Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Van der Linde pack was an eclectic mix of wolves from all over the Americas. No two wolves in the pack looked alike, from Lenny’s golden sandy fur to Arthurs hulking black form they had wolves in as many coat colours as Dutch could find and sweet talk.

John himself was the pure white of an Arctic wolf, fur thick and better suited to the cold than most. His dense fur was the reason Dutch had sent him ahead of the wagons, to scout for shelter. All of them had some special trait like that as wolves, that had caught Dutch or Hosea’s eye at some point during their travels.

Charles had been blessed by his mother's people with the strongest bite John had ever seen, or felt he thought with a wince. His shoulder still twinged remembering picking a fight with Charles just after he’d joined.

John didn’t like to admit that he was mighty jealous of Arthur’s attention, and he had tried to take it out on Charles that the other man had drawn Arthur’s eye. He and the rest of the boys had learned real quick that Charles was not to be messed with. It started and ended with John, the fight over and Charles settled into the pecking order inside ten minutes.

Hosea had shaken his head at them but patched John and Charles up with gentle hands while Dutch laughed. Arthur hadn’t even looked up from that damned journal of his.

Arthur, who only ever heeled for Dutch and Hosea, had only ever been challenged once. Also by John- a long time ago now- before he had reached his full size and yet still made John feel tiny.

Back then it had just been the four of them against the world and John, the baby, had still been unsure of his place. This meant he had heckled Arthur relentlessly until Arthur had up and sat on him, ripping at John’s ears and neck until Hosea had called him off. Things had settled after that and now John was the one to fold people into the pecking order when they joined, with Dutch, Hosea and Arthur watching, unchallenged.

Arthur, the largest of the pack by a wide margin, was Dutch’s ace up his sleeve when it came to dealing with other packs. Dutch would sweet talk the resident pack into a one on one fight to let them pass through or hunt or whatever it was he wanted and Arthur would step in to rip some poor bastard to shreds.

John pondered all of this and more, holed up out of the biting wind and driving snow. His leg was broken and a pack of wolves, probably as hungry as the gang was, had driven him off a cliff with their sheer numbers. Usually the gang never ran into trouble with true wolves, who were much more comfortable with wolfpeople than they were with any other species. Hunger was a powerful motivator though, John mused, it made beasts of even true people.

People who had wolves were bigger than true wolves, and wilder than true people.

That’s why Dutch said they had to stick together.

John’s heart jumped in his chest when a familiar howl echoed out over the snow and he yelped in pain when he jostled his hurt leg. He threw his head back and howled like his life depended on it. Which it kind of did.

Arthur came upon him first, Javier on two feet not long behind the bulk of Arthurs wolf form. Arthur had never been a more welcome sight, pushing through the snow with his massive chest. His black fur gleamed in the sunlight and rippled as his muscles worked to move snow aside, his green and yellow eyes taking John in with a hint of disgust.

John ignored the sharp flash of pain from being dismissed again, pushing down the wolfen urge to jump up in Arthurs’ face and lick his muzzle. Because he couldn't stand for one and for two he would never live it down. He tuned back in to listen to Javier clucking over his hurt leg and a warning that he was going to be picked up.

Javier gently scooped up John, being careful of his busted leg, and they started back to Boaz and whichever horse he’d borrowed for Arthur.

Unfortunately the wolves that had chased John off that cliff hadn’t run off like he’d hoped they had and he got the dubious pleasure of watching Arthur “go to work” Hosea called it.

Arthur did not posture as others did, snapping and snarling and showing off his size and teeth, his size was undeniable and so was his strength. Arthur had won many a fight almost before it had started, leaping in to rip an opponent to shreds before they were done posturing. To the point where Dutch even warned his opponents, and bade Arthur to wait until they had made the first attack. Most never managed to attack twice.

John yelped when Javier slung him over Boaz in a hurry while Arthur plunged through the snow towards the oncoming pack. They converged on Arthur as Javier spurred Boaz on, the horse already dancing in place and squealing with fright.

John could see Arthurs form rear up above the mass of wolves around him, snarling ferociously as he slammed his massive weight down on one of his attackers. John let out a weak snarl as the pack scattered briefly while one of their number lay writhing in the snow before plunging back in toward Arthur.

“Arthur!” Javier shouted, panic creeping into his voice as he reached for one of his guns. He hauled hard on Boaz’s reins to bring them back around and the wolves in range of his shotgun.

