#Among the Wolves

[mrheymister]

Among the Wolves, Chapter 1: David, Meet Goliath

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"Isaac doesn't know it, but there’s a cross out there with his name on it." (read on Ao3)

Valentine is the kind of town that could be described as nice, depending on who you asked and which way the wind was blowing. Today it's blowing east, carrying the smell of manure right into Isaac's meager tent, so he'd call it a dump if you asked. 

The sun has only just peeked the horizon, her cloud-shrouded glow chasing off the stars and lightening the sky by minutes. The cattle are lowing, the sheep are braying, and a train whistles its departure from the station. His neighbors in this tent city are already up and moving, brewing coffee, getting dressed, and tacking horses, carrying on conversations amongst themselves all the while. Upon waking, Isaac takes a moment to glare at the canvas of his tent, mentally willing the sun to stop her slow march, for him to suddenly go deaf, if only for a few more minutes rest. The sun remains unmoved, so Isaac drags himself off the ground, grabs his water bucket, and takes a long drink. 

It doesn't take him long to get ready for the day. He has next to nothing in terms of possessions. He's got the clothes on his back, the boots on his feet, and two dollars in his pocket, still enough to be worth robbing. His horse is at the stable, along with his saddle and gun. They would've been gone by now otherwise, stolen like the rest of his things. Not that he had many things to begin with. 

He stretches his arms over his head and yawns, back popping with the motion. He looks out to the west, where the Heartlands sprawl endlessly emerald before him, and longs to ride out and not look back. He would have left weeks ago if he could've, back in April, but his pan got stolen, then his knife and his axe, even his bedroll. Tomorrow he'll probably wake up to find his tent gone, too. With what he makes at the stable, he'll have to stay through winter again to get it all back, thoroughly stuck in the sinking mud that is Valentine. 

It's barely past seven in the morning as he walks the short distance over to the stables. The owner, a thin, aged-looking fella named Mr. Levi is already pounding out horseshoes. Taking advantage of that, Isaac makes his way over to Banshee's stall. She whickers sleepily at his appearance, leaning into his hand rubbing the splash of white just beneath her forelock, eyes momentarily drifting closed in contentment. 

"Hey, girl," he murmurs, casting quick glances at the other stalls. Banshee's feed bucket appears to have been filled and nearly cleared out already. Mr. Levi always feeds the horses first thing. He always leaves treats out, too. Apples and carrots and a little bag of wrapped peppermints all on the table next to the tack. As Issac backs over to the table, Banshee cranes her neck over the stall door to watch him. He knows Mr. Levi doesn't like him helping himself, but he takes a bite out of an apple anyway just to take the edge of his hunger. Isaac figures he wouldn't leave them out all the time if he cared too much. He slips a couple peppermints into his pocket as well, then unwraps a third for Banshee. 

It's Isaac's job to lead them out into the paddock and muck the stalls. He starts with Banshee, slipping the halter over her big head and attaching the lead. Her eyes seem to light up as soon as she hears the lock on her stall, and she rears when the door swings open, snorting her excitement and forcing Isaac to duck. 

"Wild girl," he says fondly as she gets down. He leads her out and cuts her loose in the paddock, feeling a pang of guilt as she canters around the perimeter. It's nearly been a week since he last found the time or energy to take her out and work her hard. No doubt she's feeling cooped up. 

She's a beautiful horse, his Banshee, a mustang through and through, with a gleaming bay coat and tar-black mane to match the stripe along her spine. She's got little black stripes on her legs too, bleeding into tufts of more black hair on her fetlocks to lend her an almost prehistoric appearance. She was born wild, tamed on the cliffs of the Rio Del Lobo and given to him as a gift by the Indians of the area. She was never truly broken, mustangs are particularly stubborn in that regard, but she minds Isaac better than anyone else. Mr. Levi only interacts with her as far as filling the bucket. 

Tearing his eyes from her, Isaac goes to let the rest of the horses out. Cash, Charlie, Copper, Ransome, Rebel and Yankee all soon join Banshee in the paddock. 

From here it's a matter of routine. Isaac mucks out the stalls and replaces the straw. He draws fresh water from the well to refill the troughs and tops off the feed buckets with the mix Mr. Levi keeps on hand. He gives the tack a quick once over and sweeps down the main aisle. Mr. Levi pops in occasionally, either looking for paperwork or a specific thing someone’s looking to buy. He’s a man of few words and he leaves Isaac to his work. By the time Isaac goes back out to bring the horses in, the sun is hanging just west of center in the sky. It takes him another couple of hours of nonstop effort to brush down and pick the hooves of all seven horses before leading them back to their stalls. Finished for the moment, he falls onto the nearest stool with a heavy sigh. His back is sore, his arms are trembling with exhaustion, and his face tingles with sunburn

He lets his back rest against the barn wall. He pushes the mop of sweaty brown hair out of his face, only to end up smearing mud across his forehead. A stubborn lock falls right back across the mud.

His shirt sticks uncomfortably to his skin. His throat is so dry it almost hurts so swallow, but the water bucket is still out by the well and he is tired. Compared to the field, the inside of the barn is blessedly cool. The soft sound of horses breathing around him is infinitely more peaceful than the cacophony of noise outside. He lets eyes drift close. Even with the work done, he should still go find Mr. Levi. No matter how much Isaac manages to get done, there’s always errands the man doesn’t feel like doing himself, and until 7 o’clock, he’s to do whatever he’s told. Still, Isaac’s just cut what should’ve been a whole day’s work in half. Mr. Levi couldn’t possibly miss him for a minute or two...

The barn doors clatter open, nearly startling him right off the stool. He sits up immediately, peeling his back off the wall, and realizes with dawning horror that the light outside is different. Hours different. Mr. Levi strolls in with a hay bale, eyes hardly glancing over Isaac before they suddenly snap back. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Levi,” Isaac blurts before he can properly think the words. His voice sounds rough even to his own ears. “I don’t know what came over me, but I promise it won’t happen again. I’m so sorry!”

Mr. Levi’s stern expression doesn’t soften, brown eyes drilling holes into Isaac. He sets the bale on top of a stack that wasn’t there earlier. Apparently, he’s been at it for some time, and Isaac had slept through it until now.

God, how could this have happened? Isaac feels like he’s only slept a minute. 

Mr. Levi gestures at Isaac’s feet, and the boy looks down to see a bucket of water. He almost falls over himself reaching for it, drinking straight from the bucket, letting the water slosh all down the front of his shirt. Distantly, over the sound of his own desperate gulping, he can hear Mr. Levi snort.

He’s still parched even after the bucket is drained. He sets it and wobbles to his feet, heading for the open door. He should help move those bales if there’s any left. However, Mr. Levi puts an arm out to stop him as he walks by.

