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Chapter Text

The first thing that crosses his mind is that everything hurt. Not his typical 'I worked jobs all day' hurt, no, that was familiar enough that he considered it a good day if he only woke up to that. It isn't 'I rode too long' ache either, or 'I got in a fistfight' hurt, it isn't even 'I got shot and my wound got infected and I had to break myself out of enemy camp' hurt, the pain in that one was muffled by adrenaline and fear.

This type of hurt spiraled all the way to his toes, burned every nerve cell, spiked in every square inch of his brain and dug its venom into his spine. This pain manifested all over his body, but it was the worst around his head, specifically, the left side of his head.

And he can't remember how it got there.

Or anything for that matter, his mind can not conceive a single thought aside from 'I have to get out of here' wherever 'here' is. Following that, he can only think 'I need to go there' and 'there' is a vague feeling and not an intact idea. 'there' is only feelings right now, and 'there' feels safe, and he's hurting so he needs to feel safe.

The problem was his body didn't seem keen on moving, his fingers twitched slightly when he tried to pull himself up and his foot spasmed when he wanted to dig his heel into the ground. He can't get up, not now, at least, his muscles feel weighted down and his brain slowly fuzzes as he gives up. Stilling, he focuses on his breath, ignores the rattle it has, ignores the pressure that holds his lungs gently; threatening to squeeze if he so much as puffs his chest. He can't even lay in a more comfortable position, the one he is in now has pebbles and sharp jagged rocks digging into his back, into his neck and his scattered head. Something wet laps at the top of his head, and maybe if he was just a tad more conscious, he would have heard the sound of water rushing by, or the sound of birds calling out for each other. 

-

After God knows how long, he starts to feel his body again, and it seems distant but he can grapple at his surroundings enough to feel the pitter-patter of water on his face, and it doesn't form as a thought, but he knows it's rain that's splotching his face. It doesn't feel necessarily good or bad, but something in the back of his mind tells him it'll do more harm than good. But he still can't feel his body except for the barbed edges of pain that define his limbs and torso, and so he can't do anything, not even crawl to safety. 

An eagle caws above, he lies still on the rocks, feeling his clothes rapidly soaking the rain. 

-

He doesn't know what state could describe him, he is neither awake nor asleep, an in-between that lets him block out everything outside but never rest. Strangely, this time, he can pull his eyes open or, can open one of them, the other seems adamant about staying shut and he doesn't waste what little energy he has to fight its will. Something is scratching at his hand, stinging hot as he slowly, ever-so-carefully turns his aching neck to see. A small red squirrel keeps scratching at his hand, unaware that he is now watching the small creature cause him further pain. His finger twitches after a particularly painful scratch right between where his thumb and forefinger connect and the little movement seem to catch its attention. The squirrel back away, and when he tries to further move his hand, stinging slowly numbing, it runs away completely but not before collecting a nut that had been lying away.

He watches it go, then as an afterthought, slowly starts to bend his fingers; lips twitching as the cuts that the squirrel had left flex and pull, skin tearing further as blood bubbles and slides out of it. There's an ache in his muscles, but he can finally move, which sets a bubble of hope into his chest. He can go to 'there' and when he's there he'll be fine.

He'll be safe.

His legs are a bit harder to move, but after a few tired tries, he finally manages to use bother his arms and legs at the same time and maneuver himself onto his stomach. Something burns and his brain sends an alarm as waves of agony roll from his side, from his thigh and his shoulder. His stomach lurches against the pain, and he has enough good sense to turn his head as he starts to gag and spit whatever he has in his stomach that's upsetting it so much. His leg scrapes against the pebbles as his entire body convulses, and it hurts enough that by the end of it, he's lying face down on the clean part of the rocks, head swimming with red labels, alarms and the need to rest. 

-

The next time he opens his eyes, the lethargy that had plagued him seems to have been swept away temporarily and for the first time, he feels the surge of adrenaline in his veins as he stares at the darkness that surrounds him. He can feel his hands now, his right arm scratched by the squirrel, his left rendered incapable by something. There's a warning behind his confusion, a sinking feeling of betrayal and surprise, but it's distant and fading; and he can't remember enough to link it to his current situation. 

He tries to move, something in his mind egging him to go, flight instinct kicking in as he scrapes his knee against the rocks, forces it to bend under him as his arms shake to raise him. He isn’t stable, but he can crawl and if he can crawl then he can move. He ignores the burn in his blood, and the stinging of his hand or how his left hand seems to scream at him to stop moving it, but he doesn't. Even when something warm slides down his stomach, and his leg wobbles as he raises it. The ground keeps inclining more and more until it smoothes. His eyes close when the warm ground underneath turns cooler, and his fingers are tickled by the soft grass. The sounds of rustling leaves and the crunch of fallen ones under him reach his ears and he collapses, pain spreading across his face as he lands on his right side but he doesn't care, darkness already dragging him into oblivion.

-

There's a distinct sound that pulls him out of his sleep, and he hears it again before the pain muffles everything out. A soft coo, like a bird calling out to its friend, not quite sad, but somewhere between that and hopeful. It's a nice sound to listen to, especially when it's so close and practically vibrating through him, it tempts him into opening his eyes again, eyes moving to track the sound, and he jerks his body enough to turn on his back. 

The pigeon is plump, feathers somewhere between light brown and light grey, and it stares at him as its neck inflates and then deflates as it coos again. It stands on the branch extending from a nearby tree, it ruffles its feathers, beak coming down to nip at the wing before it lowers again. He watches it jerk its head several times, then coos and tucks its wing and stares ahead. After a moment, it raised its wings and flapped away, and he was left in silence; except for the sound of crickets chirping. With no sleep pulling him in, something tugs at his mind, reminding him that he needs to get to 'there' so this would be over.

The need grows steadily stronger, and he finds a wonderous strength in him and pushed himself to his into a sitting position. His vision darkens for a moment, and the world seems to tilt and twist as dots dance in front of his eyes. It takes a moment to subside, the headache that had sprouted falling dim as he tries to stand, using both hands to hold him till both soles of his feet are planted against the dirt. He staggers as he stands fully, his side crying tears of blood that collect on the hem of his pants. His hands are bloody, left hand slashed, right hand-scraped and he only remembers how one of the injuries got there. 

His steps are uneven, knees buckling and stiffening under each one, and his back can't support him as well as it used to, not in this state, so he sways as he tries to reach the road. His ankles roll whenever he lifts it, and it takes a conscious effort for him to keep them from landing wrong. His muscles are a mix of pulled impossibly tight and lax beyond belief. His right thigh sends distressed waves of pain whenever he is forced to flex it, but just as with everything, he ignores it as he walks along the road.

-

The early morning sun brings a cool mist with it and a slight drizzle of rain. He starts to shiver, aware now of how cold his hands have become, how frozen his toes feel like they're one chip away from breaking completely off. But he doesn't stop, his limbs had turned into four separate infernos, but he goes on, because 'there' will fix him, even if he doesn't know what 'there' is yet. But his mind refuses to speculate, filled confidence he isn't sure where it came from, but its there, so it must be well earned. 

He doesn't know where he is, but the fields that unravel in front of him are familiar, and as the sun begins to heat him up, his heart starts to fill with hope. He will get to 'there' and whatever is waiting for him, whatever will make him safe there, it'll be present. His back starts to soak with sweat, but the coldness of his fingertips cease to exist, though they feel quite numb and his face swollen. He's hungry, but has no drive to search for food, he needs to get there.

get to...get to Them.

Get to...

who?

He walks, firmly and stubbornly placing one foot after another, determined to find out. He trusts them, they are safe, they are safety. 