Two shots into the pack scattered them long enough for Arthur to dash after them, three wolves crying and fading fast in the snow.

Wiping out a third of the pack seemed to finally drive home that they were not prey and the remaining wolves scattered into the trees. Arthur snorted his disdain and turned a withering glare on John, who tried to shrink away despite being slung over Javier’s horse like a deer carcass.

Arthur heaved a sigh and started wading back down the mountain through the snow, Boaz and Taima following in his tracks.

John didn’t see Arthur again until they’d gotten off that cursed mountain, and against his better instincts lashed out at the ones taking care of him for it when he wasn’t delirious with pain.

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Chapter Text

Charles could understand the frustration of being trapped in one form for weeks on end, but even his patience with John was wearing thin as the weakened wolf snarled weakly at him. He placed a bowl of fresh deer meat in reach of their injured packmate and washed his hands of the cranky wolf for the day.

He looked up from arrow making when Arthur’s wolf shouldered through the camp with a bushel of rabbits in his mouth. Charles watched, still fascinated all these months later, as the rabbits were dropped off with Pearson and Arthur began the quick, brutal change back into his human form.

Charles was reminded every time he saw that giant black shadow that Hosea had dredged a king of wolves from the gutter the day he found Arthur.

He snorted to himself over his fawning thoughts and bent back over his arrows, wondering if Arthur needed more.

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Arthur groaned to himself as he stretched out the lingering effects of shifting, muscles easing after a good long stretch. He trotted over to his chest of clothing and threw something soft on, preparing to go to sleep after a long few days away from camp.

He looked up with playful exasperation when Hosea ambled over with that look on his face while he was shaving.

“What do you need?” he asked when Hosea stood beside him, eyeing his half shaven face.

“Can’t a man come over to talk to his son?” Hosea asked with a teasing note in his voice.

“No.” Arthur said with a grin, swinging his hip and knocking it gently into Hosea’s. Hosea reached up and ruffled Arthur’s hair like they were twenty years younger and they shared another soft laugh. They lapsed into a comfortable silence while Arthur finished shaving.

“I need you to take over looking after John for a couple days.” Arthur heaved a huge sigh and leaned against the barrel with his shaving kit, giving Hosea a soft glare.

“Why.” he grumbled, already resigned to doing it. Dutch he would have bitched about it to, but Hosea was special and knew he couldn’t say no.

“He’s driven everyone else in camp crazy, but he’ll listen to you and you know it. He’s almost back on his feet so take him out camping, hunting, whatever you boys feel like.”

“Fishing. So I can drown him.” Arthur groused as he turned to throw some of his clothes into a bag. Hosea chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder before wandering away back into the bustle of camp.

Arthur continued to grumble to himself as he moved over toward John’s tent where he could hear John grumbling to himself as only wolves can, with growls and whines.

Arthur barged into the tent with no warning and John leapt to his feet with a yelp that startled a laugh out of Arthur. He bent down and scooped a protesting John up to lay him across his broad shoulders and strode out of the tent with purpose, ignoring John’s indignant yelps.

“Hosea said to get you out of camp, so we’re going.” He told John over his yapping, slinging the smaller wolf over the back of his horse like a deer carcass. John nipped at everything he could reach on Arthur, but didn’t kick or wiggle so that the horse wouldn’t dump him. They’d all learned that lesson the hard way.

Arthur slung himself up and over the Walkers’s back, patting his neck and swatting at John’s muzzle as the white wolf continued to nip at him.

“Cut it out. Hosea said get lost so we’re gettin’ lost.” Arthur scolded, turning his horse and riding them out of camp at a fast clip. John went limp with a grumble, obviously put out over being kicked out of camp.

Arthur ignored that the further away they got the more relaxed John became, his tail tip starting a gentle wag at the very corner of Arthur’s eye as they started climbing up into the snow back towards Colter.

Arthur knew that John was fond of the snow, when it wasn’t life or death, because his fur sometimes got too warm in more southern climates. It insulated him somewhat, and he tried not to bitch, but Arthur had learned many years ago that he was most comfortable in the snow.
True to form, John’s ears perk up the second he sees snow in the distance and Arthur keeps his smug smile to himself.

Once the snow is up to his horses knees, the faithful little horse he’d taken from the Adler barn, he turns and smirks at John’s inquisitive look before shoving the wolf off the back of his horse into a snowbank.

