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nevadancitizen · 29 days ago

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-> CH. 3: OF TRUE AND FALSE MEMORIES

synopsis: you hitch a ride to the heartlands. hopefully your driver doesn't mind you leeching for just a while longer.

word count: 3.6k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: hey ummm merry christmas eve here's an early present. also zion as a concept of faith is mentioned but i am not a zionist trust it's just that joshua graham is unfortunately a mormon 🙏

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog , @photo1030 , @mavenhavenn , @fathermarama , @its-yummi (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

You know the trail to Dead Horse Point well by now. Something is a bit different – but still, Joshua and Daniel and the Dead Horses and Sorrows welcome you and your mules, Rook and Bishop, all the same.

Follows-Chalk, Drumming-Storm, and a few other Dead Horses crowd the mules, offloading everything you had on them: books, kettles, blankets, guns (and accompanying black powder), tobacco, and alcohol. They mostly crowd Rook, as she’s the heavyweight of the two and carries more – Bishop’s more of a riding mule. The Dead Horses wander off soon after, arms full, taking everything to its respective place.

Joshua approaches you, adjusting the bandages near his eyes to see you better. “You’ve got on well.”

“Yes, sir,” you say. “Happy Trails treats me well. I’m their employee, but I’m also their friend.”

“Yes, but this?” Joshua gestures at the people putting up what you’ve brought. “All this product? They must have put a lot of trust in you.”

“They put more trust in my steeds,” you say. “Both got some burro in them. And they can kick as hard as them, too – especially Bishop.”

“That, I don’t doubt,” Joshua says.

You watch as Rook shakes her coat out, causing her carrying gear to jingle. Bishop wanders closer to Joshua, nudging at his shoulder and nipping at the bandages that cover Joshua’s arm. Joshua lifts his arm (slowly – again, he’s bandaged all over) and pats the side of Bishop’s face.

“They like it here,” you say. “Maybe it’s something about the canyon. Or maybe they just like you.”

“Zion is a godly place,” Joshua says. His voice, though deep and abrasive, carries a heavy tone of affection. “Wherever man may be, he always dreams of Zion. These creatures may share our same dreams.”

“That’d be nice,” you hum softly. You reach out and place your hand under Rook’s jaw, and she leans forward into your touch. Her big, brown eyes blink slowly as she looks at you, then around the campsite, like she’s appreciating the sight.

“We should probably get going,” you say. You look over at Joshua. “I need to load up on daturana and datura hide. That’s what Happy Trails wants in exchange, anyway.”

“Go talk to Winding-Path,” Joshua says. “She knows what you’re owed.”

When you look to your right, Follows-Chalk is hurrying over, a hand raised and a smile on his face. The painted markings on his face crease and stretch with his smile – rather than spider legs creeping up his cheeks, they look like laugh lines.

“Hoye!” He greets. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you, too,” you say. You reach out to grasp his hand, and as soon as you brush it –

A bump in the road jolts you awake. You let out a small, confused sound, then settle.

You’re in the back of a wagon, crammed between folded-up lodgings and kitchen supplies. Your knees are drawn to your chest, and your back is to the wooden side of the wagon.

Before packing up and making yourself fit into the space left on the wagon, you weren’t really told much of anything. From what you’ve gathered, the men (“men” being the young-ish, able-bodied ones) robbed a train, and now you and the gang have to flee. It seems like you fit right in, because they have a penchant for pissing off the wrong people, just like you.

“Hey, you’re finally awake!” Hosea calls from the front, where he sits next to Arthur.

“Yeah.” You shift and take a quick, deep breath as you rub the sleep from your eyes. “Yeah, I’m up.”

“We’re nearly to the Heartlands,” Hosea says. He turns so that he’s facing you with his arm resting on the back of the seat. “You ever been there before?”

“No,” you say. You sway with the trail in the dirt road and the way Arthur drives.

“We’re settling up in Horseshoe Overlook,” Hosea says. “It’s near a livestock town called Valentine – all mud and morons, if I remember right.”

“Huh,” you hum. You look away from Hosea and around you.

It’s different from when you were up in Colter. It’s warmer, for one. The trees aren’t dredged in snow – instead, their branches are covered in leaves, each one green and upturned. Grasses and flowers sprout from the dirt ground, which is now soft and malleable instead of frozen and cold to the touch. Everything is just nicer.

For a minute, you just listen to the sounds around you. It’s calm. Birdsong fills the air, and you can see animals bounding through the trees of the forest and grasses of the valleys (for the first time in a while, honestly – cities don’t lend themselves well to wildlife).

What was that dream about? You wonder silently. I was… in the Dead Horses’ camp. But that place is completely fictional, even in this… timeline? Coma-fever-something dream? I don’t even know at this point.

You hear the sound of moving water and look to the front. Arthur is guiding the horses into a stream, which the rest of the caravan has cleared without a problem.

In the middle of the water, you feel a shock and hear something break. You clutch to the side of the wagon and feel that the driving is a little… off.

“Get us out the stream,” Hosea says. “You gotta keep us moving, but calm.”

Did you just ask Arthur to be calm? You shout in your head. Arthur is the epitome of everything that isn’t calm! He barely feels things, and when he does, he’s meaner than a gas station tweaker – and he’s not even on anything!

Arthur (yes, carefully, you’ll admit) pulls the wagon out of the stream. Just as he does, you feel another shock and a shift. You scramble to hold onto a canister as it nearly falls out of the back of the wagon.

“Ah, shit!” Arthur curses. He draws the wagon to a stop.

“Okay, let’s take a look,” Hosea says.

You move and shift the items so that they’re pushed further up the wagon, where you were sitting just before. You hop off the back of the wagon. Sure enough, the wheel has just popped itself right off.

“You alright back there?” Bill calls from up ahead.

“Does everything look alright?” Arthur snaps as he hops off the driver’s seat.

You can see Javier shift in his seat in the wagon ahead of yours, trying to get a better look. “Well, what’s going on?”

Arthur walks closer to you, accessing the damage. He throws a hand up in the air and groans. “I broke the goddamn wheel!”

“Alright!” Hosea chimes. “Let’s get it fixed.”

“You need help?” Javier calls.

Hosea waves him off with a hand. “I reckon we can handle it.”

You quickly step back as he and Charles make their way to the back of the wagon. Arthur hoists up the wheel so he can roll it towards the wagon. Hosea and Charles pick up the back, and Arthur forces the wheel back into place.

