheaded. Was this really how he was going to die? On the floor, Xavier pressing a gun to his forehead? “Any last words, Solomon?”

A figure was behind Xavier. It looked like death. Was it for him? Where were Miguel and Jesse? Were they watching this?

“Don’t hurt my boy,” was all he could come up with.

He heard Xavier laugh and he stared at the graves in Xavier’s eyes. “Please, let him live.”

The gun cocked with a click.

Solomon did not close his eyes. If he was to die, he would stare it in the face. This time, Solomon would not cower. He would not falter. For once in his life, he would be brave. Perhaps Jesse and Miguel had left. They had been smart and just left. Solomon had been a good distraction. They could get away. It was the best case scenario.

The figure behind Xavier moved, the shovel coming down, and Solomon jerked to the side out of pure instinct. The shot rang out at the same time the shovel hit between Xavier’s shoulder blades. Solomon’s world went white, his left ear ringing loudly. Everything spun for a moment, his thoughts swimming in circles around him. Everything was doubled, Xavier was off of him. Another thud and another and another; hits—they were solid hits, full of power. Solomon turned over on his stomach, gathering his knees under him and emptied his dinner onto the floor. Bile and blood in his mouth.

He managed to lift his head, feeling something wet drip down his ear. Solomon reached up and touched his ear; blood was on his fingers. Everything was still ringing. The world swinging like a pendulum. Someone was in front of him and he jerked back, looking up to see brown eyes. Miguel. He was here. Why was he here?

“Miguel,” he choked out. Miguel didn’t respond, he just slotted an arm around Solomon’s waist and yanked him up on his feet. They staggered together to the ladder, Miguel making Solomon go down first. He half fell, missing a leg of the ladder, and stumbling down to the ground, using one of the pillars to hold himself up. Again, he retched on the ground, half leaning on the pillar. Solomon shook his head, opening and closing his eyes, trying to shake off the disorientation. Someone was talking to him, but it was muffled, sounding like he was underwater. “What?” he asked dumbly, being met with more words but none of them made any sense. They all jumbled in the air in front of him. Jesse was on the ground, hands pressed to a wound on his thigh. His eyes were wild as he continued to talk at Solomon, who couldn’t hear anything past the ringing in his ears. “What?” he asked again.

Miguel was back in his view, signing to him. Frantically asking if he was okay. Then he was wrapping an arm around Solomon, half dragging him, half helping him back to the wagon.

When they exited the barn, a man met them, talking at them. “You Solomon and Miguel?”

Solomon laughed deliriously and with a broken voice answered, “Yes. That’s us. There’s another boy in the barn, he needs help.”

“Got it. Wagon’s waiting, go get on it.”

God—everything was muffled, his ears were ringing. Miguel kept them moving and when they came to the wagon, Henrietta was under his arm. She was helping carry his weight as they moved. She was okay. She had waited for him.

Solomon found himself grateful to have so many people in his life that cared. That loved him enough to stay in the middle of a war. Things like this had the tendency to bring out the best and worst of people. He was so used to seeing the worst, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to see the good. Hope was crawling its way out of his spotted soul and settling into his bones instead.

They helped him onto the wagon where he collapsed. Breath heaving. The sound of guns and yelling were muted. For a moment the world closed in on Miguel. He was alive. He was more than that. Miguel saved him.

Creator, thank you.

Miguel saved him. There was a delirious laughter that escaped him. The thought of that happening a year ago would have been impossible. Before that, the boy was a shell. A shadow of his former self. Since that fever, since Xavier broke his body, he’d been different. He went on a spirit walk and came out stronger. Pride swelled in his chest. Perhaps he’d let himself believe that Miguel was someone that he could call a son.

“Solomon? You okay?” Henrietta asked, eyes searching over him. “You have blood everywhere.”

“We need to go,” he said, “Xavier is in the barn, he’s...”

“He’s not there anymore,” said someone from behind Henrietta, the man from a moment ago, he was helping Jesse into the wagon. “We gotta go—the hands are coming round the back. Go, go.” The wagon started to move, the world lurching forward. He pushed himself to a sitting position, looking over at Jesse. Jesse’s face was pale, but he shot Solomon a thumbs up, before aiming his rifle. The man who helped him also pointed a rifle. They aimed toward the barn, toward the fire. Solomon could see the ranch hands, coming out from all angles, pointing their guns at their wagon, toward their horses. “We’ll cover you! Go faster.”

The wagon jerked and they were moving faster. Smoke and bullets through the air felt lighter somehow as they made their way through the desert. Soon enough the sounds died low, the hands seemingly far enough behind that they stopped chasing them. The air cleared, but Solomon's left ear was still ringing. Everything was still muffled on that side. The gunshot right next to his head must have damaged the eardrum. The ringing would probably never go away.

As they got farther, Miguel began looking over Solomon, splinting his wrist with Henrietta’s help. Jesse had finally got the sense in him to sit back and look at his wound. The boy had taken a bullet for him. Solomon, after he was splinted, smiled.

“Help Jesse,” he said, and they both gave him an incredulous look. “Help him—he saved me.”

Miguel’s face morphed into a snarl as he shook his head. Henrietta on the other hand nodded, going over to Jesse to go and look at the wound. Solomon gently put his good hand around Miguel’s elbow. The boy shrugged him off, moving toward the other end of the wagon, letting a leg hang off it, the other leg pulled close to his chest. His heart ached for him. Solomon tried not to be hurt by the gesture, knowing that Miguel was nowhere near healed. His heart was cut open and bruised still. Solomon still felt slightly hurt by the gesture.

Eventually the wagon slowed to a stop. The world seemed to as well. It was quiet. The sun was rising, casting everything in a pale yellow light. The clouds were red and intense. He was able to actually sit with it.

How long had it been since he’d been off the ranch? Off the ranch with the idea that he would not be going back? More than twenty years of being stuck in a ritual. It was all new, all different.

The birds sang.

Solomon’s chest was opening and he could feel the light pouring through.

Solomon was finally above ground. He could breathe. He realized there were more people with them than he originally bargained for. Isabella sat at the front seat of the wagon with another man he didn’t know. There was Joseph, who was helping Henrietta with Jesse. Then three other men on horses behind them. It was almost surprising how many there were. He had expected less. But he’d always been a little inclined to underestimate Henrietta. She had done this, made all of this happen. He was proud. Solomon was proud of all of them. Henrietta came back to him, hands bloody from Jesse’s wound. She stared down at Solomon with a smile. It turned into a look of surprise, then intense grief.

She started to cry, fully sobbing and the wagon was silent as she did. No one said a word, nor looked too long. Henrietta leaned down and wrapped her arms around Solomon's neck, burying her face into a shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her.

When the sobbing quieted down, Henrietta finally spoke.

“We did it... We’re out. We’re out.”

They were still running, but she was right. They were out. This was the new beginning. They were on their way to a new life, a better one. It was enough to allow a moment of happiness. Henrietta deserved to be happy about this.

Everything Solomon had ever done since he met her and Miguel—it was all for them. It had always been for them.

“We’re out,” he agreed. “Everything is going to work out the way it’s supposed to.”

It always did.

It would right now.

There was hope here. They created it themselves, and they could only create more. Solomon knew he could, knew that Henrietta and Miguel could. Even Jesse. They had all crawled out of the graves that Xavier had dug for them, and now they were above ground. Everything they had ever been through, ever done. It had not killed them. It had made them different, they were not without darkness in their souls. But they were still here.

Maybe, just maybe, that was enough. ___

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