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say-hwaet · 6 months ago

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That's the Way it Is

Chapter: Lovers of Fire and Moonshine, Part II Previous Chapter: Nine Next Chapter: Eleven Summary: Arthur deals with the aftermath of your surprising kiss, remembering the "quiet time" he had with Lenny, and getting an earful of advice from Hosea… Warnings: Language, Violence, Drinking Word Count: ~8,100

Now that your back is turned, Arthur lets himself lift his eyes and watch you go. Your skirt is muddied and wet from traipsing in the water, your hair a mess from being unconscious on the ground. For a moment, he had thought that was it. Your headache so great, you died. He finished off the remaining raiders to hurry to your side, patting your face and calling your name, until you woke up.

And boy, what a surprise it was, when you slipped your hand behind his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

He had thought that you had come to your senses. That the light went on in your mind and you were finally remembering. Why else would you kiss him after a battle? It had to be that you recognized him. Remember him as your husband.

But then you had to go on and mention it was because of the memory you woke up from. The kiss you gave him on that cliff after he saved you from a near-death experience.

He lied to you when you asked if he remembered what it was, what he was going to say all those years ago.

But what was he to do? Just come out and say, “I was gonna tell you that I had a woman and kid waitin’ for me. It weren’t right to kiss you back.” Hm? Was he?

No. No, he was not about to do that.

And here he is again, back to where he started. Caught in between truth and lie. And letting you go when he wants you to stay.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, Arthur! You ride with me.”

Arthur doesn’t feel like riding with Dutch. He would much rather be by himself right now. Just find a secluded spot, take out his journal, and write the things that he wishes he should have done or said in real life before the moment expired.

The taste of you still lingers on his lips. Mint leaves and canned strawberries. Two things that you’ve always preferred over anything else, but you are oblivious. He knows you more than you know yourself.

And that’s his trouble.

He whistles for Montana, who comes trotting over as Dutch mounts The Count. And they ride off, going off the road.

“Have a bit of trouble back there, Arthur?”

This is quite the shift from singing praises just a moment ago. Arthur watches Dutch as he rides beside him with a suspicious gaze. “What you mean?”

Dutch wears a soft grin, his eyelids soft as he lifts his chin. “It just seemed like you took your time taking care of those men.”

“We handled it just fine, Dutch. Just some raiders.”

“Oh? Not Braithewaites?”

“No, looks like the raiders were buyin’ it from ‘em.”

Dutch rolls his shoulders as they cross a small body of water. “Well, I guess if Archibald didn’t ask too many questions about it, neither should we. These folks are just backward hicks from the middle of nowhere, they’re fools to deputize us.”

“You seem to be enjoyin’ it.”

Dutch senses the dig and scoffs. “Well, Arthur, I ain’t the one that’s really enjoyin’ themselves, am I? Seems like you’ve been gettin’ a bit too comfortable around these parts.”

Arthur's jaw tightens, his grip on the reins growing firmer. Dutch always had a way with words, poking where it hurt the most. But if he isn’t about to let him have his way this time. “I don’t like bein’ here any more than you do.”

“That isn’t what I mean. Ain’t nobody like it here.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “What’re you talkin’ about, then?”

“Kit.”

Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes. “I already told you, Dutch, I ain’t—”

Dutch cuts him off, speaking in an accusatory tone. “I see you watchin’ her, followin’ her, you sure she isn’t distractin’ you? Maybe if she wasn’t over there, you would have handled the raiders much more easily.”

Arthur doesn’t acknowledge that accusation. “You just said she did a good job. You asked her to come along.”

“Yes, I did. Might as well use her while she’s here, right?”

Arthur doesn’t appreciate that word. Use. Like as if you were disposable, but he doesn’t acknowledge that, either. “She needs to recover, she—she ain’t ready.”

“And you get to make that call? Do you own her or somethin’, Arthur?”

Arthur furrows his brow. “Of course not.”

“Good. ‘Cause these two families, I think we can play both sides, and we are going to need everyone to do their part. Kitka, especially.”

But we can’t forget the favorite. “Micah, too?”

Dutch gives Arthur a sideways glance. “Yes, including Micah. You know as well as I do, that he ain’t the last to step up.”

He ain’t the first, neither , Arthur thinks. But he isn’t about to say that out loud.

***

“They got Micah!”

“Who’s got him?!”

“The Sheriff in Strawberry…!”

Arthur stands by Dutch. He was just in the middle of receiving another lecture about bucking up and having the leader’s back when the young man came riding up into camp. They had just found Horseshoe Overlook, and these past several days have been sluggish. Quiet, yes, but also sluggish.

“There’s talkin’ of hangin’ him!” Lenny adds, his eyes white with fear and worry.

Arthur can’t hide the smile on his face. “Here’s hopin’.”

And Dutch doesn’t hesitate to reprove him. “Arthur! If you were in the same situation, he’d go rescue you.”

“I doubt that.”

For the last six months, Micah has been all talk and flattery. Sure, he knows how to use a gun and can be a great ally when it suits him, but everything else about him just spews sick and twisted. Maybe he stumbled upon the gang too early, and bypassed the O’Driscolls, as they seem to be a better match made in hell.

“Arthur,” Dutch says, gesturing to Montana. “Go take Lenny into town, get him a drink, and then go get Micah.” And after a moment, Dutch rests a hand on his shoulder. “You could probably use one too, for…you know…”

Yes, he does know, every day without your presence is a reminder of what he failed to do.

He doesn’t say anything more, but motions for Lenny to follow. He hoists himself upon Montana and they both ride towards Valentine.

Lenny watches Arthur closely, everyone has been careful around him since the events in Blackwater. The cold from Colter didn’t help things either, and Arthur doesn’t doubt that everyone would rather soon forget about all of it.

But he can’t.

“You doin’ okay, Arthur?”

Him? Arthur isn’t blind to the fact that Lenny was sweet on Jenny. Sure, they never went beyond the small flirtation, but it really could have been something. You kept telling Arthur that you wanted to help them get together.

“I want them to have what we have,” you said, your whispered breath tickling his skin.

Arthur’s grip tightens on the reins, his chin tucked into his jacket.

“Arthur?” Lenny asks.

“I’m fine, Lenny.” He looks ahead as they reach the main road. “Let’s just…get you a drink. You can calm your nerves a bit, don’t think about Micah right now.”

Lenny shakes his head. “Micah, I swear, he was lookin’ for trouble.”

As they trot into the muddy streets of Valentine, the town buzzes with the usual chatter and clatter. The sky, a palette of dusky pinks and deep blues, stretches overhead, giving off a sense of tranquility that seems almost contradictory to Arthur’s stormy heart. He hitches Montana outside Smithfield's Saloon and waits for Lenny to follow.

They both walk up the steps and Arthur swings the saloon doors open, taking in the smell of cigar smoke and whiskey, and hearing the piano play a bouncy tune. Some working women look him up and down, nearly licking their lips, but he doesn’t even glance their way. His heart's too wrapped up in thoughts of you, as if you were a ghost haunting every corner of his vision. After all, you’d been haunting him in the winds of Colter for the past couple of weeks.

Inside, the wooden floor creaks under their heavy boots, and the barkeeper, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache and a gruff voice, nods at them. “What can I get you, folks?”

Arthur leans on the counter and Lenny mirrors his movements. “A couple of beers, please.”

The bartender nods and gets right to it.

“Just one drink, right, Arthur?”

Arthur nods absentmindedly, his mind going elsewhere. Everything still feels fresh in his mind and he worries that he will never be free of it. Free from loving only long enough to feel pain.

Mary.

Eliza.

Now you.

And each time, aside from Mary, it was kept a secret. He felt that maybe, if no one knew about it, it couldn’t be used against you both. No one could threaten to destroy it, or harm you. It was the mere association with Arthur that got Eliza killed, even in her cabin in the middle of nowhere. And his distance couldn’t protect her. Or his son.