It takes a long, long while, but it clicks in his mind when he sees it, the entryway decorated by trees. Beautiful trees that part around the dirt path, and as he nears, he hears the faint neigh of horses, the distant clanking of pots, the sound of chatter. He doesn't know what possesses him to do so, but he forces his swollen lips open, cracked lips hurting as he tries to call out, coughing first; something sliding down his chin as his body starts to relax because of the sight. His body is shutting down again, but he's not nearly close enough to be found now, later, perhaps.

If he finds you you're as good as dead

Something whispers to him, and its spills enough fear into his blood that he forces himself to swallow his coughs, wheezing as his lungs set on fire but he doesn't care about the pain, everything hurts, after all. His legs have stopped pulling him forward, and he gasps for a moment, throat that feels too dry and like it could split and crack like glass if he so much as coughs again.

One single step forward, he forces himself to call out, "Help!" but it comes out as a garbled mess, throat cracking, but its loud enough that someone shouts back.

"Who's there?" Defensive and utterly, utterly comforting, even more, when someone vaguely familiar steps out, shotgun ready and face stern. He knows this man, it's on the tip of his tongue, a name, but it's a knuckle away, too far for someone as tired as him to remember. The man looks stricken as he gets closer, his slow walk turning into a brisk jog then, finally, into an all-out run and he calls out "Arthur!" and something finally clicks into place.

Arthur Morgan.

That's who he is.

Chapter Text

Somewhere along the lines of his consciousness, someone is humming nearby, and there's the distinct sound of grinding stone against stone. His body is relaxed, with no rocks poking him or dirt pressing against his face. He's lying on something soft, head elevated, and his body is thrumming with muted pain. They must have given him something or other, a pain killer because his mind is fuzzy and his limbs are numb. But he can't complain, it beats the aches that had set themselves into his bones and the pains that seemed determined to stab his muscles. And he was safe. That's what matters, for now. 

The grinding stops and the humming, previously a tune, turns into one thoughtful note. There's footsteps, the sound of creaking wood and then the aromatic yet slightly bitter smell of herbs reach his nose. Whoever is beside him (he has a faint idea, one that wavers in and out but it's thisclose yet he can't reach it) sighs, cold fingers gently wrapping around his jaw and turning it away. There's another set of footsteps, and an alarm bell starts in his head before he remembers. He's safe, he's there and with them. "How is he?" It's a whisper, just as something slowly spreads along his temple, the smell of herbs becoming stronger as the fingers twitch around his jaw. A beat of silence, one that he wants to break but can't because his body is too tired to cooperate with him. 

"You saw how he was when Charles brought him in," the man above him replies calmly but something in his voice betrays the tone, a metaphorical snap at his ear urging him to comfort the man because there's something forlorn about his voice. Another piece fits in his mind, and he can place a face to the name. Charles Smith, a friend of his or someone generally close, he knows him and something tells him deep in his gut that he would trust the man with his life. That he already did.

Sudden pressure, one not too unfamiliar, tight. Getting tighter. His feet scraping against the ground, dust kicked up as a hand wraps around his shirt. Fingers snatching at his throat, the feeling of impending doom. Lungs burning, mind spinning, a voice.

You've got my friend.

"Do-do we need a doctor?" the other man asks, voice cracking, but something tells him that's just how it always is. From too many speeches, is a thought that comes to his mind but he knows it's not a fact, simply a muse to himself, an entertaining thought. Cold fingers that had been starting to warm release his jaw, and his head rolls back till his neck is not stressed anymore, he has the urge to flex it but somewhere between his brain and his neck the signal is lost, and he continues to lay paralyzed. 

"I don't know, yet. He hadn't even stirred," The man replies again, this time worry clear in his voice, "I stitched up all I can, sent John out to get some medicine from Saint-Denis, too. If we can stop his leg from getting infected, then I think the rest is manageable. We just have to...wait," he sighs dejectedly, wooden floors creaking as his footsteps disappear again, "Talked to Micah, yet?" 

He doesn't get to hear an answer, again, a switch in his mind flips, alarms blaring as the name fills his chest with too many emotions to name, but the consensus is that the name is bad, the person Micah Bell is bad.

Fresh grass, dry air, the sound of horse hooves, a crow caws up ahead. Heat blasting from the sun, sweat dripping from his neck and soaking his collar. "How much further?"

"Not too far, now"

Something tugs at the walls of his stomach at the memory, something sour at the back of his throat rising, his mouth-filling with saliva and his heartbeat picks up, his chest tightening.  

The smell of blood, the pinprick numbness spreading across the back of his head. The taste of sand in his mouth, the adrenaline of a fight in his veins. Pain and pain and pain, all over his body, spreading like wildfire. 

It's not good to be throwing up while he's incapable of moving himself, he knows what happens, is sure he watched it happen at some point or worse, went through it before. It sends him straight into a panic when he feels bile replace the saliva. He tries to spit it out, partially succeeding but only managing to slacken his jaw so it would leave his mouth and not backflow into his throat. It's bitter and sour against his tongue, just pure rancid acid that his body wants out, he chokes and cough for a moment, desperately trying to rid of the foul liquid. It's only a moment later when the cold fingers return, sliding behind his neck and pushing him up, allowing him to throw up onto his lap.

It takes a few more gags, muscles tensing with every wave of nausea and stomach coiling like a snake, twisting around itself as he desperately tries to spit the taste out and control his breathing. He splutters for the last time as his stomach stops convulsing, mouth hanging open as he groans in pain, lips stinging, stomach aching and just feeling plain unpleasant. The cold fingers ground him, mind floating now in a mixture of exhaustion and pain, but not enough to stop the memories.

Scatter for a gun, dust kicked at his face, the sneer of a man. Then, falling onto rocks, hair pulled, knife in his side burning his muscles like hellfire had wrapped around his intestines. Water splashes nearby, the sky is dark, and anger is boiling his chest. His hair gets pulled again, and before he can fight, he feels his skull vibrate as his face slams into the rocks beneath, eyes tingling as rocks threaten to blind him. 

Someone is talking into his ear, and the mist of paralysis is lifted just as he shudders at the flashes behind his eyes. He needs to do something, he needs to fight, needs to tell...someone but what is there to tell? Micah Bell, a whisper in his mind, a warning, a growl of anger from his conscience. The bitter taste in his mouth isn't bile anymore, and he fights to open his eyes, forcing his lids to move with misplaced energy he doesn't really have. He's shivering, he knows that his legs, lap, and neck are all stained with his own sick, and the scent, it makes him want to throw up again. But that would drain the last of his energy, and he has a mission in mind.

His eyelids threaten to droop when sunlight pokes them like a stick rather than just light, and it sends a spiral of pain to his temples as he squints instead. "Hey, hey," Someone gently whispers, "you awake?" he asks, cold fingers sliding down till it rests between his shoulder blades, rubbing soothing circles that his mind focuses on happily. His skin is tacky and overheated, but the gentle movement of...of his hands calm him, panic washing away into a general sense of urgency. The sounds around him slowly filter in, again, pots and pans and chatter of people he should know but his mind doesn't want to supply information on. 

But he knows one thing, he's There, he's safe. He made it. 

It almost tempts him to go back to sleep, seeing as his whole body feels weighted down and he has no real reason to fear for his life now. But he doesn't think he can, not for a small while, at least. He's tired, of course, but there's a thrum in his veins that keeps him alert and a hole in his stomach from his recent illness. "Arthur?" the voice whispers again, and he forces himself to turn his head towards the speaking person. He's met with two worried faces, both striking familiarity into his chest but the memories are just out of reach, names on the tip of his tongue.  

