Work Text:
Run boy run
~Run Boy Run, Woodkid
Colm had visited him eight times when something changed.
He hadn’t any way to measure time in the basement. There were no windows, no light sources to judge day and night. They didn’t bring him food, and his stomach screamed - sometimes Colm had food, sometimes he didn’t, and when he did he’d force some of it down Arthur’s throat.
So he counted time in ‘visits from Colm’. His shoulder started to burn after three ‘visits from Colm’. He stopped seeing the grey haired bastard after four ‘visits from Colm’.
Everything changed on the ninth ‘visit from Colm’.
They cut him down, laughing when he hit the ground and couldn’t stand, hauling him to his feet and dragging him up the stairs that had been so close, taunting him for every one of those visits from Colm, the light at the top blinding him.
He hadn’t realized just how much he had missed the sun, missed fresh air, even the smell of horse shit in the air, until that moment. He wasn’t able to enjoy it though, as he was thrown to his knees at Colm’s feet, the man’s face twisted into incandescent rage. “Where are they, Arthur Morgan?”
a boot flicked out, slamming into his stomach, and he bent double,
“Not here. They were supposed to come, remember? Come to save you. But no. They didn’t, and old Dutch ruined everything. I had a plan, Morgan. Milton… you don’t know the trouble you’ve caused me..”
“I’m so sorry,” he gasped once he’d managed to catch his breath, though managed to make it sound more like ‘well fuck you,’ more than a bit alarmed when he was dragged up onto his feet.
“Now,” he smacked him on the back like they were old drinking buddies, “you have to understand Arthur, my boys are furious with you. We were gonna use that money to get outta here. And now… well, now we’re gonna have t’ run,” his hand came up, pinched his cheek like a little child, “and they’re mad at you for… well, everythin’. You’ve taken friends from them. Brothers. Can you blame ‘em?”
And then he was being cut loose.
‘What?’
and that didn’t bode well for him.
Colm grinned, patted his shoulder again before shoving him forward, “You’ve got five minutes Arthur, I’d get goin’.”
Arthur wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but he booked it.
Colm’s word held as much weight as a soaked piece of paper, and if he gave him the full five minutes he’d eat his hat.
God, he hurt but he wanted to get as far away as he could. Each step sent agony thrumming through his body, his heartbeat rattling through his bones. His shoulder screamed and oh god just cut it off he wanted to clutch at it and curl up and scream and scream and scream but he needed to get as far away as quickly as he could, and were those eyes in the bushes? A person behind that tree? But no, he staggered passed and it was just an oddly shaped shadow, god he was losing his mind.
He spun - Colm? - but no, just a clump of horse hair caught on a branch - and he staggered down the hill, struggling to keep his balance, finally losing it and falling, tumbling ass over head and ending up laying on his back in the bank of a river.
‘Shiit.’
There was whooping and damn Colm there was no way he’d gotten the whole five minutes, he wanted nothing more than to lay in the water and die, let it wash over his wound and try to wash out some of the infection he could feel eating away at him even then, but he dreaded what would happen if he were to be caught, could already feel their boots slamming into his ribs, their knives digging into his flesh, their cigarettes sizzling against his skin.
He tried to stand, got to his knees; his elbows buckled and he collapsed to his stomach, choked and inhaled the water, tried to cough it out but each attempt at a breath only brought in more until he finally managed to sit back on his heels, shoulder screaming at the motion, retching and vomiting up a stomachful of pink-tinged water.
“There he is!”
Shit! He scrambled to his feet, vision going white, and ran blind across the stream.
Bark exploded besides his head as he cleared the treeline.
‘Where am I?’
He had the vaguest idea of where he was - that bridge had looked familiar, and from what little he remembered of being dragged along by Colm’s men they couldn’t have moved him too far, but he was well and truly turned around.
Arthur froze - footsteps were growing near, how had someone snuck up on him? He stepped back, fumbled around, managed to grasp a branch in his hand and brandished it like Jack would in play -
and a buck stepped out in front of him. It seemed thoroughly unthreatened, eyeing him almost as though bored, giving a low grunt before plodding passed.
Even still, the shadows that it had walked out of danced, rippled, and he’d swear there was Colm - no, Dougal, no, the grey haired bastard - just out of sight.
He picked a direction and, not dropping the stick, staggered on.
Arthur found a road.
The sign pointed VALENTINE in one direction, and he oriented himself. There, he had to go that way to get to the Oilfields, right? They hadn’t taken him very far at all, though he hurt from walking so far while hurt, his legs felt as lead and his blood felt like sludge. His shoulder screamed, the pain worsening with each beat of his heart, and each step rattled agony throughout his body.
‘Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.’
Hoofbeats thudded loudly and he didn’t stop to look, didn’t wait to see if, maybe, they were someone willing to help, before breaking into a sprint for the treeline.
“Morgan!”
“There he is!”
“Get ‘em!”
Whooping broke out behind him, loud and howling and he’d have sworn there were hounds on his heels if he hadn’t known there were O’Driscolls after him instead (but really, was there much of a difference?) and he cursed a blue-streak, looking back over his shoulders; the grey-haired bastard was bearing down on him on some horse fit to chase an escapee of hell -
a breeze ruffled the tree branches, moonlight broke the shadows, and a mossy tree waved amiably at him.
They got close - too close - more times than he could count; a lasso thudded to the ground at his feet more than once, and he lost count of the bullets that thudded into the dirt and the trees around him. Horses screamed after him, and his wounds screamed as he scrambled up and down every hill and ledge he could find, trying to throw them off. He hobbled, no longer able to run, wanting nothing more than to sprint straight for the path that led into camp that he knew was nearby but it had been ingrained in him since he was young to never lead anyone back to camp no matter what so he kept going, kept trying to get just that little bit of breathing room.
And then it was there.
A pair of trees that curved naturally, making a fancy arch over a path that led into their camp.
He didn’t dare run through the path. Didn’t dare risk giving them away more than he already was. But the camp was set back along the shore, deep inside a copse of trees. If he could just get into the trees then he could be home, he could be safe, and he wouldn’t have to hurt anymore.
And god, but did he hurt. He could hardly breathe for it, for the agony that raged through him. He couldn’t tell where his wrenched ankle started and where his shot shoulder ended, where he’d been cigarette-burned and where he hadn’t been - he felt like one giant wound.
“...the stew, Pearson?”
but he could hear them, he could hear Susan, and oh god he was almost home. She was like a mother to him - to many of them, though they’d never admit it - she’d helped raise him for nearly twenty years, had taught him to tie a tie and how to wash behind his ears, had yanked the blade from Dutch’s hands and taught him how to shave proper. He could already feel her fussing over him, getting on him for being fool enough to run around as beat up as he was.
He staggered towards them - he was so close - and a voice called out
“Who goes there?”
and he tried, he did, tried to summon his voice to call out ‘it’s Arthur!’ but he was all screamed out, his voice had long given out and he was so thirsty even if he hadn’t said a word the whole time he didn’t think he could have, his tongue was dry as sand.
Arthur took a step, wanted to get their attention - who was that, Charles? Bill? - and a lasso cinched tight around his leg and took him to the ground.
“I’ve got Morgan!”
A knife dug deep into his throat.
“There it is!”
As the knife cut across his throat, gunfire exploded in the air.