Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Just over a month and they were leaving again.

Oddly it took them by surprise. Arthur wasn't sure why, as it always seemed to happen. They settle, get noticed or into trouble, lawmen come, they have to leave. Dutch Van Der Linde and his gang had no reason to be caught undermined again. Not by the common man anyway.

>---{___}---<

The camp was mainly packed away, except for the odd tools or supplies. The largest wagons had set off, the quiet chatter floating away, leaving the last of the men to remove any traces of inhabitants.

"Ready Morgan?" Called Bill, his mount circling as he impatiently stalled, saddlebags and his pack full of supplies, ready to follow on with the gang. Dutch stood nearby, watching the two men. Silently smoking before stubbing it out on a nearby rock and dropping it to the floor.

"You run ahead Bill, I'll help Arthur here," he said. Bill gave him a quick nod before setting off after the gang. The land fell quiet as the hammering of hooves travelled away. "C'mere son, I'll do this," the older man swept the last of the ashes away as Arthur cover any remaining tracks. All traces of inhabitants gone. Arthur stowed his remaining tent to his horse, tightening the straps to keep it secure "Damn Pinkertons...It's a shame to be leaving such a beautiful place behind."

"Uh huh, but you know we have to Dutch,"

"Of course Arthur, just having a little reminiscence, that's all," nearby birds flew past, two trailing behind the flock, yet still managing to be apart of the group. Climbing onto his steed, and receiving a grunt in appreciation for the help, Dutch watched as the clouds eclipsed the sun. They were leaving Horseshoe Overlook, a blessing from the harsh snows from the small town of Colter, however, it wouldn't stop the law from coming through. "Let's get going now my friend".

After that time seemed to slow, Arthur mounted his beloved horse mumbling a greeting to his companion when agony suddenly ruptured through his side. He let out a piffling and puny cry, alerting the other outlaw to his ordeal. Warmth seeped under his thin shirt, but he couldn't look as abruptly a cluster of wooden bolts tore past their horses, causing chaos within the creatures. Arthur struggled to hold on, his horse whinnied and squeals, it's eye-rolling around in its head as it panicked. Dutch began to exclaim as he struggled to keep control of The Count, ordering them both to run, before he was reared off. He was sent tumbling unceremoniously to the ground, a loose rock striking the outlaw's head quite forcefully.

"Dutch- hold on," Arthur whirled around to give aid to his surrogate father. His attempt where short-lived as hell once again rained down. His couldn't reach his guns to fight, the enemy was unseen so any shots would be fruitless. He lost sight of the man as The Count hurried off, leaving a trail of dust. Arthur felt himself slipping, the sound of footsteps reached his ears. He looked, only catching a glimpse, nothing more. His mount reared up, relinquishing Arthur from the saddle. Pain flared up his side and the light dimmed around him. "Dut-" a scratchy and spine-chilling laugh from the right of him caught the man's attention. "W-Who's there...Dutch!-" the more youthful cowboy yelled just before the world fell into darkness...

Chapter Text

Arthur awoke suddenly, his eyes take in the minimal amount of light offered to him by the nearby lantern. Every sound felt muffled and mixed together, thoughts trickling through the thick cloud of mist that surrounded his head. His body felt sluggish despite the sharp stabs of pain in his side with everything breath. An unexpected yet jarring movement jostled his body and the pain intensified.

"Son?" A rough croak startled the young man, producing a pained noise as he pulled on his puncture. "Arthur?" The fretful face of Dutch loomed over him, half illuminated by the light. Looking up, unconsciousness threatened to take him in. A firm knee hit into his own, giving Arthur the anchor to stay grounded instead of falling back under. "It's okay son, don't strain yourself now."

Disregarding his concerns, Arthur tried to test his limbs. Both legs and arms bound together, held tight behind his back, pulling his wound taut. It was all hazy, but slowly coming back to him. He just remembered clearing up camp and then torture in his side. The side that was stained with crimson red, harsh against his once tanned but now grey skin. It was quite gruesome, leading Arthur to shudder with a sense of foreboding.

"Dutch?..wha- where are we?" The younger outlaw questioned, taking in the dark canvas overhead. He could hear a deep sound, booming ahead of him. It sent vibrations through Arthur's body, the sound was constant. Horse's hooves hitting against the ground. Dutch gave him a look of compassion, not once removing his touch from Arthur's knee in support. For Dutch or himself, he wasn't sure now, but it helped all the same.

"A wagon, going somewhere unpleasant..." came the vague answer he was expecting. His wound twinged, the make-shift stitches holding it together barely, but still keeping him from bleeding to death. "We'll get free, my boy, just trust me."

>---{___}---<

Charles soon led the gang to their new spot, unaware to the two missing members. They settled and soon set up camp, no need for orders or commands as it was like second nature, as simple and quick as breathing. They soon had a new home, maybe not as nice as Horseshoe, but safe all the same. It was better than nothing.

It was until Pearson searched and called around for his tools, that the rest soon began to question their companions whereabouts. It wasn't uncommon to be out all night, the horses needed rest as did the men, but they knew the risks as well as the situation. Dutch wouldn't want their first night - in an unknown area - to be without the whole gang. It was like a tradition, sometimes grim, but a tradition.

That night they arranged a small search party, despite the risk. Dutch and Arthur would it for them and it was just a precaution. Bill, John, and Charles. The best tracker they had, with guns for support. Javier stayed behind with Micah, Sean, and Lenny. Along with the women, the camp was safe. They quickly retraced their path back to The Horseshoe Overlook, finding nothing to indicate that the other men had travelled with them.

"It's gonna rain Charles," called John, watching as the newer gang member led them through the trees. "We'll have to hurry..." They soon found the clearing of the old camp, no sign of anyone. John unmounted and began to walk towards the middle of the clearing, Charles and Bill following close behind.

"It looks like there was a struggle John," Charles pointed to a patch of grass, deep hoof marks tore up the dirt. Making their way forward, Bill hanging back with his shotgun, the two inspected the area more closely. "Bootprints, more than two..." Dread filled the men. The discovery of an arrow tip, embedded in the soft soil, soon strengthened the worrying.

"Marston! Found their horses!" Bellowed Bill, leading Arthur's horse and The Count out of the foliage, they seemed okay apart from being a little spooked. "Found all their supplies, no guns though, or riders," rain began to fall, sabotaging any evidence left. The continued to search for a little longer, before returning back, nothing but a ripped piece of cloth, coated in crimson. Unsure of whose blood, it still send fear and apprehension through the gang. Arthur and Dutch were in trouble.

>---{___}---<

They'd been moving all throughout the night. With Dutch's knowledge, he knew it was all planned, each and every detail. They were smart, arrows meant made little noise, it wouldn't have alerted anyone. He'd only caught a small glimpse of the outside world before being thrown unceremoniously into a wagon and knocked unconscious, unfortunately, the older man hadn't recognised anything.