This is the moment Isaac’s been bracing for since he woke up. Mr. Levi is gonna tell him to get lost, to take his horse with him. Someone would steal Banshee faster than he could blink. He’d have to leave town, and somehow make it to the next one armed only with a gun that he has no bullets for. Strawberry is closest, but it still gets cold up there at night and Isaac only has a tattered piece of canvas to protect him from the chill. He has enough money to buy food or bullets, but not both. 

"You work hard, kid," Mr. Levi says casually, and if that's not the exact opposite of what Isaac wasn't expecting to hear. "I see you out there. People are gonna think I'm some kind of slave driver."

"I- huh? What?" Isaac sputters out, dumbfounded. 

"This kind of work," Mr. Levi carries on as if unhearing, "Is a marathon, not a race. Ain't no reason for you to be sprinting from the start. You ain't leaving early just because you finished minding the horses early. Rushed work is sloppy work. When you come in tomorrow, you take your time, understand?" 

Isaac nods slowly, feeling faint with relief. Banshee is safe. Mr. Levi looks him over, lets out a small tsk under his breath. 

"Take the day," he decides then, reaching around his apron and into the pocket of his jeans. "And here- your wages." He deposits four one-dollar coins into Isaac's open hand. "Wait a second."

Isaac pockets the money and watches, dumbfounded again, as Mr. Levi walks over to his desk and opens a drawer. He retrieves from it a small, paper wrapper. He passes it to Isaac, who unfolds it to reveal several strips of jerky. His mouth immediately waters, but he manages to remember his manners. 

"Thank you, sir," he says, swallowing down the sudden flood of spit in his mouth. "I appreciate it."

Mr. Levi just claps him on the shoulder, almost good-naturedly. "You work hard, kid," he repeats. "See you bright and early tomorrow. You're gonna take your time."

"Yessir," Isaac replies, straightening under the attention. Mr. Levi waves him out of the stable. 

Isaac wanders the main street of Valentine in something of a daze. He takes refuge on the bench under the awning of the Saints Hotel and slowly eats the jerky. It's a little too tough and a little too salty, but considering it's the first real food he's had in days, it may as well be gourmet. No wonder he passed out earlier. 

He takes stock of the mainstreet as he chews. Riders move up and down the street, wagons rumble along, people pop in and out of the buildings. There's a couple men hammering nails into wood at the half-finished building going up next to the general store. Piano music spills out from the adjacent saloon, hardly intelligible over the noisy street. There's a kid selling newspapers outside the gun store, calling out headlines. On the other end of the street, between the stables and the general store, that sickly man from the ranch just south of town is collecting for charity. 

Isaac watches him for a few minutes, notices how most people just walk to the other side of the street rather than walk past him. It's almost pitiful, watching the man have to take breaks in his speech to accommodate his awful, wet cough. Something about it prickles at Isaac. Just last week, the man's wife came to the stables to sell Yankee, their family horse. Mr. Downes, if Isaac heard it right, can't even keep his own family fed. Yet in spite of that, he's always out collecting charity not for himself, but for the "less fortunate." Isaac can't think of anything less fortunate than that, except maybe him. 

Mr. Downes would probably give Isaac what little money he had, if he asked. Isaac scoffs at the thought. The sun hangs heavy to the west at that annoying, blinding angle. Isaac reckons it's after five, probably closer to six. Maybe he should go back to the stable and take Banshee out. He feels much better with food in his stomach, though he imagines that Mr. Levi would just put him back to work if he were to show up.

Instead, he crosses the street to the general store. He means to buy some food, but comes up just short of the door when he just barely hears a booming, unrefined laugh. 

It's a strange sound for his ears to pick out over the rest of the noise, but Isaac hears it and aches. Unbidden, the memory of home floats to the front of his mind, dragging up all the longing and grief that comes with it. 

Got caught up on the road. 

His feet are carrying him down the street before he's fully aware of it, arms throwing open the Smithfield's doors, eyes searching every face in the room. It's an easy thing to do, because everyone turned to look at him the moment he barged in. Even the pianist stopped playing and in the sudden silence, pinned under the stares of a roomful of rough men, Isaac feels very small. Whatever blind hope that drove him in here withers. 

He realizes like ice in his veins that he doesn't remember what dad looked like. Doesn't remember much of him at all, actually, except apparently what he sounded like. Why the hell would he be here, of all places? 

Seconds seem to drag on as Isaac considers. 

"Are you alright, son?" the bartender asks tentatively. Isaac remembers to breathe, glances again at every face as if one of them will suddenly fit. None of them do.

"Yeah," he says faintly. "Sorry."

With that, he ducks out of the Saloon, walking briskly back over the general store to buy his things before he gets distracted again by some inconsequential nonsense. What a damn fool he just made of himself, waltzing in like he had any business in a place like that. After a beat or two, the piano picks right back up. Isaac keeps walking. 

If Isaac uses too much force to open the door and startles the shopkeeper, he doesn't apologize. Mr. Worth eyes him warily as Isaac glares at the display like it's insulted his mother.

Isaac grabs a can of peas another can of carrots and after a moment's consideration, another small pack of jerky. He turns around and slams it on the counter with a ferocity that surprises even himself. 

What is wrong with me? 

Mr. Worth tells him the price and Isaac manages to place the coins on the counter with less force this time. He takes his purchase and leaves. 

Why am I so angry? 

 He’s barely back across at the hotel when the street erupts into chaos. A man is flying through one of the Smithfield's windows, bouncing off the porch and splashing down into the mud where bits of glass and wood fall on him like rain. A giant of a man slams past the doors and stomps down the steps to join the first one in the mud. 

"Come on, pretty boy," the giant sneers as the other man rolls in the mud to get to his feet. 

"Pretty boy?" the first repeats incredulously. "You're kidding me. Pretty boy? " He winds up his right arm and connects a fist to the giant's chest. His left follows, but the giant blocks it. He lands a punch of his own and when the other man doubles over with the blow he follows it with a knee to the chin. The smaller goes down in the mud, only to spring back up with a vicious uppercut that sends the giant staggering back. He seems genuinely surprised by the strike, as if he thought the fight was already won when he sent his opponent sprawling in the mud. 

"Come on then, let's see it," he growls out. 

Isaac isn't the betting sort, but he thinks he would put his money on the bigger guy. He's got half a foot and at least 60 pounds on the other, but the smaller man is as ruthless as he is untiring. A crowd has gathered around the brawl, the townspeople pausing their work to watch what's probably the most interesting thing to happen here in days, picking sides and cheering on. 

"You show him, Tommy!" 

"Yeah, show him how we do it in Valentine."

"Knock his head off!" 

The giant, Tommy, apparently, takes another swing. The other man ducks expertly and counters with a wild haymaker on his unguarded opponent. He manages to get another blow in before Tommy recovers and shoves him off balance to get him in a chokehold. The smaller throws his elbow, catching Tommy is the gut several times before he releases, and the man whirls around and misses a left hook. 

