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They had been searching for Bronte when it happened. Arthur and John were upstairs in the house while the rest of the gang was downstairs. They busted open doors and pull furniture apart searching for the bastard. Angelo Bronte had double crossed them, set the law on them at the trolly station and Dutch was after revenge. Everyone could see it in his eyes, Arthur didn't really see the point in it. He kicked open another door, sweeping his eyes across the room, empty. "John anything?" He asked, a grunt and a thud were the only response he got. "John?" He asked again, stepping out of the room. He looked around, John was nowhere in sight.
He was about to head back downstairs when there was a sharp pain to the side of his head, stars danced in his vision as he hit the ground, vision swimming. John lay in front of him, two pairs of feet were beside them. They were talking, but he couldn't understand what they were saying with the ringing in his ears. His vision began to fade as he felt strong hands grip him then everything went black.
Arthur's head throbbed as he lay on the cold, hard floor. His brain foggy, and he could hear a muffled voice calling his name. His ears rang fiercely, intensifying the pounding in his head. He tried to open his eyes but quickly shut them again with a groan as the light flooded his senses. He sucked in a breath through his nose, trying to get his head to stop hurting, willing his ears to stop ringing. What had happened? Where was he? He tried to remember, but it only made his head hurt worse. Finally, the ringing in his ears began to subside and he was able to hear the voice that had been calling his name, "Arthur? You, okay?" a raspy voice said from somewhere in front of him. It was John. Arthur groaned trying to open his eyes again and immediately regretted it when the light made the pain in his head spike.
"I feel like I was hit by a train," Arthur said through gritted teeth.
"Glade to see you're alright at least," John replied.
Arthur finally managed to open his eyes and adjust to the light in the small, smog-filled room. The air was thick with the smell of steam. John was tied to a chair, both hands bound with ropes. "Where are we?" Arthur asked, trying to sit up but finding his hands were secured behind his back. "Not sure, but I'm pretty sure I know who our lovely host is," John said. As if on cue, the door opened and about four guards walked in, followed by Angelo Bronte, who wore a smirk on his face.
Great.
John and Arthur glared as Bronte strode in like he was all high and mighty. "I'm so glad you could join us gentlemen!" He said, standing in-between the two. Arthur glared as John growled, "Not like we had much of a choice." Arthur said. Bronte chuckled, "Please, you are my honored guests! And you'll have the finest treatment in my care." Bronte said, finishing his statement with venom lacing his words. "Bastard." John growled. Bronte walked over to a table fiddling with some tools, "So shall we get started gentlemen?" He asked, turning to look at them, but mainly at John.
"Where's Van Der Linde?"
They were quiet, glaring at him like he was the scum of the earth, which he was. Bronte hummed, "Stubborn. Good, this will make it more entertaining." He said, snapping his fingers. One of the guards walked in front of Arthur, laughing as he kicked him in the ribs hard. Arthur grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, a spark of pain flooding his chest. John struggled against his restraints, glaring at the man that had kicked Arthur. "I ask again," Bronte begins, "Where is Van Der Linde?" He finished. The two were still silent "Very well." He said snapping his fingers, the next few minutes were hell, a blur of pain and agony for Arthur. Bronte's men took turns beating him, each strike more brutal than the last. Arthur's vision blurred as he struggled to stay conscious, his body wracked with pain. John watched helplessly; his face contorted in anger and frustration, unable to do anything to help his friend.
Bronte watched with a sadistic smile, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "You see, Mr. Marston, I can keep this up all day. But I have a feeling your amigo won't last that long," he said, his voice dripping with malice. Arthur spat blood on the floor, glaring up at Bronte. "I'm not telling you shit. Dutch will come for us, and when he does, you'll wish you never laid a hand on him." John spat, Bronte laughed, a cold, mirthless sound. "That man is nothing but a relic of your bygone era. His time is over and so is yours." He said, kneeling in front of Arthur and grabbing him by his chin. "I will get the information I desire. Everyone has a breaking point." Bronte stood and walked towards the door snapping his fingers. "We'll continue this tomorrow." He said and then disappeared.
