Chapter Text
Faerghus County, New Mexico
May 1876
A lone horse and rider begin the long trek into town.
The sand is rough against Caspar’s skin, whipped up by the winds. Despite the bandana pulled up to cover his mouth, the hot, arid air scotches at his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Vultures float effortlessly in the sky, watching him from above.
Caspar’s back aches from hours in the saddle. He’d struck out on his own after the events of the last few months, setting off as soon as Linhardt had given his wounds the all-clear. He needed to travel, he’d claimed, needed some time alone to get out of the small town of San Adrestia and clear his head. Not that his father had cared much for his excuses; Caspar had been ushered out the door with a pocketful of dollars and the second-best horse in the stable without so much as a goodbye.
That suited him just fine.
Two ranchers send him dirty looks as he approaches the edge of town. They’ve been watching him for miles, and the details slowly reveal themselves as he gets close. A man and a woman, both wearing an expression somewhere between suspicion and contempt. Behind them is a pen full of wild horses ready for breaking in, the town sprawling out beyond that.
“You ain’t from ‘round these parts, are you?” the woman asks in greeting, squinting up at Caspar from underneath the brim of her hat. She’s pretty enough -- no older than twenty years old, blonde hair cut boyishly short, and with a body to die for. Everything a man would usually look for in a woman, bar the scowl on her face. Her clothes are worn from hard riding, hat faded in the sun, a rifle slung across her back. Despite her youth, she looks like she knows how to use it.
The man at her side is a little older, sporting a shirt hanging open to his navel and a shock of hair so red it’s almost unnatural. Nonchalant, he leans back against the fence, elbows balanced precariously against the wood. He chews lazily at the toothpick balanced between his teeth.
Caspar draws his horse to a halt, then tips his hat in reply. “From San Adrestia born and raised, but I’m just a-passing through. I don’t mean ya no trouble, miss.”
The woman scowls. “I ain’t no ‘miss’. And you’d best watch your back, kid. We don’t take too kindly to foreigners here.”
“Now don’t you mind Ingrid,” the man interrupts, sending Caspar a wink and a brilliant smile. “She gets cranky. ‘Specially when there’s a full moon out, if you get my drift.”
That earns him a sharp elbow to the ribs. It takes Caspar a second or two to get what he means, and he can’t help but smile at the joke. He tosses a coin to the man stood by the side of the road, who snatches the quarter from the air.
“You got a place for the horse, sir?”
A winning smile. “Sure do.”
Caspar dismounts his horse, grabbing the reins and passing them over. He offers his other hand in greeting. “Caspar Bergliez. Good to meet ya.”
“Sylvain Jose Gautier. The pleasure’s all mine, kid.” The handshake only lasts a moment or two before Sylvain drops his hand, and Caspar follows a second later. “Say, I’ll bet you’ve had a long journey. All that riding’s thirsty work. End of the road, turn left, then first on the right. Blue Lion Saloon, ain’t no finer establishment in the west.”
Caspar tips his hat. “Thank you kindly, sir.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Caspar wanders through town for a while, just getting to know the place. It doesn’t seem to be that much bigger than his hometown to the south, but the similarities end there. It seems colder somehow, despite the ninety-degree heat, every stare directed his way icy and malicious. The only smile he gets is from a tiny redheaded woman in the marketplace, singing to herself as she works. She points him in the direction of a guest house, sending him on his way with the promise she’d cook for him should he need a meal for the night.
By the time Caspar is done, the mid-afternoon sun has risen high above the town, and every breath is stifling. He pulls his hat down and scurries back to the saloon.
A man greets him outside the bar with a scowl and a snarl. Caspar tries to introduce himself, but his handshake is snubbed. All he gets is a reluctant “Fraldarius,” in reply, then: “Leave your weapons at the door, stranger. This ain’t no place for fighting.”
Ignoring the jab, Caspar pulls a case of cigarettes from his pocket, then offers one to the man. “You want a smoke?”
“No,” comes the reply, coarse and blunt.
Caspar shrugs. “Suit yourself, mister.”