John snarled and floundered in the snow while Arthur laughed and spurred his horse into a lope, leaving the white wolf behind in the snow.

John sprang to his feet with an indignant howl and gave pursuit, chasing Arthur all the way to Lake Isabella. Arthur finally reined in his heavily breathing horse and gave him a good rub down with a rag before unsaddling him to set up camp on the lakeshore. John, still trapped as a wolf as a precaution even if he had mostly healed, helped as best he could by dragging out the feed for the horse and dragging wood back for a fire.

Eventually they settled into the snow beside the fire, John curled up around Arthur’s back to keep him warm while Arthur sketched in the firelight.

After the moon rose and peaceful silence had fallen over the snowy landscape, while both boys had started to doze in the warmth of the fire, Arthur’s horse began yanking at the tree he’d been hitched to, agitated and fidgeting.

Arthur jolted up and awake, trotting over to the paint to try and soothe him before he could escape when John’s ears perked up. There was a shrill whistling from off in the distance, the call of a horse, and it was agitating their stud something fierce.

John and Arthur shared a look before they started off toward the sound, Arthur with the stud’s reins in hand.

Chapter Text

Man, wolf and horse crunched slowly through the snow, which reflected the light of the full moon so well it might as well have been daylight out. Arthur followed in John’s pawprints as the sharp-nosed wolf lead them toward whatever was making their horse dance with energy.

John spotted her first, flitting through the trees like a phantom, like a ghost with the moonlight flashing against her white hide.

Arthur felt his breath catch when she stepped out of the trees, her ears pricked forward, and her tail held high to stream out behind her like a banner. She had a busted-up leather halter on, fixed with fancy little flashes of silver, and a busted lead shank trailing about a foot beneath her chin.

John and Arthur both held still as the gorgeous horse danced hesitantly at the edge of the trees, but she seemed drawn by the whickering of their Tennessee walker. She came toward them, not afraid of man or wolf and intent only on their horse.

“She must be in heat, aw girl, look at ya.” Arthur mumbled softly, seeing whip marks on her hide and one right across her delicate little face made his blood boil. John circled back around to peek at the two flirting horses from behind Arthur, as he had needed to learn his lesson about flying horse hooves only once.

“Who would ever bust up a pretty girl like you. Bet you taught ‘em a lesson for that didn’t ya. Yes you did,” Arthur said with a smirk when her ears pinned back the second he started to reach for the busted lead shank.

John laid down in the snow while Arthur worked his magic on the ghostly horse, dancing with her a bit around the Tennessee walker when she stepped away, intent on staying with their horse but not getting caught.

It had always been a point of fascination for John, that the biggest, meanest, gruffest wolf in the Van der Linde pack was the gentlest touch with any and all horses he came across. By the time Arthur had soothed and laid a hand on the ghost mare’s lead, John’s ears were pinned back, and he was sulking again.

“Let’s go, Marston. ‘Fore a cougar catches us out here.” Arthur called, eyes still on the mare. John snorted his disbelief, trailing behind the man and two horses.

“Don’t laugh. I had one damn near drop on my head once.” Arthur grumbled, hand reaching out to pet the ghostly mare at every opportunity. John glares resentfully at the, admittedly beautiful, horse for having Arthur’s full adoring attention and slumps into the snow dramatically when they make it back to their little camp.

Arthur ignores him for a while to gently brush and feed the white mare, pampering her and whispering sweet nothings while he did. Finally, what felt to John like hours later, Arthur left her to sleep just out of reach of the Tennessee walker, and stared at John where the white wolf was flopping about in the snow like an idiot. John looked like he was making the wolf equivalent of a snow angel, wiggling in the snow on his back to enjoy the feel of it on his fur.

John let out a startled yelp when Arthur’s boot came flying out of nowhere to hit him in the side, and he jumped to his feet with an offended snarl that cut off when he noticed that Arthur was curling and cracking into his wolf form.

He’d been told true people, people who couldn’t become wolves, found the process disgusting. That the crack and shift of bone and the groan of a body becoming something else sent them screaming into the hills. John found it interesting, and sometimes with certain wolves, beautiful. The sprouting of hair and the sharpening of teeth, while green eyes turned a piercing sun coloured yellow, all of it enraptured him.

