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say-hwaet · 21 days ago

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If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 21: Aithníonn ciaróg ciaróg eile, Part II Next Chapter: Twenty-Two Summary: While everyone eagerly awaits the return of Dutch and his brave associates, you've been busy slaving away at camp to keep it running as it should be. While it keeps up morale, it also keeps your mind from wandering. But it isn't long before the newest member starts picking your brain. Warnings: Mature themes, language, innuendo, flirting Word Count: ~12,300

"Arthur?"

Arthur swings the axe down with a powerful motion, slicing the log in half effortlessly, as if it were made of butter. The thud resonates in the crisp air. He leans the axe against the chopping stump, its blade gleaming in the sunlight, and takes his shirt, now crumpled into a ball. He wipes his face with it, the fabric absorbing the glistening sweat from his sun-kissed skin. The muscles on his arms and back shimmer under the warm glow, creating a sight that feels like a sweet torture, the heat rising in your cheeks betraying your feigned indifference. He carefully sets his shirt back down on the weathered barrel beside the house, and his marine blue eyes rise to meet yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that makes time seem to pause.

“Yeah?" he asks, breaking the spell.

You clear your throat and tuck some loose hair behind your ear. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Shoah." He walks away from the stump and sits on a long log that he and Farm Boy dragged in from the nearby woods. You sit down next to him and he picks up a canteen that he had set against the log and takes a big drink. You cannot help but watch as some of the water drips down his chin and down his neck.

He sighs and wipes his mouth, and you quickly look away just as he looks back in your direction."What's goin’ on?" he asks.

"It's Isaac."

He changes his posture, turning his body toward you, but leans on his left leg. "What's wrong?"

You’ve always appreciated Arthur’s attentiveness, how ready he is to listen and tackle whatever problem you bring to his attention. With Isaac, you’ve always found it especially important for this response, understanding the significance of his involvement."He's been asking about heaven."

He clicks his tongue and gently swats at the air. "Well, you've some religion, you can talk to him about that."

While it is true you believe in heaven, as best to your knowledge, you think that there is a deeper issue. You shake your head. "It's not that, it's that he doesn't understand death. He doesn't think that people die."

Arthur's expression softens. He, of all people, knows the validity of death. "Oh."

"So, when he hears me tell folk that I'm a widow..."

"He gets confused," Arthur finishes.

"Yes. I've tried to talk to him, but I think it would mean more coming from you."

He runs a hand over his whiskers and your eyes flicker to his arms before returning to his marine irises. "I understand. I'll talk to him."

"There's another thing."

"Hmmm?"

"He wants a gun."

Arthur leans back and chortles. "No, he don’t."

And you nod your head, your voice intensifying, insistent. "Yes, he does. It's all he talks about. I think he heard about us talking about the O'Driscolls..." You watch his face fall. "I think he wants to protect me. He also might be catching on as to the life you live."

Arthur goes quiet for a moment. He has wanted to keep his way of living, the outlaw life, as far away from your son as possible. While he himself didn't have a choice, he wants to give Isaac a normal life. Isaac looks up to him, it makes sense that he would want to shoot a gun. But you are right to be concerned. Isaac is too young.

After another moment of thinking about it, he nods his head softly. "Okay. I'll talk to him about it."

You reach out and put a hand on his. "Thank you."

He looks into your eyes and sees the softness of your warm gaze. He knows you still love him, which has made things awkward. And despite everything, he knows he will always come back to you.

"I'll go do it now. Would you bring him to me?"

"Yes." You rise to your feet and head back into the cabin. Arthur remains seated on the log and he takes a moment in the stillness. The sounds of nature swirl around him. Though the sun beats down on his back, there is a gentle breeze that carries a sense of peace. There are no gunshots. No lawmen, no plans. Just a cabin, farm animals, and the valley surrounding them. He can feel himself giving in to the idea. The idea of living something different...perhaps, if he dared to think it, something better.

Loyalty, Arthur, he can hear Dutch say. Hosea say. John say. Susan. Strauss. Annabelle. Pearson, all of them.

He hears the front door open. Looking up, he catches a glimpse of you before Isaac comes running out in bare feet. Arthur smiles and pats the spot on the log next to him. "C'mere, son. Let's talk man to man."

This excites Isaac and he quickly sits on the log with a little help. "Man to man, Daddy!” The little boy echoes. “What you doin’?"

Arthur points to the pile of wood behind him with a thumb. "Just choppin’ wood. Your mama needs it to cook food for us."

"I know, Daddy."

Arthur grins and brings his hand to pat his son on the back, feeling a tinge of pride. "Of course you do, you're a smart kid."

"Are you smart too, Daddy?"

Arthur snorts. "Sometimes."

"Is Mommy smart?"

Without a doubt. Your love for reading and history has always been an endearing quality, in Arthur’s opinion. If you hadn’t lost your parents to pneumonia, maybe you could have finished school and found yourself in a classroom. Live a normal life. Arthur lets that sink in before answering his son’s question. "...Yes. You know she was gonna be a teacher?"

"But she does teach me, Daddy! She teach me numbers and we read together."

Arthur grins, his son is always apt to find the positive in everything. "That's true. I guess she is a teacher, huh?"

"Mmmhmm," Isaac answers, nodding his head.

"Well, Daddies can be teachers, too."

"Really?"

"Shoah. You want me to teach you somethin’?"

Isaac’s eyes nearly sparkle with excitement and he begins to bounce in his seat with eagerness. "Yeah!"

Arthur can’t help but chuckle and leans in just a tad, lowering his voice. "Okay, but it's a secret."

"I won't tell! ...Can I tell Mommy?"

Arthur pretends to really think about it, raising his brow and stroking his chin. "Okay, but no one else, you hear?"

"I promise!"

"Good. Now, listen closely. There's somethin’ I need to ask you..." Isaac leans in, attentively listening. Arthur continues, "Is it true you've been wantin’ a gun?"

Isaac leans away, looking down. "...Yes, Daddy."

"Well, now, why would you want a thing like that?"

"Because you have one, Daddy. And I want to be like you! You keep us safe. I want to protect Mommy when you are away."

His answer is bittersweet for Arthur. What father wouldn't want to hear from his son, "I want to be like you"? But to be an outlaw or a gunslinger, that is something different.

Arthur wraps an arm around his boy, the tone shifting between them as he prepares to teach this lesson. "It's good you want to protect your mama, son. But do you know what guns are used for?"

Isaac is proud to know this answer, straightening his posture and looking up at his father with confidence. "They scare the bad things away!"

Arthur chuckles to himself and nods his head. "Yes, they can be scary, but do you know why?"

Isaac thinks for a moment. Then, lifting his deep brown eyes, he shrugs his shoulders.

Arthur takes a bit longer to answer, for he tries to find the right words, but decides to be straightforward. "Guns can be used to kill, son."

He knows that word. It’s how you explained how the chicken gets in his dumplings. How the bacon gets on his plate. "Kill? Like chickens?"

"Yes..." Arthur returns his hand on his son's back. "And people."

"We kill chickens to eat them." Isaac then giggles, his ignorance shining through as he thinks out loud. "We don't eat people."

"That's true, son, but sometimes people die."

Isaac blinks confused. He’s never heard this before."Huh? People can die?"

"Yes. People can die of old age, or sickness, even, but guns can be used to kill people, and they can die."

Isaac lowers his head, feeling the weight of his father's solemn words pressing heavily upon him. His voice trembles as he asks, "Will...will you die, Daddy?"

Arthur sighs deeply, a weight in his chest, and nods his head as he answers, his voice a gentle reassurance. "One day, I will. I can grow old and die."

The little boy's eyes widen with innocence and curiosity. "Will I die?" he asks, his voice carrying the tender vulnerability of youth.

"Not for a long time, son," Arthur replies, offering a comforting smile meant to soothe his child's worries.

The boy's bottom lip juts out in a soft pout, a sign of his lingering concern. "And...Mommy?" he ventures, his voice tinged with a hint of fear.

"She'll be fine, too," Arthur assures him, his words wrapped in warmth and love, as he gently ruffles his son's hair.

But Isaac’s lip begins to tremble and his eyes glossy with unshed tears. "I don't like this lesson, Daddy..."

Arthur wraps his arm around his son and brings him close. "I'm sorry, little bear. Life is like that, sometimes."

"I don't want a gun anymore, Daddy."

Arthur pats him gently. He doesn’t want to scare the poor boy, but this is no laughing matter. "Now, you need to understand somethin’, okay?"

Isaac sniffs. "Okay."

"In the right hands, a gun can be useful. It can protect and provide food. But it takes skill and respect to do that. I have a gun because I've practiced hard and respect what it can do. When you're older, and when you're ready, I can teach you."

Isaac shakes his head slowly, his expression a mix of reluctance and determination. "I don't want to," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur gives a reassuring smile, eyes soft with understanding. "And that's okay. That's your choice. But just know that I'll be there to help you," he responds gently, his voice filled with warmth and support.

Isaac nods, a small weight lifting from his shoulders. "Okay," he replies, feeling a sense of comfort in the promise of unwavering support.

Arthur leans down and kisses the top of Isaac’s head then looks out toward the valley beyond Aspen’s Way. “Okay, son."

"Daddy?"

Arthur looks back down and meets his son’s eyes. "Yeah, kid?"

"What's a widow, then?"

Arthur clears his throat. "Erm...a widow is a woman whose husband has died."

Isaac shakes his head. "But that's what they call Mommy..."

"Yes, son."

His brown eyes, just like his mother's, plead with his simple but deep question. "But...why?"

"Don't’chu remember Mama askin’ you to keep me a secret?"

Isaac shrugs, recalling the question. It was an odd thing to ask and Isaac, even in his minimal understanding, knows that it wasn’t the typical thing to do. "Sort of."

"Well, it's best if people don't know about me."

And, of course, Isaac is too curious for his own good. Like his mother. “Why?"

"To keep you safe."

Isaac shakes his head, his brow pinched as he tries to wrap his mind around it, but can’t. "I don't get it, Daddy."

"That's okay, son. Just know that it keeps you and your mama safe."

"Okay."

Arthur's face softens into a warm smile as he looked at his son. "I love you, son," he says, his voice gentle and full of affection.

Isaac's eyes sparkled with joy as he returned the smile, his cheeks dimpling. "I love you too, Daddy," he replied, his voice brimming with sincerity and warmth.

Arthur gently pulls Isaac closer, wrapping his arm around him with a tender gesture. "C'mere," he says softly. Their embrace is warm and comforting, creating a moment that tugs at your heartstrings. You've been watching this heartfelt exchange from afar, and the genuine affection between them fills the air with a sense of warmth and connection.

Your two boys, and oh, how you love them.

***

“And dat was when we holed up in Boston, me da and I,” Sean says as he and the men continue to ride. “We made a great team up dere, up until lawmen found us.”

Arthur runs a hand down his face. Since packing up camp and heading back to the others, Sean has not stopped talking. He’s shared one story after the other and while Dutch seems to be loving this, he can see that the others are growing weary of Sean's endless banter.

Arthur's eyes sweep over the group, noting the subtle eye rolls and sighs from his compatriots. They have been riding for hours, and Sean's tales, no matter how colorful, are not cutting through the exhaustion setting into their bones.

“And when was that exactly?” Dutch asks in the most candid manner.

“Summer, 1889. Couple a years in reform school was enough for me, so I left after dat.”

“And you’ve been on your own since?” Dutch clicks his tongue. “Shameful.”

Sean cackles. “It’s dat lok, remember? I’ve snuck on trains, stolen a few good meals, swiped some coin, I’ve made quite a livin’ dis way.” He sighs as the memories flood his mind. “I’ve learned from de best…!”

Arthur watches as Sean's expression shifts to one of wistful pride, a boy recalling the roguish adventures that shaped him.

He was on his own not much younger than Sean, only the solitary thing Lyle Morgan had only ever taught Arthur was how to be a terrible father. He wants nothing to do with that.

He remembers sleeping in alleyways, eating out of trash cans, and fighting other street kids for territories. He was more wild animal than boy, and while it isn’t exactly a happy circumstance, it’s almost a miracle that Dutch found him when he did.

He hopes his son won’t have the same fate. Isaac hasn’t expressed a deep interest in being an outlaw, but they’ve been moving around so much, with little time to breathe, that there hasn’t even been a chance to figure it out.

And you’ve been keeping the children so close to you, he’s hardly had the time to be alone with the children.

When he gets back home, to camp, he’s going to find out.

So when he sees the trail of smoke from the camp’s fire, he feels his heart skip. He can hear his children laughing, and playing and the sound carries to Sean’s ears, causing him to shut up for once.

“Wait, ya got kids, Dutch?” He tilts his head back and cackles loudly. “Didn’t tink ya for a family man!”

Dutch looks at Sean with a mischievous glint in his eye. “We are a family, Mr. Maguire, let me make that clear. But the children…” his timbre comes through the end of his sentence. “They’re not of my make.”

Sean looks around at the riders beside him, smirking with delightful curiosity. “And whose de loky father, eh?” Then he narrows his glinting eyes. “Or fathers, heheheheheh…!”

Arthur and John both remain silent. They aren’t about to be the butt of this kid’s jokes.

And John is still skittish when it comes to his fatherhood. There’s still the mess between himself and Abigail, but he is being more active in Jack’s life, taking turns watching and playing with him and it is usually at the same time Arthur has Isaac and Alice in his care. Arthur makes it a point to share shifts with John to help encourage him and to chide him when he begins to doubt himself again.

Even Mac, out of respect for Arthur, keeps his mouth shut, which is almost surprising.

After a pregnant pause, not getting an answer from anyone, Sean lets out a frustrated sigh. “Ah, ya lot are no fun…!”

The posse falls silent for the last stretch and their presence is soon known by the members of camp, for Javier stands alert on guard duty and announces their arrival. “Amigos!” he calls. “Amigos are back!”

Isaac and Alice, in the middle of their game of cattle rustlers, stop and turn just as Arthur brings Boadicea to the hitching post.