"You okay there, Arthur?" someone asks from the crowd. 

"Yeah," the smaller calls back, shaking his fist out and sounding absolutely elated."I got this son of a bitch." 

"Hurry up then, we got drinks waiting," someone else replies. 

Isaac stares, rooted to his spot in the back of the crowd in a mix of fascination and revulsion. He knows that voice, he realizes. It's the same that had him running into the saloon like a spooked rabbit. He knows the man it belongs to, finally has a face to put to the voice. 

"Put that ape down, come on!" 

"Come on, Arthur, he's a moron!" 

Arthur. 

His earlier fury evaporates, replaced with a fragile kind of disbelief. Has it really been ten years? Isaac never expected to see him again, yet here he is, covered in mud and blood and getting the beating of a lifetime in the middle of a stinking livestock town. 

He's dreamed of this. Spent hours imagining this reunion, what'd he say, what he'd do, but all those hours and all those words fly out of his head in the face of the scene in front of him. 

Tommy is tiring faster than his opponent, and he's looking to end the fight. He guards, waits for Arthur to throw another punch, and in the opening that provides, gets his hands around Arthur's throat and throws him down. One hand presses keeps Arthur's face in the mud and the other grasps Arthur's left hand, trying to keep him pinned with his massive body. Arthur struggles and kicks out helplessly. Isaac wonders in the back of his mind if he should do something. 

Arthur throws his weight to the left and manages to get his right arm free. He swings blindly, manages to catch Tommy with enough force to stagger him and follows it with a kick to the groin. When Tommy doubles over, Arthur seizes the opportunity to haul him down in the mud and climb on top, landing a blow on his face that cracks his nose loud enough for the crowd to hear. 

Arthur doesn't stop, brings down blow after bone-crunching blow even after Tommy falls limp. 

He's gonna kill him, Isaac realizes like a sinking stone in his stomach. 

The crowd murmurs around him, shocked by the brawl turned senseless beating. Someone's pushing through, moving to the front to put themself between Arthur's bloody fist and Tommy's bloodier face. 

"Stop! Stop! Please, I beg you, stop!" And who else would it be but that Downes fellow, waving his open hands placatingly in Arthur's face. "Come sir, you've won the fight already, surely that's enough?" 

"What business is it of yours?" Arthur snarls, dropping Tommy's shirt so he can drop unmoving back into the mud. 

"No business," Mr. Downes pleads, covering his mouth briefly to cough. "No business sir, but please, I beg you-" 

He doesn't get to finish before Arthur shoves him away, pain twisting his face as he shoulders through the crowd. Mr. Downes kneels by Tommy's side to check him over. With the spectacle over, the crowd begins to disperse. Only Isaac stays put, dread and anticipation both curling unpleasantly in his gut as he watches his father approach. Their eyes meet, two identical shades of blue-green crashing like breaking ocean waves. His features sour further, if that's even possible. Isaac opens his mouth to say something, anything, but words fail him. 

"Fuck you lookin' at, kid?" Arthur growls and roughly bumps his shoulder with enough force to send him stumbling back a step, his cans from the general store dropping into the mud with a wet sucking sound. 

Arthur limps past like he's nothing, and that makes Isaac feel like he's less than nothing. The conflicting surge of emotions recede, leaving only a hollow void in his chest. He gathers his cans to his chest, smearing mud, and spares one last glance over his shoulder. 

Arthur's sitting on the edge of the general store's porch, caked in enough mud to hide the bruises he earned from the fight. He's talking with a small group of men, some Isaac recognises from the crowd, and a couple he doesn't. He's close enough that he should be able to hear what they're saying, but he can't hear a thing over the blood rushing in his ears. Arthur doesn't look at him. 

Blinking against the sudden burn in his eyes, Isaac retreats to his little corner on the outskirts of the tent city. 

Mama, 

It's been a while since I last wrote. I've been busy working at the stable, as you know. Past few days I've come back so tired all I can do is sleep. It's hard work, but Mr. Levi treats me well. He's been one of the only people in this forsaken town to do so.

I hate it here, Mama, I truly do. Can't have a single thing without getting robbed, and the sherriff don't seem to care. Between the mud and the smell I wonder if I'll ever be clean again. I want to leave and go somewhere no one else has ever been. 

I ran into pa earlier, here of all places. I guess that's why I'm writing you. He was beating some feller's face in. Probably would've killed the sorry creature if someone hadn't stopped him. He didn't even recognize me. Told me to get lost and shoved me out of his way like I was something nasty.

You always had a way of making sense out of even the most confusing things, Mama. I wish you were here. Maybe you'd be able to make sense of this, maybe explain to me why the world is so set on keeping me down because I haven't the first clue. Should I even bother trying to talk to pa? Seems like he wants nothing to do with me, and after watching him beat a man half to death, I'm nervous about approaching him at all. 

It's all just so unfair. I am so sad and angry and tired. I miss you terribly. More and more each day. I hope you're resting easy. I hope you're still looking out for me. 

Yours, 

Isaac Morgan. 

Isaac sticks his pencil in the dirt and carefully folds the page before making his way to the communal campfire. It's late, way past the time most folks would've gone to sleep, yet there's still a couple men dozing drunkenly by the fire. Isaac pays them no mind as he settles on the weathered log that serves as a bench near the fire. 

Someone had left a big stick nearby before going to bed. Isaac uses it to poke at the logs, coaxing the flames taller and hotter. 

There's a certain kind of quiet that can only be achieved at this hour. No rambling wagons, no dogs barking or people talking and no music from that damn saloon. There's only the crackling of the fire, underlaid by the endless hum of crickets, cut only by the occasional hoot or the odd howl. This, Isaac thinks, is the best Valentine will ever get. 

He tosses the letter into the fire, watches the edges curl before igniting. The flames hungrily devour the paper, leaving nothing but ash to float up into the endless sea of stars. 

Isaac prays that Momma gets it, wherever she is. 

[galacticjonah]

Loyal knight, savage dog. Killer, lover, end of mine. Future king, cursed beast. My heart, my blade, all be thine.

Ser Vespertine (left) and Prince Otho Zubr I (right) again because of course it's those two again. They're running wild in my head 24/7. Also hello it's been a while since I've posted here lmao...