Arthur so rarely transformed that this was a special treat, and John’s tail went crazy with excitement. Arthur didn’t really lose height or weight when he transformed, and it seemed like he merely stepped from one form into the other.

Arthur stretched when he finished transforming, stretching out his toes and his tail until he nearly collapsed with a satisfied look on his face. John waited patiently until Arthur had done his usual form change stretches before throwing himself at the bigger wolf with a delighted yelp. Arthur didn’t bother to brace and let them tumble into the snow with a doggy smile, playfully scuffling with the wolf as they flung snow everywhere.

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Hours and miles passed by without notice as John and Arthur chased moonshadows, flicking in and out of the trees like playful wraiths. John danced around Arthur’s more straightforward run, nipping at his flanks and pulling his tail.

Arthur was just about ready to turn and lay into the smaller wolf for the irritants when a tantalizing scent drifted into his nose. He growled sharply at John, who pulled his head out of a bush where he’d been investigating a bird nest, and lead him over to the long, shambling trail through the snow.

Arthur nearly thrust his nose into the snow to try and catch some lingering scent of whatever big herbivore had left the trail, a bison he figured based on the size and trail through the snow. He followed the trail, John making interested and confused noises as he followed, and John was treated to the sight of Arthur’s tail starting to wag at the sight of a bison rub on a tree.

John shouldered up to get a whiff of the rub, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth when he got a noseful of bison. Arthur shoved him gently, with a grin on his wolf face before taking off down the trail at a lope. John let out an amused huff and took off after him.

A hunt with Arthur!

Chapter Text

John felt as if he’d been struck by lightning, the fur on his back rippling with excitement.

He hadn’t hunted with Arthur in years, it was usually a pack activity, as Arthur always dragged some carcass back to camp after being gone if he bothered to go hunting.

John felt a thrill to run at Arthur’s shoulder again, and was distracted from the hunt by the power inherent in Arthur’s wolf form.

The strength of his body as they surged through the snow, Arthur’s black shape in contrast with the snowy, moonlit landscape with John chasing close behind like a white shadow.

John blundered into a bush he was so distracted and Arthur stood by snorting and laughing wolf laughter while John struggled with the thorns catching and pulling at his fur.

Arthur continued to snort and laugh until John had freed himself from the bush. John grumbled and chewed on Arthur’s ear until the larger wolf pushed him into the snow before they continued down the hunting trail.

They ran the trail with the effortless stride of wolves for another few miles, following the trail of the bison. Eventually they hit a game trail wandering through the trees. On it they found the hours old scent of a bull elk, and Arthur looked longingly at the days old bison trail before turning onto the trail of the elk instead.

They came across the bull just as the dark night sky had started to give way to the grey of predawn.

It was browsing amongst the greenery hiding the game trail, a beast some 700 pounds with beautiful antlers arching into the sky, and hooves that could crack their skulls open with one mighty kick. It’s fur was still thick as if it were winter in the lower valleys, and the beast was so warm it steamed lightly where snow had dropped upon its back.

John looked to Arthur who nodded to him and slunk silently back to vanish into the bushes down the game trail back the way they had come. John waited until Arthur was settled downwind of the elk before slinking around it in a wide circle to catch it between them.

In a maneuver they had perfected when John was barely more than a pup he rushed at the elk, frightening it into bolting down the game trail. It made an angered squealing noise as John snapped at its hind legs, driving it into range of Arthur’s jaws.

Arthur sprang from his hiding place like a shadow given form, 300 glorious pounds of wolf colliding with the shoulder of the elk and sending them both crashing and kicking into the bushes and snow to the side of the trail.

John let out a yelp when one of the elk’s flailing hooves caught him in the bad leg and knocked him flat. He was back on his feet and tearing at the leg that had kicked him in seconds, trying to keep it from landing a blow to Arthur who had his teeth in the grazers throat and was locked in the oldest fight in the world with it. Kill or be killed, die to feed the pack or starve.

They lay exhausted in the snow for a long while after the elk had gasped it’s last breath and stopped kicking, frozen in a tableau of the savagery of nature while the sun crept over the mountains.

John staggered to his feet first, gasping for air as he staggered towards Arthur. Arthur’s teeth were dug into the elk’s neck and he was still growling weakly, as if the elk might still leap to its feet again to dash away.

Arthur’s growl rose in his throat when John moved closer, but it subsided again when John flopped down beside him and began licking at his face. Arthur finally released his death grip on the elk and sat up to clean up John’s face too, his long tongue smoothing down the fur their hunt had ruffled.