They gasp, excitement flooding their veins and Isaac breaks into a run. Alice, doing the best she can, uses her little legs to their full extent. Arthur notices how mobile she’s becoming. She isn’t falling over and even dodges Copper who is feeding off of the children’s energy.

“Dad..!” Isaac cheers and just as Arthur dismounts, the young boy body-slams into Arthur. “We missed you!”

Sean, now getting the answer to his question, laughs heartily as he remains astride his horse.

Arthur ignores him, as he regards the child in his arms. “Missed you too, partner.” Looking away from his son, Arthur glances around the camp. “Where’s your mama?”

Isaac buries his face in Arthur’s torso, arms wrapped tightly around him, as he’s not quite ready to let his father go. “She’s makin’ dinner.”

Arthur nods and scruffs Isaac’s head before taking a step back. “I brought you somethin’.” And unwinding the rope to his saddle horn, he leads the morgan stallion around Boadicea out for Isaac to see.

Isaac's eyes light up, an irrepressible grin spreading across his dirt-smudged face. "For me?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper as if he fears too loud a word might spook the animal.

Arthur nods, patting the stallion's neck. "Yup, thought you might be gettin’ tired of ridin’ with me on our fishin’ trips.” He holds the rope out to his son, grinning softly. “He came with a saddle, too.”

Isaac can’t believe that this is happening. A horse. His very own horse! He steps calmly towards the stallion, his brown eyes watching calmly. Taking the rope, Isaac looks up at the dark coat and mane—the color of the red sands of Arizona. “He’s really mine, Dad?”

Arthur shrugs. “Well, can’t really be yours until you give him a name, can he?”

Isaac gasps. “You’re right!” He had helped you name his sister, after one of his favorite book characters, but this is different. This is his very own horse something he will have complete responsibility for. He scratches his chin, emulating his father whenever thinking deeply, as he ponders a name.

He studies the stallion’s dark, purplish coat, his near-reddish mane. He’s strong and sturdy, almost as if he knows just how beautiful he is.

“I’ll name him…Rooster…!”

Arthur’s smile falls slightly. “Rooster?” His voice carries a mix of disbelief and amusement. Isaac nods vigorously, his face lighting up with conviction.

"Yeah, because he kinda reminds me of the rooster Mama feeds every mornin’. His dark feathers and the way he struts around!" Isaac's explanation is earnest, his excitement palpable as he tugs gently on the rope, the stallion lowers his head and nudges the boy gently. “See? He likes it…!” Lifting his eyes, Isaac spots John as he sheds his mare of her bridle and drapes it over his shoulder. “What do you think, Mr. John?” he asks.

Gripping it tightly, John drags his saddle off of She Devil and begins to walk towards the camp. “He’s your horse, kid.”

Isaac beams again, the idea of ownership exciting him again. “Right…!”

Well, that’s that then.

“I guess Rooster it is,” Arthur chuckles as he grips his gun belt and stares down at his son. With a lift of his chin, he gestures to the desert landscape behind them. “How ‘bout goin’ on a fishin’ trip? Just you, Alice, and me.”

Isaac looks back towards camp, his brow pinched. “Well…Mama will worry if she finds me gone…”

Arthur doesn’t want to worry you, but he is also the boy’s father. If he wants to spend time with his son, he has just about every right to take him fishing as you get to keep him at camp. “Why don’t you tell her that I’m takin’ you and your sister fishin’? She likes cookin’ with trout.” He pats the morgan’s neck again. “We can even take him with us.”

Arthur’s suggestion immediately puts Isaac at ease and his shoulders relax as he nods, his excitement barely contained. "I'll go tell her now!" He bolts towards the camp, leaving Arthur to tether the stallion to another post.

Arthur watches his son dash away, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride and guilt. He hasn’t been around much for Isaac or Alice lately, always on missions with Dutch and John. But he’s glad that the worst of the robbing is over, now he can spend more time at camp while Hosea and Dutch hash out these last few plans.

East. Dutch wants to travel east?

“Daddy…!” Alice has finally caught up to him and holds her hands up high. “Hi, Daddy…!” Alice's bright little voice cuts through the late afternoon air, sharp and clear.

Arthur bends down, balancing her in his strong arms as she wraps her tiny arms around his neck. "Hi there, darlin'," he murmurs, his voice a gruff whisper.

Her hair smells of wildflowers, and Arthur can't help but feel a rush of emotions—a mix of regret for the time lost and a renewed determination to make the present count. He kisses the top of her head, promising silently to keep her and Isaac safe, no matter what lies ahead.

“I missed you, Daddy.”

And his heart aches. “I missed you too, little lady.” He rises to his feet and adjusts her in his arms, letting her look up and around at the world below. “You wanna go fishin’ with me and your brother?”

Alice's face lights up, her freckles dancing merrily across her cheeks as she nods enthusiastically. "Yes, Daddy! I wanna catch a big one!" Her voice is filled with the innocence and excitement that only a child can muster.

Arthur's smile widens. "Well then, let's see if we can do just that!”

Hearing the sound of gravel beneath quick feet, they both look out to see Isaac running out of camp with his fishing pole in hand. “Got it, Dad!”

“Good job, partner! Can you reach the saddle bag?”

The young boy, though long-legged, isn’t quite tall enough to reach. He finds this out when he calmly approaches his horse’s side and reaches for the saddlebag, fingers twitching to grab the flap.

Arthur, still holding Alice, waits a few seconds to let Isaac decide whether or not he needs help but he can’t hide the amusement on his face.

“Dad…” Isaac begins to say softly, embarrassed to admit it. “I need help.”

Arthur chuckles. “Let’s get you and your sister on the horse, first. He takes the fishing pole from Isaac’s hand and gestures to Rooster’s back. “Can you get on by yourself? You remember what I taught you, right?”

Isaac puffs out his chest, eager to prove to his father that he’s becoming a man. “I sure can!”

He puts his foot in the right stirrup and gripping the leather of the saddle he begins to hoist himself up. Once within reach, he grabs hold of the saddle horn and swings his left leg over, showing off his growing strength and dexterity. Arthur nods approvingly, a proud smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Once Isaac is settled, Arthur carefully places Alice in front of her brother, ensuring she’s secure before giving Rooster a gentle pat on the flank.

“You got ‘er?” Arthur asks.

But before Isaac can even answer, a loud, roaring laugh jostles the camp.

“What the hell is on yer face, brother?!”

Then there is an audible smack of fist on flesh and as Arthur turns, he sees Mac on the ground, boots up in the air. There, standing over him, is Davey, fist still clenched, with his beard trimmed, his hair slicked back, and glasses on his face.

Arthur has to do a double-take. He’s almost unrecognizable.

“Can see ye pretty good now, big brother,” he says smoothly and blows air on his knuckles. “Thought I might try me hand at poker next.”

The commotion pulls everyone's attention towards the brothers, but Arthur keeps one hand on Rooster's reins to ensure the children are safe. Amidst the laughter and hollers from others in the camp, Dutch steps closer, his curiosity piqued by Davey's new look.

"Not bad, Davey,” he chuckles warmly as he passes by, Sean following close behind. “Almost mistook you for an oil magnate. Hosea could make great use outta this.”

Davey only watches his brother, ready to brawl if that is what it takes. “Ain’t nobody gonna change my mind about glasses,” he rumbles. “Not even you.”

But Mac only stares, wiping the blood from his split lip.

Javier, still on guard duty, chuckles from his post near the edge of the camp. "Justo cuando creo que los entiendo, me encuentro más confundido.” And glancing away as the dust settles, he spots Arthur resuming his departure with his children.

Fishing. One of the few pleasures he has in this place. He remembers being in the arms of his lover, spending secluded nights by the river. When she’d leave, he’d fish for a few hours, thinking about her and the next time he’d get to see her.

She was always afraid. Afraid of the powerful man who sought after her. He would find a way to protect her and lose her all at once.

He wants to fish again, so he won’t forget. So we will remember why he had to leave Mexico.

So, seizing the opportunity, he hurries over to Davey and forces the rifle on him. “You turn. Take over.”

Davey looks down at Javier with a raised brow but doesn’t say anything. He’s finally getting a good look at his face. Faces. It is as though he’s really getting to meet everyone for the first time.

And he really can’t argue. It is his turn, after all. He takes the gun. “Alright, lad.”

Javier nods and resumes his objective, catching Arthur just as he’s putting Alice on the saddle in front of Isaac.

“Arthur…!” Javier calls out. “You go fishin’?”

Arthur studies the young Latino, his brown eyes hopeful beneath his hat. Javier has been bringing in fish as his contribution since he hasn’t been on any official jobs yet. Guard duty and provisions, that’s his bit.

But regardless, Arthur was hoping to have some time with his children. Arthur steadies Alice on the horse before taking his hands away from her. “You can’t come, Javier.”

Can’t. Javier is tired of hearing it, even when he first learned the meaning of the word. Just as Arthur begins to fold up Isaac’s fishing pole, Javier swipes it from him.

“Hey…!” Arthur barks and Javier holds up a hand.

“You go, no fish.” He points a thumb into his chest. “I go, we all eat fish. Comprende?”

Isaac chuckles at his father’s expense. Arthur isn’t that terrible of a fisherman, but it is true that Hosea and Javier have him beat. “¡Lo comprendo!” he says from atop the horse.

Arthur quickly looks at his son. It makes sense that the boy would pick up a couple of Spanish words and phrases. They’ve been hearing plenty of it around camp.

At least it isn’t anything Uncle or Mac have been saying.

And now he’s going to have to worry about Sean’s mouth running where it shouldn’t.

Javier, impatient, repeats his question. “Comprende?”

Arthur waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, comprendee, er whatever.”

Javier nods, satisfied. “I get horse. I show you bueno spot.”

Arthur watches as Javier scurries off, his youthful enthusiasm a stark contrast to the weight Arthur feels on his shoulders. The camp is alive with its usual blend of chaos and camaraderie, but today, the air seems denser with the presence of Sean, who is quickly making himself known among the group, for his laughter already carries back to where Arthur and the children stand.

As Javier returns, riding bareback on one of the horses the gang has stolen recently, he gestures toward the distance. “¡Vamos!”

“That means ‘let’s go,’ Dad,” Isaac explains.

“Yeah, I figured…” Arthur grumbles and his son chuckles.

Mounting up Boadicea, Arthur takes the rope leading Rooster and loops it around his saddle horn once again. “Let’s follow him, then.” Hearing a whine, he looks down at the ground and sees Copper, head tilted and looking up at him expectantly. Arthur grins and gestures toward the distance with his chin. “Come on, boah.”

Copper wags his tail excitedly and as Arthur and his caravan ride out, the dog follows.

***

You’ve always preferred skinning deer to javelina, but when you have a whole camp to cook for, you don’t get to pick and choose. You cook what is brought to you, and you make do like always.

You heard Javier announce the return of Arthur and his fellow travelers, and let your children leave your sight to greet him. You continued on with your work, your hands too bloody and deep in the javelina’s chest cavity to really be welcoming anyway.

But you saw the excitement in Abigail’s eyes, as she bounced little Jack on her lap. Still, she hesitated, and decided not to get up and run to meet John. It was the way her eyes met yours, and you knew she didn’t stand because of you. Some sort of solidarity between jaded women.

But you’ve made your bed and have decided to lie in it. You’re part of the gang now and you will feed them and take care of them.

But your children will always come first. Always. You’ve sworn to never lose sight of that.

“Well, remind me to not get on your bad side, Ms. Bloom…!” you hear Pearson chuckle behind you as he sets the gutbucket down again. It’s been quite the process of burning the refuse of each carcass you’ve handled, as the last thing you want is to attract carrion. “You look more like a butcher than me!”

You don’t waste a moment tossing the javelina sow’s remaining entrails in the bucket and begin to work on processing the meat, focusing on the fat first. “Can you get me some eggs?” you ask. “Thought we’d have eggs and javelina meat.”

Pearson nods. “Sure.” As he saunters off to fetch the eggs, you wipe your hands, momentarily reflecting on how far you've come—from a waitress in a small restaurant to essentially the camp's cook, tending to a gang of outlaws. Life's path really does have its twists and turns.

And its ironies.

You glance towards the edge of the camp, knowing that Arthur has taken the children fishing. You don’t begrudge them time with their father and you’re glad that they can get out of camp for a little bit. When the men return there is always a heightened energy and tales of their exploits, and you’d rather the children not hear that.

And as your eyes gaze out past the tents and wagons, you see Dutch ambling towards you, and he has his hand around the shoulder of a young, red-headed man with the most ridiculous grin on his face. His eyes fall on you and his grin somehow manages to grow wider.

“Ah! Miss Bloom…!” Dutch greets, putting on a more friendlier air than his usual greeting when returning home. “Allow me to introduce you to our newest member.”

Newest? Javier has only been here a couple of months and Dutch is already feeling generous? You find yourself wiping your hands on your bloodied apron again, unknowingly making yourself look more menacing.

The young boy, who looks to be in his late teens, shuffles on his feet, his initial attraction to you halted as you make no motion to close the gap between you. You just stand there, expectantly, as Dutch will eventually tell you who this bloke is.

“This is Sean Maguire. His father was a Fenian outlaw in Ireland, one of the best!”

Fenian. You remember reading a book on Irish Folklore and how it described a band of Irish warriors called the Fianna. Could it be the same thing?

“I thought we were the best, Dutch?” you say without missing a beat, raising an eyebrow in mock challenge.

Dutch chuckles, a deep, sonorous sound that seems to roll across the camp like distant thunder. "Every man's past is his own legend, Eliza. And legends they remain until proven otherwise," he replies with a wink.

It is then that you shuffle uncomfortably on your feet. “I need to finish working on supper.”

Dutch nods, his smile lingering a moment longer as he clasps Sean's shoulder and pushes him forward gently. "Well, let's not keep the lady from her duties. We’ve got a few others for you to meet."

Sean nods eagerly, his previous cockiness tempered by your stoic demeanor. He follows Dutch, casting a backward glance at you, his expression a mix of curiosity and a hint of respect—or perhaps it was a challenge. You can’t quite tell.

