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Arthur takes in a sharp, clean inhale. The far north, in Ambarino, the mountain air pulls in sharply through his lungs, and he feels it as if going through the mesh of a sieve, ice sticking through the gaps. It’s not a pleasant feeling, by any means, nearly as painful as the cough had been.
Nearly. He hooks his thumbs into the loops of his belt. Not quite, and now, though his chest aches and his breath fails him often, he almost welcomes it. He welcomes the cold. Especially compared to the way his body seemed to reject food before, the sweating during the day and the chills at night.
Now, he’s chilled to the bone at night, but at least he’s not the only one feeling it. This is the furthest north he’s ever been, on the Canadian border of the Yankton territory. He folds his arms over the pasture fence, leaning against it. Gazing out onto the pasture, a few of their horses graze on the last shreds of grass.
“You still out there?”
Arthur turns his head at Kieran’s voice. “Yeah,” He calls.
Shivering, Kieran settles against Arthur’s side, rests his walking stick on the fence post next to him, and faces the pasture along with Arthur. He’s a warm weight from shoulder to hip.
Arthur hums. “Just for a bit.”
“Gettin’ awful dark. Heard the tree frogs come out.”
The sun’s sitting fat and syrupy on the horizon, but with storm clouds rolling in, the light from it doesn’t go far.
“I know, I know.” Arthur scowls. “You don’t have to coddle me.”
“I ain’t coddling.” Kieran clicks his tongue, giving Arthur a gentle shove. It barely jostles him. “Just saying. You could come inside, you’ve done enough today.”
“I know.”
“The fire’s going.”
Arthur snorts, emphasizing, “I know.”
It’s beautiful country up here, flowers as far as the eye can see. Reds and whites and pinks dotting the fields. Fire Pinks, (Silene virginica), and Foam flowers (Tiarella cordifolia), and wild geraniums, (Geranium maculatum), according to his little encyclopedia of flora and fauna. Arthur likes to note the proper Latin names next to his sketches. He hadn’t meant to keep a journal still going, especially after giving his last one to John, but it was a hard habit not to fall back into. What, with the amount of bedrest he was subject to suffer right after the mountain. He slept for a week straight. Kieran never thought he’d wake again.
All said, Arthur was bedridden about three months. He tried to get up sooner. He couldn’t. And that kind of idleness, that kind of wasting away for a man like him, that could drive a man to insanity.
Arthur glances at Kieran’s receding back as he makes his way down the path to the house. Almost had done him in. The journal had been Kieran’s idea. Kieran would bring him flowers— some just pulled from the ground to be kept in vases, others dug up and replanted into cracked bowls and pottery to line the wall of the bedroom, even if they withered and died soon after from the change in lighting.
They were lucky. Arthur would never think himself cursed again. Even if he didn’t deserve it, he was truly blessed. Kieran got out; without his eyes, but he made it out of that O’Driscoll camp, stumbled with his head cradled in his hands back to Shady Belle. He got out, and he healed, and he lived again. They started to save some money aside. A precaution, even as Arthur’s cough worsened.
When Arthur didn’t meet Kieran in that little hotel room in Annesburg like he promised, Kieran rode all the way back until he found Arthur half-dead on that mountain. He lived. Doesn’t know how, or why. He was lucky.
They bought a plot of land. A few horses to keep Branwen company, since the Arabian was shot down in the wake of the gunfire. A little house, and the farm, they built that themselves. They got a dog named Skip.
Speaking of, Skip bounds over to take Kieran’s place next to Arthur, obediently halting to a tail-thumping sit by his side. He’s an english pointer, mostly, but came from a man whose neighbor’s sheepdog had wandered over and made a right mess of things, so he’s too shaggy in some places and not quite as pointy as he ought to. It didn’t bother Arthur none. His body wiggles as Arthur leans down to pet him, and when Arthur whistles the dog clambers up his body with a wriggly jump right into his arms. He’s much too big of a dog to be held, but Arthur holds him like he’s a slight thing instead of a gangly mess of fur and dirt.
He carries Skip to the porch. Kieran is waiting in a rocking chair, whittling into what looks like the start of some decorative door knob. He shoots Arthur an amused smirk at the sound of his boots coming up the stairs.
Arthur covers the groan that escapes as he bends over to let Skip down with a cough. The dog trots off with clicking nails towards Kieran’s rocking chair to lie on the worn rug beneath, just out of reach of any tail-crunching related mishaps. “One day, you know,” Arthur dusts off the front of his shirt, but getting rid of any real dirt or fur was futile. “You’ll let me bring him in.”
Kieran snorts. Not a chance.
“I’m sure he’s awful cuddly, Mr. Morgan,” And he says his name just so, pitching high in that teasing way, a smile just playing at the corners of his lips, “But I’m sure the fleas are just about the same, too.”
“You got fleas, and I let you into my bed.”
Kieran shakes his head, a flush lighting up his whole face. “I’m pretty sure it’s me letting you into mine.”
Arthur chuckles low in his throat, but he doesn’t disagree. From the porch, he can really hear those tree frogs now, though with winter coming, they’d soon be silent. Kieran’s chair creaks as he rocks back and forth, slow and steady, swiping his thumb over the knob in his hand, the hand with the knife twitching to cut into the wood. Swipe, carve, adjusting the indents, doing a few movements at a time before feeling his thumb over the shape and ridges of it again. He’s good at it.
Arthur realizes he’s staring. Just watching Kieran, lost in thought. Arthur leans down to kiss Kieran’s forehead, cups his face with his palm. “C’mon,” He strokes his cheekbone, “Let’s go in.”
Kieran smiles, his forehead wrinkling under Arthur’s chapped lips. He shifts the knife into his other hand, his free one coming up to thread his fingers through the inch long scruff along Arthur’s jaw. “I said you couldn’t bring the dog.” He teases.
“Aw, git.” Arthur chuckles again, and when Kieran stands, he swats at him as he passes through the doorway. Kieran laughs, high and soft. Warm light pours out from inside; the fire stoked high, the gas lamps on low. Home, in all sense of the word, smelling like dinner still and the perfumed flowers half-wilting on the table. He leans forward to catch Kieran’s hand as he follows him inside. Momentarily, Kieran fumbles, fingers bumbling until they find their place between Arthur’s, and then he threads them together and squeezes tight.