And his closeness couldn’t protect you.

But then he saw you. Right there in the open street, just after scratching his face.

And you couldn’t recognize him.

Was it some kind of sick joke? Just someone pretending to be you? No, not when you sounded like that, looked like that, felt like that. He’d know you like he’d know his own heartbeat, irregular as it sometimes is. It felt like the world slipped sideways, like one of those dreams where you can’t quite grasp what’s real and what’s not. But the pain in his chest was real enough, sharp and piercing. And it tore him in pieces when he had to bring himself to walk away.

The large glass of beer slides into Arthur’s arm as it rests on the counter, startling him from his thoughts.

Lenny has already picked up his and lifts it towards Arthur. “Cheers, Arthur!”

Arthur forces a smile and they clink glasses before he brings it to his lips and drinks.

And drinks.

***

“LENNNNAYYYYY!!!!”

Arthur struggles to find his footing as he wanders through the saloon. For some damned reason, he has lost track of his pal, his comrade, and no matter how many times he calls his name, that damned boy won’t answer.

Hell.

The world seems to spin a little, his vision distorted by colors of gold and purple, he feels warm and fuzzy, like a peach.

Arthur likes peaches. They kinda remind him of—

He hears an odd sound as he walks up the stairs, his large hand trying to grip onto the railing. Reaching the top and walking the balcony, he sees a crazy young man trying to balance a glass on his head.

Ynnel?? Wait, no. Lenny! It’s Lenny!

“Lenny, mah boah…!!!”

Arthur tries to quicken his steps, nearly shoving a woman who gasps at his forwardness, though it almost appears like it isn’t unwarranted.

But, of course, Arthur could care less.

He reaches the boy and takes hold of the railing. “What. Are. You. Doin’?”

Lenny’s cheeks are ruddy, a grin on his face. “I don’t—” He fumbles with the glass and it falls off of his head onto any innocent folks down below. Lenny lets out a hiccupped chortle, looking at Arthur with the goofiest face he has ever seen.

Somehow, there is another beer in Arthur’s hand. Well, he isn’t about to complain. He brings it to his lips and lets the liquid sour down his throat, it filling his belly with a sloshing sound that is almost as sickening as it is satisfying. He smacks his lips, lets out a deep sigh, and leans over the railing.

Lenny leans as well, swaying from side to side as though he were dancing. This is hilarious, and Arthur cackles loudly.

“Well, why ain’t you never married?” Lenny asks suddenly.

And Arthur, drunken Arthur, is quickly reminded of his failed attempts at marriage and the one success he managed. He isn’t about to tell Lenny that he is, in fact, married. The memory has begun to be buried. Buried deep, too deep, and tangled up in a mess of sorrow and lost dreams. He shakes his head instead, taking another swig from the bottle that warms his insides but does little to chase away the chill of his truths. “I reckon marriage ain’t for everyone,” he slurs.

“Just say no one would have ya, Arthur! Be honest with yourself…!” Lenny laughs and takes another drink.

Arthur finds it comical. Hysterical. If only he could have been as successful as an outlaw just as successful he was in keeping his marriage a secret, he’d be better off. He wouldn’t be here, drunk as a skunk, pining for a woman who acts like he is a complete stranger.

Well, If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

So he picks up another bottle and drinks.

And drinks.

***

“Eugh…” Arthur feels as though his head is going to explode. Every heartbeat sends a throbbing pulse through his skull, his stomach twisting and turning. He brings a hand to rub the ache behind his eyes, the dull throbbing piercing through his irises.

He did it. He got drunk. Severely drunk.

He rolls onto his side, opening his eyes to the brightness of day. “You moron, Morgan,” he groans. And he struggles to get up. If he thought lying down was awful, standing up is worse. He feels it in his stomach and before he can get the chance, he keels over and vomits.

And as he bends over, he sees a fleck of gold come out from under his shirt and it hangs in front of him.

He wipes his mouth, wishing he had some water to wash it down with, but his eyes are drawn to the gold chain…and what it holds.

His heart sinks and he takes between his fingers the ring that he had put on that chain just weeks ago.

He didn’t want it to be on his finger. Not when it was too risky. People wouldn’t pay any mind to you if you were wearing one, it’s your mother’s, but him? Dutch and the rest of them would surely figure it out.

He was planning on putting it on, as soon as he met up with you again. With only your few possessions and love for each other, that was going to be your lives from then on.

He looks at the ring for a bit longer, then slips the chain back under his shirt, hiding it close to his heart where it belongs. The weight of the gold feels heavy against his chest, a constant reminder of what he’s lost—and what secrets he must keep even from those closest to him.

Arthur staggers to his feet, steadying himself against the rough bark of a nearby tree, and looks out onto the horizon.

That was you. He knows it deep in his soul, and far be it from him to let you be lost to him ever again.

Turning, carefully, he makes his way back to Valentine, where Montana waits for him.

He’s got a lot of ground to cover.

***

“Arthur!” Hosea sees him coming and waves him over as he stands by the wagon full of moonshine. It has been a couple of days since the destruction of the stills, and there’s no doubt in Arthur’s mind that Hosea has an idea.

Arthur salutes the man, speaking in a low tone. “Hosea…”

Hosea’s smile doesn’t falter and he turns to gesture to the wagon behind him. The bottles glisten as they catch the light that peaks through the trees, giving off the illusion that the cargo is more precious than it ought to be. “What do you think?”

Arthur manages a smirk and chuckles softly at his surrogate father’s excitement. “I think you got a lotta moonshine on your hands.”

“Oh yes, we do. And I’ve been coming up with something. A plan!” Hosea then rests a hand on the side of the wagon and looks back at Arthur, a certain gleam in his eye. “For both of you.”

“Both of who?” Arthur blinks.

And Hosea, good ol’ cunning Hosea, casually shrugs and lifts his eyes upward. “Oh, I don’t know, someone with a knack for performances.”

And then Arthur understands. He means you. Of course, it would be you. But Arthur has yet to tell him about what happened back at the still. Against the wall of a shanty. He takes a deep breath and exhales, speaking quieter and taking another step toward him. “Hosea…”

He must see it in Arthur’s face, for he lowers his hand and raises his brow in concern. “What’s it, Arthur?”

“Somethin’ happened…”

Hosea searches his son’s face. “What? What’s wrong?”

Arthur rubs the back of his neck, recalling the feeling of your hand there, and the pressure you applied to bring him close. “She kissed me, Hosea.”

It takes but only a moment for it to register, for his eyes brighten and his smile returns. “Does that mean she…?”

Arthur shakes his head, quickly dispelling any hope that Hosea just had. “No. She doesn’t know.”

But this will not do. Hosea’s brow lowers and his gaze intensifies as he crosses his arms. “Arthur, you need to tell her.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know why I can’t.”

Hosea clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “No, I really don’t. It seems that you are making something out of nothing.”

But he does have cause. He knows he does. Hosea hasn’t seen it happen. He doesn’t see how the light goes out of your eyes, how your face contorts in pain. How tense you become. He takes another step toward Hosea. “This last spell she had, this last one knocked her out for a few minutes.”

“Okay? Was she in any danger?” Hosea’s tone indicates he’s hardly bothered by it, as though Arthur is just making up another excuse. Maybe he overestimates your resiliency. Maybe Hosea has too high of expectations for you. Or maybe he’s questioning Arthur’s own capabilities?

Well, he wants to reassure Hosea that he protected her this time. “I kept her safe.”

Hosea swings an arm in Arthur’s direction. “Well, there you go, then.”

He baited him, and he felt for it. Hosea has always been like that. A sly fox, leading the conversation even when you might think it was your idea and by your lead all along. “Hosea—”

Hosea cuts him off, pointing a finger in his direction. “Maybe if you tell her, you can save her from any pain. If only you’d just spare her the trouble of figuring it out on her own!”