You chuck away the curiosity akin to how you chop at the ribs of the sow, setting them aside to tenderize over the fire. You have a few herbs and spices you can rub into them, but you will cut out all the meat first.

“When’s dinner, Eliza?” Uncle calls out from his comfortable position on a pile of hay nearby.

“You wanna wait longer?” you roar back, scolding him like a little child. “You just had lunch, you old man.”

You catch him fold his arms and roll onto his side, turning his back to you. You smile to yourself, satisfied to have him silenced for now.

“Patience is a virtue, sir,” Swanson says to the disgruntled man as he walks by.

Uncle waves him off. “Oh, don’t you be talkin’ to me about patience, you lopsided preacher.” He thinks to roll on his other side, but then he’d be looking at you again. He grumbles. “Go cast your pearls before some other swine…”

“I’m blessed then, as that is what we’re havin’ for dinner.” Satisfied by his own retort, Reverend Swanson continues on his way, walking past you and tipping his hat politely. “Good things come to those who wait.”

You nod, slightly baffled by Reverend’s sobriety, and watch him turn around the corner of Arthur’s wagon, towards some large rocks past camp.

And it seems that his words begin to echo in your head. Good things. Wait. Is that true?

You’ve been waiting. Years you’ve waited. Sure there have been good things, but you had hoped for something more.

And you’re still waiting. But you feel it is different this time. You’re on your own path now, and you have begun to believe that perhaps what you wanted wasn’t always what you needed. Perhaps the next good thing isn’t Arthur. Maybe it’s something, or someone else.

You think about what Susan said. Maybe…

Maybe it is time to move on.

***

“I’m big enough to ride on my own, ain’t I, Dad?”

Arthur looks back at his two children as they sit astride Rooster as he leads with the rope tied to his saddle horn. He keeps thinking about it, but they have grown so much. Isaac is growing strong, robust, even now helping with the harder chores. Alice, meanwhile, has the same fierce spark in her eyes that you've always had. It makes Arthur's heart both swell with pride and ache with a type of fear only a father knows.

"You shoah are, son," Arthur finally says, giving Isaac a nod. He pulls on Boadicea’s reins and she slows down to let the kids catch up. Dropping the reins, Arthur reaches out toward them, opening and closing his hands. “Let me have your sister.”

Isaac, his eyes filled with a mix of joy and trepidation, carefully helps Alice reach for Arthur. He grabs her under her arms and with a gentle lift, brings her to the front of his saddle, setting her down comfortably and she grabs hold of the saddle horn once he undoes the rope around it. Looking back at Isaac again, he tosses the rope to him. “Use this as a lasso, if you need to.”

“I got my own back at camp, Dad, remember? Mama gave it to me as a birthday present.”

You had given him a lasso for his third birthday. Isaac was proud of it, and loved to use it for games and practice. Now, he can hook it to his saddle and use it for larger targets, like cattle or deer.

Holding his daughter with one hand, Arthur grabs the reins and makes a soft clicking sound with his tongue, coaxing Boadicea to pick up speed. He looks back at Isaac and sees that he and Rooster are stationary. “Get ‘em to go, son…!”

Isaac nods vigorously, his face lighting up with determination. He gives Rooster a gentle nudge with his heels, and the horse starts moving forward, catching up to Arthur and Alice. The stallion’s mane flutters in the breeze as they ride across the open field, a picture of youthful exuberance and fledgling freedom. Copper, smart enough to keep his distance, manages to trot alongside them, watching with interest.

Javier looks behind him and grins. “Almost there!”

As the sun travels across the sky, the laughter and shouts of the children mingle with the sound of hooves thumping against the soft earth. Arthur watches them, a silent prayer forming in his heart that this moment could stretch on forever, untouched by the cruel realities that often have been commonplace.

It isn’t long before Javier turns and leads them to the body of water that he has fished in. Arizona has few spots that are prime for fishing, but all lead to the large lake that Arthur has heard tale about. This body of water is a portion of Green River, and it won’t be long before its water level lowers and the fish will be gone. Not that Arthur ever likes that happening, but he’s glad that it will happen after they have left. Hopefully going northward. He will see once he talks to Hosea.

As they approach the water’s edge, Arthur slows Boadicea, letting the gentle lapping of the river soothe the air around them. Alice clings to the saddle horn less now, more intrigued by the nature surrounding her.

Javier dismounts with ease, the years of living outdoors evident in every fluid movement he makes. He begins unpacking his fishing gear, a mishmash of handmade hooks, line, and bait that tells the experience of countless rivers and fish fought and won.

“We hurry, catch many fish before dinner.”

Arthur lets out a sigh and pats his daughter’s belly. “Well, I guess that’s our cue, eh, little lady?”

Alice nods. “Let’s go fish, Daddy…!”

Lowering her with one arm, Arthur helps Alice down from Boadicea, her small feet finding the soft earth below. Isaac and Rooster come trotting up behind them, a cloud of dust rising gently in their wake. Arthur smiles as he watches his son dismount with a child's unbridled enthusiasm, clearly proud of his newfound kinship with his new horse.

“You seem to be gettin’ the hang of things, partner.” Isaac beams, already going to retrieve his fishing pole. “Need me to get that for you?”

“No, Dad…!” Isaac grunts, going on his tip toes to reach the saddle bag. “I got it!”

Arthur then decides to get down and once his feet reach the ground, he turns and catches Alice already making a beeline for the river.

She’s a go-getter, that’s for certain, but not towards danger if he can help it.

“Hey…!” he calls out to her playfully. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

She squeals, not stopping, and points to the river. “Fishie, Daddy! I wanna catch the fishies!”

Arthur quickens his steps and scoops her up in his arms before she reaches the river. He turns back to Boadicea, where his fishing gear is kept. “If you’re gonna do that, you need a fishin’ pole first.”

Isaac has successfully retrieved his fishing pole and without wasting any time, he hurries to the river where Javier has already cast his line.

Not to be outdone by Javier, Arthur makes quick work of packing Alice in one arm and his gear in the other, Copper trailing behind. As Arthur navigates through the brush, Alice squirms excitedly in his arms, eager to participate in this little adventure. Arthur chooses a spot at a distance from Javier, knowing that overcrowding with ruin his chances of catching anything. The riverbank is muddy, the recent rains turning the soil into a soft sludge that squelches underfoot. He sets Alice down with a gentle thud, her little boots making impressions in the mud. “You stay right here while I get some bait on the hook.”

Alice obeys this time, holding onto her father’s left leg as she watches the moving river. “Where’s fishie, Daddy?”

Arthur squats down, enveloping his daughter as she stands between his legs. She watches him as his hands continue to work. “They’re in there,” he answers, focusing on getting some cheese on the hook. “We’re gonna catch ‘em for your mama to cook.”

“Dad?” Isaac calls out to him. “Can you help me with the bait?”

Javier turns to Isaac, his brow pinched as he brings a forefinger to his lips. “Quiet! You scare fish…!”

Arthur shoots Javier a look that’s part understanding, part warning, then stands up, brushing the mud off his hands. He hands offers his pole to Alice. “Can you watch this for me?” She nods, eager to be on a task and he strides over to Isaac. Once beside him, he bends at the waist to show him how to properly bait the hook.

"Now, see here,” he instructs, threading the wriggling worm onto the hook with practiced ease. “You gotta be sure to push it through just right—like threading a needle. There, now give it a cast."

Isaac mirrors his father's actions with intense concentration, then swings the line out over the water. The splash is small but satisfying.

Arthur claps him on the back. "Well done, son." They stand there, quiet for a moment, to let the stillness of their surroundings sink in. “You good on your own?”

Isaac shrugs. “Yeah, but…” he starts, but cuts himself off.

“What, Isaac?”

“You wanna fish right here? Right beside me instead of over there where you were?”

That may not guarantee much fish, but who is Arthur to tell his son no? “Shoah, partner. Let me bring Alice over. She’s watchin’ my pole for me.”

Arthur heads back over to where Alice is diligently watching the fishing rod, her small face scrunched in concentration as she holds it in her folded arms. "Good job, little lady," he praises as he takes his pole and scoops her up into his arms. “Let's go fish by Isaac.”

Alice grins excitedly, delighted by the change of plan. They make their way over to Isaac and setting Alice back down, he stands erect and readies his pole. “Catch anythin’, Javier?” he calls out.

Javier only looks at him from the corner of his eye and without waiting a second longer, he picks up his things and moves downstream. “¡No es de extrañar que no pueda pescar, no puede mantener la maldita boca cerrada el tiempo suficiente para pescar nada...!”

Arthur chuckles softly, the tension easing off his shoulders as Javier's grumbling fades with distance. He watches the man settle a good ways down the stream before turning his attention back to his children. Copper, meanwhile, has been on enough fishing trips to know where there’s potential for a catch, as he is an opportunist himself, and trots over to where Javier resets his lure.

"All right, let’s see who can catch the biggest fish," Arthur declares, setting up a friendly competition that immediately sparks excitement in Isaac and Alice. Their eyes light up, a mix of challenge and delight painting their youthful features.

Alice, always eager to outdo her brother in any small contest, reaches for her father’s pole. “Let me twy, Daddy! Let me…!”

At this point, Arthur doesn’t really care if he catches anything. His main purpose was to spend time with his children. So, letting Alice have a try won’t hurt. He squats down and pulls her close so she leans into him, and he helps her hold onto the pole. "Alright, little lady, here you go. Just remember, hold it steady and when you feel a nibble, give it a quick tug."

Alice takes the pole with both hands, it is heavy, but she keeps her stance wide and determined. Isaac watches her, a smirk playing on his lips, but there's an unmistakable glint of pride in his eyes as he watches his little sister take on the challenge. The river gurgles and chatters around them, the sunlight dappling through the leaves, casting flickering shadows on their faces.

There is an understandable silence that falls over them, the waiting game has begun.

Arthur remains patiently crouched, observing the delicate balance of hope and concentration on Alice's face as she waits for a fish to bite. Isaac, not to be outdone, adjusts his own stance, casting his line again with renewed vigor. The siblings' quiet rivalry fills the air with a gentle yet poignant tension, reflective of their shared desire to bring a catch that their mother would be proud to cook for everyone. They’ve both begun to learn the pride in providing for others, and while this is an admirable trait, there is a tinge of sadness, as it is only the beginning.

“How long do we have to wait?” Isaac asks, puffing out air from his mouth. “I don’t remember it takin’ this long.”

Arthur chuckles warmly. “It’s only been a few minutes, son.”

Isaac rolls his shoulders, suppressing the urge to groan. “I don’t remember it ever takin’ this long.”

“That’s because you weren’t thinkin’ about it too much. Just…relax and try not to worry.”

Isaac goes silent again after letting out a sharp huff, hunching his shoulders, and staring at the water where the line disappears beneath the surface. Alice has been silent this entire time, her focus unmeasured as the line remains still. She’s determined to catch a fish and nothing will keep her from this goal.

Sometimes it still baffles Arthur that he’s a parent. A father to two beautiful children who have their own unique traits and dreams. But does he really know them? Has he really ever asked about how they feel about all this? Meaning, having a really deep conversation about it?

Well, he has to start somewhere.

“You like fishin’, don’t’chu, partner?” At the end of his question, he turns to see Isaac shrug his shoulders.

“I like it when I go with you, Dad.”

“That it, then? You’d never wanna go out by yourself?”

“I can’t. Mama says to never wander from camp. It ain’t fair.”

“She only says that for your safety, son. Javier can take you when I’m gone.” He looks past Isaac to see Javier reel in his line, pulling up a decent-sized Brook trout. He laughs victoriously to himself before going to work at stringing it with two other fish he’s already caught. “He could show you a few pointers.”

Isaac shrugs again. “Honestly, I like goin’ with you. It’s somethin’ we always do together.”

“It’s special then, huh?”

“Yeah. Annabelle used to say…” The young boy’s voice trails off at the mention of his adopted aunt and his face falls as he looks downward, not eyeing his fishing line anymore.

“Aunt Annie…?” Alice lifts her head and looks around then meets her brother’s eyes. “Huh?”

Isaac shakes his head. “No, Alice. She’s not here…”

Arthur takes his hand away from Alice’s and pats her head softly before looking at his son sympathetically. He’s glad that he didn’t witness her death, like you did, but undoubtedly the pain of her absence is still there. “You miss her, don’t’chu?”

Isaac nods, not speaking.

“I miss her too. She was a fine lady. She shared with me a wise word or two.”

Isaac nods again, lifting his eyes to watch his line. “She told me that you enjoy the time with people while you got ‘em. She’d tell me that when I was mad you were gone with Dutch.”

Arthur frowns. He knows Isaac does not like to be separated from family and while it is never easy, he has a duty to help provide for the gang. “Ain’t it better now that we live in camp together? That must help some.”

Isaac shrugs. “I like you comin’ back more. But it’s the bein’ gone that hurts more than bein’ happy you’re back. ‘Cause I know you’ll be gone again.”

“I’m sorry, son.”

“I know Mama doesn’t say much, not since Annabelle died, but she worries.”

Arthur nods softly. You’ve always been one to think first about your children, hiding your feelings just like he does. “Well, that’s ‘cause she cares about’chu, son.”

But Issac shakes his head, his brow pinched. “No, not about me, Dad. You.”

Arthur blinks. “Me?” He’s surprised to hear this. While he doesn’t doubt that Eliza would worry about anyone at camp, his heart can’t help but skip a beat.

But it is fleeting when Isaac looks at his father dead in the eyes and delivers a sobering line. “I know you ain’t an adventurer, Dad. I hear ‘em talkin’. I hear what Mama says to Hosea.”

There is a sinking feeling in Arthur’s chest, but also a relief. He had tried to keep his life hidden from Isaac, and he was successful up until you and the children came to live with him. But he’s glad that Isaac is smart enough to figure it out, it saves him the trouble to have to come out with it. Though maybe he should have said something sooner. “What am I, Isaac?”