Dutch watched as Arthur slept, his son was hurting and he couldn't do anything, it pained him to watch. Their kidnappers and stopped, setting up a temporary camp. He hadn't watched as they'd tugged the arrow tip from his side, but he'd heard the sickening screams from the back of the vehicle. They continued to echo in his mind, haunting him. Dutch hadn't wanted this to happen, they were just supposed to move camp, but the damn world was too cruel!

Arthur unexpectedly woke with a start, jostling his stitches which threatened to rip and allow him to bleed out. Dutch gently shushed the lad, willing him to settle.

"Hush now, it's just me," Arthur's tense body soon relaxed in him, with the help of the soft words, seeking warmth and comfort in his delirious state. Apprehension settled deep in Dutch's stomach, suddenly afraid for the younger man's chances. "Just rest, help with come soon…" whether he was convincing or not, Dutch couldn't give up on his son now. Settling into silence, Dutch studied his surroundings, his hand lightly ran through Arthur's hair, pulling away any dirt. They had no guns, no knives. The wagon was empty save for a few scraps of food. There was no window or gap to peek through, hoping to spy for any familiar locations. No escape. The rain was falling, adding to the disadvantages to the situation. They'd have to wait for someone to open the hatch, but with Arthur and the state he was in, failure was inevitable. Running wasn't viable, they'd easily get caught by their horses or worse shot.

Dutch soon noticed the wagon slowing to a halt. The hushed conversing of the drivers drew his attention. He couldn't figure out where they were. Without warning, bulky footsteps squelched on mud outside the cart, a blasting bang of a fist again wood rang out. The racket brought Arthur out of his light dose, both men sat to attention, curious yet cautious to who was out there. The door to the vehicle swung open and two men shoved their way inside, each grabbing onto one of the prisoners, while a third stood in the doorway.

"Now, Dutch, we're going to make this simple, you give us information," the man signalled to the others and suddenly their hold on the outlaws tighten. "Or, if you don't comply, then your friend here gets hurt, hmm?" With that, Dutch watched a fist flew into Arthur's jaw with a heart-shattering crunch.

Chapter Text

Arthur doubted it was legal, beating your prisoners into talking, however, nothing could be done. He could tell these men were law, too polite in a way, they were holding back from actually killing him. Still hurt like a bitch though. One of the men dug his heel into Arthur's lower torso, pain flared through him but he refused to scream, instead biting heavily on his lip and digging his nails into his palms, with subtle finches in between. He could feel Dutch watching him, Arthur didn't want to appear weak. He could take the torment if it meant keeping the camp safe.

"Time for a rest boys seeing as these two won't give us anything," the leader of the trio stated, triggering the remaining two to release the outlaws. The lawmen left, presumably to set up camp and rest for the night, however no more information than they came with. Dutch did his best to move closer to the silent man, wanting to comfort him like a father did a son, yet keeping his space in case Arthur felt overwhelmed.

"Arthur? I'm so sorry son...I- I shouldn't let you do this-", the silent man waved his concerns away, leaning against the uncomfortable wooden planks of the wagon. Arthur knew Dutch couldn't give up the gang just for him, even if it leads to his death. It was one man or a whole group, in Arthur's eyes, it was a straightforward call of judgement. "I'm sorry..."

"Ss'okay...I'll be fine," the lad let his eyelids fall closed, saving the moment of untroubled rest. it wasn't long until Arthur felt himself drifting into a soft lull, the pain just a throb in the back of his mind. Dutch kept a watchful eye on his protege, he wasn't all too satisfied with Arthur's unfazed attitude. However, he didn't want to disturb him, knowing he needed the shut down to help regain energy.

Some time past when Arthur was brought out of his daze, The cart had started to move. At first, it was fine then unexpectedly the wagon jolted. The injured man fell onto his side.

Must'a hit a rock or somethin' Arthur thought, struggling to sit upright again, bonds not helping him at all. His wrists tingled, his back sore, and his jaw ached. The source of his discomfort emitted pain in waves, spreading over his body with each breath, building with each bounce of the wagon. He pressed up against the surface of the wood, attempting to apply pressure to his side and wanting to alleviate his suffering. It barely helped, prompting Arthur to inspect his half repaired side. The stitches had ripped. Crap Arthur's movements were limited, weighted down by the sluggishness of his brain, he struggled and pulled the makeshift medical treatment apart. A sudden panic rushed over him, he didn't want to bleed out here...

"Dutch?" the thirty-six-year-old whimpered, shock causing him to shudder as blood seeped between his finger. His companion looked up from his lap, taking only a second to register the suffering in Arthur's expression. Dutch beckoned him closer, also moving at the same time, aiming to close the gap between the two adults. Darkness swarmed Arthur's vision as he moved, fading once Dutch's voice rang out to their captors, unable to apply pressure or give aid, impossible to place his hands on top of his wound. Murky blue gazed into gunmetal brown, unfocused and feverish Arthur could hardly see the older man as he blurred into their surroundings. He caught the sound of voices, loud shouts which should have been easy to understand, yet they were indistinguishable like another language.

A sharp stab suddenly set itself through Arthur's body, Dutch caught of balanced and ramming into Arthur's side, jabbing the injury. He met his tipping point as the void consumed him.

---{___}---

"Mrs Adler? Mr Smith? Hello?!" The familiar voice of Trelawney echoed around the current camp. Slowly the inhabitants emerged from their beds, watching avidly as the man made his way over, his horse sticking close by. Charles moved forward, greeting their old, elusive friend, "I have some news, Mr Smith…"

The mood of the gang shifted, weighing towards hope. Their boss and second-in-command were still out there, in an unknown location, and Trelawney had started searching almost straight away. They had continued to look, unfortunately, all tracks had been washed away by the night's previous storm, their search was unachievable. The man signalled for their new arrival to continue. "Now, I haven't exactly found the lads, however, I do know that there are rumours of a huge public hanging"

"Pinkertons?" One of the members questioned. O’Driscoll boys weren't smart or brave enough to risk capturing Dutch, along with Arthur.

"Quite possibly", Trelawney answered, "I believe they're heading their way to Strawberry, more likely to be halfway there by now", soon going into more details about the situation. He swiftly gained the gang's support with his information, giving them motive and the means to set out on their mission.

It didn't take long for the lot to form a plan, almost foolproof. They'd rescue their missing men, hoping to create little to no chaos and be back before the law even know what had happened.

---{___}---

Bill crouched low on the ridge, John beside him using the binoculars to observe the near town of Strawberry. Marston could spot the lawmen surrounding the jailhouse, extra guards for their most high ly valued prisoners in spite of there being no sign the outlaws had arrived yet. Javier sat cleaning his gun, preparing for the eventual gunfight, while Charles watches the skies, thinking away as usual. They had the women; Karen, Tilly, and Mary-beth, deep in the settlement, looking into the finer details they'd need without raising the danger of being recognised. The gang was determined to retrieve their two lost members, they couldn't go on without them, they were a family! No one gets left behind, that's how it worked and everyone was all willing to follow that rule.