Perhaps if he didn't feel like death and pestilence wrapped in one package, he would have tried to think up their names. Their presence calms him enough, so they must be people he trusts, they're something to him, though. The older looking man, the one who's concern echos clear through his eyes and crinkled face, waits patiently as Arthur blinks owlishly at him before trying to speak. He's barely a syllable in before his throat feels like broken glass had lodged in it, which, given he doesn't know what happened, could very much be. 

The younger-looking man, the one he knows is older than him but not older than...the other, is off his knees and stepping out as soon as he starts coughing. The older man (oldest, some part of his mind whispers) whispers reassurance as he wheezes and groans at the itchiness of his throat. It feels like a second later before the younger man returns and a water cup is offered, or, shoved under his nose and tilted suggestively towards his lips. He tries to raise a shakey hand to take the cup, but he only manages to lightly brush against it before the hooks of tiredness pull them down and the man pushes the cup against his lips. The water is not as cool as he would prefer, but it's cool enough to tame the inferno in his chest that he hadn't realized was burning. It makes him shiver at the temperature contrast, a path from his mouth to his stomach now feeling colder than the rest of his body, and distantly, he realizes he's running a fever.

"We should get you cleaned up," The oldest man suggests, though there is no room for argument in his tone, not that Arthur would have. He doesn't fancy being covered in his own sick and would like to actually feel clean. He doesn't put up a fight when the two men start tugging his limbs and puppeteering him. Eventually, his feet hit the ground, and the oldest man went outside the room to fetch something or other while the other man unbuttons his ruined shirt. His mind pulls and reaches for a name, any identification of the two helpful men because he knows them he knows that he does, but it's stuck between his lips and his teeth and he can't seem to produce anything beyond a few jumbled feelings towards them. 

 He's mostly embarrassed and grateful.

Shirt off and thrown to the side with no concern, the man places a gentle hand over where bruises feather from under a bandage. He's a sorry sight, he thinks, from what he sees, his torse is stitched and bruised in different places, He doesn't spare it much thought, knowing his stomach isn't quite settled yet, and there's no need to make himself squeamish about the reds, blues, and blacks of his skin. 

The oldest man returns, cloth, and bucket in his hands, a bar of soap tucked the yellow-ish cloth. He watches, curiously, as the oldest man places the bucket and scans Arthur, eyebrows knitted with worry scratched into the lines of his forehead. "It's probably a good idea for you not to put any pressure on your foot, or-er-legs in general," he says after a moment, "Dutch, can you help him with the rest?" he asks, but it's more of a next move suggestion. Dutch.

Thick air, all cities possess thick air, he hates it. But he forces himself to breathe it only so he wouldn't die. Horse shit and burning logs, coal scenting the air, the sight of a hundred or more men and women, dressed in their Sunday best all day, forced pleasantries all around. 

Cities they're always so...

Repellent?

His eyes snap to the man, Dutch, and it seems like he's remembering tad bits of information, ones that are unhelpful to his situation but help him piece together who this man is. A friend, a mentor...a fatherly figure?

Something between all of them, combined and stretched over...years. Years and years.

Loyalty, Arthur.

20 years...20 years? How old is he? older than 20, that's for sure.

He's sucked out of his mind when Dutch tugs at his pants, the oldest man dunking the cloth into the bucket and running the soap bar across it. He should feel embarrassed, a part of his mind sings a melody of shame, but another part tells him that they'd been through the same routine over and over, multiple people at the receiving end. Something tells him there's no shame in the act. 

He still flushes bright red and tries to help as much as possible, and when he's only down to his undergarments, the oldest man starts to run the soapy cloth across his skin, the cold water making him shiver as it runs down his neck, to his back; cleaning a path in its way and wiping away sweat and sick. There's a tone of concern in the room, practically humming as Dutch piles his clothes and calls for someone by the name Tilly. 

He can't put a face to the name, but some type of affection puffs inside his chest, subdued and quiet; calm. He cares for Tilly, he decides. A sister? 

"Arthur," The oldest man says quietly, he thinks maybe it's so he wouldn't startle. He slides his gaze from where Dutch had disappeared to where the worried eyes of...of...

You're still too fast for me, Old Man.

I enjoy picking on children.

him, He- the oldest man, who, Arthur has an inkling that he wears a worried expression more often than not. The wise man, the true life mentor. The Co-Leader. The original huntsman.

I have hunted rabbits before, you know

Yes, and obliterated them with a shotgun if I remember correctly.

"Arthur, are you hearing me?" The man asks, and Arthur blinks, he missed a question, "You think you can stomach some food, Pearson already made a thinner soup for you, under Grimshaw's command; that is," 

Pearson- Ah! Mister Morgan, good morning.

Pearson, their cook? They have a cook, yes, and-and Grimshaw...

He has a faint memory of Grimshaw grabbing him by the ear to clean up, smacking him up the head when he came back dressed in more mud than clothes.

We were worried for you, Arthur.

I'm fine, Miss Grimshaw, really.

A spike of pain lights in his shoulder, but it's gone as fast as it was there, unpleasant memories filling his mind, cold basements, blood rushing to his head, fire in his shoulder.

It's not about the money, Colm.

No...it's Dutch's famous Cha-ris-ma! '

Something twists in his gut, and his jaw clenches at its own accord. Torture fresh on his mind, but far away in his memory. Months ago, he thinks, maybe weeks-he doesn't know. 

I can't, is what he tries to say, but there's a lump in his throat and sandpaper down his windpipe and he ends up grimacing and letting out a weak noise instead of talking. Despite that, the older man seems to understand, and he wipes again gently down his arms, wiping at each finger, and then moving on to his legs and thighs. The stench of illness still hangs heavily around them, but it's mostly from the sullied sheets. The man washes the cloth in water, then looks at Arthur and sighs, "What happened?"

Well, that's a funny question. He has no answer to it, but the man looks like he expects one from him, or is waiting for one with endless patience. 

"Don't...remember" He manages, and if his throat were a little bit healthier and less scratchy, he might have elaborated that he doesn't remember much of anything, except the bits and pieces of memories he had built. There's an itch in his mind like he needs to tell something to someone, or do something to someone, or both, maybe neither. He has a headache from trying to figure out. 

"You don't remember?" The man echos and Arthur bites his cheek, guilt coiling in his chest. Unwarranted, if he can say so. He's the one hurt after all, but there's something, and it's fighting to be spitted out. A piece of the puzzle hidden under a blanket of fuzziness, hanging behind his temples, beating at the walls of his skull, "Is there a lot you don't remember?" Ah, that's a million-dollar question. One that the man doesn't look to excited to hear the answer to.

"Don't remember...much...not you," He grits out, and the man went impossibly still, and he can see several emotions flickering across his face; but it settles on a neutral unreadable one and Arthur almost feels himself pout, but there's a sting across his lip that reminds him not to.

"You don't...remember me?" 

"No," Arthur answers truthfully, voice slowly getting the hang of talking, and the man furrows his brows, then he's swearing gently to himself, a startling list of shit shit shit before he silences and places the cloth in Arthur's hand.

"I'll be back," he assures before he's taking hurried steps out of the room, and Arthur is left alone, a wet, soapy and starting-to-become-disgusting rag in his hand.

Well, then.

 It's a few hours later, ones that passed in a blur, that Arthur finds himself sitting on a chair while his mattress air dries after getting scrubbed and cleaned. A bowl of soup had been shoved in his hands by a familiar-looking young man (brown eyes, scarred face, greasy hair that almost pushes a snide out of his mouth, but he holds himself back) who stared at him till a young woman - Abigail, he'd heard the young man grumble- pestered him to leave him alone and get back to work. The scene had been heartachingly familiar, bittersweet actually, some envy sparking in his chest but had been overshadowed with amusement at the couple left the room with a brewing fight. One that something in his mind assured him would be forgotten in a matter of a few hours. 