Isaac looks at his father, this strong figure he’s looked up to his entire life. He sees those strong hands as they hold the fishing pole and eyes the gun on his hip. “You’re an outlaw, Dad.”

And Arthur nods softly. “Yes, son. I am.”

“And you’ve been one this whole time.”

“Yes, son.”

“Even before you met Mama?”

“Yes. I was not much older than you.”

“But…why?”

Why. That’s a good question. His answer has changed over the years, morphing from a fierce belief in the cause to a weary acceptance of the life he'd been dealt. He wants to spare his son the details about his own father, about his mother’s death, but at the same time, Isaac has already come face to face with harsh realities.

“I was alone, son. I lost my folks when I was young and had to take care of myself. Dutch and Hosea found me and taught me everythin’ I know.” He watches his son’s saddened expression, but the boy still attentively listens. "Times were hard, Isaac. Still are. It was and is a way to make ends meet, to fight against what seems unjust. It’s a way of life."

Isaac's face softens as a burning question begs to be asked. “You kill people, don’t you, Dad?”

Arthur feels a weight settle heavily upon his shoulders—a weight made of truths and secrets he'd hoped to keep from his son for many more years, if not forever. He meets Isaac's earnest gaze, seeing in those youthful eyes a desperate search for understanding, for reassurance.

"Yes, Isaac. I have," Arthur admits slowly, the words out in the open and hanging around his children. “Protectin’ and providin’.”

“Killin’ like the man who killed Annabelle?”

Arthur can’t help but let his brow furrow. “No. That man was evil. Colm and his boahs killed for just the fun of it.”

Isaac scowls. “That’s awful, Dad.” He looks away and his cheeks grow red hot with anger and his knuckles grow white as he grips his pole. “I hate death…”

Arthur remembers the talk they had years ago, back at Aspen’s Way, about death. He can understand why his son would hate it, despise it. It has taken away someone close to him and he’s known ever since he was little that it will happen to his loved ones one day. Whether it be sooner or later.

“I hate it too, kid.”

Isaac inhales sharply as tears stream down his face. “No, Dad. I really hate it. It ain’t fair that Annabelle died. Or…that Mama will die…or Alice…” He thinks about the robbery three years ago, and what could have happened then if his father hadn’t shown up. “I wish death were a person, so I could kill it myself…”

Gently transferring the weight of the pole into Alice’s hands, he leaves her to kneel beside his son. He feels the ache in Isaac’s words deep within his own chest. He places a hand over the boy’s smaller one, gently easing his grip on the fishing pole. “I know, son, I know. It ain’t fair at all.” His voice is low and heavy with shared sorrow. “But as hard as it is, we can’t let our anger fester inside us. It ain’t anyone’s fault she died. It was the fault of the man who killed her.”

“And Mama shot him,” he sniffs. “Didn’t she?”

“Yeah, partner.” Arthur squeezes his hand gently. “She did.”

Isaac falls silent for a moment, picturing his mother with a gun in her hand, fierce and brave as she meets evil head-on. “Is she…?” he starts, his trepidation evident in even asking such a question. “…Is she an outlaw, too?”

Arthur feels the weight of the question settle over them like a heavy fog, thick and uncomfortable. He looks into Isaac’s young, questioning eyes, seeing the conflict brewing within him. The idea of right and wrong, good and evil, tangled up in the image of his own mother.

“No, son,” Arthur replies slowly, choosing his words carefully. “She’s your mama.”

“But—”

“Now, you listen to me…” Arthur carefully pries the fishing pole out of his son’s hands and sets it down before taking Isaac by the shoulders. “Your mama had to make a difficult choice in comin’ to live with me. She may help out and live here, but that don’t make her an outlaw. The law won’t ever be comin’ for her, or for you, or for Alice, alright?”

Isaac looks into his father’s eyes, realization marked in them. “They’ll be comin’ for you, won’t they?”

Arthur feels a sharp pain at the truth spoken by his son, as if the boy's words were a bullet straight through his heart. He nods slowly, unable to hide the grim reality from Isaac any longer. "Yeah, son, they might. But that’s why I’ve got to be smart, and why we’ve got to have enough money to get you, your sister, and your mama somewhere safe. That’s what I’m doin’ now.”

“This is all scary, Dad.”

Arthur pulls Isaac close, wrapping his arms around him. The river's gentle ripple mirrors the uneasy calm in his own heart. "I know it is, son. It scares me too sometimes." He lets the silence stretch out between them for a moment, filled only by the natural sounds of the wilderness around them. "You remember those stories I told you about heroes and legends, don't’chu?" Arthur continues, trying to lift the mood. "Well, we're kinda like that. Fighting our battles, standin’ up for what we believe in."

Isaac nods, his eyes wide as he absorbs every word. "Are we heroes, Dad?"

Arthur pulls away to look into his son’s eyes. "In our own way. We fight for each other and stick together. That's what makes us strong. That’s the kind of heroes we are."

Isaac, his expression a mix of awe and uncertainty, seems to digest this new perspective on their life. He sniffs and rubs at his eyes. “I like that better than outlaws, Dad.”

Arthur smiles. “It kinda has a nicer ring, don’t it?”

A small smile appears on Isaac’s face and Arthur can feel his heart ache a little less. “Yeah, it does.”

“¡Oye! ¡Aléjate de mi pez, perro!”

Javier’s shout cuts through the moment between father and son and they all turn to see Javier swatting at Copper as he makes off with a mouthful of trout. The hound dog and his opportunistic schemes are at it again.

Arthur lets out a hearty laugh. “You go, more fish, was that right, Javier?!”

Javier whips around and pauses in his chase, glaring Arthur down. “We go now.”

Arthur turns to look at his son and wipes the wetness of his cheeks. “I think Javier’s done with fishin’ for today. What say you, boah?”

Isaac nods, sighing. “Yeah. I wanna go back, now.”

Arthur turns to look back at Alice over his shoulder and sees her struggling with the pole, the handle resting on the ground and her arms wrapped around its wooden pole. Does she have a fish on the line?

Not even taking the time to ask, he hurries over to her before she loses the pole and takes her hands, and the handle, in his. He feels the tension, she definitely has something!

“Why didn’t you say somethin’, girl?” Arthur chuckles as he begins to reel it in. “You were concentratin’ somethin’ fierce!”

She doesn’t answer, her lips puckered and eyes steeled on the line. She is determined to catch a fish, even if her arms break off.

Isaac comes behind Arthur as he’s crouched and watches a silverly tail whip out of the water. “It’s a big one, Dad…!”

Arthur steadies Alice's small hands as they work together, pulling against the weight of the water. The fish is putting up a good fight, splashing furiously as it tries to escape. "Hold on tight, Alice!"

Her face lights up with determination, her freckles standing out like specks of gold against her flushed cheeks. The moment is intense, every pull bringing them closer to victory or defeat. The line stretches taut, the rod bends nearly double.

Finally, with one mighty pull, they haul in the fish, a large Smallmouth bass glistening under the late-day sun. Alice's laughter mixes with the rushing river sounds, triumphant and bright. Arthur gets to work at cutting the line, as the hook is in its mouth too deep. Holding the line securely in his hand, he lifts the fish victoriously for Alice to see, its scales like little gems embedded in its flesh. “I did it!” she cries, jumping up and down. “I catch fishie, Daddy!”

Arthur beams, lifting her into the air with one arm, the fish dangling from the line in the other. “You sure did, darlin'. You caught yourself a whopper!” He holds her against his side and looks down at his son. “Pack up your gear, son. We’re gonna take this fish to your mama.”

Isaac nods with a wide grin, his excitement bubbling as he hurries to gather their scattered fishing equipment. As the sun begins to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the water, Arthur walks back with Alice still in his arms, Isaac trailing behind loaded with the gear.

Reaching the horses, they meet with Javier, still grumbling about the thieving dog as he puts away his pole.

“Alice can ride with me,” Isaac says as he pulls himself up on Rooster’s back. “I can hold her.”

Arthur smiles, recognizing the lesson that Isaac has learned. Being big enough means more than being independent. A loner. It’s about taking responsibility, and being dependable for those who need you. He nods at Isaac, a silent acknowledgment of his son's maturity.

So he lifts Alice gently onto Rooster in front of Isaac, ensuring she’s secure. “Hold on tight to that saddlehorn,” he instructs her, fixing her small hands around it.

As he backs away, he looks down at the ground momentarily, and something catches his eye. Isaac notices his attention is drawn and tilts his head curiously. “What is it, Dad?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, but crouches low to the ground. Before his feet, is a cluster of white flowers, shaped almost similar to tulips of poppies.

Their petals are soft, their stems thin, but they are thriving in this desert land.

Like you.

They are Arizona Rosemallows, Arthur will come to find that out once he reads into it. But for now, he is only captivated by their delicate beauty, and how you would appreciate having something beautiful to look at when you go into your tent. He pulls out his knife and uses it as a shovel, uprooting a few, and holds them gently between his fingers, the white blooms almost glowing in the dimming light.

“Just some flowers for your mama,” Arthur finally replies, standing back up with a thoughtful look. He tucks them into his satchel. A pinch of hope fills his chest, the gesture potentially a way to bridge the gap between you and him. “Let’s get goin’.”

The ride back to camp is light-hearted despite the weight of earlier tensions. Alice giggles from her perch, her laughter echoing in the cool evening air, a soothing balm to all ears. Arthur keeps his eyes ahead, the shadows growing longer as they approach camp.

As they near, the scent of cooking fire welcomes them. The camp is abuzz with activity as folks gather up their plates and find places to sit down.

Davey, still on guard duty, spots the Morgans and Javier riding in. He grins. “Was it successful, Arthur?”

Reaching near the back of his saddle, he unhooks the dangling fish and raises it. “Take a look at this one.”

Davey whistles appreciatively, eyeing the fish with a hint of envy. "That's a beast there, sure enough. I reckon Javier wasn't just blowin' smoke about his fishin' skills."

But Arthur laughs. “It ain’t him who caught it.” And as if on cue, Isaac points to the little three-year-old who sits in front of him.

Davey lets out a chortle. “Ye, Alice? Hah!” And he looks over at Javier as they all come to a stop. “What happened to all them fishin’ chops, eh, lad?”

Javier lifts his chin. “Copper.”

Copper, not in sight, has already traipsed into camp looking for his next meal, now that dinner is on the menu.

Davey shakes his head as Arthur helps Alice down from Rooster. “I guess thieves ain’t immune to bein’ robbed.”

“Nope, we shoah ain’t.” Arthur takes the fish again and looks down at his daughter. “Let’s take the fish to the cooks, shall we?” Alice nods excitedly, and with a nod to Davey, he leads his little fisherwoman to the provisions wagon. Isaac dismounts and makes his way to where the others are gathering, knowing that is where the food is.

When Arthur and Alice reach the provision wagon, he notices that you aren’t there. Pearson remains, and eyes two large pieces of meat hanging on some sort of man-made beams, while a pile of smoking wood rises beneath it.

“What’chu got there, Pearson?” Arthur asks.

Pearson, now spotting them, waves. “Good evening, Mr. Morgan!” He gestures to the hanging meat. “Eliza thought to cure some of the meat. Make it smoked bacon from the javelina.”

Smart. Resourceful. Arthur can’t help but smile. “That’s Eliza for you.”

Pearson nods. “It’s nice to have someone around that knows a thing or two about cookin’. Makes my job that much easier.” He then sees little Alice standing beside Arthur and grins. “Your mama is eatin’ with the others, littlin’.”

Alice is only focused on one thing at the moment, pointing to the fish. “Fishie!”

Pearson chuckles at Alice’s enthusiasm and bends down to her level. "Yes, that's a right fine ‘fishie’ you've got there, miss," he says, his voice full of warmth. Alice beams proudly as she leans into her father’s leg.

Arthur sets the fish on the butcher block as he watches the scene, his thoughts drifting to you and the flowers in his satchel. His heart tugs with a mix of frustration and longing. He'll have to face you at some point, no matter how much the tension bothers him.

“Dad…!” Arthur turns around and sees Isaac walking with John and Abigail, plates in hand and Jack on Abigail’s hip. “I’m gonna sit with them, okay?”

Arthur grins, seeing an opportunity to get time alone with you. “That’s fine.” And he gestures to Alice. “Take your sister along wit’chu.”

Isaac nods, taking Alice's hand gently. "Come on, sis. Let's go eat with Jack." Together, they toddle off to where the others have gathered around a table, their small voices mingling with the dinging of plates and the distant calls of night birds.

Left alone, Arthur goes to get himself something to eat before it’s gone. He walks over to a makeshift table where Reverend Swanson is serving himself. Arthur scoops a hearty portion of beans onto his plate and glances over the array of food, his eyes finally resting on some crispy slices of javelina meat.

And as he skewers it with his fork, he hears a distinctive sound.

It’s your voice. “Isaac is seven and Alice just turned three.”

And then Sean’s voice shortly follows. “And…ya ain’t seein’ anyone right now, right?”

“…No.”

You are talking to Sean. Nosey, loudmouthed Sean. Sean was asking about the fathering of the children and was prepared to tease anyone about it.

Not on Arthur’s watch.

And so, with his plate in hand, Arthur begins to make his way over to where you sit, your back turned to him.

He sees Sean turn to you again and wave around his spoon expressively as he speaks. “So, you only get ta have a good time every four years? What kind of a ting is dat?”

Your smile falls and you look at Sean skeptically. “What?”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t tell me you’ve been havin’ kids and don’t know how dey got here? Man, Arthur’s got some explainin’ ta do…!”

Arthur freezes in his steps.

“Oh, this oughta be good…” Uncle chuckles and leans forward as he sits to watch the show.

Curious as to what your response will be, Arthur maneuvers to sit on a stump positioned behind you, Sean, and Uncle. Settling down, he sets his plate in his lap and takes steady bites as he watches on, not saying a word.

Sean continues on, lifting his chin. “I may not be educated, but I see a pattern dere.”

Arthur expects you to get defensive, to turn around, and learn Sean a lesson. Lord knows the kid could use a dose of humility.