You hurry over and pick up a crate, putting it in the wagon. You hop up into the bed of the wagon and take a small chest from Charles, placing it where it belongs.

“Hey, look at you.” Arthur says as he checks the back of the wagon. “You ain’t so useless after all.”

“O-oh,” you say after a second. “You’re talking to me?”

“I am.” He looks up at you. The brim of his hat casts a harsh shadow that partly obscures his eyes. “Did I… offend you, somehow?”

“No, no!” You laugh nervously and take another crate from Charles. “I just wasn’t sure. Sorry.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur hums.

“Hold on,” Hosea almost hisses.

You look over at him, and he’s looking to the side. You follow his eyes and see three figures on the ridge of a cliff, each perched on a horse. You can barely make out their facial features, but they look like Native Americans.

“What you think?” Arthur says lowly.

“If they wanted trouble, we wouldn’t have seen them,” Charles says.

“Poor bastards…” Hosea raises his arm and waves, but doesn’t call out to them. “We really screwed them over down here.”

Yeah… You think to yourself, still looking at the figures on horseback. It’s not much better in the future, either. I’d tell you all the details, but then I’d be put in an asylum.

“Come on,” Hosea says. “Let’s not push our luck.”

You take your eyes away from the figures. Instead, you help Charles pack up the last of what’s meant to go in the back of the wagon.

As Arthur and Hosea hop on the front of the wagon, you make yourself comfortable on top of a trunk. Charles sits across from you on a rectangular crate.

“Not too far now. Stay on this trail,” Hosea instructs Arthur. “We’ll follow the river, then cut left inland.”

You look around as Hosea starts telling Arthur about how the poor the natives were treated in this area. “Stolen clean away from them it was, every blade of grass,” he says. Even though it’s wrong (reprehensible, even), you understand why white men wanted this country. It’s breathtakingly beautiful – or maybe it just looks that way because it’s not what you’re used to. It’s not asphalt and smog and a concrete jungle in place of real land that lives and breathes.

“I heard some of the army out here was particularly, uh…” Hosea thinks for a second. “Unpleasant about it.”

“Unpleasant?” Charles echoes. “How do you rob and kill people pleasantly?”

“You… say please?” You try to joke. “And thank you?”

“Something like that!” Hosea laughs. “That’s the perfect way to simplify something more complicated for the benefit of our blockheaded driver here.”

You cringe a little. You don’t really want to be roped in while Hosea’s insulting Arthur so freely and carelessly.

“Hey, don’t blame nothin’ on me,” Arthur says. “Never forget, y’all – this here’s a conman, born and bred. Just ‘cause it sounds fancy don’t mean he knows a damn thing ‘bout what he’s talkin’ ‘bout.”

A nice pseudo-quiet settles over all four of you. (Pseudo because while it’s true that none of you are talking, the noise of the forest around you fills that silence well.)

“So…” Arthur starts. “Charles. What happened to your tribe?”

“I don’t even know if I have one. Least, not that I can remember,” Charles says. “My father was a colored man. They told me he lived with our people for a while – a number of free men did – but… when we were forced to move from our lands, the three of us fled. I was too young to really remember much.”

His expression hardens a little. “All my life I’ve been on the run.”

You feel your face twist a bit and a pang of empathy. Empathy – not sympathy. You don’t feel pity for Charles. You know a feeling familiar to his. Maybe you weren’t literally pushed from your land, but you sure as hell know how it feels – skipping from shelter to warming center to temporary housing to shelter.

Addicts, even child addicts and children of addicts, are liabilities. You were a liability.

Charles’ voice brings you from your thoughts. “A couple years later, some soldiers captured my mother. Took her somewhere. We never saw her again. We drifted around. My father was a very sad man, and the drink had a mean hold on him. Around thirteen… I just took off on my own.”

His eyes flit over to meet yours. “What’s that look for?”

“Sorry.” You duck your head and look off to the side. “It’s just… I understand.”

You leave it hanging at that. Then, you look at Charles out of the corner of your eye. He’s waiting for you to continue. You glance at Hosea and Arthur. Neither have turned around to look at you, but you can tell they’re waiting, too.

“My dad wasn’t around. Like, at all,” you say. “And my mom liked to go to trap houses to get stoned out of her goddamn mind.”

“Trap houses?” Hosea echoes. “What d’you mean by that?”

A cold shock shoots down your spine as you remember that, yeah – this is 1899! And you’re from the future! And you can’t let slip that you’re from the 21st century!

“A trap house is a house where people go to buy and sell drugs,” you say as you think of a lie. “Sorry – it’s slang from the Frontier, I guess. Hasn’t made its way eastward yet.”

“Huh,” Hosea hums. “And what did you do before you found yourself here? If you don’t mind my asking.”

The dream! The dream! Your mind screams at you. Remember the dream!

“I worked for a company called Happy Trails Caravan,” you lie. “Had two mules – Rook and Bishop. I spent most of my time travelling alone, and delivering to the tribes in the Mojave.”

“And how was that?” Hosea asks. “I can’t imagine travelling all the time leaving a lot of room for friends.”

“Oh, yeah. It was nice, but still a little lonely,” you say. “I started doing more local runs across the north of the Mojave around six or seven years ago. Made friends with some of the tribes in Zion Canyon. I started working that job when I was maybe… fourteen? And spent around a decade going cross-country before I did more local deliveries.”

“That was about the age we found young Arthur here – maybe a little older,” Hosea says. “A wilder delinquent you never did see! But he learned fast.”

Arthur scoffs. “Not as fast as Marston, apparently.”

You and Charles exchange a look and he speaks up. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem between you two?”

“Eh…” Arthur shrugs. “It’s a long story.”

You cup a hand by your mouth and half-whisper to Charles. “Marston’s the wolf guy, right?”

He just nods in response. You drop your hand and lean back, looking around at the scenery again. Arthur leads the wagon right by the wall of a sheer cliff drop. You look up at the ridge and the trees silhouetted there.

“We still headed the right way?” Arthur says.

“That depends,” Hosea says. “Are we still heading west, in search of fortune and repose in virgin forests, as we planned? No. Are we heading in the correct direction on our desperate escape from the law, eastwards down the mountains? Yes, I believe so.”

You smile to yourself a little. You don’t really know him all that well, but so far, Hosea’s shaping up to be one of the people you can trust. If not, he’s a nice storyteller, at least. You guess that counts for something.

“You know this area?” Charles asks.