John had to strain to keep his tail and body from wiggling to show his excitement at the easy affection he hadn’t received from Arthur in years.

Arthur snorted and got to his feet, to tear into the elk carcass with his teeth. John waited until Arthur had tore off a few giant mouthfuls before diving into the meat himself, letting the choicest pieces disappear down Arthur’s throat.

The whole gang could feast in the true wolf fashion, eating something like 25 pounds in a sitting and starving until the next big meal, but Arthur being twice the size of a normal wolf could also eat twice as much. So John was long full and had left to get the horses to haul the meat back to camp by the time Arthur flopped over in the snow with a full stomach.

Arthur curled up in the snow a stone's throw away from the half eaten carcass to doze, content with a full belly, while ravens and crows descended on the elk. They cried and cawed at each other while they picked at the still warm meat, enjoying the feast the wolves had offered up.

Arthur watched them with half lidded eyes, amused by their squabbling and memorizing the sleek form of dark feathers to draw in his journal when they made it back to camp. Wolves and the black scavengers had always been amicable, sharing meals when the opportunity arose. Arthur had been led to a meal more often than people thought by the cry of ravens, the circling of the crows.

Arthur was playfully snapping at a young crow that had pulled his tail when he heard the crunch of footsteps through the snow.

John appeared over the ridge with both horses in tow, though the ghost mare was roped to the Walker, draped in Arthur’s spare set of clothes and wrapped up warm in Arthur’s jacket.

Arthur surged to his feet, unsure about how he should handle the thrill of possessiveness that bristled the hair on his spine when he saw John swimming in his clothes.

John stopped short, unsure about Arthur’s reaction to his borrowed clothing. They stared hard at each other for a moment before Arthur laid back down and John moved to the elk.

His yellow gaze never strayed from John as the younger man stripped the elk carcass and loaded it onto the waiting horses, taking in the length of John’s legs and the curve of his spine.

John shivered with the intensity of Arthur’s gaze, but didn’t let it distract him from his task.

They could talk back at their camp, warm by the fire.

Chapter Text

The loss of Hosea shattered the Van der Linde pack.

The cracks formed in Guarma, where tempers ran short between the menfolk. Dutch hadn’t been right since Arthur had told him about Hosea. He walked around in a fog, and could barely spare his pack mates a glance. This was understandable and the boys let him be, though Micah yowled and whined about having to follow Arthur’s commands.

The cracks turned to fissures upon the reunion of the pack at Shady Belle when Dutch remained distant and short tempered.

Dutch only re-entered the world to put down the fights that kept cropping up between those who were in Arthur’s camp and those in Micah’s.

Everyone except Jack walked on eggshells as a line was drawn clear in the sand. Support Arthur and be subject to relentless bullying from Micah, who had become even more unbearable than he was before.

He swaggered up and down the tense camp barking orders like he was king of the world when Dutch was out of earshot. As soon as Dutch walked into view Micah turned into a snivelling little brown noser, at turns grovelling at Dutch’s feet or using his forked tongue to drip poison into Dutch’s addled mind about traitors in the pack.

Arthur chased Micah away from Dutch with his tail between his legs as often as he could, but one day things took a turn.

“Arthur! Enough!” Dutch snapped, interrupting another snarling match between the two men and causing the whole clearing to go still. Dutch had never stepped between Arthur and someone who needed discipline before, and for it to be Micah of all people was even more baffling.

“Micah has a point, Arthur. Someone must have leaked our plan, and that’s why we lost…” Dutch trailed off, that fog coming into his eyes again. He didn’t notice or care about the affronted look on Arthur’s face, or the gleeful one on Micah’s.

“Dutch you don’t mean that,” Arthur said softly, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on Dutch’s shoulder. Micah knocked Arthur’s hand away and didn’t even flinch when Arthur snarled at him.

“Dutch is right! We got a traitor in this pack and everyone knows it!” Micah declared at the top of his voice, with a pointed look at John just behind Arthur. Arthur stepped to the side to hide John behind his bulk with a nasty look on his face. Other pack members drifted closer, no longer pretending not to listen as a loose circle formed around the three men in the middle.

“That is a lie! Nobody would betray this pack!” Arthur’s voice boomed in the silent clearing as he took a threatening step toward Micah. He stumbled back when Dutch stepped between them and pushed at his chest, again defending Micah.