Arthur shakes his head. “It ain’t that simple.”

But Hosea is persistent, nodding his head and being more assertive in his tone. “It is. Tell her.”

Arthur feels the tightness in his chest, an aching weight on his shoulders that makes them droop. He lowers his head, most of his face being shielded by his hat. “I can’t.”

There is a pause, with nothing but the sound of birds warbling their afternoon songs. The high-pitched sound of bugs could almost make the earth vibrate. But Arthur wouldn’t notice. He feels like he is already sinking. Hosea exhales and runs a hand over his face. “Arthur, you’re just as stubborn as they come.” He clicks his tongue and rests his hand on his hip. “Why won’t you tell her?”

Arthur speaks it so softly, Hosea can barely hear it. “I can’t lose her again.”

But it reaches his ears and, dissatisfied, he shakes his head, looking down at the ground. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Hosea, imagine if she did know. If she did remember that somethin’ happened between us.” He watches for Hosea’s reaction to those words. They both know the truth, and share suspicions of what happened in Blackwater. So much has happened, and things are far from over. You are still in danger, regardless of what you know and don’t know. Arthur stands beside Hosea now at the wagon and leans his body into it. He looks around them, letting his eyes follow the dirt path that leads to the camp. He thinks about everyone there. The lives that rely on him. The people he cares about. “Things are changin’, times are changin’. Our lives ain’t the same since Blackwater. Anythin’ could happen. Pinkertons. The law. Even whatever this...” He gestures to himself, indicating his own giants he wrestles with. “…this thing is. If I just let things go, if I just let things be, then—”

Hosea places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, trying to speak the truth in a way so Arthur can hear him. “This isn’t about being some martyr to lost love, Arthur. You won’t be the only one suffering.”

But Arthur doesn’t care about himself. He has a purpose for burying his pain. “You’re wrong. She won’t be sufferin’.”

Hosea removes his hand, briefly throwing it in the air before clapping his leg in frustration. “She already is suffering! You don’t see the agony in her face? She knows! Deep down she knows, and wants to remember! She knows something is going on and we’re not telling her!” He points at Arthur again. “You’re not telling her!” His raised voice echoes into the trees and they both breathe sharply. If they can manage anything right now, it is to be discreet. Hosea lowers his head, letting out a sigh slowly. “What would you rather have? You tell her now and get it out in the open, or she finds out after months of headaches to only wonder why you never told her?”

That is an interesting question. What would he rather have? If he could tell her now, how would he do it? What would he say? Whatever he chooses, it can’t be like this. “Times not right, we’re still settlin’ into camp—”

Hosea interjects with a harsh truth, his voice calm, but sharp. “Arthur, there comes a time when you stop making excuses and just do it.”

And suddenly, Arthur hears a soft voice, pouring out like honey, making his hairs stand on end. “Do what?”

Arthur and Hosea quickly turn to see you, in your dark pants and oriole-feathered hat, watching them curiously. Arthur had forgotten that Hosea called you here and he feels the color run from his face. Did you hear all of that? You don’t look like you have, but stealth and masking are your strong suits. You could have been right behind him and he wouldn’t have noticed.

Hosea grins a toothy smile and claps Arthur’s shoulder. “Just—playing dress up!” He gestures to the stunned outlaw, giving him a gentle shake. “Arthur, here, see, doesn’t like to pretend…” There is a subtle dig with the word pretend , but Arthur pretends to not notice.

You arch your perfectly shaped brow and give them both a playful smirk. “He doesn’t?” You can't help but tease, almost as if you know exactly what Arthur's response will be.

And Arthur answers flatly. “No, I don’t.”

You continue to walk over to them, smiling and still barefooted. “What are we dressing up for?”

Hosea lets out a warm chuckle and spreads his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. “I love your attitude, young lady! I knew that I felt the ache of your absence for a lot of reasons!”

You slow your pace and come to a halt beside Hosea, placing a hand on your hip in a gesture of casual confidence. Arthur's eyes immediately drift towards the curve of your body, tracing the alluring silhouette created by your tight-fitting jeans. The cotton hugs your curves in all the right places, accentuating your feminine figure and drawing his attention. A faint smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he takes in the sight before him, though it quickly disappears when your hazel eyes glance in his direction before addressing Hosea. “What, you had no one else to be the entertainment around here?”

“Of course not, but you could barely juggle to save your life.”

You laugh. “I know.” And you switch to a calm demeanor, speaking almost in a strictly business sort of way. “What are we doing?”

And so, without no further delay, Hosea begins to debrief you both on his plan. “Advertising, my dear! Advertising!” He gestures to the wagon of moonshine. “We’re going to waltz right up to the Braithewaites and see if we can’t be rewarded for doing the neighborly thing of returning it to them. What do you say?”

You lift a brow and suppress a chortle. “We’re dressing up for that?”

“Maybe not this, necessarily, but we are coming before southern aristocracy!”

You look down at your pants, a pensive look on your face. “Well, I suppose I can change into a nice skirt…”

“That’s my girl! Go on and change, and meet us back here.”

“Alright.” And with that, you turn to walk away.

Once you’re out of earshot, Hosea speaks, but still with his voice lowered. “You owe me for this, Arthur.”

“Thank you, Hosea,” Arthur exhales.

But his gratitude nearly diminishes when he feels Hosea’s index finger in his chest, it almost feeling like a tip of a blade. “And you will tell her.”

Arthur swallows. “Once I—once I can figure out what to say.”

Hosea looks almost irritated, like a parent too tired to continue disciplining his delinquent child. “I know words don’t always come naturally for you, Arthur, but with her, it never was difficult.”

Arthur lowers his head. Hosea is right. You and him used to talk often and willingly, but you weren’t under such strain. He wasn’t fighting his own fears and reservations in an effort to protect you. He speaks quietly, his eyes not lifting once to look up. “Not anymore.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Hosea’s question nearly catches Arthur off guard. He was expecting some empathy, but it is clear that Hosea isn’t having it this time. ”Remember what I told you.”

Arthur remembers, it’s been playing in the back of his mind since their conversation at Emerald Ranch. To leave; to build a life for himself and get you out. “I know.”

“I meant it! And you’re right, things are changing; things are taking a turn for the worse. I’ve been telling Abigail the same thing—”

This is surprising. “Abigail?”

“Yes! You think I want to see her and her son killed? For some dreams that don’t ever seem to be realized? She needs to think about her son. Whether or not John decides to join them is his choice. Maybe…maybe if they leave that might motivate him as well. For now, my concern is for them.”

“What about everyone else?”

“They are old enough to make their own choices. But Abigail is scared. Aside from you, and Kit, she’s got no one really to help her. I know how you feel about John, I know you have some anger towards him. You were young once. You didn’t always make the right choices.” And after a moment of thought, Hosea decides to add, “Mary was one of those choices.”

Arthur feels himself bristle at this. He knows he’s made mistakes, but it doesn’t help any to bring them up. “What, you think I should have stayed with her?”

“Of course not! I just wish you didn’t have to go through that in the first place.”

There is a brief pause, filled with unspoken thoughts. “Did you always think that Kit and I would end up together?”

Hosea tilts his head and shakes it slowly. “Didn’t expect it at all, doesn’t mean that I never hoped for it. It’s just that you were the loner type for quite a while.”

He was. But he had a reason. When he found the two crosses that marked the graves of his woman and child, he didn’t really feel like living. “I guess…things don’t always happen as you predicted them to.”

“No, they certainly don’t,” Hosea responds with conviction, his sharp tone chastising Arthur once again. “You hit the nail on the head, Arthur,” he continues, driving his point home. "Which is why you need to gather the courage you're always using in those gunfights." There is a brief pause as Hosea studies Arthur's face, searching for any sign of understanding or compliance. "I mean it," he adds firmly.