He leaves his shotgun by the door, then enters the Blue Lion Saloon, shutter-doors swinging behind him. A flick of his wrist, a dollar exchanges hands, and the bartender slides him a double measure that’s stingy even by saloon standards. Caspar turns to the floor, finding every stare in the place directed his way. They’re the kind of looks that make his free hand ball into a fist, that makes anger rise inside him and stokes his inbuilt urge to fight. Any chatter has long since died down. Caspar can feel the tension in the air. His fist bounces at his side. But takes his glass and picks his way between the tables, searching for a seat among the hostile crowd. He talks loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Y’all best count yourselves lucky,” he says. “I’m on my best behaviour.”
There’s a man sat at a table towards the back, all on his own. Unlike the others, he’s got his head down, as if he’s trying not to attract any attention.
“This seat taken?” Caspar asks, and the man looks up. No, not a man, not yet; despite his head of slicked-back grey hair, he’s no older than Caspar, wide-eyed and clean-shaven and with all the innocence of youth.
The kid smiles, gesturing with his elbow. “All yours.”
“Thanks, man. Thought I’d have to fight for a seat in this place. Not like that’d be a problem, mind.”
“You ain’t a local, are you?” he asks, and Caspar shakes his head. “How’s Faerghus treating you?”
“Had a bit of a frosty reception. I take it y’all don’t like outsiders very much.”
The kid grins again, then produces a pack of cards and starts to shuffle them. “Yeah, you’ll get that ‘round here. It sure ain't the friendliest place around.” He fans the cards in his hand, cutting the deck. “Fancy a game?”
Caspar pulls out a chair, places his glass down, and swings his feet up onto the table. “Sure. Your deal.”
The two of them make small talk as they play. The man’s name is Ashe, he’s a couple of months younger than Caspar, and he’s really good at playing cards. He’s well-dressed, but the expensive clothes are visibly distressed, torn and repaired a hundred times over. His hands move almost too fast to count as he cuts the deck, shuffles, deals, cuts, shuffles again. Just looking at it makes Caspar dizzy.
They play a few rounds of cards. Ashe offers a dollar as the first stake, and Caspar rises to the challenge. But after another couple of games, Caspar losing every single one, his suspicions start to get the better of him. As he watches yet another dollar be taken from him, Caspar leaps to his feet, grabbing Ashe by the hand and nearly wrenching his arm out of its socket. He yanks the sleeve of Ashe’s shirt down to the elbow. Sure enough, two aces and a king flutter to the floor, an admission of guilt.
Disgusted, Caspar stares at the cards. His top lip twitches, his free hand once again tightening into a fist. Red-hot anger starts to rise inside him.
“Alright,” Ashe says, lifting his hands. “You caught me. I don’t wanna fight, I swear. You can keep the cash. All of it.” He slides all of his winnings back over to Caspar, a tidy profit of a few dollars. “I’m gonna run, now--”
And run he does, bolting like a frightened deer and scampering between the tables. Ashe disappears out the saloon doors, leaving only a couple of coins and a box of matches behind. It’s all very sudden, and Caspar can’t help but feel suspicious.
He goes for a cigarette, but something feels wrong. His belt is dangerously light.
Caspar’s hands go straight to where his wallet used to be, then to the pocket of his waistcoat where his watch once sat. He finds only empty space. He’d been so focussed on the cards in Ashe’s left hand that he hadn’t noticed the right hand lifting his wallet and watch.
Ashe had distracted him with a couple of dollars and ran off with twenty times that.
Shit.
“Motherfucker,” Caspar swears, then tears after Ashe. He doesn’t notice the laughs from the patrons around him. He charges out the door, stopping only to grab his gun from where he’d left it at the entrance to the saloon. A glance to one side: there, at the end of the road, a kid with pewter-grey hair and a wallet in his hand.
Caspar catches Ashe at the end of the road, leaping in to tackle him to the ground. The world blurs as they tumble together. He smacks Ashe around the face, then again in the chest, winding him. Ashe lashes out, counting with a kick to Caspar’s knee. A sharp pain runs up Caspar’s leg, but he hardly notices. He hits Ashe again, gritting his teeth and yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Stay down!” he shouts, but Ashe grabs him by the shirt and drags him back to the floor again. Ashe is fast. Caspar is strong. The scuffle is brief and bloody, neither of them coming out unscathed. But eventually Caspar gets a good hand to the shotgun at his back, drawing it with a flourish. Ashe’s head lolls back against the ground, disoriented.