“A little. I’ve been through a couple of times. There’s a livestock town not too far from here, called Valentine.” Hosea hooks his thumb over his shoulder at you. “Was telling them and Arthur about it earlier. Cowboys, outlaws, working girls. Our kinda place.”

“O’Driscolls?” Arthur asks.

“Probably them too,” Hosea says.

“Pinkertons?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“And this place we’re going…” Arthur shifts, giving the reins a light snap. “Wait, what’s it called again?”

You turn and watch the riverbed pass by as they continue to talk. The place is called Horseshoe Overlook, like Hosea told you earlier. They talk about the Blackwater job and about Dutch doing things that weren’t like him. (That confuses you a bit. He’s a nice guy, as far as you can tell. But everyone has their limit, and from what you can infer, the ferry was Dutch’s limit.) A few more sentences later, you get the distinct feeling you shouldn’t be listening in on this conversation. Instead, you turn to Charles.

“Are you doing okay?” You ask.

“I’m fine,” Charles says. “Do I… not look okay?”

You laugh awkwardly and scratch your cheek. “No, no. I’m just… asking to be polite.”

His eyebrows draw together a little and he frowns a bit. “Okay.”

You inhale deeply and draw your lips into a thin line, then nod, then look away. 1899 is such a weird year to be alive. Or… to be in a coma in? Like, you’re in a coma and your coma dream is set in 1899. This is so confusing.

Javier’s voice from up ahead breaks your thoughts (and keeps you from going into a spiral, really).

“There you are, brother!” He points further down the trail. “Head in there and follow the track for a bit.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says.

“Hey, slow up,” Javier calls. “I’ll jump on.”

Javier catches up as Arthur slows down. He hops up onto the tailgate step, holding onto the side of the wagon for extra support. You give him a smile and he nods in return.

“Any trouble getting in here, Javier?” Hosea asks from up front.

“No, it went well,” Javier says. “This is a good spot.”

“Excellent!” Hosea says. “I think this’ll work for us. For now, anyway.”

You lean to the side and watch as Horseshoe Overlook comes into view. It’s a nice spot, like Javier said. Some of the grass has already been worn down from all the recent moving around the people and the horses have been doing. A few tents have already been set up, but not all of them.

“Here we are, folks,” Hosea says. “Home, sweet home.”

“You weren’t wrong, Hosea!” Dutch calls from inside the camp. “This place… is perfect.”

Hosea climbs off, and you take that as a hint to get off and start unloading. Charles looks inside the trunk you were sitting on before and tells you that it’s bedding. You take it from him and head over to the tents.

Most of the rest of the day passes like that. Everything needs to be unpacked and worked on. There was a small interruption when Dutch got up on his soapbox and gave a quick speech about everyone pitching in. He told the gang their fake backstory – that you and the rest of them are a group of itinerant workers whose factory got shut down up north.

Evening comes quietly and quickly, and night follows it. The sheer drop on the outskirts of camp serves as a nice place to sit and think.

The stars are so much more bright than they are back in your time. (Your time? Or is it real life? Waking life? Who knows? And, at this point, who cares?) They twinkle and blink and almost seem to dance. They group together and look like they’re spilling from one center source. The moon is nice and full on the horizon. You can see the craters and indents in her surface. It’s like you’re looking up at millions of silver nails driven into dark blue velvet, with the white head of a spike serving as the moon. It’s beautiful, for lack of better words.

“Hey.”

You gasp and tense, glancing over your shoulder. It’s Arthur.

You return to looking up at the sky. “Jesus… What do you want?”

“Charles told me to ask you if you’ve eaten,” Arthur says. “Well? Have you?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say. “I’m good.”

Even though you think the conversation is over, you can still feel Arthur behind you. It seems that these people either don’t know how to end a conversation or it’s just different in 1899.

“The stars.” You glance over your shoulder at Arthur, then away again. “I’m… I’m looking at the stars. If you were curious.”

“Uh huh?” Arthur hums. “And what’s so fascinating about them stars?”

“It’s just that, uh… I couldn’t see them as well out west,” you say. “Where I’m from. Here, I can see them so clearly. They look so real.”

Like I could just reach out and touch them… I mean, this is a coma or something like that. Maybe I could. Maybe I can.

“I mean, I know they’re real,” you say, your voice laced with laughter. “I’m not – I’m not stupid. They’re just pretty. That’s all.”

“Whatever you say,” Arthur says.

He steps forward into your peripheral vision. You glance at him, then away, like a child after they’ve been scolded for staring. You push down the instinct to shrink away and look at him.

He takes out a hand-rolled cigarette and puts it between his lips. He strikes a match with the bottom of his boot and lights it. The cherry of the cigarette lights up his face, casting warm light and soft shadows.

“You want one?” Arthur asks.

“Huh?” You blink, then look away. “No. No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“If you say so,” he says.

You can see Arthur look up at the stars out of the corner of your eye. He takes a deep drag from his cigarette, then exhales the smoke through his nose. The cherry of the cigarette flickers, then resumes glowing softly.

You join him in looking up. Sure enough, the stars are still there, and the stars are still real. All seem to spill from a single source. The moon is a little higher above the horizon – no longer touching it, but hovering in the sky.

Usually, you’d never get moments like this. You’d usually work from sunrise until sunset and pick up extra shifts and overtime where you could. It’s nice to see the world like this. Natural. Raw. Even if you have to ignore Arthur’s presence extra-hard, you still manage to enjoy the moment.

Everything’s just so slow back… then? Back now? Back now. Everything’s so slow back now. It’s like a break. A break from the jackrabbit-style, too-quick, so-fast-it’ll-give-you-a-heart-attack type of living you’re used to. A forced break, but a break nonetheless.

Breaks are nice. You watch a star flicker, twinkle, then blink into darkness.

Maybe you should take breaks more often.