Dutch had sat next to him as the sun dipped, turned a lantern on and grabbed a book of sorts. A book that didn't turn out to be a book at all and instead had been a diary-or journal of sorts.

"It's yours, you're the writer," Dutch had informed him, and Arthur couldn't help but feel a spark of recognition as the first page-a tally of initials and sums of money drafted- flips open. It takes a while, but he reads through the entire thing, all while Dutch periodically reminds him to eat his forgotten soup. He's reminded of people he lost, distantly and not quite as sharp, mentions of their names, sketches of their faces, it helps slightly; but it's not enough.

Jenny-

You're an asshole, Ms. Kirk.

And you're a bitch, no offense, Morgan

He doesn't remember much else other than banter, a distant feeling of mutual trust and sadness for her death. 

Mac and Davey-

You think you're tough, Morgan!

Even Mac can beat your ass!

Shut it, Dave!

Fuck off, you two!

Almost brothers, almost, tough sons of bitches, he remembers. Killed a whole lot of people, a prospect that should unnerve him, only it doesn't, and all he does is hold a candle of resentment. A small, almost fully melted candle, because he knows he killed people too if his words are anything to go by.

Sean-

You know, My da used to say-

I've heard more from your Da than I have from Dutch, quit talking, Kid.

Ah, fine, sour-faced miserable bastard. You're just jealous of my skills.

Sure, you keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night.

A little brother, or something along the lines of. He's died, too, recently if the pages left had been any warning. There's a sketch of Sean's face, graphite black, but he thinks he remembers the red head's face well enough. Enough to remember that he's a redhead in the first place.

 He doesn't speak with Dutch as he closes the journal, placing it by the empty bowl and staring blankly for a moment. There's an ache in his chest that isn't because of the physical injuries, no punch or stab could feel quite like the pain that pokes at his heart. The last page that had been written had talked about Kieran, an ex-O'driscoll boy he had written about earlier. A fairly new member, only 4 months along before he had gotten...beheaded. He had drawn a rather detailed picture, word and art-wise. 

"Any better?" Dutch asks quietly, and if any better meant that he's griefing for people he doesn't remember all too well, then he's in tip-top shape, mind athletic and pumping iron right this second. Only it doesn't, he stows away the bitterness that spiked in his chest, blinking away the memory of Kieran holding his own head, eyes gouged out, tongue cut off and stuffed into his jacket pocket to be found later, while he was being buried. 

"I remember a little," he admits, at the least, the memory of his friends are there, and he remembers the oldest man's name. Hosea, it seems ridiculous to forget it but the mind boggles. Dutch looks pensive for a moment, John- the other person he can't remember well, but from his writing, he doesn't hate nor love. Or maybe he hates him but can't convey it well enough. 

He calls him a fool a lot, though. 

He stumbles into the room, looks between Dutch and Arthur while he shifts awkwardly. He settles on staring at Arthur, "Hey," he starts with a small wave, "Abigail sent me to check up on you," he admits, but something tells him it's a lie. Maybe it's the fact that he'd heard Abigail say her 'goodnight' 's an hour prior. 

"I'm good," he says, and John nods hastily, looking like he wants to blurt something out, but is too uncertain. Arthur doesn't interrupt as John opens and closes his mouth several times before his gaze falls to the ground, and Dutch looks at him like he had just noticed his appearance. 

"Do-do you remember me?" it sounds casual, but there's something in his tone that squeezes at Arthur's heart. John had steeled his eyes, looking at Arthur like his answer wouldn't change anything, yes or no, it wouldn't matter. But it does, and he knows, deep in his mind, where all his life experience is taking a leisurely nap, that it will.

"I remember you, John," it's a half-truth, he can't remember for the life of him John's surname, but he won't need it, will he? He can just call him John till he figures himself out, and who cares if he doesn't remember 20 plus years of his life? Who cares if he doesn't remember Dutch or Hosea or John like he did mere days ago? It'll come back at some point, he's sure of it, he's already remembering bits and pieces, it'll be no time before he remembers the rest.

He's sure of it. 

Not entirely... 

Not at all, actually, but there's a relieved look that melts into John's expression and it makes him feel guilty and satisfied all at the same time. Dutch looks at him curiously but doesn't speak to defile his lie... Half-truth, he means. 

John digs a hand into his pockets, standing silently for a few moments before speaking again, "You remember who did this to you?" 

No, is the answer he should say, but there's some suspicion in his mind that it had to do with that name, the man, Micha Bell. The name sends alarm bells blaring in his mind, loud and clear, there's anger and hatred directed at the man. But his past seems to be muddied, though his writing hints he isn't very cruel to the people around him-those who he doesn't kill, of course- he still seems to be an Outlaw, and he's sure Outlaws have loads of enemies. 

But the name Colm sends less shivers down his spine than the name Micah, and by what he remembers, Colm tortured him. So what the fuck had Micah done to him to get him in such a state of mind? 

By the briefing Hosea had given him, he could have been the man who stabbed him, shot him and beat the bloody hell out of him. He had caught sight of himself while Dutch helped him into the chair, the mirror had been askew, the perfect angle to look down onto yourself and assess your looks. Or shave, if the kit had been an indicator. 

To say the least, he looked horrible, and it isn't so hard to imagine why his right eye wouldn't open quite as his left eye would. That is because the right side of his face is more bruises than normal colored skin. Though it seems to have turned into a purple color already, so maybe a few days and it'll start to fade. There are stitches across his temple, stark against the purple of his skin, and if he squints too much, he can feel them pull at his skin and send a flare of pain down his face. 

"I... am not sure," he resolves, and John squints at him, "I-I don't want to throw the blame without knowing for sure..." even if his mind is screaming at him to throw that Micah guy under the bus, hatred fueling him and tempting him, almost. 

"You think you have a sus?" John asks, tone accusing for the wrong reasons "I know your memory is wonky-" Ha, you could say that twice "-but if you remember something, you should tell us, we could help you piece it together," 

 Well... It makes sense. Which sounds weird for him to admit even in thought, John looks determined, and Dutch looks curious. Arthur feels uncertain, but he shrugs, winces, and sighs.

"it's just... I remembered... Odd? Things about, well... The guy, uh...Micah Bell." he says slowly, a hand coming up to touch his bruised temple "We got into a fight... I think I'm not sure, I don't want to place any false blame" he adds quickly and ends his statement. John's face turns two shades away from tomato red, somehow managing to look older as his features darken. 

"Micah did that to you?" he asks fiercely, his voice, which is naturally growly is even rougher. Anger sharpening the edges of his syllables. 

"I'm not sure!" Arthur repeats, but John isn't listening. 

"I told you, Dutch! It seemed fishy even from the get-go!" He almost shouts, but there's restraint present in the twitch of his lips, a conscious effort to keep his voice under a yell. Maybe to prevent Abigail from waking up, maybe as a sign of respect to Dutch, or fear.

Dutch's eyebrows knit together, eyes going far away for a moment before his eyes snap to John. "We don't know anything for sure, John" 

"He was the last one to see Arthur, it's at least worth an investigation, Dutch," John replies, unable to back down. The anger rolls off him in waves, fists clenching and unclenching, jaw much the same, eyes asquint. It's all very familiar for some reason. 

"An investigation?" Dutch echos, taking a stand and crossing his arms "Do you see me in uniform, John? We ain't policemen!" 