Some tldr about them under the cut if you care:

Ruthless assassin (Vesper) sent to kill the prince (Otho) fails so hard they end up as his personal guard instead. Perfect prince charming harbours a dark, beastly secret that he (involuntarily) reveals to his murderous knight. What follows is a love story covered in lots of gore and canine imagery…

[inexplicifics]

Do you, by chance, have any Cats Among Wolves snippets at hand? Any you might possibly be willing to share? I saw the emojis and thought that I must attempt to learn more

Have a snippet:

Lambert grins. “You’re looking a hell of a lot better, too. And you’re not as pale as pretty boy anymore.” “Pretty boy?” Axel asks, baffled. Lambert jerks his thumb at Geralt, who is still ignoring everything else in favor of getting his head rubbed. “Tall, pale, and laconic over there.” Axel blinks. It’s one thing for Lambert to be fearless, as so few omegas are, and quite another for him to have given a disrespectful nickname to an alpha. But Geralt…doesn’t seem to care? “He is pretty, isn’t he?” the bard lilts, grinning. “Hair like moonlight and eyes like gold, my witcher wondrous to behold.” Geralt hums, sounding amused. Axel takes a deep breath, sincerely hoping he’s reading this right despite all his long-trained instincts screaming everything about this is impossible, and says, “My alpha’s prettier.”

[oh-no-its-bird]

When Ichigo was born, multiple people lost bets about her gender— including one Hatake Haruka, who'd been positive she'd be a girl (and placed good money on it)

When Ichigo came out as trans, Haruka was among those really fucking excited about it SOLEY because this now meant people owed her hella money, and she aimed to collect

[raindeathlily]

I love the differences in tone in 'A Cat Among Wolves' by @yeslikethewizard.

It's so cute and wholesome at times with the Bingyuan childhood friends.

Of corse there is a bit of angst and drama bc it is a scum villain fic.

But

It has one of the most bone chilling bits of horror I've seen on a scum villain fic for quite some time.

The monster description is just vague enough that the imagination runs wild. But has enough description to sell how unnatural it is. It comes quickly and unexpectedly, but with just enough warning to create suspense. It adds a mystery and uncertainty of horror that gets the minds turning. A third plot of conflict that is so different from the expected but beloved PIDW plot drama and "family" drama, that it adds a layer of mystery and intrigue to it.

It's so good, I recommend reading it.

'A Cat Among Wolves' by @yeslikethewizard

[wolfofartblock]

I promised an Ezio x Desmond drawing and I will deliver (eventually) but in the meantime have this compilation of OC sketches x.x but also! Why do I have to like rare pairs so much?? I need more Malik x Desmond

[astragatwo]

snif

[yeslikethewizard]

【 A Cat Among Wolves - Ch. 9 Update!】

LINK: Chapter 9 - weight on your shoulders FANDOM: The Scum Villain’s Self Saving System RATING: M, full tags and content warning on A03 PAIRINGS: Shen Yuan | Shen Qingqiu/Luo Binghe, One sided SQQ’s harem hopelessly in love with him

SUMMARY:

Shen Yuan never expected to be transmigrated—who DOES expect that sort of thing!? But here he is, in the world of Proud Immortal Demon Way as some NPC demon child who is at the complete mercy of the cultivation world around him. When he runs into Luo Binghe it is like fate itself plucked him up and set Shen Yuan into the world to be with the Protagonist. Keep him safe. Make sure that Luo Binghe won’t ever have to be alone in the world.

But staying at Luo Binghe’s side will be easier said than done, even if his mysterious heritage lands him in the good graces of the Scum Villain, Shen Yuan is still a demon. One living in the middle of a cultivation sect. Not to mention that something—something darker and stronger than Shen Yuan—seems to be messing with the plot, and not changing things for the better. Like Shen Yuan didn’t already have enough on his plate to deal with.

EXCERPT:

“Mn, I can understand how you might feel like that,” Lady Qin says softly. Shen Yuan glances up at her. “Would Shen-gongzi give Lady Qin his hand for a moment?”

Shen Yuan blinks, reaching up to hold out his hand. She takes it and flips it so that his palm faces up—as though she intends to read the lines of it—and then places a small coin in the center of it. It hurts —a spark of burning pain that makes him jerk his hand back with a gasp and out of her grip. The coin falls to the ground sizzling, and Lady Qin’s eyes are bright with excitement.

“Forgive this Lady,” she says, sounding not at all sorry for what she has done.

“What—what was that? It hurt,” Shen Yuan says, there’s a burn in the center of his palm. He rubs at it with his finger and winces, turning baleful eyes up on the woman in front of him. She still does not look sorry in the slightest.

“This Lady saw,” Lady Qin says, holding a finger to her lips which curl into a smile. It takes a few seconds for it to click in Shen Yuan’s head, and a chill races down his spine at the realization. Her eyes are filled with curiosity, “Shen-gongzi is a demon, isn’t he? Or perhaps something closer to a Yao? Fascinating that you’re living so close to humans if that’s the case, and with a cultivator no less.”

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shen Yuan says, he desperately wishes he could hide. Or that Xun Fu could be a little bit closer. He’s very aware that Lady Qin has positioned herself so that she is between him and his guardian and friend. He takes a step backwards.

“Don’t be frightened little one,” Lady Qin says with a soft laugh, “This Lady only has questions for you. Would you answer them?”

“No,” Shen Yuan says. He wishes his voice didn’t shake, he intends the word to be firm but it comes out small and frightened.

“I’ll give you something if you do,” Lady Qin coaxes, and Shen Yuan narrows his eyes at her. Creep! What, is she going to scoop him up and run off while Xun Fu yells “kidnapper” after her!? He takes a hesitant step backwards, frowning. “No? Your… A-Die? …Xun Fu. He said you like to read. I’ve got a really big library. Do you want to come see?”

“I don’t know how to read,” Shen Yuan lies, taking another step backwards.

“Just like you aren’t a Yao,” Lady Qin says with no small amount of amusement in her tone. “Come now, there must be something this Lady can provide you. Maybe a spiritual device? You look like a curious boy, I bet you’d like to see that right?”

[heartsings77]

[jamesrb4th]

Arcane rarepairs: multiverse edition

A good number of characters died over the course of Arcane, but thanks to the establishment of an infinite multiverse, not only can we go absolutely wild with the sort of romance we can provide in place of a tragic fate, it also means that nobody can tell us it’s not canon

Elora x Sky

Both pining for their bosses each of which are too preoccupied with a certain hunky inventor, perhaps their late night conversations venting out their frustrations will lead to something more

Maddie x Madame Margot

One is a ruthless cutthroat master of seduction, the other is a kind and caring woman in way over her head and must learn the value of teamwork if she’s going to make it out alive. Their heads will spin (and others will roll) as they find out exactly which is which

Kino x Loris

We don’t have much to go off of, but the illusion seemed like it was pretty convincing and anyone who Mel looks up to has got to be cool af, which means he deserves a boyfriend who is chill af, more than that, Loris is loyal courageous, and perhaps the most important quality for Kino in a partner, knows when they need to ****ing bail

Grayson x Amara

Heading a personnel security for a successful merchant, Grayson soon learns that the threats are far more dangerous than she was warned, and that the fascinating woman she’s been protecting is more than capable of dealing with them herself. Years of facing the flood of corruption in the enforcers have exhausted her efforts to influence them to adopt her own strong sense of justice, but perhaps it can soften the knife sharp edges of this sorcerous spy

Smeech x Salo

……. I have no idea how this got in here, I must have entered a fugue state or something, but uh, good for them?

