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He couldn't quite remember a time when he had felt this awful.
He had been sick before, sure. There had been times where his head so heavy it felt fit to burst, his nose stuffed and throat so achingly sore that it hurt to swallow. And other times where his stomach was uneasy and argumentative, threatening to revolt. Living on the streets, suffering the cold, eating questionable food whenever he could find it. Yeah...he had been plenty sick, plenty of times.
But never like this.
Couldn't even lift his damn head. A throbbing ache tearing through his temples; through his entire body. His skin so hot he could swear he felt it blistering. His chest heaving, breaths little more than pained gasps. And his thoughts...god he could barely think straight. Thoughts jumbled into one confusing mess. Bleary eyes blinking, trying to focus. He didn't even know where he was. He could see the shape moving, shifting right in front of him. The figure leaning over, a rough cloth pressed against his skin.
“'Sea?”
The word broken, coming out on a thin breath.
“Hosea's not here, son.”
To that he let out a hum. Mind trying to grasp what had been said. Trying to think...to understand...why? Hosea was always there. Had sat with him more than once. The man knew what to say to make him feel better. Would read to him, his voice lulling him to sleep. He made a fine tea that often was enough to settle his stomach. Dully Arthur wondered if the man would make him some if he asked. He blinked, staring hazily as the figure moved once more.
“Hosea?”
A sigh came in response.
“No son-it-it's Dutch; Hosea left with Bessie, remember?”
No...he didn't remember. But there was part of him that wondered if he should have remembered. It sounded like it was something important. He let out a groan, eyes too heavy to keep open. Found himself drifting. The cloth back against his skin, the worried tone echoing in his ears.
“Try and sleep, Arthur. I got you-you are going to be just fine. I'll get you through this, I promise.”
He wasn't so certain about that.
Everything had gone to shit.
The day had started out well enough. A bright and early morning, the pair of them jesting about the fire as they split some oats and peaches; nowhere near the fine dining they had a few nights previously in the city, but it tasted fine all the same. There was something about the simplicity of eating from a can in the midst of the woods that seemed to invigorate him all the more. Prepared him for the day.
Because what a day it was going to be. He had plans.
Dutch and Arthur had been on their own now for a nearly a week. The decision somber but understandable. Hosea had painfully said his farewells, clasping Dutch on the shoulder, gathering Arthur up in a warm embrace. Telling the both of them to watch out for one another. To keep each other safe.
“I'll be counting fingers and toes when I get back.”
Said mostly as joke. The irony of that statement all to palpable now. The worry deep in his gut. The night crawling into early morning now, and there had been no improvement. If anything, Arthur had gotten worse.
He burned with fever. Skin so hot to the touch it was nearly painful. A restless tremble that refused to release its hold on the boy. His words turning from incoherent mumbles to delirious stutters. There, at times, seemed to be moments where he was almost coherent. Where he'd open his eyes and meet his gaze, thoroughly laced with pain, the questions tumbling out. Dutch answering them as best he could. Holding his hand, squeezing, trying to make him understand.
He kept asking for Hosea.
The mere mention of the man's name gutting him. Hosea was always the one to handle things like this. The two inseparable whenever Arthur had fallen under the weather. Didn't matter if it was a simple ache or a more pressing illness, morning often found them out by the fire, Arthur curled up against the older man and fast asleep. Looking better. Looking healthy.
Looking nothing like he was now.
There was another whimper. The boy opening his eyes, searching. Asking after Hosea once more, as though hoping the man would come and take away all the pain. Dutch felt himself swallow. Gave his hand a squeeze.
“Oh, Arthur,” he let out a heavy sigh, feeling the heat beneath his hold, “We've gotta get you over this fever, my boy.”
The only thing that remained between him and his recovery now. The thoughts dark, clouding his mind.
“There has got to be another way!”
He hadn't wanted to accept it. Dutch never did like doctors. Considered them cretin who preyed on the ill and took advantage of folk too sick to question their motives. Half of the time they were quacks selling 'remedies' that could easily be found out in the wild. He hated that they were here. Hated that there hadn't been any other choice. But Arthur had been getting worse by the minute, and now he was desperate. And Dutch had been ready to do anything to save his boy.
Anything but that.
“Longer you wait, less of a chance he'll have.”
Dutch had gambled. Had refused. Watched instead as the doctor slipped the boy something to help with the pain. Arthur nearly in tears by that point, his breaths heavy and fast as he battled an invisible demon. The boy all but collapsing as the drug took hold. Dutch watching with a leery gaze as the doctor took a knife to the skin, carving away the dying flesh. The blade digging deep into muscle, almost clear to the bone.
He had gotten sick.
The doctor snarling at him, demanding he get it together or leave. And there would be hell to pay if he just left now. So he had wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, had grasped Arthur's hand in his, thankful that at least the lad wasn't aware of what was happening.
He snarled when the doctor pressed him again.
“It will not come to that. He-he's a fighter. He will be alright.”
The determination there. Not a single doubt in his mind. Like hell he was going to agree to that.
“Cut away as much as I could, but it's not enough. Infections just gonna spread and well-eventually it'll kill him. I can have it off in a few, and he's young. He'll adapt.”
Adapt?
Like fucking hell he would.