Bronte's men followed soon after, leaving Arthur and John alone. Arthur lay on the floor, gasping for breath, while John looked at him with guilt in his eyes, unable to do anything to stop Arthur's pain. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I should've done something." He spoke. Arthur managed a weak smile. "Ain't your fault, John. Just...stay strong, Dutch will come."
John nodded and they both went silent, Arthur hoped he was right. Hoped Dutch would come for him, hoped he wouldn't abandon them.
Arthur had endured three days of relentless torture. Bronte's men followed their orders without hesitation, beating Arthur every time John gave a wrong answer. Kicks to the ribs and face, punches while being held up-Arthur bore it all. Blood now stained the carpet where he lay, a stark contrast to the opulence around them. Bronte's patience was wearing thin. "I am losing my patience. Where is he?!" he yelled.
"Go to hell!" John shouted back; the beating resumed, even more brutal than before. "Enough!" Bronte said, Arthur lay on the ground gasping, pain coursing through his veins. Bronte walked in front of him, "Mr. Marston, I am getting tired, so tell me where?"
Arthur, despite the pain, managed to spit blood at Bronte's shoes, a final act of defiance that enraged the man. "Oops" Arthur said, weakly. Bronte seethe, taking his foot and kicking Arthur in the face. Arthur groan, blood spilling from his mouth from a split lip. "I will teach you some respect!" he said, snapping his fingers. One of his men walked over and grabbed Arthur by the hair, yanking him up roughly. Bronte approached with a black cloth and stuffed it into Arthur's mouth, gagging him. He tied the gag tightly around his head and Arthur grunts from the force.
Bronte then pulls out a knife, cutting away Arthur's shirt to reveal his bare skin. John now gets a good look at Arthur's chest; dark bruises cover his ribs as he takes in ragged breaths. Bronte moves the knife around before pressing it against Arthur's cheek. "Where shall I cut first?" Bronte asked, his voice cold and menacing. John glared at Bronte, his eyes filled with rage and desperation as the knife pressed against Arthur's face.
"Stop!" he yelled.
"Wrong answer," Bronte said, dragging the knife down across Arthur's cheek. Arthur's eyes slammed shut and groaned as the blade slowly cut through his skin. When Bronte finished, he placed the knife near Arthur's shoulder.
"Where's Van Der Linde?" Bronte asked again.
"You go to hell, you bastard!" John yelled fighting against his restrains.
Bronte smiled and slammed the knife into Arthur's shoulder, slowly dragging it down and digging it deeper into his flesh. A scream was muffled by the gag in Arthur's mouth. Bronte then moved the knife to Arthur's chest.
"Where?"
John growled, "Stop it!"
One slice across the chest.
"Where." Bronte demanded again.
"Leave him alone!" John screamed.
Another slice.
"Tell me, boy!"
"Bastard, leave him alone! Please stop!"
A third slice, then a fourth, and a fifth. Arthur's breaths were ragged and labored as Bronte snapped his fingers and his men let him go. Arthur fell to the floor, Bronte placed his foot on his back, pushing down hard. Muffled cries came from Arthur as he thrashed weakly.
"Tell me. Where. Is. Van Der Linde?!"
"Fuck you!" John yelled.
Then there was an explosion. It rocked the building, making Bronte and his men stumble, Arthur gasped as the pressure on his back was released, allowing him to somewhat breath properly. Bronte yelled in his native language to his men, who looked around somewhat disoriented. Some of them ran out of the room, rushing to the ongoing chaos outside that was starting to become louder. There was gun shots and explosions. After a few minutes, one of his men returned rushing into the room. "Sir, there's-" His sentence was cut short as a gunshot went off, and dust filled the room from another explosion, cutting off everyone's view of the room.
Hurried footsteps entered the room and Dutch, Hosea, Sadie, and Charles filed into the room, Sadie taking out the rest of Bronte's men. The room was full of dust and smoke, and no one could see Bronte.