[mrheymister]

Among the Wolves, Chapter 6: Thomas, Ask to See My Hands

<< Chapter 5 | Chapter 7(TBP) >>

"Forgiveness isn't foolish. That would be forgetting." (Read on Ao3)

Isaac knows, in theory, how to field dress a bear. He's taken apart dozens of rabbits and turkeys, even the odd deer here and there. He figured a bear would be much the same. 

It's not. Funny enough, it's much more grisly work. He huffs a quiet laugh at the thought from where he's stood holding one of the beast's heavy paws out of the way so his father can slice the skin from its abdomen.

“What's funny?” Arthur asks, glancing up from his work. 

“Nothin’” Isaac mumbles, “Just, grisly work is all. Get it? Because it's a bear?” 

Arthur snorts and shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching up to suggest a smile.

“Sure,” he drawls without adding anything else. Already his gloveless hands are coated in blood. 

They work, or well, Arthur works while Isaac tries to help without getting in his way, quietly for a time. The sun beats down on them without mercy from the height of her clear blue dome. Even the birdsong has been somewhat subdued by the midday heat, and the slate-colored lake, with its dragonflies dancing around the tall green and brown reeds at its edge, is beginning to look very tempting.  

The old man, who had scampered off to collect the horses some time ago, reappears now, with a familiar black draft and an unfamiliar silvery gelding in tow. Isaac notes the absence of his horse with a raised brow, casting a quick glance around their surroundings.

“Where's Banshee?” He asks.

“That her name? Fitting,” The old man huffs. “She's up over in those trees. Won't have a thing to do with me, the nasty nag.”

Isaac can't help rolling his eyes before aiming them at said trees. It's just a copse, small but dense, situated on the other side of the water. Isaac can just discern the dark stripes of her legs through the russet trunks of the trees. With both his hands occupied, he can't raise his fingers to his mouth to whistle. He tries anyway, pinching his bottom lip between his teeth. The resulting sound is hoarse, unlikely to carry across the water. 

“Oh, so you do have her trained,” the old man comments dryly when the mustang fails to move. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Hosea,” Arthur barks sharply, “help me turn this thing. Isaac, go get your horse.”

Isaac takes a moment to glare again at the old man, Hosea, before unceremoniously dropping the paw. It lands with a thump across its chest, narrowly missing Arthur, who was working at its neck. Arthur doesn't even flinch, just shifts his weight with a muttered curse to work around it as Isaac stomps off. 

Her outline becomes clearer through the trees as he approaches, and she raises her head to observe him when Isaac gets close enough for her to recognize.

“Here, girl,” he calls, feeling the old man's eyes on his back. Banshee snorts but doesn't move. 

“Banshee,” he tries again, reaching into his pocket for the last of his peppermints and holding it out in offering. “Come on.”

The mare seems to consider it for a moment before trudging out from the trees to take it. Isaac pats her head as she lips at his hand before turning to swing himself up into her saddle. As Isaac and Banshee meander back to where Arthur and Hosea are working over the bear, he catches snatches of their conversation, speaking as if he's still out of earshot.

“-saying, now is not a good time, not on top of everything else.” Hosea says.

“I know,” comes Arthur's tired reply. “Probably the worst time for it, but, look,” he pauses then, takes a breath to collect his thoughts. Isaac, unconsciously, pulls Banshee to a stop out of sight behind a big rock.

“He already knows about us. Whatever's in the paper at least, and he ain't rat–” 

“You don't know that,” Hosea hisses, cutting him off. “It ain't been but two days.”

“He won't–” Arthur tries to cut back in.

“How do you know?” Hosea keeps talking over him. “It's been years. He's hardly your boy anymore. Just think about this, please!”

“It's all I been thinkin’ about, Hosea!” Arthur snaps loudly. “You bein’ all hard ain't helpin’ no one right now. We'll figure it out, alright? Always do.”

It's only once they fall back into relative silence, Hosea with a dissatisfied grumble, that Isaac ushers Banshee out of hiding, clicking his tongue to announce his presence while schooling his face into something that hopefully won't betray his guilt over eavesdropping. 

The two men look up at him from where they're crouched over the carcass. Isaac sees they've gotten on just fine in his absence. The bear has mostly been relieved of its hide, its ribcage cracked open and cleaned out, lungs and other organs laid in a messy pile off to the side. Already, Isaac can see a couple of buzzards wheeling around in cloudless blue above them. He fights off the pout trying to play upon his features, albeit with little success. 

“Anythin’ I can help with?” he asks, cringing inwardly at the way his voice cracks to betray his age. 

Damn them, he thinks vehemently. I ain't just some kid!

The two men share a look, something unspoken passing between the two of them, before Hosea sighs and draws himself up.

“Reckon it's just the meat left,” he says. “You and Arthur can strip it without ruining it, yeah? And I'll pack it up.”

Isaac nods and dismounts, muttering a quiet plea for Banshee to stay put for all she'll listen. He crouches at Arthur's side by the carcass, drawing his knife and working the ribs free with little fanfare. Arthur shifts as if to help, and Isaac bats his hand away. 

“You've done this before,” Hosea notes as Isaac passes him the slab. The old man wraps it in a bolt of cloth and shoves it into a canvas sack he pulled from his horse. 

“Never a bear, but it's all the same, ain't it?” Isaac mutters as he works at prying the other set of ribs free. He almost cuts himself when his hands, slick with blood, slip on the bone he's gripping, but a larger set of hands, Arthur's, appear to hold it in place so Isaac can freely saw at the joint with both hands. 

“And where'd a boy like yourself learn to do this?” Hosea presses. “You seem awful young to be going after such big game on your own.”

Isaac grimaces as he pries the second slab loose. 

“I weren't goin’ after this thing, first of all, that's your fault,” he grunts as the bones come free, almost falling backward as they give with how hard he was pulling. Hosea takes them from him with a noncommittal hum, wrapping and stowing them away the same way he did the first. 

“What's it to you, anyway?” Isaac asks as he sets about cutting the flesh away from the bear's hind leg. “I can do it, so what else is there for you to know?”

“Just curious, is all,” Hosea huffs, “It's quite Impressive, quite. I must've been seventeen, eighteen when I took down my first bear, and you're what, twelve?”

“Fifteen, come the end of August, ” Isaac corrects without sparing him a glance. “And like I said, it was just luck.”

“Who taught you how to shoot?” Arthur asks suddenly, quietly from his side. “Hosea says you got him from the cliff? That's some ways.”

Isaac almost slices his hand open for how hard he startles, concentration broken at the incursion on his father's voice. He swallows hard and keeps his head down, refusing to look from the slab of meat he's working over. 