"You know what I mean, Dutch!" John argues back "Think of the facts we know, Arthur and Micah went out on a job, Micah came back alone, bloodied and bruised, Arthur's horse comes back alone, then Arthur himself comes back messed up and half dead, it reeks, Dutch"

"Micah said they ran into Lemoyne Raiders," Dutch points out, "He said that the job went south and he and Arthur split off," 

"And you believe him?" John asks incredulously, and Dutch purses his lips, eyes dark with anger while John's are bright with fury. It's almost touching, how John is pushing for an investigation of sorts, a lot of concern Arthur doesn't know the reason behind. 

20 years

Maybe he does...somewhere in his mind. 

"Why wouldn't I?" Dutch asks rhetorically, Voice unnervingly calm, "Just because you don't like him means I shouldn't," 

"First off, it's not only me, Dutch-" 

"Oh, you and Arthur then?" Dutch snides and John takes a deep breath, face scrunching in annoyance. 

"Me and every other gang member!" He snaps, "You're the only one that likes him, Dutch, It's not just me and Arthur, even Hosea agrees! That's not even my point!" John shouts the last statement, hands coming up to point at Arthur "Arthur doesn't remember Micah, and he still thinks he's the one who hurt him," 

"That's because he doesn't remember!" 

"That's my point!" John says rather loudly, "Even without his memory, Arthur still knows something is up with Micah!" it's a frail argument, and Arthur guesses John knows that too. He also guesses John isn't as much of a fool as Arthur calls him to be. He seems to care about him, just like Hosea or Dutch. 

Who's John to him? 

"What's going on here?" Hosea's voice slithers through the walls, and both men silence as he steps into the room, a steaming cup in his hands. He looks between John and Dutch, both still standing in their argument stances before sighing and walking towards Arthur, "You should drink this," He says kindly, placing the steaming cup beside Arthur. It smells rather nice, slightly tangy but with an undertone of sweetness, "It's a herb mix, should help with the bruising and the stomach aches," 

Arthur thanks him quietly, taking the cup and sipping when Hosea kept looking at him expectantly. It doesn't taste like it smells, he's surprised to find, it burns his tongue from the heat and sends a shocking bitterness down his throat as the taste hits. 

He places the cup back into its place before he makes a face, trying to hide how unpleasant the drink truly is. Is there even sugar in it? It tastes like how a wilted flower would, or like he had chomped down on some... What was it? Oh, it's just out of his reach... 

 Sage

That's it. Like he had bitten down on a bunch of raw Sage. 

"Tastes like crap, I know," Hosea says after a moment, "But drink it, it'll make you feel better," doubtful, but Arthur thinks he trusts Hosea enough to follow his suggestions.

Hosea turns to the other two men, who had split and stood on opposite sides of the small room. Arthur eyed the cup distastefully, listening to Hosea ask why Dutch and John are quarreling like children. "Arthur thinks Micah is the one who did that to him," John answers hurriedly, in an attempt to stop Dutch from spreading his disbelief.

"He has a hunch," Dutch corrects, tone annoyed.

"He has a memory," John shoots back, and Dutch takes a half step towards John, and John starts to turn; both ready to fall into an argument. He has an itch under his skin to step between the two, but the stitches in his legs imprison him into his seat. Luckily,

"Alright, you two," Hosea interjects,spreading his arms between John and Dutch, forcing peace between the two argumentive men, "It's been a long day, you two should head off and rest," John opens his mouth to argue, a habit Arthur assumes, but his eyes fall over to Dutch and his jaw clamps shut. "Go on, we'll figure this out tomorrow, today is done, for you at least," Hosea presses, shooing the two men with his hands until their feet unfreeze from the ground and they start to retreat, "Go on," he urges and finally, he shuts the door when Dutch is far enough that it isn't rude or disrespectful. 

Alone in the room, Hosea turns towards Arthur and leans heavily against the door. "Drink the tea," He reminds with a wave of his hand, and Arthur forces himself to put aside his distaste and gulp down as much as he can while the older man pushes himself off the door and steps closer to him. 

Setting the cup back down, a good half had been drunk and Arthur's mouth had become bitter, and tingly with the taste of raw ginger that burns pleasantly at his throat. Hosea rakes his eyes across Arthur's face, his expression somewhere between concerned and curious, and there's a subtle hint of anger behind his eyes, but who's Arthur to know?

"So, Micah?" 

Chapter Text

Hosea had sat and listened, and for the first time in this odd day, Arthur wasn’t fumbling for the right words. Something about the man seemed to coax the words and suspicions out of him. He didn’t grab for straws, didn’t hang onto every word he said. He listened.

It didn’t take long before Hosea knew as much as he did.

They sat in stretching silence, not quite uncomfortable, but eerily calm. No doubt Hosea is dissecting the new information. Arthur can’t quiet decide if he himself is a trustworthy person amongst this gang. He had called Hosea a father in his journal, and labeled Dutch as something else…

Dutch didn’t seem keen on believing him though, so maybe he isn’t as ingratiated with them as he thought he was. John seemed to believe him though…

It’s all very confusing.

He hopes he remembers more soon, this little mystery he seems to be leading seems to bring with it a lot of turmoil. Whether to Arthur or the rest of the people around him.

“You don’t remember anything else?” Hosea asks, softly breaking the silence and Arthur blinks owlishly at him, “That’s a silly question, isn’t it?” he follows up quickly after with a humorless chuckle.

“I wish I could help more, I really do but I barely remember anything before what I wrote down,” Arthur sighs, rubbing his chin with his knuckles. “You should just forget what I said,”

It feels wrong, something urges him not to back down, to keep on trying. That something is starting to give him a headache, and he’s already aching everywhere else.

He woke up only a few hours before but he’s so utterly tired and that herbal mix Hosea had given him is starting to warm him up. Everything seems to be calling for him to rest, maybe between today and tomorrow the world will spin again and everything will be back to normal.

“Forget what you said?”

“It’s just, I guess…” his words fall short, sentence unfinished. He just wants this to be over, his chest is tight with worry and every time he thinks about the entire ordeal it makes him shrink in on himself. At this point, he’s confused about what little he remembers, and who knows if those memories are true? Maybe his brain is even more messed up than anyone anticipated.

“You almost died, Arthur, you might not remember it yet but we protect our own,” He says seriously, and again, Arthur shrinks back.

“Okay… just-just- I don’t know,” Arthur stammers, “Maybe I'm misremembering, or I mixing up stuff, who knows," No one, he answers himself. Hosea squints for a moment, wrinkle-heavy face twisting into an unreadable expression, which seemed to be present whenever Arthur says something wrong.

Did he say something wrong?

"What makes you think you that?" Hosea asks, eyes boring into Arthur's soul. The man sure has an air around him, one that's very hard to sort.

Maybe he used to be able to.

"Just... seems like Dutch thinks otherwise, maybe I'm wrong. Hell, I don't even know what that Micah Bell looks like," Even simply saying the name makes his stomach churn, or maybe it's the head injury, who knows.

He seems to be saying that alot. Who knows?  and the answer is always nobody.

Nobody Arthur knows.

"Dutch is just being Dutch, which is something I don't expect you to remember." Hosea waves dismissively, "Micah is his golden pony, for the time being, like you once were, and John once was. He brought Micah into this gang, he'd rather cut his own tongue than accept that he chose a wrong man to be with us,"

"Sounds-"

"Insuffrable, I know," and Arthur wholeheartedly believes him. Sure, insuffrable wasn't the word he would chose, maybe complex or-or... something that means a man who can't accept his mistakes. "But he weren't always this...intense. He used to see the good in people, now it's all about the bluster of being able to shoot a man."

"Why are you still here then?" If it bothers him so much, the change in Dutch, why is he here? Why is anyone here? The gunmen he can understand, the women and child (Jack, if he's remembering correctly)? he doesn't understand so much. Hosea looks like a man who wouldn't point a gun at another's for the fun of it, his face is calloused with wisdom, and he looks far too old to be running around robbing people.