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messyyythoughts · 1 year ago

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sands of zion, part 4.

fallout: new vegas Joshua Graham x female courier reader

author’s note: i am tipsy, have this xxx

summary: the Dead Horses want to move against the White Legs, but Joshua doesn’t expect the consequences...

warnings: war antics, the usual fallout: new vegas violence warning lol

••●••••●••••●••

since your conversation about Caesar, Joshua Graham had been watching you closely. you hadn’t mentioned or even inferred anything about Caesar since, treating the name like a fatal curse if spoken aloud. you seemed sober compared to how Joshua saw you before that conversation. where you’d take the time to talk with the Dead Horses each day and learn new words, now you stayed quiet and only spoke when spoken to. in Angel’s Cave you avoided others, and politely regarded Joshua when he was nearby. you spent days doing nothing, sleeping in your bed or walking up and down the river.

it was as if merely talking about Caesar had taken the very spirit from you. and Joshua hated it. every day he awoke hoping that his prayers had been answered to find you back to your old self, but each day that passed he found himself losing faith in his God. if ghosts were real, then he was watching one walk around his camp that looked remarkably like you. Follows-Chalk had made several attempts at communicating with you, but nothing could get your mind off of the evil that was Caesar waiting for you back in the Mojave. how his assassins hadn’t made it here yet you didn’t know, and it made you overly paranoid. they could be watching, waiting in the shadows, seeing how far you could get before they grabbed you. you’d refused to leave the camp for anything that wasn’t immediately life or death business, and it was beginning to irritate the Dead Horses. if they got that annoyed with you, they could show you the way home and you’d never bother them again. but, there was still the problem of the White Legs to deal with before any of the inhabitants of Zion would show you the way home, so you had to deal with it soon. one day, amidst your paranoia, you awoke to loud, shouting voices coming from outside of Angel’s Cave. you didn’t decipher any of the speech clearly at first, then you heard your name being thrown around. darting out of bed, you grabbed your rifle, forgoing your trench coat or outdoor clothes, and burst out into the sunlight in your sleeping clothes. Follows-Chalk was stood against a group of Dead Horses members, attempting to placate them as they stared at you with anger in their eyes. Joshua was nowhere to be seen. your eyes scanned the river before you lowered your rifle. “what is all of this about?” you asked quietly, though you feared you knew anyway. “we can talk about this in a calm way–” Follows-Chalk began, but the voices rose against him faster than he could handle. you picked out a few words, and understood that they were complaining of your idleness in the recent weeks, and the threat of the White Legs you were meant to be aiding Joshua in eliminating. your lips pressed together in mild embarrassment, but you really could care less, because they had no idea who Caesar was and what he was going to do to you the moment this war was over. “send her to the White Legs if she’s so scared of them! we are ready to fight them, why won’t Joshua Graham make the move?” one woman yelled, anger distorting her features. the funny thing was that all of these women had braided your hair, taught you words and shared their food with you a handful of times before. now you were their worst enemy, save the White Legs. Follows-Chalk was doing his best, but you knew he was no match for angry women. the men stood further back, shooting you disapproving glares. they’d seen you as one of them many times, but now you were no better than a child. you put a hand on Follows-Chalk’s arm, and his worried eyes met your dead ones. you nodded and he stepped back, closing his mouth. you faced the group, eyeing up each one. “if you want to move against the White Legs, I will speak to Joshua Graham.” your words only did the bare minimum to quiet their anger. at the rise of more voices, you held up a hand. “do not forget that it has been me who has rescued one of your children, defeated dozens of your enemies and fought for all of you with my life many times over.” your voice was raised, built on a foundation of disbelief at their words. “I will finish this war, but not if you disrespect me any further. am I clear?” they all went silent, watching you. “am I clear?” you yelled, snapping. the women’s heads dropped and they moved back. the men bristled at your tone. “be ready to fight with your lives, if you can do that.” you looked at each one of them in the eyes, and felt every one of them staring into your soul. Follows-Chalk followed you quietly into Angel’s Cave as you sighed and held in a desperate scream of frustration. you barely remembered the last few weeks, it had been a big blur of nonsense. you’d finally realised how soon you were going to face Caesar and lose your life in the process, and yes, you had others depending on you, but they didn’t know half of what your life had been. “do you know where Joshua is?” you asked Follows-Chalk, as you unpacked your belongings in preparation for the fight of your life, which would soon be overshadowed by the fight you’d bring to Caesar. “he is making final preparations for the attack, or at least that is what he told me.” you nodded, smoothing your hair away from your face and sighing heavily. “thank you for trying to save my reputation back there,” you said, “it wasn’t worth it but at least they’ll fight alongside me now.” Follows-Chalk was at your side, a worried look on his sweet face. his hand rested on your shoulder. “what troubles you, Courier? you have been a ghost since...” Follows-Chalk didn’t finish his sentence because footsteps approached. your heads both swivelled to meet the owner, and it was Joshua. he seemed surprised to see you up and awake, organising your things nonetheless. “we can talk later.” Follows-Chalk eyes searched yours for any hint of a smile, and even though you faked one, it didn’t fool him. he’d grown to know much about you personally since meeting you, and that smile wasn’t like the ones he’d seen from you before. he walked away, feeling something uneasy about you. ••●••••●••••●•• you filled Joshua in on the near-uprising against you, and he agreed that a move against the White Legs was looking favourable. you both stood at his desk, moving around it as you mapped out the White Legs territory from several scout reports. Joshua didn’t mention your behaviour recently, he was just satisfied that his prayers had been answered at last, and content to be enjoying your company once again. you went back and forth all evening, hypothesising the best formations and plans. you briefly paused the debates to make dinner and start inventory of all the weapons available to the Dead Horses. there was a lot, the scouts had done well, and Joshua had tracked down some pre-War technology that had been made useful by tinkering and experimenting. the sun went down, and Joshua gave the order to be ready to move out at first light. you continued planning, poking holes in each other’s ideas, before you settled on one of Joshua’s plans. you liked it, it had the least chance of failure, and it would get you into the White Legs camp where you could do the most damage. the necessary Dead Horse members were informed of the plan, and you both tried to get some sleep. Joshua resorted to studying his holy book at some point in the night, and you had started to clean your rifle and organise your trench coat with its many pockets. neither of you spoke as you knew it would only serve as a temporary distraction from the real thing that would be upon you in a few hours. as the sky began to change with the rising sun, you both got changed and checked weapons one last time. you were attempting to braid your hair out of the way but it proved hard with a scattered mind. you gave up and let it sit behind your shoulders, sat on your old camping bed, when Joshua’s voice broke the silence of Angel’s Cave for the first time in hours. “may I...?” your eyes landed on him, and he was stood at the end of your bed, looking at your hair. you nodded and took off your hat, smoothing your hair down. he knelt behind you, taking your hair in three sections and beginning the braid. it was the simplest one, but it kept your hair out of your face. you sat there, staring at the walls of the cave and imagining your death. would a White Leg grab and slash your throat open? a stray bullet? an explosive? a brutal fist fight to the death? you didn’t even notice that Joshua was long finished the braid, and was still knelt behind you, just waiting. he was probably thinking, too. you turned around, facing him. the sight of him on his knees might’ve elicited a different reaction from you in a different life, but now it just made you sad. deeply and utterly sad. he looked up at you, and you looked down at him. “we’re losing time.” you said softly, feeling a strange knot in your throat. “we are.” Joshua watched as you stood up, slinging your rifle over your shoulder and leaving the cave. he stood, watching after you.