Finally, after a moment of hesitation, Arthur nods in agreement. “Alright.”

There is movement at the corner of Arthur’s eye and he turns to see you return. You are wearing a blue pinstripe skirt that goes nicely with the white button-up and dark vest you were already wearing. And it doesn’t hurt your figure, either. Anything you wear, even the simplest of garbs, makes Arthur feel weak in the knees.

Hosea resumes his energetic persona, greeting you with great elation. “Ah, look! Perfect!”

You bashfully lower your gaze, brushing off invisible dirt from your skirt. “I know it’s not that…fancy, Hosea…”

But Hosea just shakes his head dismissively. “We’re not looking for fancy, we’re looking for clean and neat! And maybe then they won’t think we’re the scum at the bottom of their shoe.” He lets out a short laugh and turns to face the wagon. “Alright, let’s get on this wagon. Arthur, you drive.”

“You Shoah?” Arthur asks.

“Of course! And the lady can sit up there with you. I’ll sit in the back.” Hosea replies, a warm smile spreading across his wrinkled face.

You come closer, your brow lifted in concern and empathy as your voice conveys great selflessness. “Oh, Hosea, the back can be so uncomfortable. Please, let me—”

But Hosea interrupts with a dismissive wave of his hand before lifting himself to the back of the wagon with a grunt. “No, don’t you worry about me,” he insists. “I’m going to go ahead and sit back here and regale you all with what I've learned about these Braithewaites…” He lets out a mischievous chuckle, his eyes sparkling with ideas not fully spun yet.

Arthur, after hesitating, goes over to help you up onto the wagon. Offering a hand, you look into his eyes and take it. A sense of relief washes over him, glad that you aren’t rejecting his aid. He feels the softness of your hand in his, and resists the temptation to hold onto it just a little while longer.

Climbing onto the seat, you settle next to Arthur, the wood and leather creaking under your combined weight. With a gentle flick of the reins, the wagon begins to roll forward, the wheels carving tracks into the soft mud of the trail. You pull your skirt neatly around your knees and look ahead, not starting any conversation. He decides to focus on the road, listening to the gentle clicking of the moonshine bottles, careful not to drive too fast, or too slow.

You speak suddenly, almost making Arthur jump in his seat. “So, Hosea, you were saying?”

Hosea clears his throat. “Well, I mentioned the horses to Dutch, and he is going to send John to look into it…In the meantime, we will make a formal introduction and get into their good graces so we can play both sides…All I keep hearing is that they hate each other so much they can’t see past it.”

Arthur nods. The past three days he’s been busy keeping up with two of them in particular, a Braithewaite girl and a Gray boy. Two young lovers, forbidden from one another, like a watered-down version of Romeo and Juliet. He can empathize with their plight, to a degree, given the secrecy and keeping their heads down, which is probably why he’s been willing to help them. The fools.

It seems that fate always has a stick where the sun doesn’t shine, for it always finds a way to prick at Arthur where it hurts the most.

Hosea continues on thoughtfully. “I’m sure there’s money in all this somewhere, if we can only get in the middle of it.”

***

Well, Master Braithewaite turned out to be Mrs. Catherine Braithewaite. A crotchety old woman with a southern drawl that exudes bitter molasses. With your sweet-appearing demeanor and Hosea’s quick tongue, you all managed to drive away with some cash and the moonshine. Upon her order, Arthur is to drive the wagon to Rhodes, to deliver the moonshine to the saloon and give it away. That’s right, for free.

Arthur sees Rhodes in the distance, and his thoughts are interrupted by Hosea’s mischievous chuckle. Arthur looks briefly over his shoulder, to see Hosea pulling something out of a canvas sack.

It is an old hat.

“Well, my dear, this is where we put those skills of yours to use.” And he holds the hat out to you. “You are going to be my poor stepchild, who owes me a great debt after gambling our family fortune.”

Arthur looks over at you to see your eyes sparkle, taking the hat and replacing the one on your head with it.

“And Arthur—”

Arthur shakes his head quickly. “No, not me.”

“You are just going to be the mute driver. Killed your mother for making you angry. You aren’t good for much else but driving the wagon.”

Arthur hears you chuckle and just as he looks back at you, you straighten up and bite your lower lip. The corners of your mouth turn up ever so slightly, betraying the hint of a smile as you adjust the hat on your head. The ruse is simple, pitiable yet convincing. Arthur can see by the look in your eyes that you already know how to play the part; life itself being an extended performance.

You look down at your hands, your voice soft but full of energy. “I can already imagine them being stained with cards. Chips flying everywhere as I flip a table in anguish.”

Arthur snorts, shaking his head. “You sure do have a wild imagination, Kit." His voice carries a mix of amusement and admiration, the roughness softened momentarily by the gentle tease. "Just make sure you don't actually start throwin' things around in there."

And you reply with a little quip of your own. “Just don’t give me any dynamite, and we will be just fine.”

As the wagon rolls down the dusty road to Rhodes, the tension in the air shifts subtly. And Arthur knows that he will have to remain silent until they are out of town again. He’s nearly forgotten about the badge on his shirt, and quickly takes it off and tucks it in his satchel before they pass the first building that leads into town.

Turning down the street, he pulls up behind the saloon.

“Show time,” Hosea whispers, and gets off the wagon. “Why, Fatima! You best put your back into it today and bring that case with you!” he barks at you, already playing the evil stepfather role quite well.

Arthur watches you, as you step down from the wagon with a practiced slump, your shoulders rounded and head bowed, embodying the downtrodden, penniless stepdaughter to perfection. Arthur’s eyes scan the bustling streets of Rhodes, taking in the townsfolk who pause to watch the new arrivals with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

You lift the heavy crate with a surprising ease, and Arthur lifts his brow. Your eyes lift to meet his and you put on a grin before switching it to a sour expression as she speaks noticeably slower to him. “Now, you stay there, Fenton! Don’t you leave this here spot until we come right back!”

He merely grumbles. And you continue with your task of lifting the crate and following Hosea.

Arthur continues to watch you two as you approach the saloon from the back. Two men stand outside, looking bored out of their minds.

Hosea waves over to them. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Quite the town you got here, we just moved in from up north!”

The men just stare and as their eyes move to you, they seem to appear more interested. Arthur feels himself tense up, watching their gazes linger just a little too long for his liking.

One of the men replies, his eyes not leaving you. “Hey…”

Hosea continues. “Hello…! My name is Melvin, and this is my stepdaughter Fatima. Don’t pay her no mind, she’s quite worthless, bled my family dry. But if it weren’t for her mother, I’d have cast her out ages ago.” He barely pauses for breath, his fast tongue almost throwing the men off guard. “How’d you boys like a couple of bucks?” He pulls out some money from his pocket and holds out the cash to them. “We are into advertising, which is to ensure that people buy the correct things. And we would like to advertise to the good patrons in there.”

The men cast glances at each other, shifting on their feet with unease. “I don’t know…”

But then you step forward, putting on a pathetic expression, your words coming out soft and juvenile. “Please, sirs, we don’t mean no trouble. Just need to get this crate inside and talk to those fine folks in there. Mother’s been ailing something fierce and we need every penny we can scrape together.” You lower your face and even from where Arthur sits, he can se a solitary tear stream down your cheek. “It’s my fault we have no money.”

Your plea, layered with a thick layer of innocence and desperation, seems to soften one of the men. One scratches his head, looking from Hosea to you, his expression wavering. "Well, alright then.” And taking the money from Hosea, they both begin to walk away, eager to spend their new dollar. “Just quick-like, ya hear?"

Hosea nods enthusiastically, clapping the man on the shoulder. "You have my word, sir. Quick as a wink," he promises, ushering you forward with the crate.