Hosea was worried sick, single-minded about joining in the breakout to save his friends. Miss Grimshaw, Sadie, and the remaining followers were holding down the camp, ready if anything should go wrong or someone needed help. They had all the manpower to take down the whole sheriff's men, break their men out and make a hasty getaway. They were ready. The oldest of the men stood with his beloved horse, smoothing the mane down on its neck, thinking through their plan once again. His face was unreadable, yet all knew his anxiety to the situation. Hosea just hoped they could retrieve the rest of their family back before anything escalated.

Chapter Text

Hosea sat around the campfire, lost in thought. Minute embers floated harmlessly in the air as the flames themselves dance and weaved their way around the logs. A bewitching display for such a practical creation. The heat battled the chill from the cool evening air, keeping the environment tolerable for its inhabitants. They had Charles on watch for the night, keeping vigilance for the gang while they lay in wait and rested up. The darker-skinned man silently crept to ageing outlaw, lightly touching his shoulder.

"Hosea...I believe I have spotted their wagon," the younger man led him to the edge of the ridge, passing him some binoculars. "You see by the gallows, that moving cart. Well, watch the guards, I believe it is them," both men perked in silence, watching as a group of armed lawmen made their way around to the vehicle. The sun was setting so the men were rushing, wanting it to all be over and down within case of an attacked, that was clears to Hosea. Unfortunately, this gave the gang no time to intervene, as the wagon pulled to a halt and the driver jumped down, saying something unknown to the men. The rest of the outlaws soon became aware of the occurring event, drawing up closer to Hosea and Charles.

"What do we do now? This is our chance, they could be right there!" Micah whispered angrily, impatience clearing in his tone. Hosea shook his head, watching as the back was swung open. "We can take a few Pinkertons, we've done it before old man!"

"It's too risky Micah, they might get hurt in the crossfire and who knows what state they're in...". Micah fell into prickly whispers, not daring to argue but still having his own opinions. He struggled with a plan, he needed Dutch, he always had a plan. Hosea couldn't risk the safety of his beloved friends, not with Micah and Bill so trigger happy and Dutch or Arthur being hurt. It would all go wrong and they couldn't afford any more lost. Nonetheless, they couldn't miss their only shot at retrieving their men. "We'll just have to sit and watch, just for a while."

---{___}---

The night was long and restless, Dutch couldn't settle, not when his son was in turmoil. The lawmen had patched up his side, better than last time, keeping him alive for now. He was thankful, it meant he wouldn't have to watch Arthur slowly bleed to death. A positive in the sea of negatives they were surrounded by. Following Arthur's medical attention, the lawmen had climbed back onto their seats and immediately set off. He had unknowingly fallen into slumber, as the ageing man had been rudely woken by one of the guys. Soon both were lead to the sheriff's building and subsequently locked up once again.

Faint traces of Arthur's blood still stained his skin and had found its way into the fabric of the unconscious man's clothes. It made him shudder, despite his tolerance for blood and gore, and his stomach churned dangerously. Dutch had little chance to wash Arthur, choosing to carefully tip the liquid down the lad's throat, unsure of when their next drink would be. Dutch still fretted over the possibility of infection or sepsis, despite the minimal, however helpful care it had been given. Arthur also had the chances of tearing his stitches a third time, regrettably, the leader didn't believe they'd be so kind and let him live yet again.

Pacing in his confinements, Dutch attempted to hitch a plan. Nothing sprang to mind, no inspiration from his surroundings, nothing he could utilise. This meant little chance for escape. Their new accommodations, not any better than the last, was on the immovable ground, three solid walls and one with bars. A jail cell.

"Ain't in the rain at least" he mumbled, struggling to see anything other than the bars before him. Unfortunately the only source of light was a lanturn, which only sent small flickers of illumination, or when the door upstairs opened, bringing light in but only for minuscule amounts of time. A miniature barred rectangle was a poor excuse for a window mocked them from across the room, out of reach and useless. Giving up on his thoughts, Dutch turned one's attention to the injured man he shared a cell with.

He was stretched out on the thin metal bed provided for them, his feet hanging over the side while he remained asleep. In spite of being a well-built man for his age, Arthur's condition belittled him. To Dutch, he looked vulnerable and after years of knowing him, he knew it wasn't true, yet it brought concern for the fill-in father. Arthur was still human, he could get hurt and perish for it. The older man careful brushed Arthur's hair from his face, it had grown since he last had it cut and a rough stubble had formed. His face was black and blue, a split lip was crusted over with blood. He looked dead. If it wasn't for the continuous rise and fall of his chest, Dutch might have believed his thoughts to be the truth. There was still hope in his mind though, the weak sound of Arthur's intakes and exhales meant he was still there. That knowledge kept Dutch from diving over the edge.

After some time, Arthur began to arise. He let out a discomforted groan and rubbed his hands over his face, drawing out another pained noise from his lips. He attempts to sit up were slow and Dutch - still mindful of his injuries - halted them, guiding him back down to the firm hardware.

"Hold still son, no need for a repeat of yesterday," with a grunt Arthur let the other outlaw mother over him. Rough, calloused hands left gentle, soft touches over his torso, a swift yet helpful check over. It filled the ill-fated lad with a sense of love and appreciation for his leader. Arthur forcefully shook his head to clear away the fog, producing another pounding headache, but he could finally take in his surroundings. Dutch was perched on the makeshift bed, worry written right into his face, clear as day, showing how much he cared. He soon noticed the man wouldn't look at him, his eyes trained on Arthur's mess of a torso. "They fixed you up again, but I think a third time won't be a charm sadly friend"

"Dutch?.."

"Yes, son?" Still keeping his eyes fixated on a bloodstained bandage.

"Dutch...Look at me- Just look at me, will ya!"

"Arthur…" slowly Dutch raised his head, Arthur wasn't sure whether to expect a fight so he tensed, trying to sit up again. "You need rest Mr Morgan." Arthur tried to argue, but Dutch's gaze forced him to lie back down and accept defeat. He watched as his father figure moved to brood in the corner of their cell.

"Damn you Dutch," he muttered, annoyed by his need to talk being brushed aside. Reluctantly, Arthur soon drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Charles held his rifle down to his side, loaded like always. Prepared. Just as he was taught. The group had destroyed their makeshift station, gearing up for the mission ahead, Charles was one of the first ready. He'd risen early, the memories of the previous night still hanging over him and causing displeasing dreams to stir. He shifted uncomfortably as the last of the men filled their holsters and packed their saddles.