But instead, you laugh. A hearty laugh. The kind that makes your nose crinkle and your eyes shut tight. You couldn’t have missed the meaning of Sean’s statement and Arthur can’t imagine how you can find this funny. “You think that I don’t have a good time?”

“You look like ya sure need one!” Sean leans in close to you and waggles his brow. “And I can do dat for ya.”

Arthur nearly gets up from his stump. What’re you sayin’, boah? I bet’chu wouldn’t be sayin’ that if you saw me sittin’ right behind you.

You lean back and push him away from you, still not ready to slap him, though he couldn’t be far from deserving. “Shut up, Sean. You’re just a kid.”

But Sean is persistent and he whispers softly with a playful air. “Nobody needs ta know, darlin’…!”

Darlin’. That’s what he calls you. Used to call you.

“Oh my lands!” you exclaim. And you can’t help but join Sean’s laughter. Your nose crinkles again and you place a hand on your chest. “Stop, I can’t breathe…!”

It’s the laugh that Arthur hasn’t heard in years. An ache stirs in his chest. A jealousy. You couldn’t be doing this on purpose. You don’t even know he is sitting behind you.

And that almost feels worse. You don’t care if he hears it or not.

And it hurts. Hell, it still hurts more than it is some teenage boy making you laugh and not him.

After a minute, you catch your breath again and wipe a tear from your eye. It’s all fun and games but you can’t help but wonder if there’s any truth to Sean’s flirtatious banter. Your intimate life has been, for lack of a better word, nonexistent. That’s why you find it hilarious. The irony of it, to have the only action you’ve gotten in the last four years resulting in the creation of your second child.

And Sean had to be the one to lay it out in the open. This seems to be at the root of his personality. Boisterous, with no sense of decorum or discretion.

You think about his argument. Every four years. Is that what it has come down to? You wish there was such a pattern, for Alice is coming up in years and it won’t be long before she turns four. You’d be excited if that was a condition in your and Arthur’s relationship. One of the many unspoken rules you both have.

Wait, isn’t that how old Isaac was when you and Arthur…?

Yes, yes it was. He turned four shortly thereafter. And then Alice was born.

“It’s three,” you say.

Sean stops shoving stew into his mouth and speaks with it partially full. “Wot?”

But Arthur immediately knows what you’re talking about, and he feels his stomach churn. You’ve always been a private person. Why are you telling Sean this?

But you can’t read Arthur’s mind and continue. “Three years, because a baby is born about nine to ten months…” Wait. Why are you explaining this to him? Too personal, Eliza. Too personal! You cover your face with your free hand, regretting everything. “Never mind.”

Sean laughs at your embarrassment but enjoys the subtle information that you just let slip. “Maybe ya should leave dem jokes ta me.”

You nod your head pensively and you try to continue working on your dinner. “Maybe.”

A moment of silence falls between you as you each take a few bites of what’s on your plate. Uncle, disappointed that you didn’t club Sean upside the head, decides to finish his dinner surrounded by more entertaining company.

“That was more unfulfilling than my last marriage…” he grumbles, standing up and turning to leave. He nearly jumps when he sees Arthur sitting there and he swallows thickly before quickly walking away. You don’t say anything in return, not even turning around to watch him go as you merely shake your head.

“Sorry ta disappoint ya, old man…!” Sean cackles, turning at the waist to watch Uncle walk away, still not noticing Arthur. His laughter softly dies and he turns back to look at you, studying you for a moment. You don’t meet his eyes which somehow gives him the courage to stare at you a little more. “So,” Sean starts, breaking the silence that has gone on for too long in his opinion. “what is your story?”

You lift your head but still don’t meet his gaze. You use your fork to stab a chunk of meat and hold it up. “What story? It seems that everyone knows it by now.” You bite the morsel and chew it for a while, trying to make it easier to swallow. “There really isn’t one to tell.”

“I doubt dat…!”

You wave your fork at him. “Just wait. You’ll hear enough from the folks around here.”

“You’re like a legend den!”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. Flattery will get him nowhere. You've only just started entertaining thoughts of moving on, but you aren’t even that close, or desperate to fall for Sean’s words. “Legends are only legends when you’re dead.”

“Me da was a legend before he died, so dat easily proves ya wrong.”

You chortle at this kid’s confidence. “According to who? That isn’t how legends work.”

He sways your counter with a broad stroke of his arm. “Ah, you’re no fun, Ms. Bloom.”

“Good. Maybe then you can find some other girl to pester.”

At your words, he opens his arms and gestures to the general size of the camp. “Look around ya! Do ya see any available women?”

From where you’re sitting, there aren’t any available men, either. If you’re to get with anyone, the man you choose will need to be vastly different from your current option.

And as you try to believe that, Arthur’s face keeps entering your mind. Over and over again.

Cut him off. He cares about you enough to let you find someone else. You’ll be doin’ him a favor.

You shrug. “Well, I guess you’re outta luck, then.”

He waggles his finger in mock admonishment, shaking his head.“Ah-ah…! Don’t underestimate de power o’ de Irish! We never run outta lok!”

And you laugh again. Arthur doesn’t see how you find it all so funny.

He’s finished his plate and so he rises to his feet. Even with his large figure casting a shadow over you and Sean, you don’t seem to notice, you’re holding your abdomen as you laugh at yourself, your circumstances, and your life.

But you’ve needed a good laugh, even if it is at yourself.

Arthur turns to walk away. Reaching into his satchel, he pulls out the Arizona Rosemallow and sees how wilted it has become. How despite his good intentions, it will not survive much longer in his hands.

It seems that says enough.

Thank you so much for reading! Any comments are greatly appreciated.

Tag Requests: @photo1030, @eternalsams

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #red dead fandom #fanfiction #ao3 writer #rdr2 #arthur morgan x you #arthur x eliza #dutch van der linde #sean macguire #angst for days #arthur and his kids go fishing with javier

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insomniamamma · 2 years ago

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We Came Along This Road: Frankie Morales x f!reader

A/N: This one got angsty and a bit personal. My little boy had colic and my milk mostly dried up at around 6 months, but I had to start supplementing with formula long before that. Colic's a funny thing. It really does sort itself out at around 3 months, but those three months are a fucking eternity. Silver Airways is a real regional airline serving the south eastern United States, the Bahamas and Caribbean. Since Triple Frontier was set in Florida, I figured this in an airline Frankie could fly for. His job would probably involve multiple short-hop flights a day. Written for my year of kisses, as part of @yearofcreation2023, the prompt being a kiss goodbye.

Warnings: Drug and alcohol use, hospitals, pediatrician mention, colicky baby, reader has a new baby. Fuck-ton of angst related to raising a child. Emotions that are all over the fucking place. Jumps around in time. Frankie's a fuck up. Broken relationship. No happy ending.

"Can I?" "No. Don't you dare wake him." Frankie bites at his lower lip, that same bit of flesh you used to suck between your teeth when you kissed him. His entire back would lock up when he felt the graze of your teeth, his breath would draw in sharp.

Gabe is colicky. The pediatrician assured you that he would sort himself out at about three months, but that seems like an eternity from now. Doesn't matter if you nurse him or bottle feed him, the bloating and crying happen anyway. Your milk supply is not what it should be. One more thing to worry over, and you've switched formulas but nothing seems to work. You hate yourself for it. This should be easy. When he nurses those big dark eyes are locked on yours clumsy baby fingers patting at your side, looks at you like you hung the moon and stars, but then he's screaming twenty minutes later, face crumpled up, mouth an endless zero, a black hole and you run through the steps in your head, rock him against your shoulder and pound his back to get him to burp and if that doesn't work, there's the simethicone drops and belly rubs and most times he'll fart and his huge eyes will goggle even wider and you laugh, how can you not? Better out than in, huh, buddy? And most times he'll calm after that, but sometimes he won't. Sometimes the moby wrap is the only thing that works, him tied against your chest in a fabric cocoon while you try to keep up with the dishes and washing out the bottles and trying to keep everything in some sort of order so you don't go insane.

Push everything out of your mind except the here and now. Try not to think about how Gabe's dark puzzled eyes had locked on to Frankie's and how Frankie had smiled so broad and wide, tears running unbidden and ignored down his scruffy cheeks, when he'd cut the cord and they'd tucked Gabe against your chest, the fever heat of him, so small and soft and warm. He felt impossible. The lactation consultant had showed you how to get him to latch, you're a natural she said. And the two of you discharged into the care of a flustered Frankie, I can fly a fuckin Blackhawk but this car seat almost got the best of me. Hey language. He doesn't understand yet. No, but he will. I would very much like his first word to not be fuck. Fair enough babe. Fair enough. Frankie looked at you and you both turned to look at Gabe dressed in a onesie with little foxes on it, already sound asleep. Holy shit. We're parents, he said, and those lovely dark eyes shone with tears that strained not to fall. Take us home, Frank.

You try to hang on to that feeling, now that it's just you. Just you and Gabe. Frankie's staying with the Millers for now. You found out he'd been using again late into your third trimester and he'd dropped down on his knees and swore to you that it was a one time thing. You know how they over-schedule us, Babe, his big warm hands folded around yours, eyes locked on your steady and sure and not sliding to the side when he promises you that he's done. I fucked up, squeezes your hands in his and looks up at you from on the floor, around the ripe curve of your belly, but I'm done. I swear to you.

And you wanted to believe him, feeling your son kick inside of you, press against the prison of your body and what choice do you have in that moment but to trust that he means it? The alternative is too bleak to think about. You can't do this alone. You realized that the second you peed on the stick and cried over the results until you couldn't breathe, he said he'd do right by you and, God, you wanted to believe. This shit? You can't get caught, okay? You can't. You think I don't mean it. I don't care what you mean! It's too fuckin late for that, cradling your distended belly in your hands, the baby's kicking, he never stops kicking, you get caught and you lose your job. You lose your job you lose our insurance. You got an extra 15k laying around? You get caught and we're fucked. I won't get caught. I told you, I'm done. And I'm telling you that you cannot get caught with this shit.

Gabe's finally down after what feels like hours so shushing and rocking and simethicone drops and tummy rubs, held him tucked against your shoulder listening to old country songs, Johnny Cash and Pasty Cline and Loretta Lynn, held him and rocked with him until he went slack against you, fever-warm and drooling into the crook of your neck. Prickling cramp in your tits and you carry him up the stairs, dribbles of milk let down warming and then cooling through your shirt. You'll pump, or try to, once you get Gabe settled, not that you expect much. You know that having to give Gabe formula doesn't make you a bad mom, you know that in your mind, but it's hard to hang on to that when the internet is full of contentedly nursing mothers with babies who sleep through the night and don't scream like the world is ending after every feeding. Settle him in his crib and hover. He stirs, stretches his arms on either side of his head like a cartoon cactus but doesn't wake. His mouth moves like it does when he nurses, tiny Cupid's bow of his lips pursed around nothing, but at least he's asleep.

I know it's hard now, but around three months he'll sort himself out, or so the pediatrician said, but that seems like an eternity from now, a whole different age. And for now Gabe sleeps, cactus arms stretched on either side of his head, but you know he won't stay down for long. You debate the merits of trying to sleep versus trying to tackle the mountain of dishes in the sink, trying to pump even though it's an increasingly fruitless venture, and then the door bell rings. It's not loud, about the volume of a stifled cough but your first reaction is rage.

You are so angry you can't even make words. The form letter from Silver Airways trembles in your hands as you shove it into Frankie's face when he comes in the door, his hands raised, as if that will make things better somehow. Suspension pending review, that phrase stood out when you opened the letter and the rest dissolved into tear-blurred hash, You fuckin told me you were done with this shit!-- Whoa hey Babe-- You got down on your knees and promised me you were done and now you go and get yourself shit-canned? What the fuck were you thinking? I know it sounds bad, Frankie takes a step back from you, hulking large in the door frame, But they've got a program, ok? For first time violations. Other than this my record is spotless. I'll make this right-- You won't, you say and his eyes go dark and hard, Gabe's high, reedy cries rising in the background, You couldn't stay clean for him. You won't stay clean because of what some councilor tells you. What are you trying to say? Tears run hot down your face but inside you are cold as the space between stars, a future stretched before you dark and wide, one that for the first time since you fell pregnant does not involve Francisco Morales. I think you should leave. He reaches to rest a hand on your upper arm, a gesture of comfort, of grounding, a gentle touch you've felt so many times before, but you bristle back as if burned. Are we-- Just go. I'll call, he says, retreating into the dark, M'not gonna ditch you. You don't say anything, just watch his headlights turn on, the rumble of his battered truck backing out of the driveway, crunch of tires on gravel and then the endless bug music and humid night.

I just got him down, you think, pulse hammering in your ears as you descend the narrow stairs, rushing to get there before the bell can ring again, not much louder than a stifled cough but with the struggles you've had getting Gabe to sleep it might as well be a sonic boom. "I'm coming," you call as soon as you think it's safe, something like a stage-whisper, open the door and there's Frankie, filtered through the window screen, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes shining in the ugly yellow porch-light, little glittering arcs beneath the bill of his hat. "Hey," says Frankie. And that knot clenches in your chest. Anger and grief and want all smeared together. You miss him, looking right at him in the bug-humming glow, soft pink!pink!pink! of moths and junebugs and christ knows what else suiciding into that sizzling orb, nothing you're feeling makes itself into words, you're so tired, so fucking tired, eyes filling up with tears, you cry so fucking easily these days and Frankie's through the door and folding you up in his arms before you can tell him to go to hell, that you don't want to see his face, sink into his familiar warmth, his palm cradling the back of your head, tucking you into the juncture of his neck and shoulder and he smells like laundry soap and beer, faint tang of sweat, warm and solid and despite everything you want to stay there forever, you want to be soothed, to be rocked and held and you are just so goddamn tired, but you extricate yourself and step back from him, scrubbing your wrist across your eyes. "Why are you here?" "I wanted to see Gabe." "He's sleeping. I just got him down." "Something's come up," says Frankie, "I've got a job, and I'm gonna be out of town for a bit." He's smiling, but it doesn't quite hit his eyes. "A bit? How long's a bit?" "Ten days at most. I won't be able to contact you though." "Christ. I thought you were done with this kind of shit." "The money's good," says Frankie, "It's just a quick recce. One and done. Redfly's with us this time." His hands find yours, fiddles absently with the ring you can't quite bear to take off just yet, squeezes your fingers. "It'll be enough to see us through til I complete the program and get my wings back."