"Because no matter what, Dutch is like family." Hosea answers truthfully, "We've been at each other's side for... twenty three years now,"

"I've been with you twenty, right?" Arthur asks, and Hosea nods, "Then... I wouldn't lie would I?"

"No, not to me, or Dutch," Hosea shakes his head, "You weren't the type,"

"I sure had a real solid moral compass," Arthur huffs, more annoyed than anything. From what he learned, he was a real piece of work. He has to have some sort of explaination, murder and theft? he doesn't feel like much of a killer. Sure, from what he's seen of himself, he's big and mean looking, but... murder?

"What's with the face?" Hosea asks and Arthur schools his face, "come on, you can talk to me," and Arthur truly feels he could, but something inside him is stuck with the confession, doubt seeding into his brain that maybe...maybe he is a bad man, a murderer and a theif and all those things he knows are horrible.

Hosea doesn't look like a murderer to him.

"We kill people," Arthur blurts out, and there's a lightening fast flash of burning men running around in a frenzy, in a burning house. There's a steady nag that that had been for a reason, people don't just set others on fire for the fun of it.

Do they?

Then again, there's Colm torturing him...

"We do," Hosea nods, if a bit solemnly, and there's an excuse brewing; Arthur can feel it, "We kill to protect outselves, or, as Dutch likes to say, protect America from the viles of civilization."

"Killing people?" Arthur repeats, voice disbelieving, and confused. This doesn't make sense to himself, they can protect themselves by other means. Can't they?

"I'm sorry, I don't know what to say, Arthur," Hosea sighs, "I don't know how to explain it, and I know you won't see it, no sane person should,"

Arthur stays silent, regarding Hosea critically. It's so confusing, they all look so good. Hosea doesn't make him feel unsafe, like at any moment a gun will be against his head. And John seems like a decent man, hotheaded, sure, but a murderer...

"Long time ago, we had a reason, to be theives and killers," Hosea says quietly, "We took from the rich and gave to the poor, we helped those who need help, you, John, Tilly, you came about as kids. Found in streets, in brotherls, in other gangs unwillingly. We took you in, gave you shelter, taught you to read, to write, to think." Hosea goes on, shaking his head as his sentence fades, "now, now we're blazing a trail of bodies in an endless scheme of escape, that in the end, won't lead us to an escape,"

"And we're still here... because we think it can be set right again. Is that it?"

"You have to understand, Arthur," Hosea's voice is a level under begging, but earnest to explain, "Before Dutch took those folk in, they had nothing,"

"They had a chance," Arthur points out, stomach ablaze with the feeling of wrongness, like what he's thinking is simply blasphemous. "They had a chance to be good, and do good,"

"Maybe," Hosea agrees, "but we're not all bad, we're not complete villans, dear boy," Arthur tilts his in consideration, "Mary-Beth, a pickpocket and a thief, but pure as the sun in her heart. She wants to be writer." Hosea throws an example at him, and a flash of a freckled face blasts behind his eyes, of letting all his doubts and regrets out and being honest with a bright-eyed young woman. "Lenny, just like you, joined us young. We found him in the streets after his father died, getting beat up by some drunken racists. He was sixteen, he's nineteen now, and he's smart and bright and such a good kid." Hosea breaks off into a disappointed sigh, "but he got stuck in this life, because he didn't have proper schooling, because people still see his skin before his mind,"

"I get it," Arthur mumbles after a moment, "I'm sorry, I-I'm sure I'll get over it when I get better,"

"Here's the thing, Arthur," Hosea leans forward, like a secret is about to unravel, eyes honest and so old, boring into Arthur's with wisdom he knows is present, and takes comfort in, "I don't want you to get over it, I want you to see it's wrong and strive away from it. See the reason, but don't let it consume you,"

You should start thinking for yourself.

"You want me to leave," Arthur hums, a memory gliding in his brain, of Hosea talking to John, warning him, trying to plant an idea inside him. Loyalty, a small voice whispers, loyalty, Arthur.

"I want you to know, that this path we're leading ain't going anywhere," Hosea leans back again, voice steady, hands in the air, "I want you to have a plan for yourself, if-when this goes south,"

"And you?"

"Me?" Hosea asks in surprise, "My days of living on the straight and narrow are over," he chuckles humorlessly, "I should die just as I lived,"

"Seems to me we all lived bad lives," Arthur says, "Why do you have to stick to it?"

Hosea stares at him, like he hadn't thought about that aspect. After a moment, he shakes his head, standing up, “You should rest,”

Arthur stares at Hosea for a moment, curiosity egging him to ask questions. Hosea gives him a look, a tired one, and Arthur decides that he had been enough of a burden today.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly and Hosea gives a nod as he takes his leave. The door clicks softly shut behind him, and Arthur releases a breath in disappointment.

-

It’s almost dawn when Arthur startles awake, something heavy on his chest pushing him down and it takes a long second to realize that he can’t breathe. The weight shifts, and Arthur tries to push it away, only succeeding partially.

His confusion and terror skyrocket when a hand presses against his neck, not enough to choke him but enough to hold him in place. The attacker presses the pillow harder against Arthur’s face, and only on pure chance does Arthur manage to slither his hand from where it had gotten pinned by the attacker’s knees.

He strikes blindly, fist colliding with flesh with a loud slap. Air hits his face like ice, and Arthur rolls away from the bed, landing harshly on the floor as he takes in lungsful of air.

Alarms blare in his mind when he hears shuffling from the bed, and he ignores the stitches in his skin in favor of pulling himself up onto his feet. Arthur hoists himself on the nearby chair, spinning around only to find himself pulled forward by his shirt. His vision blurs, mind throbbing for a moment before he fights back, senses dulled by his injuries.

“Though I’d finally gotten rid of you,” The attacker breathes in his ear, and Arthur cringes away, “but like a stray dog, you just keep coming back,”

“Micah,” Arthur realizes almost instantly, and Micah laughs quietly.

“Sure is, cowpoke,” Micah says, pushing Arthur harshly. His back hits the walls, and Arthur can feel all his anger surge back into him, all his suspicions confirm as he looks at Micah’s illuminated face in the darkness of his room. His legs burn as the stitches in his skin pull and tear while he lunges forward, grabbing Micah and almost toppling both over as the stumble into the table.

The table rocks as Arthur puts all his waning might into pinning Micah down, mind screaming at him to pull his guns out but he knows he doesn’t have them on him, and he’s to weak to hold Micah down with one hand anyway.

Micah groans for a moment and Arthur contemplates calling for help, but the words die in his throat as he feels Micah’s fingers dig into his side, forcing stitches apart and drawing blood out and sending stinging pain bouncing in Arthur’s skin.

Before he can put an end to the pain, Micah moves on to kicking his feet from under him. Arthur stumbles back, releasing him from his grasp in an attempt to preserve himself.

Micah grabs the collar of his shirt, almost dragging him to his knees as he swings at him again. Disoriented, disadvantaged and weak, Arthur takes the second of freedom he has to call out. The closest, if he can recall correctly, is John and Abigail, and after them, Dutch.

He doesn’t call any of their names, instead, his brain produces one name only, “Hosea!” he screams desperately, catching Micah by surprise, and Arthur is almost smug at the look of fear that flashes through the other man’s eyes.

“Goddamnit,” Micah hisses, shoving Arthur to the side haphazardly and pulling out his knife, “let's hope no one heard that, hm?” He whispers close to Arthur’s face, and Arthur pushes him away, mustering up just a bit more energy to slide away from Micah. He uses Dutch’s chair to lift himself from the ground, legs protesting angerly but he doesn’t give in.