“Stop,” he whispers. “Please. I’ll give it all back, I swear.”
Caspar staggers back to his feet. He cocks his weapon, pointing the barrel down at Ashe’s chest. The thief is sprawled on the ground, dust smeared in his clothes and hair, the air forced from his lungs. With a flick of his wrist, Caspar lifts the gun until the barrel is just beneath Ashe’s chin.
He’s only been in Faerghus county an hour, and already he’s dishing out justice. It seems he’s still on duty even now. And to think he’d gone travelling to get away from the baggage of his job as lawman in San Adrestia.
Caspar quickly retrieves his wallet and watch, and he’s none too gentle about it.
“You got a marshal in this town?” he asks, and Ashe can only nod in reply.
“Sheriff Dimitri Blaiddyd,” he whispers. “But you don’t want to get on his bad side--”
“I’ll take you to him, so you can face justice.” Caspar looks up and down the street, trying to find the lawman’s office to no avail. “Right,” he says, somewhat lamely. “Where is it?”
Still dazed, Ashe just shakes his head in resignation. “I’ll show you,” he says, voice hoarse.
“Good,” Caspar snarls. “Now get up. I got no sympathy for criminal scum like you.”
Ashe complies without saying a word.
It’s only a short walk through town to the sheriff’s office. Twice Ashe tries to bolt. Twice Caspar stops him. They keep walking.
Caspar all but barges down the door, steering his prisoner with the barrel of his gun pressed tightly at the small of Ashe’s back. “I caught this one a-thieving in the saloon,” Caspar announces to nobody in particular. “I hope you got a cell free, ‘cause--”
He falls silent.
The office is unnervingly cold, smelling faintly of damp, windows streaked with dirt. Sunlight peeks in through the closed shutters, catching dust motes as they dance through the air. Four desks fill almost all of the floor space, but only two of them seem to be in use.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” comes a voice, dangerously low.
Sheriff Blaiddyd would be a tall man if he stood to his full height, six inches taller than Caspar. But he slouches in a chair in the corner of the room, held down by a huge fur-lined coat even in the afternoon heat. His hair is worn long and uncut, maybe to hide the patch that covers what used to be his right eye. A cigar smoulders between his teeth, a rifle laid across his lap. The six-pointed star pinned to his coat is scratched and tarnished.
Dimitri snarls like a dog at the sight of Ashe, sweeping the papers from his desk in anger. Caspar is rooted to the spot in horrified fascination. “I take it you two have met before?” he asks, but the sheriff cuts him off.
“Lightfingers has sure made a name for himself. He’s the most prolific repeat offender in this town.” Dimitri gets right up into Ashe’s face, towering over him. “Shame thievery isn’t a hanging offence. Not yet, anyway.”
Ashe twitches in fear, stuck between a psychotic lawman and the barrel of Caspar’s gun. His voice is high and quiet as a mouse.
“Hello again, sheriff,” he stammers, trying to swallow his fear. “I seem to have made a terrible mistake--”
“Damn right you did. Dedue!”
The sheriff snaps his fingers, hollering at the top of its voice to call his deputy over. Dedue is a huge man, maybe six foot eight, two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. He isn’t much older than the others, but his hair is already a shock of white pulled back into a ponytail, the colour a stark contrast to the even brown of his skin. His expression is serious but not cruel, his face crossed with faded scars that speak of the fights gone before.
Dedue places his hand on Ashe’s shoulder, checking him over for weapons and escorting him to the jail. Ashe just follows in silence, the fire with which he’d fought earlier dissipating to nothing. It doesn’t seem like the first time they’ve played this game, and Caspar can’t help but think it won’t be the last. The two disappear through a door at the end of the office. From here, Caspar can hear the clink of keys as a cell is unlocked, then locked again. They speak quietly, too low for him to make out.
Still furious, Dimitri turns his attention to Caspar. His one good eye is narrowed in suspicion, his voice harsh. “Put that weapon a’ yours down, boy,” he demands, and Caspar lies his shotgun on the desk, free hand raised. “You’re new in town,” Dimitri continues. “Who are you, and where have you come from?”