“I ain't learned from no one in particular,” he lies in a low voice. “Just, picked up a bit here, a bit there. I've been on my own a while. Had to eat somehow.”

He can't help the way his tone turns accusatory towards the end, and he doesn't look up to see the frown that settles deeper on Arthur's features, though he hears the disbelieving wheeze of Hosea’s derisive snort from where he's set across from him. 

“Not like it's any business of yours,” Isaac adds a little meanly, more towards Hosea than at Arthur. He hears the latter shift what must be uncomfortably beside him, for the man offers nothing in response. Only the soft sawing sound of his blade against flesh permeates the next few minutes. 

“I do think it's my business,” Arthur offers lowly once the rest of the meat is free and they're turning the bear to finish skinning it. “It should've been me that was teachin’ you these things.”

Now Isaac looks at him, cocks his head as he takes in the man's sullen expression. He seems genuinely put out, maybe even guilty.

“Oh yeah?” Isaac scoffs, all at once incensed. “Would that have come before or after the lessons on lyin’ and stealin'?” 

Arthur's expression twists then, his nose wrinkling up and his lips drawing back into a grimace before he turns and ducks his head to hide it. 

“Neither,” he grinds out in a gravelly voice. “Figure'd it'd've come somewhere between you learnin’ to ride a horse and watchin’ your damn mouth.”

“What's there to watch? I'm speakin’ the truth,” Isaac snips. “Besides, not like you'd've had the time to teach me much anyway. You was hardly around to begin with, and now I know it's because you was always runnin’ off to play outlaw or whatever with this feller,” He punctuates the jab with a jerk of his head in Hosea's direction. 

“I wasn't playin’ at nothin’ ‘sides keeping a roof over your heads!” Arthur bristles back as he tears the hide free, throwing it aside to draw himself up and tower over the boy. “Nice place like that, you think the rent was cheap?”

Isaac bites the inside of his cheek hard to keep himself from saying something truly thoughtless, remembering the last time he let his temper rise unchecked. For all of Arthur's talk about ‘watching his mouth,’ Isaac's beginning to see where the line is with this man. So instead he sheaths his knife and shuts his eyes for a moment to breathe, balling his bloodied hands before loosening them across his lap.

“I think I’d've rather lived in a shack, if it meant you'd've stayed around. If it meant Momma would've never got shot,” he manages evenly, glancing up at length to meet his father's harsh glare. “But that ain't the way it played out. And seein’ the way it did play out, I think I'm within my rights to keep my business to myself.”

Arthur sputters, face twisting up into something even nastier than before. He shifts on his feet, but whatever reply he was about to beat back with is cut off by Hosea.

“You're ‘within your rights,’ are you?” The old man quotes with some humor. “Such fine words from someone so young! Not something you'd expect to hear from some delinquent urchin, I imagine. Wonder where it is you learned that…” He trails off thoughtfully, if a little expectantly. 

Isaac snaps his gaze over to him. His face is kind now, open and inviting where a few minutes ago he was closed off and ruminating. 

What's this geezer playing at? Isaac frowns at him, eyes narrowing.

“I ain't no ‘delinquent urchin,’” is all the reply he offers as he shifts to roll the bear's hide into a bundle that'll fit on Banshee’s back. He sets it aside and gets to his feet, spitting near the old man's feet before turning to make his way to the water. He hears Arthur and Hosea exchange words with each other in muttered voices pitched low, mindful for once of the boy within earshot, but whatever is said is short.

Isaac kneels at the lake's edge and dunks his arms in, wincing as it stings his knuckles. The water is just the wrong side of cold, enough to be biting still despite the time of year. He spends a quiet couple minutes scrubbing up his arms, watching in satisfaction as the blood and gore dissolve from his skin in rust colored rivulets that quickly dissipate in the larger blue body of water. He rinses the blade as well, shaking off the excess water before turning the point to carefully dig out the blackened grime out from under his nails.

Of course, this is the moment that Arthur and Hosea choose to join him, crouching close to him at the water's edge and swiping the water up their arms in a similar fashion. Isaac tenses, digs the knife a little too deep under his thumbnail and curses at the sudden flash of pain. Quickly, he dunks his hand back in the water, grateful now for the coolness that washes over the new injury. It's nothing too serious, thankfully, but Isaac imagines his thumb will be tender for the next day or so.

Arthur for his part says nothing, focused a little too intently on cleaning himself up. Isaac watches out of the corner of his eye as the man scratches harshly as his arms. They're covered in dark, dense hair, which, coated in coagulation as they are, has dried into a thick, tacky mat that resists removal. The water turns much darker for Arthur's ministrations than it did for Isaac, who scoffs in disgust at the sight before scooting away a bit to where the water is clear. He splashes his face and the back of his neck before cupping his hands and bringing them to his mouth for a drink, cool and crisp, then he sits back languidly to survey the scenery. 

A gentle breeze ripples across the lake, setting the reeds and wildflowers swaying. Dragonflies in greens and browns and golds flit about the water's surface, tempting the fish below to occasionally leap out after them, breaking the water into shimmering shards when they do. From the trees, Isaac hears the distinct call of a cardinal, and when he strains his eyes he can just catch a flash of red darting between the branches.

Arthur's draft and Hosea's silver gelding have taken to grazing side by side under the shade of a nearby Aspen. Two large, bloody sacks of bear meat sit nestled between the roots, tied up neatly and ready to be loaded on the horses. Banshee stands a little ways off, serving as a lookout. Her ears stay on a swivel but she seems calm and content besides.

Now that the men have cleared away from the carcass, the buzzards gliding above slowly descend on their massive wingspans to land lightly around the fallen beast, strutting about and calling to each other in shrill shrieks. The largest of them, black as a shining omen, digs its curved beak into the bear's eye socket. From there, the flock flies into a frenzy, tearing tendons and bickering over bones.

Arthur and Hosea finish washing up. They move towards clear water to fill their canteens, then go separate ways, Hosea towards the horses and Arthur towards the boy.

Isaac blinks lazily up at the sudden shade that comes from Arthur standing over him. The two regard each other for a moment, unsure, or at least unsure on Isaac's part. Isaac doesn't know what to make of him anymore, if he ever did in the first place. One moment they're hugging and crying and the next they're pissing each other off again. It's as confusing as it is annoying, especially since Isaac can hardly predict what turn his feelings will take regarding his father at any given moment. 

Yet when Arthur wordlessly leans down and offers a hand to help him up, Isaac finds it easy to take. Arthur hauls him to his feet effortlessly, though Isaac sways a bit once he's upright, feeling all at once exhausted.