Or Arthur...
Charles made his way over to John, while the others scanned the room searching for more danger. Charles cut the ropes that secured John to the chair, grimacing at the sight of his wrists, raw and bloody from the ropes and his struggle. "Are you alright?" Charles asked, helping John to his feet.
"Arthur," John said through gasps of breath, "Where's Arthur?!"
As the dust and smoke began to clear, a menacing voice came from the far side of the room. "You take one more step and we'll see what Mr. Morgan here looks like while he's choking on his own blood," Bronte said. The others turned their attention to him. He was covered in dust and dirt, hair a mess and face full of fury. He held Arthur by the hair, blood trailing down his scalp and running along his forehead from the force of the grip and Bronte's nails digging into his scalp. Arthur looked horrible, barely holding his eyes open and only staying up right due to Bronte's grip on his hair. Bronte held a knife to Arthur's throat, glaring and pulling it closer, making Arthur wince and whine.
John's breath quickened as he watched Dutch pull his hands up slowly. "You don't want to do this," he said in a dangerously low tone. Bronte laughed, "You think I don't? The law will be here soon, and I'll kill him in front of you as your being dragged away!" Blood trickled down Arthur's neck from where the knife was. "Now be a good boy and stay there as I take and deal with your lap dog!" Bronte started laughing, but it was cut short as a gunshot rang out.
Arthur and Bronte fell to the floor.
Dutch turned his attention behind him. Hosea had a pistol in his hand, aiming it toward where Bronte had stood. He had dangerous look in his eyes as he stared at the man now lifeless on the floor, a pool of blood slowly surrounding him. The room was dead silent except for the sound of heavy and labored breathing. John was the first to move, running over and kicking Bronte's knife away from Arthur, determined not to let that thing touch his brother again.
He quickly fell to his knees, looking over Arthur. He looked awful, face bloody and bruised, his chest and shoulder bleeding profoundly from the cuts of the knife. The gag had been tied so tightly that it was rubbing against his skin. John took out his own knife as Charles and Hosea made their way over, the look in Hosea's eyes was now replaced with fear and worry as he looked at Arthur's battered body.
John carefully cut the gag and removed it from Arthur's mouth, while Charles carefully removed the ropes around his wrists. Once free, they carefully move Arthur onto his back, carefully not to hurt him. John looked at him for any sign of life, but Arthur was still. He hadn't moved since Bronte had him in his death grip. "Arthur...?" he said, quietly. Arthur didn't stir, his eyes remained closed, and John grabbed his hand, "Arthur." Hosea was a mess, placing both hands on Arthur's face and gently stroking his cheeks, not caring that blood covered his hands. "Arthur...oh my dear boy, please, please open your eyes.." he said, tears falling from his face and landing on Arthur's swollen face.
Charles cut a cloth from his shirt, carefully beginning trying to wipe away the fresh blood from Arthur's wounds. Dutch stood off to the side, unsure of what to do or say. His boy had just been tortured for three days, and all he was doing was standing there. John kept trying to find life, listen for a heartbeat, feel for some small breath, but he couldn't find anything. "No, please no," he whispered desperation in his voice.
He gripped Arthur's hand tighter, his breath quickening, "Arthur, I'm sorry, I should've done something, said something! This is my fault...I'm so sorry." he said, moving forward and placing his forehead on Arthur's, feeling his matted hair that was full of blood. They sat like that for a while, small tears escaping John's eyes as he held his brother, who he had watched suffer and all because he wouldn't talk.
Then he felt it.
The tiniest grip from Arthur's hand, John moved back, looking at Arthur, "Arthur..?"
There it was again, that squeeze, a small grip as Arthur held onto John's hand and then there was a shuddered breath. John's heart skipped a beat, he was alive! "He's breathing!" he said, he heard Hosea make a sound that sounded like a hopeful sob, "These wounds are bad, he needs a doctor." Charles said. John nodded as he and Charles began lifting Arthur carefully, he never let go of that hand, and that gentle squeeze never went away.