Once the door closes behind you, the air is left with silence. Arthur shifts in the wagon seat, carefully watching for anything that might seem odd or unnerving. He may be playing as the dumb idiot, but he isn’t going to act like one, especially if the situation demands something strong and quick on the draw.

Several minutes go by before the sound of music erupts from within the saloon.

He looks up and through the window, he can see you behind the bar, pouring drinks for men that begin to surround you. You perform little tricks as you do so, from bending backward to pour into a glass, to flipping a bottle elegantly from hand to hand. Your movements are fluid, mesmerizing the crowd with every delicate yet confident motion. Amidst the chaos of laughter and drunken banter, Arthur can't help but marvel at how you can make even the mundane act of serving drinks look like a dance.

All he cares about is that you are safe, managing deftly within the lion’s den. The crowd’s attention clings to you, their eyes caught up in the contortion of your arms, the swift flick of your wrists. Even from a distance, Arthur watches anxiously, noting every man who steps too close or looks too long at you.

It seems as though time passes by quickly, for it is already dark and the noise inside turns into a raucous. He hears glasses break, whoops and hollers, but he still finds you behind the bar, serving drinks like there is no tomorrow.

That’s when he hears another wagon pull up.

Turning, he sees several men, in old army hats and getup, leap off the wagon and hurry into the saloon. He instantly recognizes them.

Lemoyne Raiders. And they are not happy.

He has to get you and Hosea out of there before everything goes to hell. Leaping down from the wagon, he reaches for his rifle. Already armed with his volcanic pistols, he makes quick steps as he enters the saloon from the back.

He hears a deep voice call out from within the saloon. “You!”

And Hosea’s meek reply. “Me?”

“You’re the bastards who stole the liquor we was gonna buy…!”

Hosea quickly tries to settle the situation. “Gentlemen, we are merely in advertising. Have a drink!”

But it doesn’t work. Just as Arthur reaches the back opening to the bar, he hears the first gunshot.

He sees you duck, a quick scream escaping your lips and he crouches down right beside you. “Kit…!” You look up to find him and he hands you one of his pistols. “I saw them ride up. They ain’t too happy with us.”

You almost chuckle at that, checking the ammo in his gun. “You think?”

A gunfight ensues, patrons and cowards alike trying to flee the drunken bash while the Lemoyne raiders try to act on their revenge. Arthur gets up long enough to take down several of them in a matter of seconds, a skill that he is known for.

Despite the ringing in his ears, Arthur moves like a shadow, his figure etched against the dim lantern lights that start to swing overhead.

He turns to see you take a shot, your hand, though unfamiliar with his weapon, aims with dead accuracy. Even so, he knows your movements by heart—every duck, weave, and shot feels like a dance you’ve both rehearsed for years.

“Sure wish I had my sawed off,” you grumble. “Would be nice to see this place burn a little.”

Your brazenness is coming out in bursts. Arthur always knew you to have a playful obsession with fire, you pyromaniac, but it seems to become more prominent as you are placed in more dangerous situations.

“There’ll be time for that,” Arthur comments, and he finds an opening to get out of cover. He leaps over the counter and turns back to you. “We gotta get out of here!”

You nod and reach for him. Taking your arms, he helps you over the counter. Then suddenly, your eyes look up behind him and you point. “Arthur…!”

Turning, he sees a Lemoyne raider descending down the stairs, taking aim at him. He quickly draws, shooting the man down and he falls over the banister.

Arthur’s relief is momentary before he shifts his focus back to you, scanning your body for any injuries with a furrowed brow. “You still alright, Kit?”

You nod, brushing off dust and debris from your clothes, an attempt to regain some composure. “Never better,” you declare, though your voice trembles with an excitement. “We need to find Hosea.”

Right. It’s best that you don’t leave him behind. Instinctively taking your hand, Arthur leads you up the stairs, looking frantically for the onery man.

And just as he reaches the top of the stairs, he spots him, struggling in the grip of another raider.

Arthur doesn't hesitate. He pulls you along, his grip on your hand firm as his other hand reaches for his gun once more. As you approach, he lets go of your hand and moves with that same predatory grace that always seems to surge forth in these moments of dire need.

The raider holding Hosea is laughing, his teeth yellowed and nearly rotten. “I’ll show you for stealin’ our liquor!!!”

And with a simple click, Arthur pulls the trigger. The raider's laughter abruptly ends as he crumples to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his shirt. Hosea gasps for air, pushing the lifeless body off him with a shake of his head.

Arthur rushes over, extending a hand to help Hosea up. "You alright, old man?" he teases, pulling him to his feet and patting him on the back.

“It’s never the wrong time for jokes with you, is it, Arthur?” he gasps, rubbing his neck for a moment before continuing the escape.

You three hurry out through the french doors to the balcony. The air is nice and cool compared to the stuffiness inside the saloon. Rushing over eaning against the railing, you spot the wagon below.

“I love heights, don’t you?” you murmur enthusiastically, a wry smile tugging at the corner of your mouth despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Arthur glances at you with a smirk, the kind that softens his rugged features momentarily. "Yeah, just as much as I love getting shot at," he retorts. His eyes scan down the street and he spots more raiders coming. He turns to Hosea. “You first, old man!”

And Hosea, not waiting for another prompting, takes the leap of faith and lands in the wagon.

Arthur then turns to you. “Ladies, first!”

And the look you give him nearly sends his heart to his throat. A flirtatious glance with half-lidded eyes as you lift your chin. “Such a gentleman…” You then climb over the railing, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. You glance back at Arthur whose eyes are fixed on you, filled with a fierce protectiveness, despite his knowledge that you could do this in your sleep if you wanted.

“Could we speed this up?” Hosea calls worriedly. “We’ve got company!”

You let go and fall gracefully to the ground, rolling to break your fall. You rise quickly to your feet and you climb up the wagon and take the reins. “C’mon, Fenton! Don’t want to keep Mama waiting!”

Arthur chuckles to himself, admiring your audacity even in the face of danger. He climbs down with a practiced ease, landing next to the wagon with a thud that sends a cloud of dust swirling around his boots. He leaps up beside you, grabbing the seat just as you crack the reins. The horses quickly turn around and gallop down the street, nearly missing a man walking along the fence line.

But of course, this commences the chase, as some mounted Lemoyne Raiders ride after you.

Arthur curses under his breath. Readying his rifle as you continue to drive. “Can we go one day without someone trying to shoot us?” he grumbles, squinting against the dust your wagon kicks up.

You shrug, eyes on the road, the reins tight in your grip. “Wouldn’t be much of a life if it were quiet, that would be bezvýznamný,” you reply, a hint of your native tongue coloring the edges of your words.

“Say what’chu want, but I’d rather not die.”

“What happened to your confidence, Arthur?” Hosea teases, as he holds onto the sides of the wagon for dear life. The remaining bottles of moonshine click and clack loudly as you make another turn.

Arthur takes another shot and downs a raider. “How’s that for confidence?”

You laugh loudly, a thunderous laugh, and Arthur didn’t realize how much he missed it until now.

After some more turns, shots, and dodges, you three manage to eliminate and escape the raiders. You pull the wagon into a secluded spot and let the reins drop with a long exhale.

“We made it…!” you cheer. “That was some fun!”

Arthur rolls his shoulders, letting some of the tension go. “Shoah…”

Hosea lets himself off of the wagon, stretching his legs a little, his muscles aching after that ride. “That was some good driving, Kitka! Remind me to bring you along for the next getaway chase.”

Arthur swings his leg over the edge of the wagon and hops down to stand beside Hosea, a wry smile playing at his lips. "Well, if it ain't for Kit's drivin', we'd probably be riddled with bullets by now."

You walk by Arthur, a soft smile on your face. “I’d say it was your confident shooting. Couldn’t have done it without you, King Arthur.”