The band of outlaws had observed the scene from their vantage point on the cliff side. A quiet little ridge, covered by foliage to keep them out of sight but still allowing a clear line of vision from the top. It hadn't a happy sight, however, it had brought hope into Charles' heart and determination into his soul. The roads were blocked, stopping anyone getting close as the sun began to set for the night to come into play. A bright orange glow highlighted the wagon. A beautiful end to the day, ruined with such a disturbing scene.

The lawmen had been rough, clearly show through their actions. The back of the wooden, mud-covered wagon was flung open in haste. There was a struggle but soon three men managed to tug a fourth out into the open. Dutch. It had definitely been him. He had put up a fight, pushing a few to the ground and attempting to gain the gun of the next. Fighting as hard as he could but unfair, bonds holding him back. The action had soon been stopped, more men rushing around. Aiming guns and shouting, screaming to the men, Dutch had been uncooperative until the guns turned their attention to inside the wagon.

Charles hadn't seen what was inside, but he could guess. Arthur was in there, being used as leverage to gain Dutch's collaboration with the law. The captors were coward, forcing a man to do as they pleased using another's life. The older man giving in was unquestionable. He loved Arthur, they all knew that. He wasn't going to give up on him just to escape. The law enforcement soon gained control of the situation once again. Unable to see his face, there was defeat in Dutch's stance. Their leader wasn't delighted with the situation, and Charles couldn't disagree with him.

Soon the men had Dutch in a tight hold, guns trained on him as well as the vehicle. More officers carrying a large form from the back. The once stoic and unbreakable Arthur Morgan hung between the men, undoubtedly unconscious with his legs dragging in the thick mud. Charles' heart had dropped at the sight. He understood why Dutch refused to leave. The state Arthur was in meant no escape for the younger man, they'd shoot him dead or just recapture him in a blink of the eye and no way was Dutch abandoning him...

Thunder rumbled above them, breaking the half Indian from his thoughts. Typically a bad sign this weather was, but not for tonight. No, this was their cover. Bill had dynamite set in his bag, in case Hosea's plan for stealth backfired. Everyone would be indoors, giving them free roam of the streets, free to grab their captured friends. Thunder would surely cover the deafening boom.

---{___}---

The Pinkertons arrived and left throughout the day, questioning the two imprisoned men. They got nothing. They wouldn't get anything. Not with Dutch and Arthur. Even though it pained the leader to watch his son be beaten around like he was nothing, he couldn't risk the life of the gang. Certainly not little Jack and the women. Arthur wouldn't let either of them live with that on their conscience.

"D-Dutch?" croaked Arthur, sitting against the cold stone wall allowing it to ease away the pain provided by the assault. His jaw twinged, not broken but a dull throb and it felt out of place. Accompanied by each tooth aching, a pounding headache and each bone feeling heavy and overworked. They refused to spill blood, it meant cleaning up and admitting to their dishonourable actions to the outlaws. They would blame the weakness on Arthur's wound, or maybe they'd say it was a violent struggle, either way, it was lies. Lies about an honourable capture. Lies about giving them freedom of interrogation for information. The two knew what would happen if they sold out their gang or not. They were destined to swing.

"Arthur? My boy, what's wrong?"

"We need- Crap- We need to talk Dutch, I'm- I'm serious."

"I know...it just ain't the time- I need more time, I'll have a plan.." The older man moved to glare out of the bars once again. He knew his protegee was right, but he couldn't face it. Dutch couldn't accept their defeat. "You have got to keep faith, Arthur."

"Cut the bullshit Dutch...You and me both know this ain't gonna turn out right. C'mon Dutch," the small pleased lead the dark-haired man to look back at him. Harsh, deep purple blotched covered half his face, standing out against the deathly pale skin. Left eye swollen shut, Arthur struggled to see the man he deemed a father. "You gotta g-go...find Hosea- the gang and hide." His words cut Dutch deep, his loyalty show clear as day. All of a sudden, the incapacitated man was caught by a coughing fit, the harsh and violent jerks of his body forcing Arthur to curl in onto himself. Dutch immediately crouched beside him, using a strong yet tender grip to pull the man into an embrace, massaging his upper back helping him ride through the horrible hacking of his lungs. The aged Yankee felt the familiar flair of worry and fret for his son, he needed care which Dutch simply couldn't give. He needs a doctor, or at least Hosea and Susan, both of which were out of their grasps.

The lantern began to swing, unable to keep itself from rocking in time with the increasing winds. The thunderstorm rolled overhead, all conversation was cut short and forgotten. A deafening boom made its way into the cell, ploughing straight through Dutch's soul, leaving him rattled yet more alive than ever. The air buzzed with static energy. He could hear the nearby trees swaying, branches and leaves brushing against one another to create an orchestra of nature, conducted by the strong current. Unable to see, the outlaw imagined an ominous charcoal-like cloud blocking out the sun intent on bringing its useful rain along with the flashing lightning and crashing of thunder. The lightening soon arrived, a clamorous crack. It split the sky in half, briefly flooding the cell with light through the window, highlighting the two men inside. It was exhilarating, thrilling, and captivating to anyone who bears witness to the event.

Still the lantern swang yet never fell.

---{___}---

The thundering continued to shake the town throughout the day and night. The rain had showered down, now only a small drizzle. It sent a chill down into the jail cell, seeping through the prisoners' clothes, burying deep in their bones. Their captors offered no protection to the cold. All they gained was a minuscule mouthful of food with a washcloth and water-filled dish. The older man had put the water and cloth to use, carefully removing the old wrappings and cleaning up Arthur's slow-healing wound. It had taken some pleading for new bandages, but once given them Dutch reapplied and dressed his side. The pitiful plate of provisions had been thrust into the weaker man's hands, needing to keep his strength up if he wanted to make a swift recovery. But despite his struggling efforts, Dutch was still apprehensive about their chances and their future.

A soft moan escaped the lips of pale American as he roused from drowsing in Dutch's embrace. Blinking in the low light, eyes clouded by exhaustion and pain stared up at the older man. Confusion was clearly written in them as the men watched one another. Offering a brief but wholehearted flash of his teeth, Dutch attempted to resolve the worries in his son.

Both men froze as they hear the unmistakable tapping of spurs against a stone floor, the clinking keys again a chain and the low mumbles of the local sheriff. Dutch moved from underneath Arthur, standing, hoping to draw all attention to him.

"Good evening gentlemen, here for another unnecessary assault on my boy?" he growled, glaring at the men, daring them to step inside the cell. They let off a small chuckle as one unlocked the barred door.