Suddenly Caspar understands Ashe’s fear. Not that he’d ever admit to it, but the temperature around him drops and he can’t help but shiver at the sight.
“The name’s Caspar Bergliez, sheriff. I’ve just come from San Adrestia, just a-passing through--”
“I know that name,” Dimitri interrupts. “Bergliez. That Hispanic for something?”
Caspar shakes his head and stutters, his mouth moving faster than his brain. “My-- uh, my father's name is Robert Edwin Bergliez. Runs a munitions company, dynamite too. And you mighta heard of him from the war, made a name for himself a-fighting for the confederacy. Some call him a war hero--”
“Your father is a slaver and a war criminal,” the sheriff spits, grabbing Caspar by the front of his shirt. Caspar doesn't think. He acts on instinct, headbutting Dimitri in the face and smashing his forehead into the sheriff’s nose. In retaliation Dimitri shoves Caspar across the office. He trips over his own feet, crashing to the floor.
The sound of a rifle being cocked fills the air, and Caspar’s blood runs cold. This time it’s his turn to be held at gunpoint.
Dimitri all but drags him to the jail adjacent to the office. In the cell across from him, Ashe is exchanging pleasantries with Dedue as if they’re close friends. They ask each other about their families, Dedue hanging Ashe’s coat up on the wall like the thief in the cell opposite is a houseguest and not a prisoner.
Caspar doesn't have time to dwell on it. The gun pointed at the base of his skull reminds him to keep moving. In a fair fight, Caspar tells himself that he could take everyone in the room, but his situation is anything but fair. He’s quickly bundled into the cell opposite Ashe’s, the door locked up tight behind him. Caspar rattles the lock, but it won’t budge. He tries again--
Dimitri snaps, slamming his hands against the bars to the cell and snarling like a mountain lion. Caspar yelps and scurries back out of range. Like this, it’s almost like the bars are there to keep Caspar safe from the man outside, like Dimitri is the beast in the cage and not the other way around. One blue eye is wide and crazed, blood crusting around his nose where Caspar had headbutted him.
“You can stay in there overnight to think on your sins,” the sheriff growls. “I’ll let you out tomorrow, once you’ve cooled off.”
He turns on his heel and heads back into his office, the outline of his body hidden by that huge fur coat.
Caspar doesn’t think he’s been so glad to see the back of anyone in his life.
The relief quickly fades as reality comes crashing down on him. He's ended up on the wrong side of the law in some barren territory a hundred miles from home, and he's in for a very long night in a six-by-eight foot cell with nobody for company bar the thief he'd just brought in. As much as it pains him to admit, he can't punch his way out of this one.
Not that it stops him from trying. It ends rather more painfully than he'd hoped.
Dedue sits on a bench across from Ashe's cell, filling out paperwork in companionable silence. Ashe's record is several pages thick, bound in its own folder. A new entry is noted down under today's date, the deputy diligently working to record the details. Caspar stares at the two men for a while, but it's hardly exciting to watch, and his patience quickly wears thin.
“I’m bored,” he whines, cracking his knuckles one by one. His left leg bounces erratically. The sun has barely moved in the sky, but it already feels like an eternity has passed.
“Already?” comes the reply from Ashe, less than understanding. “It’s been five minutes.”
“But I’m really bored, man.” Caspar feels like he’s about to explode, the pent-up energy building more with every second that passes. “The hell is wrong with that sheriff?” he continues. “Who shat in his coffee? Is he usually that feral?”
Ashe checks over his shoulder, then drops his voice. “Sheriff was fine up until a couple years ago. Real nice feller. Kind, charming, handsome, the works. Every girl in town wanted him. Some of the men, too.” He says it bitterly, as if ruing a friendship long-lost. "That all changed when he rode out into the barrens, going after some white-haired woman who’d done wrong by him. Nobody knows what happened out there, but Dedue dragged him back to town half-dead with a knife in his shoulder, a real bad attitude and a missing eye.”
Ashe’s words hit a raw nerve. A white-haired woman prone to violence -- it sounds awfully familiar to Caspar, but he daren’t talk about that. Instead he says the first thing that comes to his mind.
