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Dutch often said revenge was a luxury they couldn't afford.
Those words holding more weight now than ever. A voice in the back of his head, wondering what they had just done. He could only watch as the flames licked at the night sky, slowly devouring the manor. An entire history, generations upon generations being reduced to little more than ash. The bodies inside fodder for the blaze. A raging beast, crackling and snarling. Arthur had to take another step back to escape the raging inferno, one hand raised up to block heat, wincing as part of banister collapsed. The wood groaning, the unsettling sound tearing through him.
Dutch and Hosea stood nearby, each wearing their own grim expressions. Guns cocked and ready, the woman sprawled on the dirt between them, her bemoaning wails easily heard over the roar of fire. Hosea still prodding, still demanding answers, trading off with Dutch.
“Where is the boy?”
They were getting nothing from her, and Arthur felt his heart seize, if only just. He wondered if they would ever learn. Catherine had lost everything up to this point; what motivation did she have to share the secret now?
But he was always a fool. Had been told that more than once, which was was why he left these sort of things to Dutch. To Hosea. To those that could actually think. Because she did tell them. The words almost a snigger, her mouth turned upwards in a malevolent smile as she finally answered.
“He's inside, you fools.”
He hadn't ever seen Dutch move that fast. His fist curled in her nightgown, dragging the woman to her feet. The other, clutching his gun and driving it up under her chin. His face, pulled tight in a snarl and his voice dangerously low in a way Arthur had only ever heard it once before.
The night Colm had gaily announced Annabelle's fate.
Dutch hadn't believed Colm then. Seems as though he didn't believe Catherine here. The man was demanding a different answer, as though it would change things. The rest of them, however, looked on in horror.
There was something small and quiet within him that didn't want to believe it to be true. But he knew...Arthur could remember finding Annabelle. On how they had been too late. And now...
He was moving before he even realized. The shouts sounding behind him, full of panic and worry as pushed his way in. Disappearing into the seething beast. Determined to not be too late this time.
The heat hit him, a wall of fire, stealing his breath in one fell swoop. His lungs seized suddenly, leaving him on the verge of a panic, eyes stinging from all the smoke. So thick he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. He stumbled, reaching out, catching a hold of something, his fingers gripping tight as he bent in half, desperate for a breath.
It hurt.
Embers searing his throat, burning his lungs. But he didn't have time, Jack didn't have time. Arthur pushed, his voice broken as he called out, damn nearly collapsing as he broke into a fit of coughs.
There was no answer. Not that he could hear. They had already checked the house. Had combed it through, had called for the boy. No response had come then. Why would there be now? A part of him wondering just then if they had tied the boy up, had gagged him. The simple thought enraging him. Who the hell did that to a boy?
If he couldn't answer, Arthur would have to look. And he was quickly running out of time. His heart hammering, ready to burst from his chest. He managed a guttural breath, forcing himself back to shaky feet. Feeling his way along the wall, hand up to shelter his head from falling embers.
They had searched the house already. Had scoured every room. The very reason why they had been so sure the boy wasn't here. Yet the idea had planted itself in his head, growing like a weed. Consuming everything. Unwilling to release its hold, the certainty overpowering.
Because this whole damn area was rife with dark secrets. Some bearing signs of trade that was still active despite the depravity of the act. How many houses had he combed through in this area? How many of them held hidden rooms and secluded basements, all of which were strung with chains and hiding pristine books noting their values? Was it the same here?
He had to find out.
Arthur had gone to his knees, no longer able to keep himself upright. His throat screamed with every stunted breath, his eyes blurred with tears. The heat, unimaginable. The stench of smoke and ash searing into every cavity. It felt as though he was on fire himself as he crawled, dragging himself along the floor. Hands brushing along the floor, inching forward.
Ahead of him, something fell. Crumbling with an angry groan, and a wave of heat, far greater than he already faced, washed over him. Threatened to consume him. It felt as though his skin had been charred, and he could smell hair burning.
He wondered dimly if it was his own.
Arthur kept moving. Almost flat out on the ground now. His entire world was blazing, pulsating about him, everything bathed in an orange glow. And for a brief moment, he wondered if this was how he would die. If this was what would await him when he died. Fire and brimstone...he was trapped in it.