"Unfortunately not Mister Van der Linde, we having something better in store for folks like you," the sheriff said with a sneer, his deputies stepping into the confined space. "You'll be coming with us- don't worry, both of ya' will." Chains were locked tight around their wrists, both men struggling against their enemy with their effort being brought to a stop with a swift jab at Arthur's gut. To the deputies annoyance, the boy struggled to stand, exhaustion and injury being a major factor in his trouble, while Dutch had to watch from the side with his heartbreaking even further. The once tough, head-strongman looked more like a child, weak and unable to support himself. The guards soon dragged him up by his shoulders, forcing him to walk out after Dutch and the sheriff despite the pain and effort.

The two prisoners were taken outside, the rain had left a damp, dark mud on the road making almost impossible for any wagons to make their way through. The thunder still bellowed around them. Lanterns were lit with tiny flames, windows were locked shut, everyone hidden away. It felt like a ghost town. The lawmen lead the duo towards a wooden structure, darkened by the previous shower and creaking from old uses. There was silence and it dawned on Dutch, they were going to die. This was how the legendary leader and his son were snuffed out from the world. No giant gunfight, no brawl in a bar, just a noose and gravity. He glanced at his old protegee, the latter leaning heavily on one of the posts before the outlaws were escorted under the ropes. He kept his eyes trained on his companion, the speech from the sheriff falling on deaf ears. Fear rose in the raven-haired man, not for himself, but for the gang, for Arthur. It wasn't supposed to play like this. Dutch's heart jumped in his chest and his breath got caught in the throat.

"D-Dad?-"

Then the floor disappeared and ropes grew tight.

Chapter Text

There was no snap, nor breaking of his neck, just the rope trying to hold him. His feet struggling to find anything to step on to. Dutch couldn't focus on anything but his fight to breathe and the blind panic which consumed him.

Then it ended as quickly as it came...

---{___}---

They'd moved on foot, down to the mountain own of Strawberry, each member with their weapons at the ready. They had their sights set on the jailhouse. Javier and Bill were to cause a scene outside, drawing the sheriff and his men away with Micah and John ready to provide cover from afar. Hosea and Lenny would make their way inside, freeing the two prisoners before making their escape, then the rest would meet up later back at camp. Their horses were hidden in the nearby forest, with Charles close, awaiting their return.

The rain had lessened up, allowing the gang to advance in their plans, still with people concealing themselves away from the thunder and lightning. Hosea didn't want any casualties, civilians locked inside while lawmen unaware was ideal, but their guns were loaded as a precaution. John pulled his hat low on his head as he and Micah made a move towards the nearby buildings. Javier signalled to Bill-

Unexpectedly the door swung open and a guard stepped out, shotgun in hand. The outlaw scattered and managed to avoid being spotted. Hosea had to watch as their plan crumpled in an instant, barely a step made towards helping their friends and it was already impossible yet again. The only upside was they hadn't been spotted and no one had pulled the trigger. The older man watched as another gun followed the first, marching their way over to the gallows, standing and watching the mud-covered path. Five more figures were brought out of the entrance, the clattering of chains following along.

"Dutch-" Lenny whispered in shock, and realisation dawned on Hosea.

There was no grand hanging, no public display, no celebrating the demise of two high-value outlaws. No. Just a private and quiet execution, leaving no room for hidden allies in the crowd. Stopping any attempts at a rescue. The lawmen weren't taking any chances. Hosea hadn't planned for this. It would surely end in a shootout. Maybe they could win, but it would put Dutch and Arthur at risk, all the while bringing more heat on the band of outlaws. But he couldn't let them swing, not while half the gang was here to save them. To the side, Bill clicked the safety off his gun, while Micah pulled his pistols from their holsters. John looked ready to kill, and Javier had his eyes trained on the nooses. Hosea felt Lenny's eyes watching him, waiting for him to say something but he couldn't say anything. Instead, he stood tall, dropping his firearm to the ground. "Hosea-"

"Excuse me...Gentlemen, he stumbled over to the gallows, forcing out a series of coughs while keeping the brim of his hat low to conceal his face. Hosea watched as the guns were soon aimed at him, raising his arms in surrender and stepping back in faux shock.

"Step away sir, these are known criminals"

"I'm- I'm sorry to intrude. I'm afraid I've-", Hosea spared a glance behind the man, Arthur was being led- no dragged to the rope while Dutch already had one around his neck. He was looking attentively at the former, paying no mind the sheriff in front of them or Hosea down on the ground.

"I said, step away sir, this is government business," the guard gave Hosea a shove with the butt of his gun. "Get going before something happens we'll both regret." Hesitating briefly before slowly moving away, Hosea found his way back to the gang.

"Well done on accomplishing nothing old man," jeered Micah. John hit the man in the arm, glaring at him. Hosea knew Micah was right but he had to give it a chance, he was hoping Dutch would have seen him but his friend was too focused on Arthur to look around and Hosea couldn't blame him. Arthur had looked dreadful.

The telltale snap of a hatch opening brought the men to a standstill. Hosea looked over, terrified as he saw the space holding his companions to be vacant.

"No!" he went to stand but Bill held him in place. Running over was foolish, he'd get caught immediately and that wouldn't help anyone. The camp needed a leader if it lost Dutch and Arthur. Hosea turned to John, picking his gun up. "John, Lenny, you two-" he was cut off by a shout and the stampeding of a horse. Charles and Taima to be exact. There was a flash of lightning and the man was illuminated, his bow drawn. Charles ran through the town, drawing the attention of the cops away from the gallows. "Quick, go!" Bill and Micah whistled for their mounts, followed after Charles and the lawmen, while John led the rest to the wood structure.

---{___}---

Arthur was dreaming. At least that's what he assumed. He couldn't tell if he was dead or not, the last thing he remembered was being shoved towards the noose, the pain overwhelming most of his senses. Then nothing...Arthur felt lighter than usual, like the overbearing weight of the life had left his shoulders. Maybe he had died, he thought. Arthur doubted he'd gone to Heaven, yet he couldn't bring himself to accept he was in Hell, Arthur knew he wasn't a saint but perhaps he'd ended up in purgatory or thereabouts. It meant no more running, no more killing, no more suffering at the hands of the law, nevertheless the thought bought a small sadness to the man in some way or another. Arthur forced his eyes to open, reluctant to face the harsh truth of being in the netherworld. Arthur was awestruck by what he saw.

A stag. It stood tall in the shallow stream, its antlers, regal and impressive, inky black eyes staring right into his soul. Arthur felt drawn to it, taking a shy step towards the animal. He felt no desire to harm or scare it, he just wanted to be closer. To rest his callus hands on its tanned hair, taking in every close up detail of the deer's stunning antlers. Around them the bright sun glowed, casting a blinding light, encasing them in a confined area. Arthur felt himself drop to his knees, the faint thud of his joints hitting the grass-covered land fell deaf on his ears. He was transfixed on the creature, unable to look away like he was caught in a trap. Arthur wasn't a religious man yet it was almost God-like, looking towards him as if it had been waiting, patient for its visitor.