In the distance, Arthur feels relief creep up his neck when he hears several footsteps echo around the creaky mansion, and Micah’s face turns grim. Arthur smirks, drawing himself to his full height.

Micah gives him one glare, the footsteps now extremely close and hurried.

He doesn’t quite know what happened, one moment Micah is staring between Arthur and the door, the next, Arthur finds himself rolling across a tiled roof, glass digging into his cheek with Micah’s weight crushing him. The roof underneath him disappears, and his heart stammers for a moment as he falls through the air.

His shoulder hits the ground first, and a cough escapes him in surprise as he blinks rapidly, edges of his vision blurring. Micah’s dark figure stands beside him, only mere feet away, staggering in place.

No cell in his body wants him to move, limbs heavy with exhaustion that weighs him down like an anvil. But he doesn’t want Micah to get away.

Luckily, it seemed like Micah didn’t want to get away. Instead, Arthur watches him pull out his knife again, stumbling towards Arthur. Panic fuels him enough that he manages to grab Micah’s wrist before the knife digs into the meat of his neck.

He struggles, strength waning as Micah pushes his full weight into the knife, and it almost slips from Arthur’s grasp. A loud pop breaks through the air, and Micah backs away with a grunt, the knife slipping out of his grasp and falls beside Arthur’s chest.

Shouts begin to fill the silent night, and Arthur sighs in relief as he sees Charles break through the trees, rifle in hand and beelining towards them. “Arthur!” Hosea shouts from somewhere, and Arthur lifts his head to catch him moving away from the broken window, John behind him.

Micah is on his feet before anyone else can join the party, trying to limp away, only to find Charles pushing him back with the muzzle of his rifle.

Footsteps crunch through the muddied and half-dried tufts of grass, and Arthur almost melts into the ground in pure relief. He’s struck with too many emotions and feelings just this second, that the pain that had plagued his body almost disappears with how overwhelmed he is.

He spots Hosea rounding around the house, with a face made of thunder. John and Dutch follow him, all with varying anger levels painting their expressions.

He would kill to see Micah’s face, and the wish sounds so easy yet, Arthur can’t coax any more energy from his body.

Arthur is almost tempted to fall asleep right then and there, even with his shoulder pressing uncomfortably against his jaw. He doesn’t give in, stubborn enough to keep his eyes open. Gentle hands slide against his cheek, and sound begins to fill in, the filter of shock that had been unknowingly there faded.

Though he can’t see Micah’s face, he can hear his voice pleading.

“-You can trust me, I swear!” Micah promises, and something bitter spreads through Arthur’s stomach.

“You tried to kill him, twice!” John shouts, his pistol held tightly in his fist. Arthur allows himself to be lifted by the caring hands, malleable under their touch. His back protests at the angle, only for a moment, before he finds himself leaning against somebody.

“You alive?” Abigail asks jokingly but her tone is laced with hidden worry, and Arthur manages to nod, throat tight around itself, “good, now just stay awake, we’ll get you to a proper doctor this time,” she promises, her hand wrapping protectively around his middle as more and more people pile behind Hosea and Dutch, all with their weapons held high towards Micah.

Chapter Text

“ Trust me!”  

It’s a plead, one that makes Arthur peel his eyes open again, forgetting when he had closed them. His entire body had ached, throbbed with pain, one resembling  how he woke up not too long ago. At least this time, he was safe…  

Safer at least.  

His vision is terribly blurry as he squints, dark sky above, but the glittering guns shine under the moonlight. His mind stabs his eye with pain as he blinks, focusing with trouble on Hosea and John, then, at Dutch.  

His expression was somewhat angry, disappointed, almost.  Somewhere between furious and disbelieving yet somehow ending up almost… blank. But he can see it, in the tense line of his shoulder, in the slight twitch  of his trigger finger. Mannerisms he doesn’t remember learning, but he knows.  

Micah, on the other side,  gun in hand, but lowered; unlike the rest of camp. Pleading, looking half terrified and half  angry, sparking a little bubble of satisfaction in Arthur’s chest.  Something is nagging at his mind, pulling and stretching an idea, but it tears at the seams. Nothing he can make sense of, tad bits here and there, a word, an emotion. No scenery, no recollection.  

Betrayed  he keeps thinking, betrayed. Was  he  betrayed? He doesn’t get the sense he trusted Micah all that much to begin with , why would he be surprised that Micah’s his aggressor?  But…  betrayal…  betrayed someone, he’s sure. One of the only consistent  things  between his singed string of memories,  someone was betrayed.  

“Are we even close?”  

“just, stay patient, cowpoke,”

Trying to remember just worsens his headache. Arthur could only spectate what was happening through increasingly blurry eyes.   

If  it weren't for the  nag calling for him to pay attention, like a slap on his wrist to stay awake , he would have probably drifted off. Abigail still holds him, now Javier and Bill are piling behind Dutch and Hosea, some unfamiliar faces poking their heads and stand by him. He probably looks like a sorry sight, but he doesn't dwell on the fact as he listens to Micah ramble on.  

"Look-Dutch, you  gotta  believe me!  He's lying to you ," Micah pleads, "he's full of shit," he adds, pointing at Arthur, "I've-I've been with you for months now,  Dutch , you folk are my  family ."  

"Family don't kill each other," John spits, taking a step forward to stand beside Hosea, "and don't even try and deny that!"  

"I was  protecting  us, he-he..." Micah turns to Arthur, "he's lying, whatever he told you, it was bull crap, I promise"  

His vision focuses enough to spot Dutch turn to look at him with a blank expression, just for a moment, their eyes meet. In his mind, something shift, a memory maybe. It's just an arm's-length away, maybe if  he didn't hit his head just a few minutes prior, he'd be able to reach for it. Useless, wasting his effort, Arthur blinks. "What are you talking about?"   

“ I didn’t tell no one anything, I promise,” Micah says firmly, “I’d never rat  on you  Dutch, you’re… you’re my… Savior,” a hand wave towards Arthur, “ he just doesn’t know what he saw,”  

“Arthur didn’t say anything,” Hosea says calmly, “but I think you’ve said enough,”  Hosea looks towards Dutch, and they share a glance, they’re both too smart to see past the lie. Micah can’t even deny it now, he basically told on himself.   

“ What?”   

“Arthur doesn’t remember, anything, or anyone for that matter, probably didn’t even know your face until your reintroduction,” Hosea explain, gun falling into his holster, and careful steps taken towards Arthur, “ do what you will, Dutch”  

Dutch, for the most part, is silent while he waves Bill and Javier towards Micah. Somehow silent command understood,  Charles forces Micah to his knees and someone summons a rope from  somewhere.  Everything had begun to get chalky in his mind, like one blow would scatter his memories.  

“Arthur? You lost your memory again?” the tease only slightly eases the worry inside him, which he hadn’t known he was harboring, “I think it’s time we get you to a real doctor,” A gentle pat on the shoulder, and a worried thumb pushing his head to the side where Arthur knows blood is oozing, he can feel it on his ear.   

“Okay,” his voice is far too rough, but he can send himself an excuse this time, “What about…”  

“I think  Dutch’ll … give him a taste of his own medicine, so to speak,”  Arthur blinks, and something clicks at the back of his mind.   

“Do…  I think…”  goddammit,  it keeps escaping him, and now his head is throbbing too, even more so.   

“Calm down now,” Hosea shushes gently, “all in due time, for now, let’s get you to  the doctor”  

And so it went, Pearson readying a wagon seeing as everything had turned a dull shade when he was seated up, and his nose had begun to bleed when he  stood up wobbly. Hosea and John had gotten a concerned look on their faces, and he would have reassured them if he wasn’t fighting the violent urge to both vomit and pass out.   