Arthur’s heart nearly stops. King…?

He turns and meets your eyes. In them, he sees a mixture of admiration and something deeper, something that he doesn’t want to misinterpret. He takes a step closer, his large hands lingering by his sides, holding back from drawing you into an embrace.

He swallows. “Why did you call me that?”

You shrug and look down at your feet. “I’m not sure. It seems fitting, doesn’t it?”

Of course, what was he thinking? “I guess so.”

Arthur looks over at Hosea, who has been watching you both with a gleam in his eye. “Well, I guess we can figure out what to do with the rest of this shine tomorrow. For now, I think I have a bedroll calling my name.”

You nod. “I agree.” And you turn to look up at Arthur. “Ready to go back to your kingdom, Arthur?”

He squints slightly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "I reckon that kingdom's nowhere nearly as grand as the one you're imaginin’."

You chuckle softly, your eyes catching the moon’s light as it rises into the night sky. For all he can imagine, you could be his Guinevere, his queen. “I guess you’re right,” you sigh, and you turn to get back on the wagon.

But in this moment, he realizes that it only matters if you know it, too.

Thank you for reading!

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thetomorrowshow · 9 months ago

Text

Whumptober 4 - Hallucinations

title: marked

fandom: empires smp

this is an alt pov of my fic hubris killed the god! i recommend reading it first

cw: blood, hallucinations, implied/referenced character death

Jimmy doesn't say a word when he feels something almost fuzzy brush against his wrist.

He just finishes drawing his chalk arrow and keeps going.

Pix isn't here. He's still clinging to a little shred of hope, the only thing that's stopping him from pulling the entire group out right now, the only thing keeping him from telling them he was touched.

If Pix was here, it all would have been worth it.

But Pix isn't here.

And the further they get, the clearer it is.

But there are plenty of those varmints around, and one of them appears out of nowhere to scare them, so Jimmy turns and makes a break for it, calling for them all to follow him.

He can't bear to let another one of them fall.

But he's too late.

When Shelby climbs onto the airship, the first thing she does is run to the staircase that leads to the stern, wedging herself in the little corner between the stairs and the captain’s cabin.

"I'm dying," she sobs, when Jimmy approaches her, hands out. "I'm going to die!"

"I know," he calls back, over the sound of the ship.

He doesn't know what else to say.

"I don't want to die," Shelby cries. Her hands tear at her face, at the place where a little red mark is already forming on her cheek.

Gently, Jimmy pulls her hands down, holding them in his own. She shakes, bends over just a bit, as if her body is trying to curl up without her input.

"We're here," he shouts, the wind whipping away his words. "We're not gonna leave. It's okay, we're right here with you."

"I didn't do anything wrong," she chokes out, tears running down her blotchy face.

Jimmy's heart twists.

She didn't. She only tried to survive.

He pulls her into a hug, sets his chin on her shoulder. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do.

He just lets Shelby cry into his chest and stares at the wooden deck behind her.

Jimmy hugs all of them.

Quickly. Just a pat on the back, really.

But he hugs them. He hugs Shelby again, then Scott (Scott is close to tears, standing on his own by the railing), then Katherine (who stops in her pacing to acquiesce to an embrace). He takes the five steps up to the stern two at a time, hugs False briefly (she leans just slightly toward him), then heads belowdecks, to the little makeshift bed of False's.

That's when he checks for critters.

There aren't any. Of course there aren't.

But on his wrist is a tiny pink mark, an innocuous sign of the end. If he looks at it for long enough, it could just be a mark from pinching himself, a bruise about to form from bumping against a door jamb.

It isn’t that, though.

Jimmy has known for weeks that he's been living on borrowed time.

He started this. There was never any real hope that he would survive.

He's felt marked, almost.

Marked, ever since he stood over Joel's body, hands shaking and legs weak, covered from head to toe in the blood of a god.

He pushed his bloodsoaked hair out of his eyes, unable to look away from the tear down the god’s body from the enchanted axe that Jimmy had dragged from his collarbone to his waist.

Blood leaked from the bullet hole between Joel's eyes.

That had been the wound to take him out. He could have survived just the cleaving.

He was a god, after all.

Jimmy stared, even as dark clouds rolled in.

Even as the blood dried on his body.

Even as bile rose to his throat.

He stared, and with the first drops of rain, Joel's body began to go fuzzy around the edges of the wounds. Fuzzy and black, and Jimmy thought for a moment of mold before falling to his knees and vomiting.

And there he kneeled, trembling and ill, stained with blood and vomit, and screamed.

He screamed his apologies.

He begged the rumbling sky for restitution.

He buried his fists into the dry grass of the savannah, as his words dwindled hoarsely into nothing, and sobbed.

When nothing came, nothing but thunder and pouring rain, Jimmy hefted the crown off Joel's unmoving head and dragged it home.

Then he scrubbed the gore off his body, changed clothes, and replaced his hat on his head.

Despite the terrible storm, despite his people, Jimmy strapped the crown onto Bullseye and headed for Dawn.

Maybe Gem's god would pardon him.

But there had never been any pardon, had there?

It had all been a waiting game. It always had been.

Joel's blood marked him the first day.

And now, just like then, Jimmy can only stare.

He deserves this.

He deserves this, and he relishes in that.

He isn't stuck in that awful waiting phase, death looming over him like a dust storm over the horizon.

This can finally be over.

He can finally just be gone.

If there was anyone left to rescue, Jimmy would go do it now.

He's as invulnerable as he ever will be. It doesn't matter if they touch him. He could be in and out quicker than ever, able to defend without needing to worry about the vermin touching him.

But the only person to rescue is Shelby, and there's nothing he can do to help her.

All Jimmy knows to do is patrol. There isn’t anything else he can do, and everyone else is so busy with Shelby that they haven't been able to pick up their patrol shifts.

So Jimmy patrols, making sure nobody steps outside of the steadily shrinking border, keeping an eye on where the mites are piling up as a better reference point than their stakes in the ground.

He sees Scott, sometimes. Scott paces the border, marks precisely where it's changed, sometimes staring a long time out over the land beyond Sanctuary, as if he longs to leave from this place, as if he can see it as something of its former glory.

Jimmy does the same. He often finds himself wandering to his favorite place in all of Sanctuary, the flat boulder in the woods that looks out over the plains that remind him so much of the land where he grew up, before he was ever a sheriff in the beautiful mesa.

He can pretend that everything is normal, looking out there.

Sometimes, he can't see the darkness that runs through the grass.

Sometimes, he can see other things.

It's two days after the trip to the catacombs that Jimmy's forced to admit that the hallucinations are in full force.

He'd wondered morbidly, for some time now, what it was like. How long would it take to succumb to the illness? How gradual is the appearance of the hallucinations? How long until the fever starts?

He knows, now, that the hallucinations aren't gradual. He'd simply woken up by the campfire to find Lizzie standing before him.

"I can't believe you," she says disgustedly, arms crossed. "Sleeping on the job?"

"I'm dying, I think I deserve a bit of slack," he mutters. She scoffs.

"Why would you deserve slack? You caused this. You killed all those thousands of people."

Jimmy goes to say something—he isn't sure what—but Lizzie is gone.

After that, the hallucinations are frequent. He sees long-gone friends—Lizzie, Norman, Pix—and abandoned buildings, forgotten memories and lost messages, and . . . dark creatures of shadow.

It’s unsettling and deeply disturbing, but not even the most bone-chilling hallucinations can keep him from sleeping.

He's so tired. He's been digging himself deeper and deeper into sleep debt every night for weeks, and now he can't find the strength to push through it.

Jimmy sleeps. All the time, everywhere. By the campfire, slumped in a chair in the inn, at the table in the planning room of the church.

So often he wakes up on that boulder overlooking the plains, the rock warm under his back and the sun pleasantly shining through the leaves of the tree behind him.