Without warning the ground trembled and the world seemed to expand. The deer now stood miles away, and only seemed to get farther as Arthur rose and took a step forward. The intense span of white light bled into murky, oil-like darkness. He now only noticed the cold against his skin, yet there was still heat from the light. They seemed to battle against one another, neither winning or losing. In the shadows crouched a ragged, deathly-looking coyote. Arthur shivered, it brought hatred with it, unlike the deer which has the aura of compassion. A deep loathing for the life around it, the gift of existence more like a curse for the creature.

As Arthur found he could move again, the two worlds also came close. It was close, but Arthur knew he had all the time in the world, there was no one to chase him, no need to find somewhere quick to hide, he was safe. Nevertheless, he knew there would be judgement once Arthur reached the end, there always was. What that would lead to though, he couldn't possibly know. The coyote snapped at the air between them while the buck lowered its antlers, almost bowing to him, giving him the time to reflect. Arthur thought of the gang, his family, would they make it? Had Dutch survived, or did they both perish? Arthur would deeply miss Hosea Jack, Sadie...hell even old Uncle and his damn lumbago. Maybe they'd find better lives. He then thought of those he had met, Deborah Macguiness and her dinosaur theory, Albert Mason and his photograph and many accounts with death to name a few. The one thing Arthur wished for was that those Pinkertons kept away, leaving the rest of his family in peace, maybe not Micah but he wasn't Arthur problem now.

As the light grew brighter, a deafening boom rang out and broke the bubble of noiselessness around them. There were shouts and cries, some incoherent while others sounded like his name. The land around him began to break apart, separating him from the rest. Arthur's breathing picked up, he didn't know what was happening and frankly it scared him. Was this the end? His murderous, thieving outlaw ways have been judged and he was on his way to the pit?

"Arthur...son-"

Hosea. The voice brought a brief wave of calm to the outlaw before it was torn away along with the ground underneath him.

Chapter Text

Dutch woke rather suddenly, flinching to consciousness as he heard muted and mollified muttering in his ear, worry clear in the voice as it shook with nerves. Still, the voice brought a sense of warmth to his soul, he hadn't died. Dutch Van Der Linde had pulled through to con and exploit for another day! Hah! Dutch couldn't believe it, he'd beaten the law once more by surviving through a hanging! Swinging with Arthur by his side…

Arthur...Arthur! He couldn't be gone?! No, he was Arthur Morgan for God's sake who been through Hell and back and still managing to come home without a scrape. However, that time he'd already been hurt, possibly septic…he knew the injury had made Arthur weak, hardly awake most of the time. Dutch felt his heart racing in dread, he suddenly didn't want to wake, to face the realisation of his son being gone, to feel the guilt consume him for not trying harder…

Then the hushed tones of his companion brought Dutch from his morbid and sombre thoughts. His heart slowed from his rapid racing, allowing him to breathe and things coherent thoughts. If he was too awake then maybe Dutch would find Arthur alive. Surely, if he had been saved, the young man had to, right? Or at least a grave to pay respect to…His thoughts were cut short by the rustle of fabric and harsh knocking of boots again wood, along with the familiar flick and hiss of a match lighting.

Sense number two slowly returned with the sour scent of tobacco and smoke filling his nose, it was soothing. The feeling of it entering his lungs and spreading through his body with each breath. He felt his body relax, panicking thoughts forgotten. It smelt like his tent, like home. The sharp scent was soon overtook by a musky and rich earthy smell, the air was warm and moist. A swamp maybe? Or lake at least. The new camp then, found by Charles and Arthur. No longer in Strawberry's jail cell.

Dutch buried his face in the familiar, scratchy yet pleasant fabric of his bedroll underneath him, relishing in the luxury after sleeping on stone, which would coax a chill into your bones and leave you feeling like you'd been battered by a blacksmith's hammer. The bed gave warmth too, allowing Dutch's ageing bones to rest comfortably. A hand pressed itself on top his broad chest, resting above his heart while another combed its way through Dutch's hair. It helped to bring Dutch back into consciousness, and he leaned into the affectionate touch, leading him to force open his eyes.

At first, it was blinding, the sun illuminating the beige tent, slowly fading to a comfortable glow as his eyes adjusted to his surroundings. Then he noticed the figure looming to the side, silhouetted by the light but still recognisable. Hosea. He tried to speak, to utter his name, but nothing escaped Dutch's opened mouth instead bringing awareness to his overwhelming thirst and dryness of his lips. Dutch let out a groan, his eyelids fall shut once again. His body deciding to make each and every pain and ache aware to the man. A warm, callused hand gripped the back of his neck and he snapped his eyes open, watching as Hosea heaved Dutch into sitting up, while his other hand brought a waterskin to his lips. Dutch let out a satisfied moan as the cool liquid flowed over his tongue and trickled down his throat, offering relief. His gulps soon grew desperate, trying to drink as much as he could, struggling to quench his thirst. The waterskin was pulled away.

"Hold up there Dutch, don't need you almost drowning along with nearly hanging to death," he said with a small smile upon his lips, worry etched deep into his aged skin. "Welcome back to the world of the living," Hosea muttered, pressing a small kiss to his forehead, resting his hand upon his chest once again. Dutch reached up to the older man, taking his hand in a firm grasp, receiving a soft squeeze in return and a wider smile.

"Hose- Arthur?... Is he?" Dutch managed to choke out, leaving himself quite breathless and lightheaded, but he needed to know. Dutch’s son. He had the right to know his boy's fate. He clung to Hosea's hand, all heavy, golden rings gone from his now pale and shaking hands. Dutch realised he must look a mess, bringing one hand up to run along his jaw, coated in days old scruffy stubble. His hair felt greasy and tangled, falling in front of his face with its lack of pomade and a decent wash. He was covered with sweat, shirt sticking to him. It made him cringe, but Dutch had no energy to fix any of it right now.

"He- Just rest Dutch, it's all okay now," Hosea ordered, guiding him back down onto his pillow. The man briefly fought against his exhaustion before it overpowered him, and Dutch lost consciousness.

---{___}---

The next time Dutch fully woke up, the light wasn't quite so overpowering, his senses had finally gone toned themselves down and he could think straight. He still felt endlessly exhausted, but willed himself to rise, ignoring the protesting of his spine as it popped with each movement. Dutch had a gang to lead, he couldn't just lay about, he had to keep up morale, keep them safe and keep their faith. They needed to get money. Get to Tahiti. Or Australia. Start his mango farm as they'd planned. So he needed to get up. Dutch stumbled as he rose, searching for a fresh shirt and catching his reflection in the small mirror by the bedside. He almost jumped back in shock, barely recognising the face before him. He certainly looked terrible.