It feels like an eternity before the wagon had set on its trail, and he curls up to his side  when the world felt like it was changing its axis, Everything seemed to hurt and he gets a feeling that pain isn’t a stranger to him, but never in this amount.   

Or at least… he  hopes  never in this amount.   

His shoulder aches under him, and he twists to lay on his other shoulder, John placing a hand to ground him when  his face twisted with pain. Goddamn mess, he just wants to sleep everything off. His eyes feel heavy but there’s a deep seated fear in his chest that he won’t wake up.   

So he stays awake.   

It feels like and endless cycle of pain,  wistfulness  and fear.   

He wonders what he was like before all this. All he knows is that he had been a criminal, with a knack for drawing animals and plants and helping strange folk. Or at least, that’s what his journal had told him.  He wonders if he had felt stronger, had been stronger.  

He hopes he gets his memory back, there’s a large void in his head that scares him. How awful it is to not know anyone, or anything, only working on intuition . He’s glad he had someone to fall back to, glad that his heart at least knows who to trust. Would’ve been a lot harder if he hadn’t known who to trust.  

The wagon stops, and John helps him sit up, slowly shuffling out of the back and onto the lit street of a city, the name of which is on the tip of his tongue.  Hosea is knocking furiously on a door, and passing drunks give them a curious stare as they stumble away. Arthur guesses his looks are enough to convince any one to stay away.  

A groggy man opens the door with his face twisted in anger, and his mustache twists in a funny way that makes Arthur wish he could draw. Once in the view of the man, the anger melts into surprise and concern, and the door is opened wide to fit both John and Arthur.  

“You look like a train hit you, son,” the doctor lights a pipe,  jamming it between his lips before washing his hands and starting to tend to Arthur. Undressing the wounds Hosea and the others had wrapped and face steadily growing more worried, “I’m surprised you’re even alive at this point”  

“ Don’t put the man down, doc,” John grumbles and the doctor looks up and nods hurriedly, understanding. John’s face is twisted, and Arthur doesn’t think too much before  light had blinded his left eye, sending pain all up his left side of his head.  There’s a click, then the light is out, flashing to his other eye, where he had been more prepared.  

“Well, you’ve got a major concussion, but I’m guessing you know that,” Pipe is out of his mouth and placed behind him, “Can you list symptoms?”  

“Memory loss,” he starts off, “pain, nausea ,” and that’s where his recollection starts to fade, he squints at Hosea.  

“Nose bleeds,  ear bleeding, dizziness,” Hosea adds, “ Can you treat him?”  

“Theoretically I can treat anyone,” The doctor  gives a shrug.  

“Well  theoreticals  won’t work for us,” John says , voice tough with frustration. The doc gives him a sour look and Hosea is quick to place a hand on his shoulder.  

“Why don’t you  have a smoke   outside, John? It’s been a long day,”  he cajoles in a tone of voice that makes Arthur feel like there are no possible arguments  with him. John seems to share the feeling.  

John retreats with a childish huff .  

The doctor rubs something across his face that stings. Arthur draws a sharp breath through his teeth when  a particular spot felt like it had melted off his  face .  A bandage wrapped around his head and  the doc moving onto other, worse injuries,  the world starts to feel fuzzy.  

He doesn’t know when  exactly  he had  drifted off, but he was woken up by a gentle scratch against his cheek, and he blinks briefly to watch Hosea  tuck a blanket against him. “You’re awake,” Hosea whispers, “Go back to sleep,” he  follows up, a warm hand brushing fallen hair out of his face. It’s a soothing motion that prompts Arthur to close his eyes again, and he could hear Hosea sit, only a few  inches away, beside him.  

The days seem to… blur, in a way.  He had lost track of which day it had been, no matter how many times  Hosea repeats it to him.  Memory is hard for him to grasp back, but slowly things begin to get back into place.  He remembers long past memories, of his mother and of his father, and a younger John, Hosea and Dutch. Hosea is there to piece it with him, and Dutch visits  quite a lot, with news of the others and presents and special dishes by  Pearson.  

He doesn’t know how many days passed, but his face had healed and walking was much less dizzying . He had fallen only a step behind, rather than the six or seven he had been at.  

It’s a silent agreement that no on talks about what had happened, and Arthur is curious, but relieved that he doesn’t have to dwell too much on it.  He still had a long way to go.  

According to Hosea, it had been two weeks, but for Arthur it feels both too short and too long.  He was cleared by the doctor when his short term memory had grown stronger, the repetitive test of letters and numbers  frustrated him to no end, mostly because at first the letters would swim and he’d have to focus  real hard  to read them; but as his concussions eased so did the test.  

The camp was still located in Shady Bell, and Arthur was still sleeping in that room of his. He would ask to switch it with someone, but he already asked too much.  Hosea and the others had been… carrying his weight around for far too long now, and he can feel familiar guilt  grow in his chest whenever Hosea looks particularly tired, or Dutch falls asleep during the day in uncomfortable places.  

He tries to help out, in the small chores like cooking, cleaning and washing, but they would always shush him and push him to rest up while they work (they being mostly Sadie, Pearson, Tilly and Mary-Beth). So instead he worked on relearning how to use a pen and paper, drawing like an infant for the first few times, but as his time expanded, so did his knowledge of how to work his pencil.  

It was good progress,  or at least, that’s what the doctor said.  

It’s a sunny day, in mid August  where the swamp seemed particularly stinky, gators groaning from every direction like a cursed choir . Arthur was sitting by the camp fire, having just relearned how to use a bow,  with the helpful hand of Charles watching over him.  He still hasn’t gotten  much  better, empty holes in his memory bothering him but he learned not to dwell on it, all it did was bring him a headache.  

His fingers were singed from pulling the bow way too many time, too harshly. But the pain is familiar, and it reminds him of somewhere cold.  He lets it be, jumping when large  muddy  paws  landed on his cheek, “ Copper, ” he yelps, pushing away the dog, wiping the mud off his face and collar  before looking back, “ Cain ,” he corrects, Cain looks at him with big pleading eyes, almost looking guilty as his tail hangs low behind him. Arthur hands him a slice of dried meat from his satchel , and Cain instantly perks up, tail wagging at full speed. He bounces off almost immediately after.  

Isaac would’ve loved you  

Arthur smiles to himself, then blinks in confusion . He looks around, spotting Hosea smoking idly at the edges of the forest. He makes his way there,  rolling the name again and again in his mind. “Arthur,” Hosea greets,  eyebrows furrowed, “is everything alright?”  

“Yeah,” Arthur replies automatically, “yeah just… did we know someone called… Isaac?” he asks, and something odd flashes on Hosea’s face.  

“Isaac,” Hosea parrots .   

“ Isaac,” Arthur confirms.  

A sad smile crosses Hosea’s features, “I was wondering when you’d remembered him,” he takes a drag out of his cigarette, then stomps it out on the ground, “That’s a long story, one which I think you should sit down for,”  

“Who is he?” Arthur asks, now even  more  curious.  

“He was your son, Arthur,”  Hosea says slowly, and Arthur can physically  feel  the rest of the camp turn to stare at him.  

“My son?” Arthur repeats in disbelief, then, winds back, “ was?”  

“Like I said,” Hosea starts, “Long story, take a seat ”  

Arthur hesitates, “Do I want to remember?”  

Hosea looks at him, or maybe through him, he can’t decide, “That’s up to you to decide, I won’t tell you, if you prefer not to,” there’s a certain understanding there, and by the faint heartache in his chest, Arthur knows this story isn’t a happy one.  

But it’s his son.  

Will it matter? Even now?  

“Let me…let me think about it,” he decides, and Hosea nods, giving his arm a squeeze.  

“I’ll be here ”