••●••••●••••●••

the atmosphere in the camp was different to that in the cave. where there’d been a sober silence broken only by a few meaningless words, out here there was a flurry of activity. shouts and chants rang out, splashing water, weapons colliding. last minute training and conversations went down at the same time, each Dead Horse member preparing in their own individual way to face the enemy. the elders and healers were blessing the warriors with marks and paint on their bare skin. some even began blessing the weapons held by the warriors, bathed in early morning light. you went to walk past the elders, who you assumed held dislike for you since your outburst yesterday, but one woman stopped you. she held out her hands, covered in paint, and you took off your hat, kneeling down for her. she was short and unassuming in appearance, but one look at her face told you that she’d seen more than you’d ever comprehend. her fingers danced over your face, making a mask of a warrior, and blessing you. she took your rifle from your hand and painted that too. a feeling of something you couldn’t quite explain went over you, like hands running through your hair, or a mother’s touch. suddenly, the old woman smiled, before turning away. she left you there feeling bewildered, strangely empowered, and ready to face the White Legs.

Joshua Graham had been watching the scene unfold from the entrance to Angel’s Cave. for some time now he had believed you to be a blessing sent by his God, or a divine being who he just happened to cross paths with. whatever you may end up being, he would spend the rest of his existence eternally grateful for you. the way you had accepted the Dead Horse tribe as your own, adhering to their customs and way of life so quickly. it may not have been your first port of call when you realised you were trapped here, but you soon realised what had to be done to survive, and Joshua could appreciate that.

he joined you by the river, taking the sight of you in before speaking.

“I see you have been blessed, by one of our oldest healers no less.” he could barely contain his urge to smile at you from beneath the bandages. you looked so proud for a moment, watching your reflection in the water. then you came back to reality. your brilliant eyes met his, and you looked away again.

“she does me a great honour, I can almost… feel her with me, or someone watching over me. maybe your God has time to watch over both of us today.” Joshua’s chest tightened when you spoke of his God.

“if He is willing, everyone here shall be watched over, and protected.” Joshua wanted to say more, but stopped himself. he could not let these feelings interfere with his mind right before battle. you were staring at the river water once again, then you spoke quietly.

“if He is indeed willing, we will live to wash in this river tomorrow. we all will.”

••●••••●••••●••

Joshua gave a short speech worthy of a war chief to the Dead Horses. those who would not be fighting would stay here, hidden in Angel’s Cave until either the return or retreat of the warriors and scouts of the Dead Horses. you stood there in silence, pushing the image of Caesar out of your mind and instead replacing it with that of the White Legs. they were your problem today, not some tyrant in the Mojave, which you had no feasible way of returning to yet. it hadn’t occurred to you that once this was over, you’d either be dead, kidnapped or alive and on your way home to the Strip to face Caesar. it felt horrible to admit, but you were starting to think which of the three options had the best outcome…

Joshua Graham was at the front of the crowd, leading the Dead Horses into battle. they gave off war cries and other unfamiliar sounds as you all waded up the river, but once out of the camp, silence fell like a blanket across each and every one of them. you were bringing up the rear, you and Joshua had agreed that it was best you stayed split up, for many reasons. you recalled the conversation in question, one that had happened amongst the planning and strategising.

“and if one of us goes down?” you raised an eyebrow and Joshua leaned back in his chair.

“then we stay separate for the battle, as long as we can. should one of us fall, the other will assume command.” he offered up. that seemed satisfactory to you.

“alright, I’ll take the rear, you be up front.” you said, to which his eyes barely widened, but you still caught it. “what’s wrong with that?” you asked, leaning over the paper which detailed your plans and formations. Joshua watched you lean, and resisted the urge to touch your hair that was loose over your shoulder.

“I am simply surprised that you would volunteer to take the rear, that is all.” he replied, after taking his eyes off of you. he could watch you pour over battle plans and maps while sat on his desk until the day he died.

“well, you are the war chief. what good are you in the back?” you'd smiled at him before sketching in your position in charcoal on the paper. he’d watched you, imagining you on the battlefield the next day, victorious.

now, as you watched the Dead Horses march determinedly towards the White Legs camp, you wondered if Joshua had wanted you up front with him. would it have looked fiercer? more intimidating? perhaps, but your plans had been finalised last night, and this was not the time to go changing them. you instead counted your steps and watched the feet in front of you to distract you. so far the march had gone uninterrupted, but you had some distance before White Leg territory began. then you’d be in trouble.

••●••••●••••●••

Joshua Graham halted the march as you reached your destination. just past this trail was the last known White Leg camp, as reported by Dead Horse scouts days ago. this was it. you quickly worked your way up front to speak to Joshua. he seemed ready for battle, for war.

“Joshua, we haven’t seen a single White Leg, something isn’t right.” you whispered to him, mouth right next to his ear. he did not react to your worrying statement, but instead loaded his pistol. “Joshua, did you hear me?” you demanded, slinging your rifle down your shoulder.

“we cannot back down now, even if every single living White Leg is waiting for us in that camp. we fight here and now, God willing.” Joshua replied, not looking you in the eyes. you put a desperate hand on his arm. he went still.

“are you sure we can win this? if every single one of them is in there, armed to the teeth? with the high ground?” Joshua’s cold blue eyes finally met yours. his gaze felt entirely alien to you now.

“you aren’t abandoning the fight before it’s even began, are you, Courier?” you hold his gaze, but let go of his arm.

“I’d follow you almost anywhere, Joshua, but if this becomes a bloodbath, I beg of you… order them to retreat.” Joshua’s eyes slipped away from yours and down to his pistol.