Cheeks sunken in slightly from the lack of food, bag under his eyes as he wouldn't sleep, having to watch over Arthur. The ragged and unkempt beard had grown a little longer, mixing in with his defining moustache and soul patch. Hair pressed against his head recently washed but unbrushed and knotted. His eyes travelled down, attention caught by a deep purple line, tinged with green and yellow, blossoming along his neck, it sat boldly against his pale complexion. Dutch’s throat constricted and breathing swiftly became difficult. The memories of hanging, even just for those brief moments, the raw fear that had consumed him. It all came back. He needed to- no, he had to calm down, to man up!

"G-God damn it Dutch- stop panicking like an h-hysterical child!" Dutch berated himself, glaring at his reflection, one hand around his throat and the other fisted in his hair. He looked mad. Sounded it too. Maybe he was, talking to himself and all…

"Dutch- Mr Van Der Linde! What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Came a shriek from behind him, Susan Grimshaw's face appearing in the reflection behind his, perfect as always even in her old age and greying hair. A stark contrast to his gaunt, destitute looks. Dutch cringe. He needs to clean up. Grimshaw stared at him in rage, though concern glinted in her narrowed eyes. The man suddenly felt the exhaustion, nausea, hunger that ached deeply in his stomach.

"Ms Grimshaw...'need t' clean up- food an' clean..." He swayed slightly, softly falling back onto the bed but managing to stay upright. Soft, petite hands rested themselves on his shoulder, keeping the outlaw sat down should he try to attempt to rise again.

"Hold there Dutch, I won't be long." The light pressure lifted just as his eyes fell shut, fluttering open when the pressure returned. A smile grew on chapped lips as he gazed up at Hosea, Susan sat beside Dutch, stern looking mixed in with concern.

"Heard you were trying to escape Dutch?" Grinned the old man, humour in his voice. Hosea settled his hands on Dutch's knees, giving them a gentle squeeze. "Now, why did you think that was okay, huh? You silly fool." A scolding wrapped in anxiety and tied in place with love, that's what this was.

---{___}---

The three sat in the tent for a while, before working together to get Dutch down to the lake for a wash. Susan left, grabbing fresh clothes while taking the dirty sets away. The men stripped and stood in the water, Hosea combing his fingers through Dutch's hair as he washed away the grease. They stood close, almost in one another's arms until Dutch's stomach let out a loud groan, voicing its need for sustenance. The older man helped him back to the tent, dressing and settling down on the bed. Food and water were eventually brought around by Tilly, who stay only for a brief second, enough to inquire into their leader's wellbeing. Dutch promptly consumed then hastily as Hosea planted himself in a chair, softly reading to his partner. He soon felt full, clean and more exhausted, Hosea's narration slowly lulling Dutch into a doze. He barely registered Hosea rising and manoeuvring him under the blanket and blowing out the candle before it all went black and he peacefully dreampt.

Chapter Text

A couple of weeks had passed since Hosea got his family back together. The camp had settle down from their initial panic and worry for the two men, a mild concern was still present, helping them along as they healed. The process had been slow, but Hosea had watched as Dutch gained the lost weight back, battled through the hellish nightmares and returned to his old self. Arthur on the other hamd, he had been worse. Poorly medicated wound, beaten half to death then almost hanged. Simple bedrest, comfort and provisions couldn't just pull him from Death's doors. So instead Charles and John had taken him to Saint Denis and the conman hadn't seem them since.

One thing that hurt Hosea more than watching his lover and son in pain was listening to the former cry out for Arthur in his sleep, or ask for him during the day, when Hosea couldn't give him any sort of answer to satisfy them both. But they had each other. All Hosea could give was love, comfort and an anchor to keep Dutch grounded. Balancing worrying for the hurt men and keeping the gang loaded with supplies and money, the old man would have felt overloaded if Grimshaw, Sadie and Pearson hadn't stepped up.

Now the outlaw stood beside Dutch, the latter settled onto a seat watching as the camp rolled on through their chores. He has healed, yet his strength had not returned fully, so Dutch’s orders were to rest. Hosea was making sure he did. Small strolls through and around their base were permitted, as long as it was with a shadow. Reading took up alot of his time, apart from sleeping and eat, more than usual as he had no plans to create. They'd enjoy a game of dominoes or watching young Jack discover the new environment. Nights had calmed from terrifying terrors to small scares with Hosea by Dutch's side and the constant reassurance he and Arthur were safe. Dutch was racing along the road to recovery.

Soon night fell with both men sealing themselves inside the leader's tent, lantern switched out with only the moonlight beaming through to illuminate the shelter. Hosea rested on a chair, book shut on his lap, stubbornly denying his body of rest despite his struggle to keep his eyes open. His companion however was stretched out, staring ahead of him with his arm cushioning his head, thoughts racing wildly.

"Hosea…friend?" The man asked softly, not wanting to pull him from his doze, yet needing to voice his questions. Hosea almost jumped from his seat, almost unaware of losing the his battle with exhaustion.

"Mmhmm?"

"Arthur…-" Dutch started

"Now Dutch…"

"No, I need to know Hosea. He's my- our son." He turned his head to stare at Hosea. Dutch was right of course, he knew that but just didn't know how to address it. Silence soon settled as they stared at one another. Dutch clearly waiting as Hosea searched for the right words.

"He- Charles and John rode him into Saint Denis...they haven't returned which means Arthur is still alive or…" Hosea's throat constricted at the thought, unable to finish the sentence but Dutch caught on, pulling him close to share the cot. Money could only buy so much from a doctor...

---

The two men didn't see Arthur for a few more days. Everyone was fretting but not to the extend of Dutch. The prolonged isolation from the man had Dutch anxious and close to exploding. He had to get out. He couldn't focus on his books, he had no appetite for meals and even Hosea couldn't bring him back down to earth. So he decided to ride into Saint Denis. Strolling over to The Count, giving him a few loving pats and a carrot or two, before climbing up into the saddle. He was about to kick off when a voice called for him.

"Dutch? What are you doing?" Dutch let out a deep sigh and turns his mount to face Hosea. He looked annoyed so Dutch pulled a smile, hoping to persuade his oldest friend.

"Hosea...my dear friend, I-"

"Uh! Now don't you try to use your silver tongue on me, Dutch. I know all if your tricks and I won't be conned" Hosea states, marching his way closer and grasping The Count's bridal. His sly smile dropped, instead falling into an almost pleading pout.

"You know me too well…I was planning to go visit Arthur, I need this Hosea." Dutch was ready to argue, ready to plead his case and not stand for anything. His retorts were planned, watching Hosea as his friend kept him stationary. "I'm not-!"

"Let me get saddled up then." He let go and moved towards Silver Dollar, heaving himself up and trotting towards Dutch. Hosea didn't look entirely happy about it but they both rode into the city. Silence fell between them as they slowed, carefully making their way through the crowded streets to the doctors.

Who knew if they were even still here.