“You alright?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah,” Isaac replies in a breath. “Just tired, is all. Slept rough last night.” As if rough can even begin to cover it. There's a dull pounding beginning at the base of his skull, beating in tandem with the rhythm of his heart. It's tolerable, for now, though Isaac knows it will only get worse until he finds some dirt to crawl onto for a rest. He knew he was pushing his luck coming all the way out here after the night he had, but he tells himself he didn't have a choice in the matter or anything that followed as he stretches his limbs over his head, trying to pull the heaviness from them.

Again, Arthur goes quiet for a time, eyes narrowing as they drag down his gangly body. 

“When'd you eat last?” he eventually asks.

Isaac cocks his head at him, suspicious. He's used to hearing these kinds of questions from Mrs. Florez before she lectures him on taking better care of himself. He's not sure why Arthur would notice.

“Some crackers this mornin’” he replies.

Arthur's eyes dart up towards the sky, as if checking where the sun is, before narrowing again on the boy. 

“That's all?” he asks tightly. “What about last night?”

“Some corned beef outta can, what's it to you?” Isaac snaps, already annoyed again.

Arthur doesn't rise to the barb. He just shakes his head, his mouth drawing into a thin line. Isaac's becoming familiar with the expression; he's seen it a few times now, usually in response to something Isaac's said or done. It looks tight, pained, even, though Isaac doesn't get why. He feels like he's missing something. He shifts his weight uneasily to his other foot.

Arthur shrugs, pulling at the strap on his shoulders to bring his bag around and rifling inside. 

“Here,” he says, producing a lump of waxy paper tied together by some twine. “Hosea says we're gonna need to ride hard if we want to get this meat back to town before it spoils.”

Curious, Isaac takes the bundle and unties it to reveal several strips of salted meat. 

Ah, now I get it, he thinks. It's pity, that expression on Arthur's Face. He feels sorry for him. 

Do I really seem so pathetic? Isaac eyes the offered food appraisingly even as shame and anger twist in his gut. Too little, too late, he wants to snarl. The man can keep his charity; Isaac's got a whole basket of bear meat just waiting for a spit, if that geezer Hosea doesn't try to con him out of it first. 

“What're you worryin’ about me for?” He gripes, moving to wrap the meat back up so he can hand it over.  “Better be fussin’ over that old coot over there. You sure he's up for the ride?”

And of course, his empty belly chooses that precise moment to let loose a long, gurgling rumble. He stares steadfastly at Arthur like he doesn't hear it, but he can feel the tips of his ears burning.

“Oh, don't you worry about him,” Arthur chuckles, stepping into his space. “Hosea's fine. He ain't half as fragile as he looks. You, on the other hand…”

His hands reach out to cover the packet held in Isaac's outstretched palms. He presses down, hard, pushing it back against Isaac's chest.

“Don't go gettin’ all proud on me now,” he chides. There's an edge to his voice again, hardly there, but there all the same. “Eat it. If you go breakin’ your neck fallin’ out the saddle, I'll never hear the end of it.”

His tone goes lighter at the end, close to teasing, but there's something dark swimming behind his eyes as they bear down on the boy. Isaac suddenly finds it hard to meet his gaze, so he looks away, studying some rocks on the ground, as he meekly shoves a strip between his teeth. It's overly salty but still somewhat soft in the middle. Spit floods his mouth, and for whatever dignity he has left, he bites back the satisfied hum that tries to claw its way up his throat, forcing himself to chew and swallow slowly before taking another piece.

“Good man,” Arthur claps him on the shoulder, sounding pleased. “Finish that and mount up. We'll see if that mustang is too much for you after all.”

With that he walks away, calling out for Hosea to see how he's getting on. Isaac keeps his eyes trained on the ground, listening as the sound of Arthur's footsteps fall further and further away before he starts shoving the meat into his mouth like an animal. His stomach only feels a little less hollow by the time it's all gone, and he crumples the paper wrapper into a ball to shove in his pocket as he kneels for another drink of water from the lake. He draws himself up, collects his forgotten rifle from the nearby ground, and goes to Banshee.

She whickers as he approaches, throwing her head up and down as if to nod in greeting. He sees that someone's already bundled the bear's hide up and tied it to the back of the saddle. He suspects it was Arthur, given Hosea's earlier comments about how nasty of a nag she is. Still, he can't help but feel slighted over Banshee allowing Arthur near, even if he knows it's childish. He climbs back up into the saddle, settling himself and taking the reins in hand while hoping for once that she minds him.

“All set, then?” Arthur calls, looking back at him as he mounts his draft. It takes some effort, Isaac notes. The thing is as tall and broad as a boulder. 

“I'm good to follow,” Isaac replies, shrugging his rifle from his shoulder to stash in it the saddle strap. He still doesn't rightly know exactly where he is.

“Follow Hosea, then,” Arthur says. “I'll take the rear.” 

Isaac turns his head to find the old man already mounted, the two heavy sacks of meat dangling from either side of his saddle. He clicks his tongue and lightly presses his legs into Banshee’s side. Dutifully, she steps forward, and Isaac steers her to fall into step behind the silver gelding. He has to fight to keep a smile off his face and play it cool, but he is equal parts thrilled and relieved at how quickly she takes his direction for once.

Hosea kicks his own horse off, turning towards the trail, and after a moment, Isaac hears the jangle of tack as Arthur gets his horse moving

They file out in a single line, and they don't talk as they pick their way slowly up the steepest part of the trail. Isaac's glad for it. The silence is good for keeping his focus on where Banshee’s stepping to avoid any loose rocks that would send them tumbling back down.

Once they level out a bit, though, Hosea turns and calls to Isaac.

“So,” he starts jovially. “Banshee, huh? How'd the nag end up with that name?”

Isaac blinks and considers the question. There'd been an older boy back at the school, Donovan Something or Other, who liked to scare the younger kids by telling ghost stories in that strange, lifting accent of his on moonless nights. The banshee story was always the most memorable to Isaac, mostly because he thought Donovan Something or Other’s wailing impressions of the creature was funny, but thinking on it now, he finds that he doesn't remember much else about it.

During his time with the Distanti, the coyotes would occasionally take to howling something up a storm at night, the racket they put up carrying clear across the plains to make it sound like there was much less distance between them than appeared. It had scared Isaac at first, since the shrieking howls reminded him of Donovan Something or Other’s broken attempts at keening, which seemed a lot less funny at that point. But when the other kids of the tribe laughed at his fearfulness and mocked him for days, he just felt silly. 

Taming a horse is a right of passage for the Distanti; Isaac had learned to ride from then quickly enough, but aside from Coyote Trails, most of the tribe kept him at a distance, never allowing him to forget for even a moment that he was an outsider. He’d thought, foolishly, that if he accomplished that task, which was usually only attempted by young men years older than him, he could finally earn their respect and acceptance. Now he wonders why they let him try at all. Maybe they'd hoped he'd get himself killed getting thrown from the horse, and they'd be relieved of the burden of caring for him. 

