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“Pick one.” Colm O’Driscoll demanded as he held his revolver between Arthur and Hosea. “Pick one, van der Linde, or I’ll do it for you.” To further prove his point, the man shot the ground directly in front of Arthur’s knees, making the boy jump.
How had they gotten here? Only earlier that day they had set out for their next venture, staking out a bank in a nearby town.
Now they were on their knees, Colm standing over them. The man had blindsighted them, he wasn’t even supposed to be in the state.
“Colm, we-we can work this out.” Dutch said desperately. “I killed your brother, not them.”
“Now, van der Linde!” Colm shot at the ground in front of Hosea. No pleading would get them out of this.
“I pick-” Dutch would truly never know why he made the decision he did. He would blame it on panic or the fact that he had been looking at Hosea at that moment. But there truly would be no excuse. “I pick Arthur.”
Dutch van der Linde, for all the years he had left, would never forget the expression on Arthur’s face. What would forever haunt him was the lack of disbelief on the boy’s face, already accepting that he was not worthy of being saved.
Nor would he forget the gut-wrenching, horrified sound Hosea made. The man would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself.
The moment Arthur Morgan was shot was a moment seemingly stuck in time. Colm gleefully grinning as the bullet pierced his chest, causing blood to pour out at an alarming rate.
“Du-” Arthur managed to gurgle through the blood in his throat, desperately reaching out to Dutch. Even after his fate had been sealed by the man, he still looked to him for help, for comfort.
Arthur whimpered weakly as Colm stomped on his hand, kicking him in the side for good measure. The boy only managed a few more desperate, choked breaths before falling still. His eyes, filled with tears, were stuck wide, his mouth open in a gasp.
Dutch’s ears rang, everything going out of focus but Arthur. He was pulled out of it by Hosea yellinn.
“Wow, Dutch! I gotta admit, I didn’t expect that,” Colm smirked, twirling the smoking gun. “I mean, didn’t you call the boy your son?”
Dutch sat frozen, transfixed on the red spreading on the grass, if only to look away from his boy’s body. Why was there so much blood? People shouldn’t bleed that much. People don't bleed that much and survive.
He was snapped away by a slap to his cheek before Colm grasped his hair, yanking his head back and forcing him to focus on Arthur.
“Look at what you did, van der Linde. Your choice cost the boy his life. Only sixteen, did you say? So young,” Colm cooed, frowning.
“I-” Dutch started.
“And don’t think Mr. Matthews here will forgive you anytime soon. I wonder what your girl will think when he tells her what you’ve done. Dutch van der Linde, all alone again. No blindly loyal dog to follow you now.” Colm snapped Dutch’s attention back to Hosea, who was curled over their boy, rocking him back and forth.
“A-Arthur, just wake up,” Hosea begged, stroking the boy’s hair out of his face and attempting a comforting smile. “You’re okay, it’s okay,” At the lack of response, Hosea buried his face into the boy’s chest, moaning in agony.
But Arthur was okay. He would be okay. They would have more time. Dutch would apologize and one day this would just be a mishap in their long lives together. Hosea would take more groveling, but he would forgive him too.
Why did Arthur look dead? He wasn’t dead.
Arthur had once caught a chill that quickly turned into pneumonia. He had looked dead, pale and lifeless as Dutch stood over him, praying to a God he had never believed in that his boy would be okay.
And he had been. This time was no different. Sure, it would be a hard recovery but he was strong, no longer the scrawny kid they picked up.
Yet staring into Arthur’s eyes, something broke. Even at his lowest, the boy’s eyes had still been bright and inquisitive. What had once been blue with a constant twinkle was now dull, seemingly staring at nothing.
Dutch turned and vomited, narrowly avoiding Colm’s shoes as the man jumped back in disgust.
“And that’s my cue to leave. I’m sure we’ll meet again,” Colm patted his head like he was comforting a small child. “Be more careful, will you? Next time I won’t be so nice,” Colm smirked.
As Dutch van der Linde sat in a clearing, blood pooling at his knees, transfixed on his son’s corpse, he swore that Colm O’Driscoll would pay.