His fingers scrapped across the floor, digging into the wood, his chest aching as he coughed. A strained whimper fleeing his lips as he tried to draw himself further. Unwilling to give up. Unwilling to give in. Not when he had come this far. Not when someone was counting on him. And his heart seized just then when he felt it. The smallest bump. So minute, so easy to miss. So easy to overlook...but he had seen these before.
He pulled himself over, ignoring how every muscle in his body protested. Righting himself despite the ache in his lungs, forcing himself to forget the tightness in his chest. Did his best to not focus on the world slowly crumbling around him. His fingers catching the slat, trying to lift it. The damn thing was heavy...too heavy. Slipping free, falling back with a thud.
“Arthur?!”
The panic in the man's voice was easily heard. He almost cursed the damn fool. Would have, had he had the breath to do so. Instead a wave of coughs broke free, unannounced, but a blessing all the same. Because it led Marston right to him. The man crouching down, fingers wrapping tight in his jacket, the man set to drag him out.
Arthur knocked him off, using what little strength he had left. Using what little air that remained to set him straight.
“Help me lift this!”
He hoped it was enough. Because he didn't have the strength to try and explain. Seems that Marston was not the fool he appeared to be, because there was no argument. Seems as though he understood, falling to his knees near him.
They could barely see as it was. But Arthur shuffled to one side, giving John the room to fall into place. His hands gripping alongside his, the two of them lifting together. This time, this time was easier. Easier to push the slat free, to open up the hidden passageway. The light above searing through into the darkness, revealing the small boy that was huddled at the base of the stairs, his eyes wide with unshed tears.
“Shit,” Marston cursed, taking the lead and jumping down. Just as well...Arthur fell to the floor, another wave of coughs wracking his abused body. Each breath was harder, a struggle to just breathe. His eyes were watering, his vision blurring. Barely able to see when John came back out. The man hesitating, reaching out for him. The anger surged worse than the flames about them. Somehow he found his voice, yelling at the man to get the kid out of there.
He was left alone.
Heart hammering in his ears, his limbs shaking as he began to crawl. The open door ahead of him, beckoning him closer. His efforts ceasing just then as he curled in on himself, another fit consuming him. Breaths coming out in awful hacks, tearing at his throat. Felt like he had swallowed glass. The heat was suffocating...his eyes drifted close, head flat on the ground, fingers digging into the floor beneath him. His strength fleeing.
He was moving.
The realization faint, barely registered. Hands thrust under his armpits, arms wrapping about his chest, dragging him. The voice faint in his ear, as though it was far away. The fury of the fire fading slowly. The warmth of the night air was like a frigid chill in comparison to the inferno that had consumed him moments before.
Dimly, he realized that he wasn't moving anymore.
Instead, he found himself laid flat on the ground, and someone leaning over him. There was a voice he recognized, but words he couldn't place. Dully he could see Hosea above him, his lips moving, the concern etched into every crease of his face. His words still unheard. Arthur felt himself blink. Slowly...as though swimming through molasses, he was coming to. He could feel the worried fingers working through his hair, he could see the collection of faces, standing above him, watching, waiting. He could feel...
A sudden sharp breath tear through him.
Burning.
His throat felt raw, torn even more asunder as he began to cough violently, retching in between his gags. Someone rolled him to his side, gentle hands still holding him, still combing through his seared locks, careful of the burns on his face. Hosea's words now having meaning, the worry still heavy in his voice.
“There's a good lad, now. Keep breathing for me, there you go.”
A never ending mantra. Reassuring. Comforting. His breaths broken but coming. Didn't do much for his lungs, still wrought in agony. And a hiss escaped through clenched teeth as something cool came to dab against his skin, a faint attempt to temper his burns. Hosea talking again, but not to him this time.
“Let's get him back to camp, see to him there. Get something to help his lungs, and see what we have for his burns.”
He didn't much care about that. Arthur forced his eyes open, turning his head, his gaze drifting upwards. Words rough and hardly there, but he managed.
“Kid...okay?”
“Just fine,” Dutch answered, the man kneeling near him. An unsteady hand reached out, coming to rest on his shoulder. “You and John got him out alright. You did good son-now just...just rest. We got you now.”
It was all he wanted to know. The relief washing through him, the tension fading. He found himself drifting, the exhaustion pulling at him.
He happily gave into it.