You wouldn't let the nurses take him out of the room for tests. And when they tried to appeal to Frankie, all they got back was, you heard the lady. Gabe stays right here unless she decides different. You can do the tests in here. He can sleep right here. So they let him stay, swaddled and tiny, soft, snuffling breaths and you slept with your hand reaching into his crib, plastic box on a cart on wheels, your hand on his tummy, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, Frankie passed out on the narrow couch, hat pulled over his eyes. Gabe's here and he's perfect and he's yours, and you drift off to the rhythmic breathing of the two people you love most in the whole world.

"When do you leave?" "Tomorrow morning," says Frankie, takes his hat off and rubs his hand through his curls before putting it back on, a nervous gesture you've seen many times before. "Can I see Gabe? I've missed you guys so much." "It took me forever to get him down." "I just need to see him, okay?" "This job. This recce. How dangerous is it?" "It'll be fine," says Frankie, "Pope's gathering intel and we're backing him up. Low contact. Everything goes right the mark won't even know we've been there." "Where?" "Better you don't know, babe." "Jesus." "Hey," he curls his hands around your upper arms and gives you a little shake, "I'm not gonna ditch you okay? I'm not ditching him. I'm going to make this right, okay?" The breath that comes out of you is wet, wavering, and you nod, not sure if you believe him or if you just desperately want to, and those big brown eyes meet yours, his gaze sure and steady. You nod. "Yeah. Okay."

You and him stand side by side, peering down at Gabe in the soft greenish light from the swirling stars projected on the ceiling, soft hiss of white noise that he seems to prefer, his tiny hands balled up on either side of his head. Cactus arms. "He's filling out some," says Frankie, voice pitched low. "He is." Gabe's face has lost the newborn scrunch, "He's a little behind growth wise. The colic--" "He's perfect," says Frankie. Fake stars pass over his face, shifting light shining in his eyes. And you feel yourself smile, as tired as you are. "He's gonna be just fine." Frankie reaches into the crib and strokes the pad of his thumb between Gabe's eyes, and you draw a hard inward breath. Gabe's faces screws up and then smooths out, lips purse and suck at nothing. Frankie leans over the crib. "Hey little man, Se bueno con tu mamá, ¿vale? I'll be home soon." Frankie presses two fingers to his lips and kisses them, presses them to your sleeping son's forehead. Gabe stirs but does not wake.

You stand in the ugly light with Frankie, bugs doing their endless, mindless dance in the yellow glow and his hands find yours again, warm and calloused and familiar and gentle, thumbs smoothing over your knuckles. "I'll call. Soon as we're back state-side. We'll figure things out from there." You pull your hands away. "Sure." "Take care of yourself. You won't do Gabe any good if you run yourself into the ground." Turns and walks down the path to the driveway, turns back to you and smiles. "Stay off of those fuckin mommy blogs, okay? Those people are crazy." And you laugh. Frankie fuckin Morales. He can always surprise a laugh out of you. And for a moment it feels like before, before he started using again, before he got busted, before Gabe, just you and Frankie sharing a laugh, his eyes crinkled and warm, that sweet dimple sinking itself into his scruffy cheek, curve of his cheek as he turns from you, boots crunching over the pea-gravel driveway as he retreats into the dark. Dark that swallows him whole beyond the weak circle of porch-light, you can still hear his footsteps, fading into the endless, mindless song of crickets and rising scream of cicadas. You know in a moment you will hear his truck start up, rumble of a muffler that badly needs replacing. You almost call out to him, but you do not.

#year of kisses #frankie morales x f!reader #year of themes 2023 #triple frontier #heed the warnings kids #angst for days

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chloesimaginationthings · 3 months ago

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FNAF Puppet is burden with knowing the truth,,

#myart #chloesimagination #comic #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf fanart #the puppet #circus baby #golden freddy #elizabeth afton #charlie emily #fnaf cassidy #fnaf 4 #fnaf sister location #I wanted to draw these three together #I’d like to personally apologize this idea became angst #one day I’ll draw these dudes just having a good time #I always feel bad for Charlie too #as she puts it she’s very away #she gives life to others #and she knows most of the things that has happened #I wonder if she’s at all burdened by that #Cassidy and Elizabeth are there but not fully #Cassidy driven by her anger and want for justice #Elizabeth driven by her need for her fathers approval #Charlie is a middle ground of both these ideas #which I think is pretty neat in itself #btw I made this comic like a month ago so if you wanna see comics sooner peep the patreon

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ottiscloud · 2 months ago

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Do you ever cry because of a book?

#jean moreau #aftg #kevin day #all for the game #nora sakavic #the golden raven #tgr #the sunshine court #whump #angst #edgar allan poe #edgar allan ravens #raven nevermore #Spotify

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prlssprfctn · 4 months ago

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No matter if you choose to consider that Jason had the worst time ever in the League of Assassins or that, quite opposite, it was more or less okay, I think we all should unite and agree that Jason would be Ra's bane of existence. This boy is a brat. A certificated one, even. He is not an easy boy to handle, never and ever.

Ra's, after locking Jason up away from the society for a few days: Now. Do you realise what I am trying to say to you? You should focus on your studies. On your trainings. Forget about easy, normal life, about teenage shenanigans. Find peace. Throw unnecessary thoughts away.

Jason, yawning: Yeah, okay. Sure.

Ra's waking up in the 5am because someone is blasting NSYNC's Bye Bye Bye on the whole castle: Talia. What is this?

Talia, shrugging: Jason found old music speakers. He says he is... focusing like this. Just like you advised him to.

Ra's with his eye twitching: Is. he. Now.

Ra's: (accidentally trips on his cloak)

One of the Assassins, in their local comms: Chat, clip that

Ra's, frowning: What is that? What had you said? What is this nonsense?

Assasin: Uh, general had taught us—

Ra's: STOP LISTENING TO HIM, FOR GOD'S SAKE

Ra's: Talia, we need to send the boy to All-Caste. I think he needs some time away. From us. From me. Specifically.

(A certain amount time later)

Ra's, sighing in relief: Finally, peace—

Jason, spawning behind his back: Hi.

Ra's, groaning: YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE THE CLEANSING CEREMONY, OH MY GOD

Jason: Wanna check All Blade? It is kinda cool.

Ra's, pausing: ...Yeah.

Ra's farewelling Jason, who returns to Gotham: I have nothing to wish upon you. Be as annoying to Batman as you were to me.

Jason, smirking: Aw-w, I barely unleashed my annoyingness with you, Ra's. Bruce is going to suffer more.

Ra's: ...Good.

Ra's, closing the door behind him: Barricade the castle. Set bombs. I DON'T WANT TO SEE HIM HERE EVER AGAIN!!!

Also Ra's a half of a year later, watching footage of Jason terrorising everyone's life in Gotham, with tears in his eyes: That's my grandson. I am so proud of him.

Talia, raising her eyebrows: You tried to drown him in the Lazarus Pit. Twice.

Ra's: Shhh.

Talia: Then I'll invite him on holidays this year.

Ra's: NO.

#filler episode where Ra's tries to get rid of Jason behind Talia's back but he keeps randomly returning and acting as if nothing happened #Ra's is a girl dad. he can't handle this SHIT #i actually mostly prefer thinking on Jason's LoA days for angst purposes but jokes are so fun #jason todd #red hood #dcu comics #dc universe #dcu #batman #bruce wayne #talia al ghul #ras al ghul #al ghul family

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kthologue · 5 months ago

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𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 (𝐢) – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

contents. period piece, forbidden love, ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior, lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips, 7.2k words of gojo unable to process his feelings

notes. sorry for leaving everyone hanging after the prologue (make sure to read or reread since it's been a hot minute!) TT but here it finally is!!!...not proofread soz :x

series masterlist | chapter 1/2

You haunt his dreams, he’s sure. Gojo never believed in superstitions or the supernatural despite what all those old geezers preached. That was until your figure started to appear every time he closed his eyes.

The familiar scene of you gets cloudier every time it appears in his dreams, but he knows it is still you. It’s nearly comical how even his subconscious knew of your everlasting beauty. Everytime, the same sequence replays: a grand celebration he had hosted in the palace in honor of a prosperous year of his reign. The two of you were overlooking the guests, seated at the head of the room.

You’re wearing court attire that was altered to fit solely you (it hugged your body in such ways that made Gojo’s head spin), fabrics and dyes all originating from foreign lands. In your hair sits beautiful hair ornaments, swinging with every movement you make.

However, Gojo knows it is not the materialistic items that make you beautiful, no, he knows that it was simply you.

“Has anyone told you how unnerving your eyes are?” You quietly comment, eyes still trained on the party in front of you. Satoru cracks a slight smile, not ashamed in the slightest that he was caught ogling you.

“I thought you said you loved them?” He blinks at you, attempting to lean closer to show off his blue orbs. “You’re starting to hurt my feelings, beloved.”

You purse your lips, subtly leaning away before he can initiate improper conduct. He does not take your action well, snaking an arm around you to firmly cage you in his hold. Normally, you would welcome his advances but you’d rather not be publically humiliated in front of the entire Imperial Court and all of the influential clanheads of Japan.

“Please have mercy on me, Your Grace,” You whisper, eyes flitting across the room, making sure there were no eyes on you. Luckily, everyone was too absorbed with the luxurious goods Gojo had imported for the occasion. It was the anniversary of his coronation, after all.

He makes a noise of disapproval, “Can’t. Must let these people know that you’re mine.” Gojo closes the gap between you and sniffs your neck, softly moaning at your scent. He knows that if the geezers looked up from their silver spoons they would have a heart attack at his public display of affection. Not that he cares. His unorthodox ways may make them livid, but Gojo knows they won’t do anything. He was going to pave the way for the Golden Age of Japan— with you by his side.

“Your Grace!” You giggle at the ticklish sensation left by his warm breath. Any attempts of shying away from him are fruitless.

“Don’t run away,” His other hand firmly places itself on your clothed thigh, restricting your movements. All of this is hidden by the table that sits in front of the two of you.

You’re looking at him with those shiny eyes of yours, silently pleading with him. “Can’t this wait until tonight?”

He huffs, “I have suffered enough today without your presence. Ijichi kept begging me to finalize the preparations, but who am I to care? My flower was too busy having fun without me.”

“You and your dramatics. I was only away to tend the gardens in the Consort’s Pavilion. Which, might I remind you, is fading by the moment because someone refuses for me to stay there.” You tut, picking up your chopsticks to eat the delectable fish placed in front of you.

Gojo’s stare never falters as he watches you pick up a small piece, eyes shining as if he were watching a spectacle. “You know I can’t sleep without you.”

“And I, you.” You pop the piece inside of your mouth, chewing happily at the flavor that fills your tongue. “You know, I–” You began, but were cut off by the sudden seizing of your throat.

The chopsticks in your hands clatter loudly with the porcelain they are dropped on.

Gojo's breath hitched, his eyes wide and trembling with horror as he watched you struggle for air. "My love?” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of rising panic.

Your hands immediately travel to your neck to alleviate the sudden burning feeling that blossomed in it.

“[Name]!” He shouts, large hands quickly rising to cup your cheeks. In a desperate attempt, he squeezes your cheeks to get you to spit it out.

"Poi–poison," Your voice was hoarse, your face losing its color by the second. Satoru was frozen with fear. “Don’t eat it…Satoru.” With those parting words, you lose consciousness.

“[Name]?” Satoru’s hoarse voice can’t stop repeating your name like a prayer, hands lightly tapping your cheek as if it was going to bring you back to life.

Gojo wanted to laugh. Even when you were dying, you worried about him. Not that it mattered. You weren’t going to die. He refused.

Sometime during your struggle the chatter had stopped, and all eyes were on you. Satoru looks up from you to bark orders to the guards he had placed around the room. They leave to summon the Imperial Physician while Gojo is left clinging onto your limp body, praying to the Heavens above that they will grant him one more miracle.

—

Back in his chambers, Gojo’s head pounds, but he’s not sure whether it was the speed he shot up from his bed or the dream itself. He feels hot, sweat running from his bare chest that heaves to bring oxygen to his quickly pumping heart. He’s nearly certain his chest is going to cave any second with the way it constricts with pain. It was like he was a geezer, he humors silently.

“Your Grace?” A delicate hand cups his cheek.

He follows the direction of the hand, eyes slowly trailing up the feminine body it belonged to, barely covered as a result of the thin silk nightgown that highlighted her natural curves. “Are you alright? It was only a nightmare.” She cradles his face, moving slowly in his vulnerable state.

Satoru breathes heavily, eyes widening as they travel from her breasts to her face, beautifully illuminated by the sparse moonlight leaking from the window. Her dark hair falls past her shoulders, obscuring some of his access to her skin. His beautiful mistress. He’s sure that she is whispering sweet nothings into his ear, but the images of his memory keep replaying in his mind, occupying it from functioning properly. ”Himiko, how did you–”

“I heard you and I couldn’t bear it.” Her finger softly caressed his flushed cheek, trying her best to ignore the bewildered look on her lover’s face.

THE PRESENT —

The journey to the Inner Palace was a blur. After a long goodbye, a horse drawn carriage was sent to the front of Yaga’s estate the very next morning. Your mind was elsewhere the entire time, too busy mulling over your past and now damned future.

That is why when the carriage comes to a complete stop in front of the servants’ quarters, you are startled to meet two awfully familiar faces.

The two are silent, eyes carefully watching you exit the carriage. The purple set of eyes steps forward first to take your bags from you.

“Ah thank you Mister—“ Your voice trails off, eyes looking up from the dark robes in front of you only to be surprised with a familiar face. “L-Lord Geto?”