What the doctor was proposing was a god damn death sentence. Dutch had cursed the man out, had hollered until his voice went sore, had utterly refused.
For about an hour.
Watching as Arthur slowly succumbed with each passing moment. His throat heavy, the pain in his chest amplified as he asked those crucial words. The fear gripping at him. Tears clouding his vision.
“Will it help?”
“It'll save his life.”
“...do it.”
Those two words dooming him to a fated life. He had the option to step out. The doctor promising it would be quick. The offer enticing, and fuck should he had taken him up on it, because no amount of drunken nights would ever erase those horrible sights, nor the haunting sounds as the saw worked through the bone.
At least Arthur wasn't aware.
He was far too gone. Skin pale and tepid, face looking far younger than the sixteen years that he was. Almost seventeen. Still just a kid.
What the hell had he done?
The lump in his throat threatening to choke him as he watched the doctor wrap up the bloodied stump. The man washing his hands, unbothered; acting as though he hadn't just sawed off a kid's leg.
Dutch felt sick. He distracted himself by tending to Arthur. Working to fight the rising fever, talking him through the worst of the pain as he slowly came to. Had hoped that with the limb gone, the boy would be getting better.
But he wasn't.
The fear blossoming in him anew. Wondering if perhaps he had waited too long. Had gone through all this shit only to still lose the boy in the end.
No...
He shook his head, the anger returning. He would not lose him. Dutch hadn't run a horse into the ground getting the boy here to lose him now. He tightened his hold on his hand, words soft as he reassured him. His heart hurting as Arthur mumbled once more, almost begging for Hosea.
If Dutch knew where the man was, then he would willing run a second horse into the ground to find him. He was willing to do anything to ease the boy's discomfort. If he could only temper this damn fever. Arthur's skin covered in a sheen of sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes thoroughly soaked yet again. Dutch let out a sigh, reaching a hand under the boy's shoulders.
“Let's get you into something clean, hmm?”
He didn't wait for an answer. Did his best to ignore the whimper that broke through the air. Arthur panting as he was sat up, shaking in his own mess. Eyes dull and staring straight ahead as Dutch worked the buttons free. The fabric clinging to his skin, heavy and sticky. He tossed it to one side, grabbing the cloth, wiping away at the sweat that beaded on his flesh. Doing what he could to clean him, hands gentle but quick. And heaven help him, the boy moaned, a mournful sound that cut him right to the core.
“I ain't...I ain't doing so well,” he managed to get out.
“Oh nonsense,” Dutch reprimanded him, reaching over to grab another shirt. They were going to run out of clean clothes soon. He carefully worked the boy's arms in, not bothering to button it up this time. He let Arthur sit for a moment, gave him a chance to rest. Then Dutch clicked his tongue, a hand rubbing the youth's back as another shiver raced through him.
“You are going to be just fine, you hear me?”
He let out a hum in response, a doleful sound. That wasn't enough for him.
“I ain't going to give up on you, so don't you go giving up on me. You hear me?”
“Sure...Dutch.”
“Let me hear you say it,” he pressed. And Dutch could swear he saw the boy roll his eyes. His voice stuttered as he answered.
“I a-ain't gonna g-give up.”
“There's a good lad,” he breathed. It felt good to hear him say that. He eased him back down, let him sink into the bed below. He was still far too warm to the touch. This damn fever...
The god damn snake.
He had heard it. Mere seconds before it struck. There hadn't been enough time to shout a warning, and Arthur had been none the wiser, wandering through the brush towards the river. Dutch had flown out of his saddle, had been there moments after Arthur had collapsed, crying in pain. But Dutch didn't know the first thing about snake bites.
Only that it was best to avoid them.
So he did what he thought was the best. Had tried to stop the bleeding, tying a bandage tightly about his leg. Then he had given Arthur some whiskey to help dull the pain. Whiskey he had thrown right back up soon after. Dutch scooping him up, ignoring his protests, mounting up without thought. Racing towards civilization. The horse had collapsed on the outskirts of the town. A passerby had helped them up, had pointed them in the direction of the doctor. Bursting through the door, nearly hysteric, bitter opinions pushed to one side.
Because Arthur had been nearly delirious by then. So wrapped up in pain he wasn't making sense. Not much had improved, watching him now. Each breath raspier than the last. The knowledge slowly hitting him. The guilt, overwhelming.
He had waited too long.
The thought was heavy in his heart, trembling fingers combing through his hair. Tears pricking at his eyes, threatening to fall, his chest tight and heavy. Arthur's skin was still flushed, his body trembling. Quiet whimpers of pain breaking free.
There was nothing more they could do.
The doctor had merely shrugged when asked, had simply said time would tell. And time was certainly telling, and none of the tales were favorable. Morning slowly bled into afternoon, Arthur's eyes struggling to open, darting around in the dim light. His voice rough, a plead almost.
“Hosea?”
“He's-” Dutch faltering, unable to disappoint him any further, the lie slipping out easily. “He'll come see you soon. Real soon, son.”
There was a happy sigh. His eyes falling close; the tremors easing. The room quiet in the early afternoon.
The doctor came to him an hour later. The paper laid on the bed near his hand, something tender in the his voice as he broke the silence.
“Man by the name of Jenkins; does fine work. Best undertaker in county. He'll take good care of your boy."