“if this becomes a bloodbath, we won’t be on the wrong side.” with that, he raised his pistol in the air, rallying the Dead Horses. you ran back to the rear, shaking your head and sweeping sand from your hat. you loaded your rifle up, and followed Joshua Graham and his Dead Horses into the White Legs camp.

and it was a bloodbath. on both sides.

the second the White Legs realised what was happening, they had the jump on you. the Dead Horses fought hard and some, to the death, to advance into the main camp and start taking out the entirety of the White Legs tribe. you took out any sneaky attackers who attempted to cut you off from behind, but soon there were so many even you were struggling to drop them all with your rifle. close combat became the norm within minutes, and you were facing off against strong, bloodthirsty warriors with insane melee weapons. you couldn’t ever imagine the gangs in the Mojave fashioning these creations up, they lacked the imagination for one, and the sheer insanity for two. though many of the weapons you went up against seemed impractical, the White Legs wielded them with skill and ferocity that you hadn’t seen before. you started questioning if you were ever going to survive this. why didn’t Joshua hang back and think things through? why did he insist on charging in without knowing the odds? because he was Legion once, just like Caesar, and the arrogance of the Legion never truly leaves you. he is the Burned Man, of course he couldn’t wait to finish this war—

a loud boom, the earth shaking, you flying briefly then colliding with rock. hands on your throat, your rifle snatched from your arms. the White Legs had set off grenades, killing some of their own, but killing more of yours. coughing and sputtering against the warrior who had you by the neck, you kicked out, but they forced your legs apart and had you pinned hard against the canyon wall. it wasn’t a bad way to go, dying in battle, at least you died doing something worthwhile in this world. a clean shot entered and exited the warrior’s head, and you dropped to the sand. you didn’t have to look up to see who pulled that off, because he was already coming. he had you up on your feet, leaning on him, rifle back in hands. his voice was all around you, but you knew he was there, somewhere. you found your feet, standing up and letting go of him, and took aim.

one down. two, then three. Joshua snuck off, taking out more White Legs from behind. the Dead Horses were fighting bravely, taking on two or three White Legs at a time. you helped the best you could, dropping the odd White Leg warrior here and there. but soon you were spotted, and on the move again. knives in hand, you took as many White Leg melee fights as you could get. Joshua was still shooting somewhere across the camp, his shots evenly timed and most likely hitting their mark each time. Follows-Chalk spotted you across the camp, and made his way over, taking down White Legs as he went. for how soft he could be, he was downright lethal in battle. as he neared you, you realised with a start that he was covered from head to toe in blood. his markings were barely visible beneath.

“is the blood yours?!” you demanded, open-mouthed in shock.

“never mine!” he answered simply, moving you aside and clubbing a White Leg in the back of the head. a scream from somewhere made you freeze, and you saw a Dead Horse warrior die to a White Leg who wore a scary helmet and wielded a power fist. Follows-Chalk returned to your side, panting but still raging. “Salt-Upon-Wounds, the White Leg leader. you must kill him, without him they will die!” you were about to protest when a White Leg charged you, and took you to the ground. Follows-Chalk had him off of you in seconds, swinging his club with a war cry. you rolled out of the way, letting Follows-Chalk kill the White Leg, and took aim again with your rifle but Salt-Upon-Wounds was gone. he was just there. you scanned the battlefield with your scope, bloodshed was happening everywhere, but where was their leader?

“he’s gone! where is he?” you shouted to Follows-Chalk, but he was gone too. the ever-changing nature of battle meant you were now alone, again. you skirted around skirmishes and takedowns, reaching the spot where you’d first laid eyes upon this Salt man, but all he’d left behind was blood and death. the grisly sight of the Dead Horses falling on the battlefield hurt your soul. how would they ever carry out their after-death rituals if they lay abandoned on a cursed battlefield? you ducked reflexively as a machete narrowly missed your neck. one shot to the chest from below and your attacker fell, dead. your eyes scanned the camp again, raging with the sounds of war. you were sure that you’d never forget the sounds, even after returning to the chaos of the Strip.

an arrow whizzed past, just missing your face, you ducked down and ran, taking shelter behind a boulder. you aimed your rifle over the boulder, and spotted the archers hidden further in the camp, high up in the cliffs. that was why your warriors were falling so quickly, archers were picking them off! you steadied yourself and took aim again, within minutes all of the archers you could spot were dead, bodies hanging limp on the cliffs with single bullet holes in their heads. the Dead Horses began to fight back harder, now unburdened by arrows, and out for revenge for fallen brothers and sisters. you’d lost sight of Joshua a while ago, and Salt-Upon-Wounds had disappeared. you joined up with whichever Dead Horse you came across in battle, your kill count for the day reaching double digits. soon, the camp became a much smaller battlefield as the White Legs started backing themselves into corners.

you helped a Dead Horse member overpower a White Leg wielding a club, firing off another shot as another White Leg charged at you. they were getting desperate. they were beginning to fray. the Dead Horses were making a comeback, using the White Legs own weapons against them now. your eyes focused in on a flash of white becoming visible from the back of the camp, then your heart dropped into your feet. Joshua Graham was fighting Salt-Upon-Wounds, one-on-one, hand-to-hand.

••●••••●••••●••

you took aim, but the two were moving too wildly for you to confidently pull the trigger. you didn’t dare ask Joshua’s God for any more help, so you rallied the Dead Horses to you, and those who came were ready. you took them towards the back of the camp, flattening any White Legs that stood in your way. Salt-Upon-Wounds saw you approaching, and you went down to one knee, rifle aimed. Salt-Upon-Wounds held Joshua Graham by the neck, and God knows where his trusty pistols had gone. Joshua’s clear blue eyes bored into Salt-Upon-Wounds’s. your finger went to pull the trigger again, but Joshua was now in your sights, forced to stand before Salt-Upon-Wounds like a human shield. you lowered your rifle slowly.

“call off your warriors, or Joshua Graham dies!” Salt-Upon-Wounds announced, the battlefield stood still for the first time. you made a sound that told the Dead Horses to stand down, and they reluctantly did. “good girl. lower your weapons, all of you!” the remaining Dead Horses gathered around you did not move, instead they watched you. they were waiting for your move, and they would follow.

“do as I do, or we lose.” you whispered to them in their dialect, and it was passed around quickly. you threw your beloved rifle to the sand, and your knives, and the Dead Horses followed. they did not protest, they did it silently, they did it with you. for you. Salt-Upon-Wounds began walking towards you, still holding Joshua captive in his grip, a power fist on his free hand, already shiny with blood.

“you, outgirl, listen to me. I take Joshua Graham’s life, then the Dead Horses. then you will be for me, but not for kill.” Joshua’s eyes hardened but one look from you told him to not respond. his job was to focus on surviving Salt-Upon-Wounds right now.