His body starts to ache.

His bones start to weigh down with exhaustion.

His hands start to shake.

His body is fighting, he can tell. Trying to put off being sick as long as possible. Trying to conserve his strength for healing.

There isn't any healing to come.

The others are going into the Rift.

Well, Jimmy's meant to be going, too.

He'd proposed himself going (he had spoken to them, laid out the plan in exactly the way he thinks he would have, but it's hard to remember how to act like himself when there's gaping black maws where everyone's eyes should be), even though he isn't planning on it at all.

Scott is going.

He doesn't know it yet, but he's going through the Rift. The spark in his eyes hasn’t died yet, and despite every doubt he has and the mistakes he’s made, Jimmy knows that the others look up to him. They’ll follow him, more willingly than they had ever followed Jimmy.

Jimmy isn't sure how to change the plans right after he presents them, though, so he just leaves, back to lie on his boulder to watch the wind ruffle the grass.

The sun is gently warm on his face.

His hat slips back, flopping off his head.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment. It isn't sleeping.

His body's just so tired.

Time passes.

It must pass.

Because the next thing Jimmy knows, the sun is not on his face and there's a scratching noise from beside him.

He blinks his eyes open, casts his gaze around.

fWhip is sitting beside him, writing in a journal of some sort. That's the source of the scratching noise—his tiny pencil going back and forth on the page, scurrying like a little mouse.

"Sorry," Jimmy mumbles, biting back a groan as he sits up.

It's so hard just to sit up.

fWhip chuckles a little. "It's cool. Just glad you're getting some sleep."

Jimmy doesn't respond to that.

"You know, you've been running yourself into the ground. You deserve a second to rest."

Definitely not a hallucination, then. Seeing as his hallucinations tend to hate him.

"What are you writing?" Jimmy asks, in lieu of arguing about his sleep habits.

fWhip shrugs self-consciously. "Nothing much. Just journaling." He gestures around at the plains. "Describing Sanctuary, us, the things we're doing. Just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case . . . well, I dunno," fWhip says. "I keep imagining this scenario where we go through the Rift, and we end up in a different world, and we forget all of our history just two or three generations down. So I'm writing down all of this."

"Don't forget to mention Tumble Town," Jimmy says. "The most . . . uh, the best land for miles around."

fWhip shoots him a toothy smile. "Want to write something? I have pages for everyone."

Jimmy stares at his proffered pencil, then carefully takes it in his left hand, before transferring it to his right. He doesn't want his cuff to pull up even the slightest bit, revealing the mark on his wrist.

fWhip flips through his journal—a repurposed sketchbook, actually—until he finds the blank page he's looking for. He sets it in Jimmy's left hand.

"Just write anything. I'm planning on filling it in later with a bunch of biography type-stuff, but I can work around whatever you want to put."

Jimmy sets the pencil to the paper, willing his hand not to shake.

The Sheriff, he writes, in his quick, sharp cursive. Then, just below:

Jimmy.

It's not his best. It definitely doesn't look quite like it normally does, when he signs warrants of arrest or bank notes. Not as careful, the lines not as straight.

The J has a little divot in the line. The second h falters just the slightest bit.

He doesn't want to write anymore.

Or, rather, he doesn't have any more that he wants to write.

He slides the book back into fWhip's lap. "There," he says. "Now you can sell it for lots of money, it has my signature."

He can tell that fWhip's laugh is more to humor him than anything else.

"If I ever get Katherine's hands on this, absolutely," fWhip says. "I want her to draw everyone—have you seen her sketches? Like, in her workshop?"

Jimmy shrugs.

"She's actually really good. Scott, too. I just . . . don't know if I'll see Scott again, so. . . ."

He trails off with a bit of a cough.

Jimmy looks back over the fields.

He can't stay here.

He can't stay here, sleeping and aching and hiding until he dies.

He can't convince them to let him stay here. fWhip, at least, would insist on staying with him, and if Jimmy’s learned anything, it's that he wants his friends to survive.

He's going to have to leave.

"Actually, Katherine is what I came here for, I totally forgot!" fWhip snaps his journal shut. "She was wanting to talk to you. Do you wanna come back with me?"

"I'm sorry," Katherine says after a long moment.

Jimmy blinks. "Sorry? About what?"

She shrugs. "Pushing us to go look for Pix. If we hadn't gone for him. . . ."

For a foolish, hopeful second, Jimmy thinks she's referring to the death mark on his wrist.

Then he remembers that she doesn't know it exists.

She's talking about Shelby's condition.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her. "It was my fault."

"No—you didn't want to go, you—"

"But I let it happen," Jimmy cuts her off. "It was my fault, okay?"

He can take the blame.

What's another sin on top of ending the world?

Katherine frowns. "Are you sure? Because I know Scott's beating himself up over this, too. And if you really thought that it was your fault over his, you would go tell him."

Her face has gone from open, apologetic, to practically glaring at him.

And, really?

Jimmy absolutely deserves it.

"Sure," he says, trying not to let show the exhaustion dragging on his bones. "I'll talk to him."

Katherine nods.

She looks like she's sparkling.

She looks like she has wings.

It's long past midnight when Jimmy slips into the chapel.

Scott is there, he notices immediately—curled up and asleep on a pew near the entrance. Scott hasn't ever slept in his own bedroom, as far as Jimmy's aware. Every night when Jimmy checks on everyone, he finds Scott here, wrapped up in a blanket.

He ought to tell Scott that he's leaving. That he wants Scott to be in charge. That it was his fault.

But he can't bring himself to wake him.

The candlelight is low, and at the front of the chapel, muttering under his breath and holding his hands to a sleeping Shelby's head, is Sausage.

Even from afar, he looks exhausted. His hair falls limply into his face, his shoulders are slumped and his clothing is rumpled. He doesn't even look up until Jimmy is right beside him, spurs clicking all the way down the long aisle.

"You should rest."

"So should you."

"I'll wake Shelby, all right? She can hold down the fort for an hour or so."

"I feel close."

"You feel tired."

"And you don't?"

"This ain't about me."

"I can't. I can't go to sleep. I can't fail them."

"I reckon I understand. But this won't get fixed lest you take a rest. Just an hour."

". . . Okay. Pero, necesitas dormir también, okay?"

"I don't speak whatever that was."

"Stay here and rest a little. Just pretend like I'm giving a sermon, then it'll be easy to fall asleep!"

"Right. I'll wake Shelby."

fWhip never locks his room.

So it isn't hard for Jimmy to sneak in and tuck the Deputy Norman badge into his packed backpack.

Dawn breaks early the next morning, and Jimmy feels surprisingly lucid.

He feels like—no, he knows, somewhere deep within—his body is giving him a brief respite before it starts fighting the next stage of the illness.

Jimmy lingers outside the chapel, absently twisting his hat between his hands.

The others still have a day to prepare.

But Jimmy had packed his satchel with a bit of food, his waterskin, and a couple of papers with a pencil.

He's ready to leave.

He just has one person left to speak to.

As expected, Scott heads out from the inn to the church soon after dawn, likely having grabbed something quick to eat before returning to his self-imposed work of watching Sausage and Shelby.

Jimmy catches him by the shoulder.

His sleeve rides up just slightly. He hopes Scott doesn't notice the pink mark.

"Could you walk with me?" he asks quietly.

Scott glances uncertainly toward the church.

Then he nods.

Jimmy leads the way, and perhaps he can sense how unwell he truly is by the way his boots land a bit heavily against the dirt path and his legs feel almost too tired to pick his feet back up.

He probably has . . . a week, at most. Maybe a bit longer, if he takes it easy.

Right. Take it easy.

He doesn't want to leave.

He can't stay.

"Nice out," Scott comments, and Jimmy jumps.

He'd forgotten that Scott was there, or maybe assumed that he'd imagined him.