“He’s right Arthur, face it! Why else would every plan we cook up fail? He’s already left us once!” Micah all but danced behind Dutch at the gobsmacked expression on Arthur’s face.

“I dunno, Dutch, maybe the huge bounties on our heads? Because some of them were idiot half cocked plans to begin with? Plenty of reasons!” Arthur said incredulously.

“John-“

“We already talked about John, Dutch. You know I vouch for him,”

That hunting trip had worked miracles on their fraught relationship, Hosea had been delighted.

Dutch threw his shoulders back and his head up, trying and failing to look down on Arthur with a nasty look on his face.

“Then why should I trust your word, if you defend that traitor?”

The clearing was heavy with the silence that followed that statement, as if the world was holding its breath. Jaws hung open and every eye was on the two men who stood nose to nose in the centre of the circle. Charles, standing just behind Arthur, swore that he heard the big man’s heart crack and split in half in that heavy silence.

“How could you ask me that?” Arthur demanded, teeth clenched to keep the hurt out of his voice.

“You won’t deny it! It’s because of you that Hosea is dead!” Dutch screamed, voice cracking on his partner's name.

“Get out! And take your damned traitors with you!” Dutch shrieked, stabbing his finger at John and Charles behind Arthur. Shocked exclamations burst from many throats, but Arthur didn’t so much as bat an eye.

“You don’t mean that, Dutch,” the big man said, trying to be the peacemaker in Hosea’s place. Dutch stumbled back clutching his head and Micah stepped into his place.

“You heard him, traitor! Get out!” Micah didn’t even try to hide the glee in his voice as he got in Arthur’s face.

Jack wriggled out of his mothers grip and threw himself in front of Arthur. Every person in the circle went rigid except Dutch, who was muttering to himself under his breath.

“Why does he have to leave uncle Dutch? Please don’t make him go!” Jack cried, only to be ignored completely.

Screeches of outrage filled the clearing when Micah drew his pistol and pointed it straight at Jack's face with a smarmy smile.

“Because you ain’t welcome here any more you little nuisance!” Micah snarled with a laugh at the distressed little boy. Arthur’s hand curled into Jack’s shoulder while behind him John and Mary Beth fought against a screaming Abigail.

“Charles, grab our gear,” Arthur said softly, hateful gaze never leaving Micah’s delighted face. The pistol swung to Charles for a moment before jerking back to Jack.

“Ah, ah, ah! That gear is property of the Van der Linde pack! You leave it all here.” Micah sang, inching the gun closer to Jack as Arthur snarled.

The tension broke when Arthur’s white mare crashed into the ring of people with an equine shriek. Hot on her heels were the rest of the Van der Linde horse herd, frenzied with fear as Sadie in wolf form snapped at their heels to drive them forward.

Arthur snatched Jack up and threw himself into Ghost’s saddle as she thundered past. He heard shouts and howls of pain from all around, but was too busy keeping himself and a screaming Jack in the saddle to look as Ghost fled the camp.

Ghost kept running hell bent for leather for a long while through the swamp before she finally slowed on a tiny island.

To Arthur’s surprise Tilly and Karen crashed through the trees not long after him, each leading another horse behind her. Behind them came a half dozen wolves, still trapped in scraps of clothing from an abrupt change.

“Sorry, Arthur. Couldn’t catch any more horses after Sadie drove them through camp,” Tilly gasped out between heaving breaths, holding onto Taima’s lead with a death grip.

“You and Sadie did that?” Arthur asked incredulously while he held Ghost steady so that Abigail’s wolf form could prop herself against the horse's shoulder to nuzzle at Jack.

“Yeah, we've been making plans in case things went south,” Tilly smiled at Sadie’s wolf form, who gave Arthur a wolfish grin.

“Good thinkin. We better get lost before any of them think to come after us,” Arthur said with a faint sneer as he gathered Ghosts reins.

“Where the hell are we gonna go?” Karen demanded, looking half sloshed as she listed hard in her saddle.

“Anywhere but here,” Arthur replied grimly before he wheeled Ghost around and led his motley pack into the brush.

Chapter Text

Hey yall

I've finally done it, I've rewritten the first four chapters of this fic and posted them

here

under the title "flames of fortune"

Thank you to those who commented on this one, I hope to see you there <3

fox