“He’s an asshole,” Caspar declares, not quite loud enough to attract attention.
“The sheriff is troubled,” Dedue counters. He doesn't raise his voice, even and somber. “He needs patience and a guiding hand.”
“He called my pa a war criminal and he nearly bit Ashe’s head off. The man ain’t got no right to wear that star.”
“He is more complex than you know.”
“That’s it?" Caspar yells. Livid, he barges his shoulder against the bars to his cell. But try as he might, he can’t provoke a reaction. Dedue doesn’t say anything more than that, instead reaching for his hat as he makes his excuses.
“I have duties I must attend to,” he says solemnly. “Please excuse me.”
Caspar folds his arms and scowls. He pouts like a child. "That ain't fair," he protests, but the door to the jail is quickly shut, leaving him and Ashe alone. Dejected, Caspar slumps back against the wall, trying to find something to entertain himself. He cracks his knuckles again, tries to fix his hair, gives up, re-ties the bandana around his head to keep his fringe from falling into his eyes, fishes a quarter from his pocket. "Heads or tails?" he asks, but doesn't get a reply. He flips the coin anyway, if just for something to do. "Tails, in case you cared."
The minutes tick away.
“You seem like a nice guy, Ashe," he says eventually, trying to break the silence. "Why’d ya turn to thieving?”
That certainly gets a reaction. Ashe shifts uncomfortably on his bench, and looks away, troubled. His eyebrows are pinched together in a frown, lips pressed tightly together. “That ain’t none of your business.”
“You tried to steal my wallet, I reckon that makes it my business.” Caspar stares through the window, at the sun still a long way away from setting. “‘Sides, sunset’s still a long way off. We got all day and night to talk.”
“We really don’t.”
Caspar scowls. Bored, he flicks the quarter at the wall, trying to get it to bounce back to him. He’s not having much success. The sound of metal on stone rings off the walls.
Ashe frowns again. He stares straight at Caspar, curious. But his voice is hushed, barely audible. “You’re the youngest in your family, right?”
Caspar looks up, suddenly agitated. “How’d you know?”
“No reason. Call it a hunch. It don’t matter.” Ashe smiles to himself. He picks at his bootlaces, finally plucking up the courage to explain himself. “My folks owned the Blue Lion, maybe ten years ago. Used to be a restaurant back in the day. The plague came when we were still kids. I’m sure you remember it. Me and my brother and my sister, we were spared. But both my parents? No, they weren't so lucky."
“I’m sorry,” Caspar starts, but Ashe cuts him off.
“I was orphaned at nine years old. We lost everything, so I took to thieving. It weren’t the way I wanted to live, but I had to put food on the table somehow.” He flicks the deck of cards between his hands, shuffling and cutting and shuffling again. His lips barely move as he speaks. “We got lucky. A rich feller swept into town one day, took the three of us in. His name was Lonato, and he was the greatest man I ever knew. He bought out the Blue Lion, earned some honest cash, made it a good place again. Taught all three of us to read and write, how to behave like gentlemen. We were happy, for a while. Thought we’d finally struck gold.”
Caspar can sense the ‘but’ already. “And then?” he asks, twitching in anticipation.
Ashe seems hesitant to talk any further. But he dusts himself off, picking up the deck of cards in one quick swoop. “There’s a gang around these parts. Dirty money. They work in protection, mostly. All their men got a scorpion tattooed on their wrist, that's how you can tell they're one of them.” He goes silent for a while, his restless hands finally falling still. He places the cards out in front of him, turning them over one by one until they’re arranged in four neat suits. "Lonato refused to pay protection. The gang came for him in the middle of the night. Dragged us out back and-- yeah. I reckon you can fill in the blanks.”
“I’m sorry,” Caspar says again. There’s nothing else he can say. His heart constricts, a deep, unsettling ache weighing heavy on his chest.
"The gang wanted their money. They coulda killed Lonato, but they shot his flesh-and-blood son instead. The grief drove Lonato mad, and then it drove him to his death. Ever since, they’ve said the Blue Lion is cursed. I almost want to believe it.”