Chapter Text

Arthur could barely remember anything. All he did was dream and lie awake, battling to fully grasp consciousness. Most of his waking moments were spent in a daze, shapes floating around while his senses struggled to find their grasp. The agony being the only thing to fully hit him as though it was the only sensation he could feel. His neck burned, ribs throbbed and head pounded, but Arthur couldn't figure out why. All memories gone or unreachable between the fog in his mind. Movements were limited too. Arthur could just about manage the small head turn before the energy was sucked out of him. Eyelids always felt heavy and his limbs weighted down by boulders. Every sound muffled, he was sure the figures he always encountered were talking but Arthur couldn't make anything of it, so he had given up, instead falling back into the overpowering darkness and dreaming.

His dreams weren't peaceful, yet he found them better than his awakened state. Fortunately, the man could see, hear and be painless. He found he could walk too, the setting different from before, now he was situated in the snowy mountains but the cold didn't threaten him. The deer and coyote were ever-present, skirting around him like an invisible force held then back, watching his every move as Arthur explored the world around him. It was mostly peaceful as he studied wildlife and picked flowers. Peaceful until his spirit animals decided to brawl. They could be silently pacing the land before suddenly gigantic antlers would gore into the small animal as it fought back, dragging its claws along the deer's neck. Lightning seemed to crash as both mammals collided and clashed, the world would go dark and start to crumble beneath him. Alas, neither won nor lost, the man would just return to the conscious world. However, there were times they wouldn't show, the blind stare from the stag missing as Arthur doodles in his journal. Perhaps it had things to tend to, a mate? It was around Spring the outlaw would guess, does would be having their fawns. He assumed the devilish coyote would slink off into his own adventures, Arthur had no desire to find out what they were.

>---{___}---<

Hushed whispers are what brings Arthur out of his slumber. He couldn't understand them, but they seemed familiar, a deep, yet soft voice was the clearest with its tone was edging between anger and fright. Almost desperate. Arthur wanted to open his eyes, to comfort the voice and tell them he was fine, but his eyelids felt heavier than a crate full of dynamite and Arthur had little energy to fight with them. Unfortunately, the voice seemed to coax him out of the darkness of his mind, persistent in pulling the cowboy to fully wake up.

Soon the constant and repetitive noises grew annoying. Arthur just wanted to rest, he carried the gang's weight on his shoulders, why shouldn't he be allowed to rest? Yet the irritating, indistinct sounds grated against his nerves and caused Arthur to accept that he wouldn't be getting back to sleep, not just yet. So instead he fought again the heavy pressure holding him down, willing his body to follow as he instructed.

"Arthur- ou hear me?" The talking slowly but surely became more understandable and recognisable. Arthur could hear background sounds, the clattering of hooves against cobblestone, rhythmic ringing of church bells. He could hear his own steady breathing and the slight brush of fabrics as someone shuffled about. The was the scent of tobacco and antiseptic, along with a tinge of metal. At least his senses were working and the man could assume he was at a doctor. "Arthur, squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

Charles. The man who had become one of Arthur's closest friends in the short six months of knowing him. His voice smooth like butter yet deeper than the ocean. Arthur could picture the scar running down his face alongside his dark, flowing hair. The worry that would be etched into his skin, sure to leave Charles' expression in that permanent state. A gentle soul but ready to kill if necessary. The words gradually registered in Morgan's and he set about conjuring enough strength to squeeze the man's hand, managing a pitiful and weak response but enough to complete the task. He earned a tighter hold on his extremity.

"That's great son," this time it was Dutch. "Now let's see those beautiful blue eyes, hmm?" Now Arthur wanted to agree and follow Dutch's request but he fought with exhaustion for what seemed like hours and his eyelids barely managed to move. All Arthur managed was a slither of blinding white light before he fell back into nothingness.

>---{___}---<

His newest fantasy was grim, plunged into a darkness that would seem to lift, encasing the world in its tight hold and stopping light from breaking through. The ground shrinking before him. Additionally, it was void of his two companions and Arthur couldn't deny that he wasn't slightly concerned.

>---{___}---<

This time Arthur didn't have such a peaceful awakening. Sound filtered through his ears but the pain came at full blast. His ribs ached, side tugging on the stitches he could feel. Arthur managed to crack his eyes open a tad, enough to make out shapes and colour, unfortunately also enough to allow the light in and flare up the hammering headache that had embedded itself behind his eyes. Arthur groan and there was a sudden rustling of sheets and hurried footsteps, hands rested on his forehead, the cool metal of rings made Arthur realise just how hot he was and whimpered.

More hands slid underneath his back and pushed, eliciting a soft cry of pain as Arthur's ribs were jostled. His mind clouded with fog but the deep, hushed cooing filtered through, pulling him from the brink of falling back under.

"Arthur, c'mon son."

Something metal pressed to his lips, coaxing them open before satisfying, cold, throat-soothing water trickled into his mouth. It relieved the horrible, scratchy feeling of his throat and washed away the sickening taste. Water, the simplest of things, felt like the gods' nectar and Arthur couldn't get enough. Days from food, with constant harm and little hydration, could make any man desperate. Hell maybe it had been weeks, he wasn't sure, but he simply couldn't get enough once it was taken away. Arthur chased it with his lips, eyes having fallen shut once again.

"Don't fall back asleep" said a deep voice, bringing Arthur to frown and furrow his brow. He was tired, why shouldn't he sleep? Arthur believed he deserved the rest, spending days and nights gathering money and supplies for the camp. Carrying the weight on his shoulders and now Morgan was being told he couldn't sleep. Frankly, it annoyed him. "And don't you scowl at me, son." they chuckled softly, perhaps relieved Arthur was responding to their words. The laugh was what brought the outlaw to open his eyes, a new-found strength and ambition.

He took time to focus but above him was the grinning face of Dutch, haggard looking but alive and probably much better than Arthur himself. Faint traces of weight loss were there, his face not as full as it had been yet he didn't look as thin as a needle. Arthur could see the fading bruises wrapped around his neck, why they were there Arthur couldn't figure out? Why was he here? Where was he? The room looked posh however things were too blurry to tell.

"W-Where- Du-" the weakness and wavering in his voice came at a shock. How long had it been since he spoke? Arthur's throat felt as dry as the desert again, accepting more water before clearing his throat. He glanced around to study the room, spying Hosea just behind Dutch, looking relieved. "Dutch, what…what happened?"

>---{___}---<

Dutch explained, with the occasional chime in from Hosea, as the younger man ate a small, measly meal. Soon deemed well enough to not be on the brink of death, Arthur was left to get some rest once more under their watchful eyes.

His dream needn't be worried about this time though, as there stood the righteous stag and wicked coyote once more as though welcoming him back.

Chapter Text

I have no motivation for this story right now.

I might have a gander at oneshots but no promises.

Sorry.