His lips quirk up slightly upon recognition. “Welcome back, [Name].” Your heart throbs at his indifference from the last interaction you had. It is quickly concealed by the excitement in your voice when your eyes spot a comforting pair of eyes.

“And Kento?” You light up.

Suguru raises an eyebrow at your familiarity with the Imperial Chancellor. He knows he should be relieved that you held no malice towards himself and Nanami, knowing the struggle you were subjected to when banished. However, there was a foreboding feeling gnawing deep within his soul. Guilt? Fear? It was hard for Geto to put a finger on it.

Nanami simply nods in acknowledgment, but stays silent under Geto’s watchful gaze.

“[Name],” The black haired man starts. Your eyes return to his face. “I wanted to be the first to greet you here, but I suppose Lord Nanami must have had the same idea.” He chuckles lightly, but the mirth never makes it to his eyes. You don’t notice Lord Nanami stiffening up.

“To say I am flattered would be an understatement, Lord Geto.” You return the same sugarcoated pleasantries.

Geto must have noticed your unease, reminding you, “Please, there is no need to keep your guard up around me. I don’t bite.” His voice has a teasing lilt. It does little to soothe you.

“Can you blame me, Lord Geto?” Your eyes meet his purple ones that narrow at your allusion.

“I suppose not.” He hums. “Though I must tell you that the incident was out of my power. I must carry that burden everyday, so I implore you to forgive me, [Name].” He throws out your given name once again like you were familiar.

When you don’t respond, he continues, “I know, it is easier said than done.”

“You don’t say.” You bite your tongue as soon as the words leave your mouth. He fails to acknowledge how your last interaction was your banishment, served just by the man in front of you.

A sigh escapes Geto’s lips. "As a gesture of my accountability, I place myself entirely at your disposal. Simply name a favor, and it shall be fulfilled." You can’t detect anything but sincerity in his words, leaving you speechless. “Of course, it had to be within my power, but I shall grant you one request in return for your forgiveness.”

“I—” You were too shocked to form a thought. “I don’t know what to say.”

Suguru’s eyes crinkle, "Our last encounter may not have been pleasant, but I still consider you a dear friend, after all.”

“I am flattered to say the least that you had decided to grant me such honor,” you gape.

Geto shakes his head softly, “You shouldn’t hold me to such high regard. I could hardly bear the weight of your disfavor.”

“You know I don’t harbor any ill feelings towards what happened,” you say softly. It wasn’t Suguru’s decision what happened that night.

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself otherwise,” the black haired man in front of you pushes. You relent. Perhaps you should just bite your tongue and accept the opportunity presented. “Please. Just think about it.”

You watch in silence as Geto turns around to walk away. His sudden offer leaves your mind racing. A man of his caliber, second to none but the emperor himself, would be able to grant any of your desires. Perhaps you should ask to import Western literature, tales of great fantasy— or, you could think bigger and ask to move back with your clan. Though you highly doubt he will entertain the latter, considering your indentured servitude to the Inner Palace.

Your racing thoughts are diverted when you hear someone clear their throat to capture your attention. You perk up when you realize that Lord Nanami was still here, and you have completely ignored his presence.

“I am just as surprised to see your immediate return to the palace.” Nanami adjusts the glasses on his face, sympathetic eyes never leaving you. You flush under his gaze. It was quite embarrassing knowing the entire palace probably had caught wind of your incident with the emperor.

A nervous chuckle escaped your lips.

“It wasn’t my intention,” you mumble. “But I suppose if fate has decided, there is not much I can do.”

“You truly believe that it was fate that brought you here?” Nanami asks, the hold he had on your arm tightening enough to catch your attention but not enough to hurt.

“I-” You begin, words failing to conjure. “I’m not sure.” You had thought that your banishment was fate, but now that you had been brought back, it felt like you were simply at the mercy of something cruel.

Nanami watches your eyes staring wistfully at the blue sky above, his own flickering to each of your features. He wonders if you know that your expressions gave you away. It’s more endearing than anything, from the flutter of your eyelashes, the wrinkle of your nose, to the furrow of your eyebrows. Only a blind man would deny the fact that you were easy to fall in love with. However, it would make a foolish man to dare to pursue you.

He’ll appreciate you and your charm from afar where his head may stay attached to his body.

The comfortable silence shared between the two of you is disrupted by a flock of handmaidens passing by. Nanami tenses his jaw when the voices become audible.

“Is it really her?”

“It’s said that she tried to sneak into the Emperor’s chambers.”

“Is that Lord Nanami? My, we must warn him about that whore that tried to seduce the emperor!”

“Poor Lady Himiko.”

Anger swells in your chest. Though you’re not sure what tale had managed to escape the servants’ quarters, but you pray that they may never reach the emperor’s ears. It was simply profane to the beloved consort, an offense that you know Gojo would never forgive you for. You can deal with nasty gossip, having previous experience, but you doubt you can handle being beheaded for conspiring against the emperor and his consort.

“I’m afraid no matter how much time has passed, the palace rumors seem to never die.” Nanami sighs, exhaustion evident in his gravelly voice. “I advise you to brace yourself. Within these coming days, the fire will only get hotter.” He doesn’t bother elaborating on his words, choosing to lead you to your new chambers.

“Thank you for the advice Nanami,” you exhale. “However, I am sure I’ll be able to manage on my own. After all, I’ve been doing it for quite some time.” The moment the solemn words leave your mouth his eyes soften. You quickly look away, flustered.

“I know you can, [Name]. I suppose my anxieties are misplaced, forgive me.” You can feel his stare bore into the side of your face. He sighs, “it is a habit that comes natural to me.” He worries for you. The words go unsaid, but you are able to decipher his double meaning.

Your heart flutters at his kind implications, eyes too shy to meet him once more. Instead, you choose to fix your gaze on the doors to the servants’ quarters. The blonde man beside you takes the liberty to open the doors to your new room.

At the sight in front of you, your heart lurches.

Before you stands a familiar head of white hair, standing tall with his back turned towards you. His head was tilted slightly, as if scrutinizing something unseen, before he slowly shook it. Then, with an unsettling calm, he turned to face you, his gaze heavy with unspoken intent.

“I’ll take her from here,” Gojo’s icy voice breaks the silence that had overtaken you and Nanami.

“Of course,” Nanami bows deeply. You turn to bid the man goodbye, but he leaves hurriedly without sparing you so much as a glance. You can’t help but furrow your eyebrows in confusion, eyes longingly watching your old friend walk away.

The moment the shoji doors close behind him, Gojo clears his throat.

“[Name],” he tests the waters, his movements deliberate as he takes a slow, tentative step toward you, the air between you thick with an unspoken tension.

“Your Majesty,” You respond shakily, retreating a step as your breath catches.

“Please,” Gojo mutters breathlessly, his voice trembling with unspoken desperation, his eyes pleading with an intensity that only deepens the pit in your stomach. He takes two deliberate strides forward, the gap between you vanishing as though drawn by an invisible force.

“No,” You shake your head, pain flashing across your face. You won’t let him waltz right into your life after carelessly tossing you away, not without consequence. It is to no surprise that words seem to go unheard to the man in front of you. His eyes glistened in the dim lighting, fixed intently on your face, tracing each feature with a quiet focus, as if he were trying to burn them into his memory.

The world seemed to stay still just for the two of you. But it only lasted for just a moment.

“I’m so sorry,” Gojo mutters, a strong hand flying to the back of your neck tugging you towards him for a searing kiss. The instant his lips crash against yours, he lets out a soft whimper, as though the very act consumes him. Despite the passage of time, your body responds instinctively, like it was always meant to be this way.

It felt like the only thing that mattered was the fact that he was right in front of you, your fast beating hearts making contact with the way he had your chest pressed to his. All while pushing you against his body, Gojo allows his hand to trail down your back, revisiting every valley that he had once memorized.

“Mph,” your traitorous hands find their way into his head of white hair. He smiles into the kiss upon hearing his name leave your mouth.

“Yes?” He leaves a wet kiss at the base of your throat, bending down to continue his frenzy.

“This isn’t right,” the words came out of your mouth in a whisper, as if you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

“You’re wrong.” He inhales deeply, attaching his mouth onto your collarbone, ”I was made solely for this.” A small whine leaves his mouth when you hesitantly try to push him off. He uses his innate strength to fight your attempts.

“May I ask something of you?”

A kiss was placed on your jawline. Another on the base of your throat.

“Anything,” he breathes.

“Do you..” Your voice falters. “Do you love her?” Like you loved me?

The trail of kisses come to a complete stop. For a second you fear you may have overstepped. The emperor’s silence was palpable. The only sound that filled your ears was the harsh thuds of your own heart.

“[Name]...” he slowly stands up to tower over you with his height. The distant look in his eyes forms a pit in your stomach.

“Answer me,” you whisper, the pit deepening.

“I am just a man,” he reasons. Your heart drops at his answer.

“You could not even take an oath of monogamy,” you spit. “You are nothing but a weak man.”

His eyes shoot up from their trance frantically. You fear that the lust he had been tempted with had worn off, and now you were left with nothing but wrath.

“I understand that I was nothing but a spoil of war, but you could have done me one last favor by allowing me to leave on my own accord. You did not have to cast me away,” your vision starts to waver with the tears that puddle in your eyes. “If I knew your heart had yearned for another I would have left.”

The set of blue eyes that stare at you are no longer the lively shade that you had grown to love. They have been replaced by an uncertain stormy grey. It was almost laughable. A man, so big, who had the world in the palm of his hand looked so small.

A cruel part in you enjoyed seeing the turmoil in his eyes after the events that had transpired.

“Had I known the tribulations I put you through, perhaps I would have put a second thought before choosing you.” Gojo exhales, pinching in between his eyebrows. “But I must assure you that you weren’t the only one suffering.” And for a moment you think you see lightning strike in those stormy irises of his.

Your eyes widen at his confession.

He lets out a deep sigh, “The head maid will be here any minute. I bid you farewell. I pray that with our next interaction, your heart learns to soften.”

Ever for dramatics, Gojo leaves before you can get the last word.

—

True to his word, the head maid soon comes to assign your duties. You’re not surprised at your new set of responsibilities: tending to the emperor’s garden, sweeping the floors to his chambers, and overseeing his meal preparations.

It is nothing out of your skill set, and you’re more than willing to accept your predicament rather than being burned alive for offending the emperor on numerous accounts. You suppose even Gojo was kind enough to spare you from that cruel fate. It almost softens your heart enough to decide to forgive him of his transgressions. Almost.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud clang of a pot. When you turn your head towards the direction of the sound, you’re met with the head maid’s stern gaze. Her eyes narrowed on the wooden spoon you had been mixing in the broth.

Ah. She wanted you to perform the mandatory poison test before serving the food to the emperor.

However, just as you bring the spoon to your lips, it is violently swatted from your hand, clattering to the floor. Your eyes sadly linger on the spilled broth before snapping to the culprit, your gaze filled with disbelief.

"There were strict orders to ensure that the task did not fall to you," the head maid, Ogami, declared sharply. The elderly woman, with silver hair neatly tied in a tight bun and skin etched with the marks of years spent in service, raised a wrinkled finger in your direction.

You blink, taken aback by her sudden reprimand, the sharpness in her gaze leaving you momentarily frozen. It didn’t make sense—there had been no mention of any such orders, no one had informed you of any changes. You open your mouth to speak, but the words catch in your throat, swallowed by the weight of her unyielding stare.

How strange.

Days pass by like a blur, your routine falling into place. When dawn arrives, you’re up to prepare the emperor’s garments for the day. Your mid-mornings grow even busier as the palace comes alive with activity. Whether mending torn hems or ensuring the ceremonial robes are free of imperfection, you move like a ghost through the corridors with hopes of going unnoticed. The emperor’s unusual antics, however, make it nearly impossible to slip by unnoticed. He seems to have a knack for drawing your attention. His antics often begin at ungodly hours, long before the sun graces the horizon, as he attempts to coax you into sharing the first meal of the day with him. You decline each time, yet his persistence never wavers, a boyish grin always accompanying his invitations. By the time the sun reaches its zenith, Gojo finally departs to attend to his imperial duties. It’s only then, in the quiet lull of his absence, that you find the chance to make real progress with your work.

“To say I am relieved because of your presence would be an understatement, [Name].” Nanami and you overlook the palace’s main courtyard.

You smile, hands filled with silks that needed washing, “I could say the same.” The emperor’s outrageous requests were driving you mad. Your mind flashes to earlier that week when he had insisted on hand feeding you honey! You wonder how he survived without a personal servant before you took the position.

“His Majesty is as eccentric as ever, I assume.” Nanami’s eyes crinkle.

You laugh, “You know him too well!”

“I didn’t have much choice,” he shakes his head, smile ghosting his lips. “We’ve known eachother since our youth.”

You perk up at the news, your curiosity piqued. The confusion must have been written all over your face, prompting Nanami to offer a quick clarification.

“It was brief, our time at the academy. But we were both under the instruction of Yaga,” he elaborates. Huh. What a small world, you think as Nanami paints an unexpected connection.

“I am struggling to imagine you and him studying under the ever serious Yaga,” you giggle.

“I was in the year below him. It was Lord Geto and Shoko who were first hand witnesses to his nature.” Nanami tells you.

You nearly dropped all of the emperor’s clothes, “Shoko?” The revelation that your own friend was acquainted with the emperor stopped you dead in your tracks. Had she known him personally all along? If so, she made no effort to reveal it. Instead, she appeared almost disgusted by him, though you had chalked it up to her disdain for the new ruling dynasty rather than a personal vendetta against the man himself.

“I am aware you were well acquainted with her in your time in the Outer Palace, no?” “Yes, but–” you pause, before eyes snapping back to Nanami. “How did you know?”

Nanami blinks, momentarily caught off guard. His eyes widen a fraction, and he opens his mouth as if to explain, but then falters, his words stumbling.

Before he can say anything, a soft, familiar voice drifts from behind you.

“[Name]!” A servant of Lady Himiko calls urgently, her voice laced with a sense of urgency. You turn to face her.

“Yes?”