“Sounds pretty cursed to me,” Caspar replies, but Ashe sends him a glare.
“It ain’t cursed. I still got my brother and sister. Nothing’s gonna take them away from me, curse or not.” He finally finishes with his cards, leaving them in a neat stack by his right hand. “That gang’s got more money than they know what to do with. One day I’m gonna break into the vault, take back what’s mine. I don’t want to be rich. I just want to look after my family. That’s all.”
“That’s it?" Caspar asks, incredulous. For all that Ashe was a criminal, the injustice committed against him in the past far outweighs any petty grudge Caspar has against him. Not that he'd ever advocate stealing, but he can see how Ashe's back is up against the wall. “You only want your share. That's really all you want?”
“More than anything else. I’ll do it someday, I swear--”
“Be careful, Ashe. I don’t want you to get in any more trouble.”
Caspar yelps, flinching as Dedue’s voice carries through the cell block. How the big man had moved so quietly was anyone’s guess. But here he stands, clearing his throat, hands clasped behind his back.
There’s a woman stood at his side, a maternal-looking blonde with soft features and a crucifix hanging in pride of place around her neck. The wedding band around her fourth finger matches the one on Dedue’s right hand. Caspar is pretty sure that’s illegal in all thirty-eight states and eleven federal territories, but he keeps his mouth shut. For once, he's not keen on making any more trouble.
“You should rest,” the woman chastises, resting her arms around Dedue’s waist. She looks tired, like she's bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders. But her voice is soft, honeyed, the tone like the one Caspar’s mother always used when putting her rambunctious boys to bed for the night. “It won’t do you no good to worry away at that desk all night. Come home and--”
It’s then that she notices the occupant of the cell opposite. She smiles sadly at Ashe, clearly troubled.
“It’s good to see you, Mercedes,” Ashe greets her, and she shakes her head in gentle disapproval.
“A shame you’re back here so soon, Ashe. I will pray for your soul.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.” He smiles despite his predicament, getting to his feet and draping his arms lazily against the bars to his cell. “You done for today, then?” he asks, strangely cheerful.
Dedue nods, slowly interlacing his fingers with Mercedes'. “I am finished. I will bid you goodnight.” He rests his free hand on the lock of Ashe’s cell, just to check it’s secure. “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks, but Ashe shakes his head.
“Probably not,” he replies with a shrug. “But I’m sure I’ll be back here soon enough. G‘night, Dedue. ‘Night, Mercie.”
He’s met with two rounds of “Goodnight, Ashe." Dedue picks his hat and coat from the stand, holds the door open for Mercedes, and then the door is locked behind them.
Ashe waits for a minute or two to check they've really gone, then produces a set of thin metal tools from his pocket and gets to work on the lock of his cell. He screws up his face in concentration, pushing back each pin in the lock one by one. It’s fine, delicate work; he listens in, ear pressed up next to the lock to hear the pins snapping into place with a soft clunk. Caspar just watches on, fascinated and appalled. He could call for help; he could scream and holler and bang against the walls until someone called the sheriff and put the criminal back behind bars.
But he doesn’t.
After a few patient minutes, the lock gives way and the door swings open.
“Right,” Ashe says again, stretching out his shoulders and pocketing his ever-faithful deck of cards. “Now I reckon that’s my cue to leave, don’t you?”
“The hell?” Caspar asks, leaping to his feet. “Do mine too. Get me outta here!”
“‘Fraid I can’t do that. It was a pleasure meeting you, Caspar. I’m sure our paths will cross again.”
“Ashe, wait!” He calls the thief back, desperate. “I can help you,” he promises, his mouth once again moving faster than his mind can process what he’s saying. Caspar is talking nonsense, making it up as he goes along. Anything to get out of the cell. “I can help you get your money. No more thieving. How’d that sound?”
He can see Ashe hovering at the door to the office, hand still outstretched as he goes to pick up his coat. There’s a desperate hope in his eyes, guarded but unmistakable. Caspar’s fingers tighten around the bars keeping him restrained.
Ashe has fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.
“You got one minute to tell me why I should let you out,” Ashe says quietly. Despite his harsh tone, his spring-green eyes are wide, full of hope. “Starting now. Get talking.”