"Yeah, I guess," he says, looking around. "Bit warm for this early, but I ain't complaining."

It is a bit warm.

Sanctuary has had fairly warm temperatures the whole time they've been here, but the morning is usually more moderate.

Maybe there's a heatwave building up—one last hurrah of summer, before autumn properly takes over.

Sanctuary has been looking rather fall-like of late. Orange and yellow leaves making up the majority of the trees. It's quite pretty, really. Jimmy's never been to Sanctuary in the fall.

They pass under the trees, down the winding dirt footpath that Jimmy's trodden into the ground almost on his own (although there were remnants of it that he followed those first times), so many days and nights out patrolling the same line. He goes just beyond the trees, right to his favorite spot.

The boulder is almost wavering in the weak morning light.

Jimmy pauses beside it, looks out over the plains.

His view is framed by red leaves, and out beyond is rolling green-and-yellow grass, long and waving, the sky still such a young blue behind it. It looks like it hasn’t been devastated by the apocalypse. It looks calm, welcoming, lovely.

It looks so much like home.

"This is the most beautiful part of Sanctuary, I think," he murmurs.

Scott shifts beside him.

Right.

Time to delegate.

That's all he's doing. Delegating. Adjusting a former command.

Jimmy takes in a deep breath, then turns, looks Scott in his mismatched eyes. "I want you to go through the Rift," he says, willing his voice not to falter.

Scott blinks. "Sorry, what?"

Jimmy sighs, then sits on his boulder, tugging one knee up to his chest. How can he present this? "I'm not going," he says, and prays that Scott won't ask why. "I want you to take my place."

"Wh-why?"

Shoot.

Jimmy doesn't want to speak.

So he doesn't.

He looks out over the plains.

It isn't just his childhood that he misses, he supposes.

He's a cowboy. A traveler. He isn't meant to stay in one place for too long.

He's meant to feel the grass underfoot, and the wind through his hair, the dirt on his face and the sun on his back, fresh air in his lungs and a horse at his side.

Jimmy has a chronic case of wanderlust, and Sanctuary only grows smaller by the day.

"I can't do that," Scott says suddenly. "I—you're the leader, I can't—I don't—"

"Scott," says Jimmy, and it comes out smaller, softer than intended.

Jimmy can see, out of the corner of his eye, that Scott freezes.

"I'm not going. And they'll follow you. Even False will follow you, if you can convince her." False doesn't trust easily, if at all.

Jimmy doesn't think he ever really got her trust. Just her approval.

"But I can't go through the Rift."

"Why not?" Scott asks, nothing stubborn in his tone, nothing angry.

Jimmy can say he wants to find a way to protect everyone left.

He can say that he's going to go looking for Pix.

He can say that he left something important in Tumble Town, and he needs to go get it.

But Scott is a lover of truth. He’ll see through any lie that Jimmy tries to give him, so distrusting after everything he’s already put him through.

And honestly, he deserves the truth.

It's not going to be easy to say.

But Jimmy fixes his eyes determinedly on the horizon, and twists the loose button on his vest, and makes his choice.

"It was in the catacombs," he says, and he can't make his voice any louder than a near-whisper for some reason. "I was marking our path with chalk. And. . . ."

He can't say it.

Luckily, he doesn't need to.

Jimmy shakes back his right sleeve, just enough that death's mark shows.

Scott stares.

"I didn't know what to say," Jimmy says simply.

That's the most truthful of it all, isn't it?

"Not when we couldn't stop moving while we were down there. Not when Shelby needed comfort. Not when we needed to focus everything on her."

Jimmy supposes he ought to feel something about that—sadness that this is the end, that he'll never see his friends again. Or relief, that he can finally stop running. Or maybe even despair, knowing that there is nothing he can do to protect his friends anymore.

He doesn't feel any of that, though.

He mostly feels tired.

"We might be able to heal you," Scott suggests, and he sounds as tired as Jimmy feels. "If it works with Shelby, we can do it with you, right? We can just put off the Rift thing until you're both better."

Jimmy isn't going to get better.

He isn't going to give himself that chance.

"And if Shelby doesn't get better?" he asks.

Scott looks away.

He's about to say something placating. Something kind and fluffy, to make Scott feel better about not trying.

The truth. Jimmy needs to tell the truth, not soften the blows.

"I want to stay," admits Jimmy. The words tear from deep within, yet pull free almost easily—like tugging a barely-formed scab off a wound. "I do. But I can't. And maybe it's selfish, Scott, but I don't want them to know that . . . that I've been hiding this from them."

He doesn't want to face their anger, possibly their grief. He doesn't want them to force him to stay.

Because if they find out, and he's already gone, he'll be just another rescue mission.

Someone else could die.

And . . . he's kind of been lying to them this whole time.

People don't like being lied to.

"Like you hid the stuff about Joel from me," Scott's saying, and Jimmy grimaces.

"Yeah. I'm not really good with confrontations like that. You saw what happened. But I couldn't just leave without telling someone, you know?"

"So . . . you're leaving."

He is.

He has to.

"To—what, become like Oli? Instead of staying here, where we can help you . . . go peacefully, I guess?"

Jimmy shakes his head practically before Scott's done speaking. "I don't care much for the idea of staying in bed, all still and sick 'til it's over. I figure I'll just head out quietly, yeah? I already packed my bag. Just wanted to make sure someone could be in charge."

"I'm not a leader," Scott says, sounding a little bit panicked. "What about fWhip?"

Jimmy almost laughs. "fWhip's a follower. He gets too stressed to actually lead."

"Katherine?"

"I don't think she'll want to go through the Rift," Jimmy says thoughtfully. She'll want to stay with Shelby, he's sure of it. "She said she'd come, but I bet my bootstraps she'll back out last minute."

Scott opens his mouth, clearly about to suggest the next person in line.

"And not Gem, either," Jimmy cuts him off. "Scott, I chose you because you're the one who fought back when you thought I'd made a wrong choice. You spoke up. And not just then—you suggest your own plans all the time. You're a leader, even if you don't know it."

Scott doesn't respond to that.

Jimmy looks out over the plains. He can imagine that Scott is biting his lip, trying to think up some argument.

He can imagine that Scott has a lot of things he wants to say.

Somehow, Scott rarely ends up saying them.

After a moment, with a scraping of fabric against stone, Scott sits down beside him, quite gently leaning against him.

It's an invitation.

And he's so tired.

After a long moment, Jimmy lets his head fall onto Scott's shoulder.

It's peaceful, all quiet-like this early in the morning. The world feels almost sleepy, the sun rising but not blinding.

Gem worships the sun, to some extent. Her kingdom of Dawn revered its rising, held festivals and services in its honor. Jimmy understands why every time he watches it rise, every time he sees the orange glow that slowly spills across the darkened world, softly letting more and more light into the day to gradually pull the lands into consciousness.

The sun isn't going to be able to pull him with it.

He's going to die.

He's going to die before he ever feels fully awake again.

He's never going to be entirely conscious before he sleeps forever.

“You should go.”

The voice belongs to Lizzie, he thinks. Or Pix. Or Oli.

“It’s time to go.”

That one belongs to Joel.

Jimmy swallows, gathers every bit of consciousness and strength that he can find, then pulls away from Scott, stretching.

“I should probably head out before the town wakes up,” he tells Scott, and he can see his eyes, mismatched and conflicted, through the shadow that tries to darken them. “Get away before anyone can stop me.”

“Sure. What do you want me to tell them?”

He wants Scott to tell them goodbye. He wants them to know that he loves them, that if he deserved any better he would stay.

But he won’t put that on them.

He tells Scott to convince them that he deserted them. He tells Scott he’s leaving without any sense of direction, that he’s going to go out there and hope for the best.

He doesn’t tell Scott goodbye, either.

He deserves better than that.

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