“why not kill me?” you asked, lowering your hands and taking a step forwards. Salt-Upon-Wounds tightened his grip on Joshua. “do you know who I am, Salt-Upon-Wounds?” you let your hands rest on your belt. you could feel exactly what you needed.

“I see a outgirl who fights.” Salt-Upon-Wounds said after a moment, he was not big on talking, you realised.

“I am the Courier, I control the Strip in the Mojave and your leader, Caesar, wants me dead.” Salt-Upon-Wounds’s body tensed. “he is your leader, isn’t he?” Salt-Upon-Wounds threw Joshua to the sand, angry.

“Caesar… wants you. I give him you, and kill Joshua.” Salt-Upon-Wounds let Joshua’s shirt go, and raised the power fist. Joshua began to roll, you reached into your trusty belt, pulled out a small knife and launched it in Salt-Upon-Wounds’s direction. it landed in his face, he recoiled and stumbled backwards, yelling. you dove for Joshua, grabbing him and hauling him back towards the Dead Horses. the remaining White Legs watched in horror as Salt-Upon-Wounds was injured by an outsider. Follows-Chalk grabbed Joshua, but as you went to get up, you were dragged backwards.

you made fleeting eye contact with Follows-Chalk, then Joshua as you were flipped over by Salt-Upon-Wounds. the Dead Horses picked up their weapons as the remaining White Legs attacked. you saw the power fist coming, time slowed, Salt-Upon-Wounds pinned you down with his legs and yelled with pure rage as he brought the fist down. you reached up, twisting the small knife still embedded in his face. blood spurted out, showering you. you yanked the knife out, the shock gave you time to get it from under Salt-Upon-Wounds, but he was still bringing the power fist down.

you felt the dull heavy impact on your hand first. then the pain of your hand bones being shattered to pieces took over. your entire arm was throbbing from the impact. you were screaming but you couldn’t hear it. Salt-Upon-Wounds revelled in your pain, and raised the fist again. you clutched the small knife in the other hand, panting, tears forming in your eyes. he roared from above you, bringing the fist down in one big overhead swing. you whipped your good hand quick, and the knife flew. it skimmed the power fist and landed between Salt-Upon-Wounds’s eyes.

you were crying as Salt-Upon-Wounds’s stiff body went limp, the weight of the power fist dictating his fall. the power fist met the side of your head as you desperately tried to escape from under the now dead weight, and you were out cold.

••●••••●••••●••

Joshua stopped believing in his God right then and there. he was already up on one knee, but Follows-Chalk, fuelled by the fear of the power fist caving your face in, threw Salt-Upon-Wounds’s corpse off of you. the side of your face was open, blood pouring out. Follows-Chalk had his arms under you already, lifting you up and calling out for a healer. the surviving Dead Horses surrounded you, reaching out and touching your bare skin with their hands. a sign of respect, a collective hope that you would survive this gruesome injury and live to recount the battle around a campfire full of Dead Horse children, reunited with their families. Joshua’s mind was making his body move, but he had absolutely no awareness of it. it was as if someone else was taking charge of him physically as he worried about you.

Follows-Chalk sent any remaining Dead Horse scouts forward to call for the healers, the warriors remained with you, escorting those who had survived the battle back to the Dead Horse camp. Joshua walked in step with Follows-Chalk, eyes never leaving your body. he offered to take you from Follows-Chalk several times on the march home, but he refused, determined to get you home alive. healers came rushing up the river, war-torn bloodied scouts in tow. the old woman was there, stood in the river, a serious look on her face.

Follows-Chalk set you down in the river, holding you there so the old woman could examine you. she spoke harshly to her other healers in Dead Horse dialect, Joshua Graham listened but for the first time, he couldn’t translate the words in his head. the old woman bent down in the river, and her words seemed to move the water.

“the sky, the earth… we beg of you, as the blood of ours joins you, return her to us.” the other healers repeated the words, muttering under their breath, eyes closed. the old woman cupped her hands, pouring water over your open head wound. Joshua went to his knees watching the old healer work. the river welcomed him, he let it soak him through. Follows-Chalk also dropped to his knees gently in the river, copying the prayers of the healers.

soon, every Dead Horse member present was on their knees, praying and begging the land and sky to not take you from them. Joshua clasped his hands, rattling off one last prayer to his God. then, as the old woman’s worn hands touched your cold ones, a jolt of something went through you. all you really remembered was the hot blood streaming down your face, tainting your vision red. now you looked up and saw clear blue skies, white dancing clouds and felt the hold of the river all around you.

the old woman rejoiced as your eyes flickered open, everyone was relieved, thanking their ancestors’ spirits and the land and the sky for not taking you. mercy had been granted today, but it would likely not be granted again. Joshua slowly moved towards you, the river pulling him. he took you from the old healer’s hold, and sat you up out of the river. you looked around, surprised at being back in camp. hadn’t you just been facing Salt-Upon-Wounds...?

without another word, Joshua stood, carrying you up the river, and into the safety of Angel’s Cave. the healers did not use the same medicine that you were so used to in the Mojave, but Joshua was familiar with the basics. now that he had you alive, he intended to keep you that way. he carried you to his camp bed, carefully setting you down. he lit the campfire, taking off your wet clothes with as much dignity he could give you. he covered you in furs, then as your eyes danced in and out of consciousness, began stitching up the gash on your head. he knew it wouldn’t beat a surgeon’s steady hand and some anaesthetic, but it was better to close the wound rather than let it become infected.

he worked for hours, having to stop his hands from shaking each time you winced or moved your head away. he’d unravelled the bandages from his hands, leaving them exposed to the open air. he told himself that the constant tingle that soon felt like he was burning all over again, was nothing compared to this open wound on your head. you probably had one Hell of a headache too. he could really only pray that your brain had remained unscathed. he then carefully began to wrap your broken hand, though you had no real feeling down there and barely reacted.

Follows-Chalk, now clean of his enemies’ blood, came to see how you were getting on. Joshua had just about managed to finish the stitching to your head, if he ever forgot the sight of it, he’d be grateful. Follows-Chalk had the healers gather all of the herbs that could possibly help and brought them into the cave, Joshua had other ideas. he knew you’d found old world medicines in the Mojave, and often made more when out scouting for the Dead Horses. he told Follows-Chalk to search your bag, and he found the stash of Stimpacks.