“The emperor requests your presence in the ceremonial hall. He says it is of great importance and that you must make haste!” The girl exclaims, grabbing your only free arm and tugging you toward the hall.

You glance back at Nanami, your eyes silently promising him that this conversation is far from over. He gives a small nod, acknowledging your unspoken words as he bids you farewell.

“Ah, may I ask what the emperor requires of me?” you ask, trying to maintain some control over the situation.

“You’ll see,” she replies, her tone clipped. Without sparing you a glance, she pulls you forward with determination, clearly focused on her task.

Like a lamb heading toward slaughter, you find yourself helplessly being dragged through the grand doors of the ceremonial hall, your thoughts swirling with questions you can’t yet answer.

The expansive room was eerily empty, a stark contrast to its usual grandeur. The sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting long beams of light that danced across the polished floors, illuminating the intricate tapestries and the grand pillars that lined the hall. But your gaze soon shifted, focusing on the emperor’s seat at the very end of the room.

You had expected the usual scene: Gojo slouched in his throne-like chair, whiny and complaining about the mountain of paperwork he despised. But what greeted you instead was something far more unexpected.

A figure stood poised at the head of the room, commanding the space with an elegance that was undeniable. Anyone familiar with the court could recognize her signature choice of kimono—the rich plum silk embroidered with intricate gold patterns, delicate yet striking. Her hair, black as midnight and flowing like a river of silk, cascaded down her back in perfect waves, a stark contrast to her porcelain-like complexion.

It was Lady Himiko. Her beauty was legendary, whispered about among women across the nation, often compared to a living work of art. The rumors of her grace and poise weren’t exaggerated. Standing there, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, who remained perfectly still and attentive at her side.

Her eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, your breath was stolen. The stillness of the room was palpable, and you couldn’t help but wonder why she was here, in the emperor’s seat, with not a whisper of Gojo in sight.

“Ah, just the one I was looking for!” her eyes light up when she sees her servant return with you in her hand. The gleam in her eyes fill you with unease.

“Lady Himiko, it is an honor,” you bow.

“There’s no need for that! Please, stand.” She waves her slender fingers at you, or so it seems, but at her silent command, her ladies-in-waiting begin to move toward you.

You take a step back, instinctively using the emperor’s garments, still damp from your earlier washing, as a shield against their sudden movements. The soft rustling of fabric is almost deafening in the silence that follows.

Lady Himiko’s eyes narrow at the motion, her sharp gaze flicking to the garments you hold between you and her. A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays at the corners of her lips, but it does nothing to ease the tension thickening in the air.

“I understand the unspoken animosity between us,” she says, her voice smooth, but there's an edge to it that sets your nerves on edge. “I pray you will accept my humble apology.” She clasps her hands together, but her eyes remain calculating, never leaving yours.

Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication. “I had not expected the emperor to kindle such… passion for me so suddenly. It was neither of our intentions that fateful night we reunited after the days of our youth.” She shakes her head softly, laughing nervously. "How rude of me, I doubt you of all would want to hear about Satoru and I."

Your breath hitches, caught between surprise and a tightening knot of discomfort in your chest. The weight of her words presses down on you, and you struggle to maintain composure.

“I do apologize for bringing you here on such deceptive terms, but I had to get your attention somehow,” she continues. “As one who has been a former concubine, I wanted your counsel on how I should navigate this delicate matter.” If you didn’t know any better, you would say she was mocking you. But you knew Himiko wasn’t one you wanted to offend, so you bite your tongue.

Instead, you nod, steeling yourself against the discomfort crawling up your spine. “What is it that you need from me?” you ask, your voice betraying none of the wariness you feel.

Himiko’s ladies-in-waiting close in around you swiftly, subtly guiding your every step toward the emperor’s stand. The grand hall feels even larger as you’re led deeper into its heart, each step reverberating through the space.

At the end of the room stands Himiko, watching you approach with a distant gaze. The soft glow from the nearby windows catches on the polished surface of the wooden desk before her, where inkstones, brushes, and stacks of paper lie in disarray.

You pause, your gaze falling upon the desk, and that’s when you notice the manuscript she’s pointing to. Her perfectly filed nails trace the edges of the paper with deliberate slowness. Though you cannot read the characters from this distance, the emblems that adorn the papers are unmistakable. They belong to some of the most powerful clans in the empire, each one a mark of authority and influence.

As your eyes skim across the paper Himiko’s hand rests on, the characters seem to leap off the page in a rush of realization. It’s a proposal– one written by the notorious Zenin clan. You can almost feel the air grow heavy as you piece it together. The words speak of demands for more autonomy—an increase in their power, more control over the lands they already possess. And you know, instinctively, that if this were to pass, everything Gojo has fought for, everything he’s struggled to protect, would crumble into dust. His fight against the rigid clan-based hierarchy would be for naught.

For a moment, your mind reels. This is no mere conversation or request for guidance. This is a game of power, one where you’re being used as a pawn. Her eyes lock with yours, and the air between you thickens with unspoken understanding. She must’ve taken you for a mere tool to execute her own plans.

But you’re no fool, and that realization comes like a slap to the face. You straighten your posture, eyes hardening as the weight of the situation settles in.

“These seals...” Your voice falters as you stare at the emblems, your hand hovering over the manuscript as though touching it might implicate you further. The weight of the realization crashes down on you like a cold wave. You look up at Himiko, bewildered, your heart pounding in your chest. Meddling with state affairs, let alone tampering with the emperor’s documents was a crime punishable by death.

“Does the emperor know about this?” you demand, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and indignation. “This—this could be considered treason!”

“Careful with your words,” she says softly, her tone calm. “It is not treason when it is for the betterment of the empire.”

Your mouth opens as if to respond, but no sound escapes.

“The emperor has always held you in high regard,” Himiko says with a wistful sigh, her eyes narrowing on your figure. “I’ve no doubt he would find it impossible to refuse any command spoken by you.”

Her cryptic words linger in the air, their implications sinking into you. You’re left reeling, unsure of whether her remark is meant as flattery or a thinly veiled mockery of your banishment.

She scoffs, her delicate façade cracking as her tone turns venomous. “The emperor may not know, but I see right through you. Seducing him to claim yourself as some spoil of war and twisting his mind to lead our nation to ruin—it’s sickening. Truly, a shame the assassination attempt failed.” Her words lash out like a whip, her civil mask shattering entirely.

You gasp, her implications cutting deep even as your heart hardens against the venom. Had she known–?

“Perhaps that is what the entire Court believes of me,” you manage, your voice trembling yet steady enough to carry your conviction. Months of whispered rumors and vicious gossip had thickened your skin, and you refused to crumble under her scrutiny. “But I will not allow you to sully the emperor’s reputation.”

As much as you detested Gojo, your disdain for the corrupt elders burned hotter. They had plotted your downfall, attempted to take your life, and now sought to undermine everything Gojo was fighting to build. You could not allow them to gain any more power in the Court than they already held.

Himiko’s lips curl into a cold, triumphant smile as she picks up an inkstone and brush from the emperor’s desk. “As his Honored Consort and future Empress I command you to hold this for me while I pave the way for a greater future.” Her words are laced with mockery as she extends the inkstone toward you.

You recoil instinctively, shaking your head. “No. I refuse—” Your rejection is firm, your voice sharper than you expected, as you pull away, clutching the emperor’s garments protectively against your chest.

The next few moments unravel in slow motion, as though fate itself had decided to humiliate you. Himiko’s gasp pierces the air as your sudden movement causes the inkstone to slip, spilling its dark, viscous contents over her elaborate kimono. The silk, undoubtedly crafted from the finest threads in Japan, drinks in the stain, the deep black spreading like a wound across the fabric.

“My lady!” Her servants rush to her side, their collective cries of alarm startle you. They push you aside as they fuss over her, their movements frantic as they attempt to salvage her now-ruined garment.

You stumble back, staring in disbelief at the disaster you’d unwittingly caused. “I—I am truly sorry—” you begin, but your words falter under the weight of the situation.

“What is going on here?”

The booming voice echoes through the hall like thunder, freezing everyone in place. You whip your head toward the source, your pulse quickening as your eyes land on the figure now standing in the doorway. The emperor himself, Gojo, commands the room with his presence, his expression a mixture of confusion and rising fury as he takes in the scene before him. By his side stands the owner of the voice, an elder, with an expression carved with barely restrained anger piercing through you.

Himiko lets out a sharp cry, her voice trembling with a convincing mix of distress and indignation. Gojo reacts instantly, rushing by her side, his features hardening with concern.

“I found her forging His Majesty’s signature,” Himiko exclaims, her voice wavering just enough to sound genuine. “When I tried to intervene, she lashed out and attacked me.” She trembles as she buries her head against the emperor’s chest.

It hits you—the full realization of her calculated scheme. This was her plan all along.

“I-I didn’t!” you stammer, your voice raw with desperation. “That wasn’t what happened at all– she was the one tampering with imperial documents. I tried to stop her!”

Gojo’s piercing blue eyes snap to yours, cutting off your explanation. His gaze, once warm and teasing, now burns with unrestrained fury. The bile rises in your throat as you see it. Anger, disdain, and worst of all, disbelief.

“Himiko,” he murmurs, his arms tightening protectively around her trembling form. Her soft sniffling only adds to the spectacle.

“To be caught tampering with imperial records is one thing,” Gojo finally says, his voice icy and cutting, “but to stoop so low as to accuse Lady Himiko? Was this an act out of jealousy? Spite? How pathetic. This is beneath even you, [Name].”

You feel your knees weaken, the tears you’ve fought to hold back beginning to pool in your eyes. “Please, you have to believe me,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of his words.

His expression darkens further, the light in his sky-blue eyes replaced by thunderclouds. “Why would I believe you?” he sneers, his tone laced with contempt.

A single tear escapes down your cheek, followed by another, and then another, until you can no longer stop them. The dam of your resolve breaks, shattered by his cruel dismissal.

“Why?” Your voice trembles, breaking as the tears come freely now. “Why don’t you believe me?”

Gojo’s lips curl into a bitter smile. “Don’t make me laugh,” he says coldly. “How could I ever believe in one as base as you?”

His words cut deeper than any blade, piercing through the walls you’d built to protect yourself. You’d convinced yourself you were immune to his indifference, but the searing pain in your chest proves otherwise.

“Leave,” he commands, his voice sharp and final. “Do not look back. Your very presence stirs nothing but disdain within me.”

You stagger back, his words striking harder than any physical blow. He might as well have drawn his sword and ended it here. The infamous tales you had heard about Gojo were once glorious images that were painted of your beloved. You had never thought you would be on the other end of his blade.

Without a word, you turn and run, your vision blurred with tears. The emperor’s garments slip from your hands, forgotten in your haste to escape the suffocating anguish. You don’t look back, even as the echoes of his disgust chase you out of the hall.

If there was one undeniable truth that Geto Suguru knew, it was that his best friend, Gojo Satoru could be an utter fool. Perhaps it was the inevitable result of a youth stolen too soon, replaced by the crushing weight of an empire resting on his shoulders. The brilliance that made Gojo a formidable emperor rendered him hopelessly inept when it came to navigating the labyrinth of his own emotions.

And as his closest confidant, bound by loyalty and friendship, Geto Suguru couldn’t help but feel the urge to shake some sense into him—to force him to confront what he stubbornly refused to see.

That is why, when your trembling form hurries across the courtyard, tears streaming down your face, Geto Suguru can’t help but halt you in your steps.

“I’m leaving.” you declare, your voice raw, your eyes red and swollen. The words, so resolute despite your trembling tone, catch him off guard.

“What?” he asks, his brows knitting together in confusion.

“My favor,” you say firmly, though your voice wavers. “I want to leave this place.”

For a moment, Geto says nothing, his sharp mind scrambling to process the abruptness of your request. Then he shakes his head, his expression softening. “You know I can’t do that.”

Your incredulous gaze snaps up to meet him. “So you lied to me?”

“No, not at all,” he says quickly, holding up his hands. “I meant—I can grant you time off. But as someone under the emperor’s direct supervision, I can’t allow you to leave permanently. What I can do is give you one lunar cycle away from court.”

You hesitate, weighing his offer before giving a sharp nod. “I’ll take it. Just let me leave,” you reply, sniffling.

Geto watches you for a moment longer, his chest tightening at the sight of your despair. “I’ll make the arrangements right away,” he says gently. “I’m sorry we seem to meet only under such terrible circumstances.”

“I’m sorry too,” you murmur, your tone hollow.

He hesitates, searching for the right words to offer some semblance of comfort. “Whatever he did, I’m sure—”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, your voice colder now. “He made his disgust for me perfectly clear.” You march past him, your steps resolute despite the trembling in your shoulders. “Thank you for understanding, though I must beg you to keep this between us. Who knows what might happen to either of us if he finds out.”

Geto exhales slowly, his composure steady but his mind racing. Just what, exactly, had his best friend done this time? Gojo’s antics always seemed to leave Geto cleaning up the aftermath, but this—this was something else entirely.

Just as he promised, there is a carriage waiting for you outside of the servants’ quarters. With heavy bags in hand and an even heavier heart, you make your way toward it, each step weighted with reluctant resolve. The irony of the moment doesn’t escape you, a sense of déjà vu washing over you, as though life had played this scene out countless times before.

You turn sharply, your bleary eyes meeting the calm, hazel gaze of someone you hadn’t expected to see.

“Nanami?” you breathe, disbelief coloring your tone.

He inclines his head in a polite nod. “Forgive the intrusion, but I insist on accompanying you,” he says, his voice as composed as ever. “The roads beyond the palace can be dangerous, especially for someone traveling alone.”

For a moment, you simply stare, caught between gratitude and confusion. The warmth in your chest battles against the ache that lingers from your earlier ordeal. “And what of the emperor?” you ask, forcing a faint smile. “Would he not throw a fit in your absence?”

Nanami lets out a quiet, mirthless laugh, the sound more bitter than amused. “Perhaps,” he admits, adjusting the luggage in his hands with ease. “But he was never one to share, was he?”

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