Joshua hadn’t seen you use these in his presence. perhaps because you were trying not to invoke feelings of despair in him that no medicine would relieve his pain or mend his burns. Follows-Chalk, however, had seen you use these from time to time. admittedly, not often, but he knew how they worked.

“you push it into the skin,” he told Joshua, as you lay there, eyes closed and breathing shallow. “I think.” he added, absolving himself of any responsibility should this go wrong.

“I… I’ve seen this before, but rarely used them.” Joshua admitted. Follows-Chalk stared at the Stimpacks. another strange thing from beyond Zion.

“should we not use them?” Follows-Chalk asked, eyes lingering on your stitches.

“they’d help her…” Joshua began, when you opened your eyes and reached for the Stimpacks yourself. the two watched as you took one, jabbed it into your side, then removed it.

“done.” you sighed, handing it back to Follows-Chalk. “Follows, you’ve seen me use those before, don’t be scared of them.” you rolled onto your back and went to reach up to feel your stitches. Joshua’s hand caught your good hand and placed it back down to your side.

“I am no doctor, but we better leave those alone.” he said, thinking about how the stitches would turn out when they healed. if they healed. Follows-Chalk seemed to agree with the way he eyed up the stitches uneasily.

“there are no doctors left anymore anyway.” you mumbled, closing your eyes and rolling over to sleep. Joshua pulled the furs over you and stood up, clearing away his impromptu stitching kit. Follows-Chalk looked at you for a moment longer before standing, and approaching Joshua.

“Joshua Graham, I must ask you something.” Joshua paused, then turned to face Follows.

“what is it?” he asked, curious as to what Follows-Chalk could possibly have to ask him.

“when the Courier is recovered, I should be the one to take her back to the Mojave. do you think the same?” Follows-Chalk asked. Joshua was not expecting this question so he stalled for time by organising the medical inventory for a moment.

“I think that when the Courier leaves us, she should go alone once she reaches the Mojave.” Joshua said, giving Follows-Chalk a look. Follows-Chalk nodded, but in his head, he did not agree in the slightest. “she fell into our lives, and she has the right to walk back out as she arrived... alone.” Joshua knew he was lying to himself too, not just to Follows-Chalk. Joshua prayed for nothing more than to accompany you back to the Mojave and see how you live your life, but there was the not so small problem of the Legion, and your life did not have space for him… who knew who you had waiting for your safe return back on the Strip?

••●••••●••••●••

when you woke up, you had such a headache it made you sensitive to light and noise like some sort of mutated wasteland creature. Joshua had been asleep by the fire next to your camp bed, and when you sat up, holding your head, he came back to life. he brought you fresh water, handed you Stimpacks, ordered stacks of medicinal herbs from the healers. Follows-Chalk was in charge of the recovery of the fallen Dead Horses from the battle, so you didn’t see him for some time. you spent days in Angel’s Cave recovering, even then you weren’t sure you’d be fit to make the gruelling journey back to the Mojave anytime soon. your head hurt and your hand was still useless. Joshua felt both joy and despair at your predicament. he knew that you needed to get back to the Mojave soon, with Caesar and his Legion becoming an increasingly worrying problem, but when Joshua watched you sleep he saw your pained expression and knew you were in no fit state to travel. you barely moved your broken hand, he worried that it was beyond saving some days.

Follows-Chalk was surprised to see you still on the camp bed, huddled under the furs, stuck somewhere between heavy sleep and being consciously aware of the world. Joshua tried his hardest to get you to talk, drink water or even sit up, but each day you refused and fell back into a fitful sleep. it wasn’t until one night that Joshua finally found the strength to wake you. it had been a slow day, you’d tossed and turned and had bad dreams. the night was cold, cool. Joshua and Follows-Chalk took it in turns sitting with you, but you did not improve. Follows-Chalk left the cave to retrieve more bodies from the battlefield and transport them for proper burial with the other Dead Horse members, leaving Joshua on the night shift. at first, you were just whimpering in your sleep, Joshua had grown used to the sound, as much as it scared him. then you started to move. you jerked and shivered, the whimpering turned into incoherent words. Joshua shut his holy book and sat next to you, watching your face contort in your sleep. all of a sudden you were crying, repeating words over and over. Joshua couldn’t stand to watch, he reached out, a hand on your shoulder, but you didn’t wake. something had you stuck deep in your mind.

after several unsuccessful attempts to rouse you from sleep, Joshua pulled the furs away, his hands on your arms. he turned you onto your back, repeating your name over and over. you didn’t come out of sleep. he started to wonder if it was a seizure, or if he was about to lose you. he didn’t stop trying to wake you, and after he shook you by the shoulders, your eyes flew open and you sat up, gasping. relieved you weren’t dead, Joshua’s hands fell from you and he said a prayer. you threw the furs from your legs and checked that this was real, that this wasn’t a dream that turned into a nightmare. you’d had so many these past few days, unable to escape them. they bombarded you each time you closed your eyes. your eyes landed on Joshua praying and you began to worry that this was yet another dream.

“Joshua, Joshua, is this real?” you grabbed him by the face, leaning right into him. his clear blue eyes met yours, and his hands settled onto yours.

“this is real.” he took your trembling hands into his bandaged ones and held them tight. “I am real, you are real, we are real, we are here.” he told you, and you moved off the bed to be closer to him. he was real, thank the Lord. you ran your hands over the bandages and let the feel of them bring you back to the present.

“we… are real.” you decided, nodding as your hands went back to his face. “you are real, I am real.” Joshua nodded back, and you let your hands trail to his neck, then around him. he let you do it, just happy to be there. you had him in your arms, and he felt real and you felt real and you were finally free of the endless cycle of nightmares. Joshua’s arms then encircled you and you melted into him. your eyes closed but you did not slip back into the land of nightmares and horrors. you stayed there with him, safe.

“are you okay?” he asked, not pulling away.

“if you’re here… I think I am.” you replied, after thinking for a moment. words seemed to elude you sometimes, but it felt even worse now, since the battle.

“I will stay here then, with you.” Joshua said quietly, and you sighed in relief. you both sat like that for a moment, until Joshua’s arms managed to lift you into his lap and have you tucked in his chest. you watched the roaring fire behind, letting it soothe you back to sleep. when Joshua felt you go heavy, he lifted you up back into the camp bed, but climbed in with you. he removed his heavy SWAT vest, and his boots. in just his trousers he held you there in the single camp bed, furs covering you both, and prayed that your mind would heal as well as your stitches had.

••●••••●••••●••

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