He's not proud of how he did it. He'd gotten the lasso around her neck and held tight, denying her air, until she collapsed from exhaustion, her sides heaving as he approached. Yet when he held her head and breathed into her nose the way he'd seen the others do, he felt a great many things. Triumphant, mostly, but for the first time in years, hopeful– excited, even, about what the next days would bring. They used to laugh at his fearfulness, so he conquered that fear, just as he conquered the task of taming a horse. It only seemed fitting, then, to name her as he did.

But presently, Isaac is just too tired to tell such a long-winded story, even with food in his belly. He doesn't think Hosea even cares all that much anyway; he's just making small talk. So Isaac just shrugs.

“I saw it in a book once,” he lies, “Thought it sounded fierce.”

“Oh, it's fierce alright,” Hosea laughs in his withered way. “You do know what a banshee is, don't you?”

“Uh, they're ghosts or somethin’, ain't they?” Isaac answers. “But they ain't real.”

“Omens of death, if Sean's ramblings are to be believed,” Hosea hums. “Not something I’d ever name anything after.”

Isaac frowns, bringing his free hand to pat Banshee’s neck. “I think it's even more fitting now, actually,” he mumbles, just barely loud enough to be heard. “The way my luck runs, I mean.”

“What do you mean, exactly?” Arthur pipes up from the back. “I would've figured the opposite, given how you're still breathin’. And now you've gone and got yourself a bear. I'd say you're alright.”

Isaac turns to throw a withering look over his shoulder.

“Sure, for now.” he says, and leaves it at that. 

The trio falls silent for a few minutes after that, until Arthur breaks the tentative quiet.

“Where'd you even get that horse, anyway? She seems half feral.”

“Probably because she is,” Isaac admits with a sigh. “I broke her last summer, down in Rio Bravo.”

“Naw,” Arthur snorts. Isaac doesn't need to turn to see his disbelief, it's colored all over that one word. 

“Scrawny thing like you?” He continues, laughing. “Reckon she must've liked you right off. Ain't no way she couldn't've just kicked you and been done with it.”

Isaac sits a little straighter, letting the insult roll off. “Maybe,” he concedes, “Might be she just likes fools named Morgan. How'd you even get the hide on her? She usually just bites most people.”

“Aw, she's just got a, what's the word?” Arthur trails off for a beat, pondering. “A rough exterior. She ain't all bad.”

“Hardly,” Hosea quips from up front. “I saw you sneaking her sugar lumps while the boy was still at the water. Thought you were trying to lose a finger.” 

Arthur scoffs at that, all mock offended. “Wasn't it you that told me the best way to someone's heart is through their stomach?” He yells. “Figured the same would go for horses.”

Isaac smiles fondly at that, stroking down her glossy mane. Up ahead, Hosea shifts in his saddle and raises a hand. They're mostly out of the foothills now, the trail opening up to a well-worn path. 

That's about all the warning Isaac gets. With a sharp cry, Hosea digs his feet in his horse's flank, and the silver steed surges forward, moving from a leisurely walk to a full-on gallop in only a handful of elegant strides. Isaac only has a moment to gape ahead all impressed before he remembers himself, then he too is shifting forward, gripping tightly with his legs as he urges Banshee onwards.

“Yah!” he hears from behind, and turns his head to catch sight of Arthur on his behemoth of a horse. For a moment it looks like he's falling behind, but the beast just needed a little extra time to get up to speed. It's a work horse, not bred for racing, but its longer strides quickly eat the earth below all the same. Soon enough, the pair are gaining ground, and all too quickly after that they are even with Isaac and Banshee.

“Hangin’ on, there?” Arthur calls with a challenge to his tone, grinning widely despite the split in his lip. 

Isaac flicks his eyes forward to where Hosea is widening a gap, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

“Didn't know we was racing!” He shouts back.

His legs were already tired from clinging to Banshee all the way out this morning. He can feel them starting to tremble now despite having had a chance to sit proper before setting her off, and he's not even pushing her hard. Wasn't planning on it, either, but as Arthur passes them, laughing like the crack of a whip, Isaac finds himself feeling bold. 

“Go, go!” He urges, refusing to be left behind.

As if feeling equally eager to rise to the challenge, Banshee snorts her assent and surges forward, rocking Isaac around on her back. He manages to stay on, just about, grimacing at first at the way he needs to constantly to shift to accommodate her gait, though it turns into a grin once they find their rhythm.

They launch past Arthur and his draft, though the man seems damned pleased about it. 

“Atta boy!” he cackles, though Isaac can't tell whether it's directed towards him or the draft horse, nor does he have the breath to turn around and find out, panting harder than the horse beneath him with the strain of staying on. 

They keep the pace for the next few miles, the world flying by in blurs of brown and green. Isaac's almost caught up to Hosea by the time the old man brings his horse back down to a trot. Isaac figures Banshee could probably go on a while longer, and it seems she wants to as well. She ignores Isaac's first pull on the reins, and he has to tug back hard before she listens, falling into step on Hosea’s right with a low neigh. Isaac for his part is grateful for the break, soaked in sweat and breathing hard as he nearly slumps back down into the saddle, swaying along with the much more gentle motions of the slower stride.

“Alright there?” Hosea asks, eyeing him critically. Infuriatingly enough, he looks like he's hardly broken a sweat, despite going the hardest of all of them. All Isaac can manage is a nod as he pushes his soaked hair out of his eyes. He wonders how he'll get on working tomorrow. No doubt his legs will be hurting something terrible.

“That was some riding, kid,” Arthur pulls up to Isaac's right then, still smiling, though it falls right off his face once he sees the boy. “Shit, are you good?”

“I'm fine,” Isaac snaps breathlessly. “Just, gimme a minute.”

“You don't look fine,” Arthur counters, brows drawing up in concern. “Hosea, slow up a little, Jesus.”

“We don't have the time,” Hosea says sharply, sparing Arthur a glance. “Gotta get this to Pearson so he can put it in the pot. The boy says he's fine, so he's fine. Let's keep moving.”

“Hold up,” Isaac squeaks. “Who said anything about a pot? I shot the thing, I'm eating it!”

“As if you could eat all of it,” Hosea says. “Besides, you've already got the pelt, as you so insisted. What are you even gonna do with it?”

“I'm gonna sell it, obviously!” Isaac sputters indignantly. “The meat too! Mister Ivory, the butcher back in town, we got an arrangement. I bring him this, he'll sell it all out of his stall, and in exchange he'll give me fresh meat every day for a while.”

He hopes so, at least. It's been a while since Isaac last spoke with the butcher, but he sees no reason why it wouldn't work out this time, as long as they make it back to town with some daylight left.

“Meat’s wasted on Pearson, anyway,” Arthur chimes in, leaning over on his horse to offer Isaac his canteen. “I'm sure he'll find a way to ruin it.”

Isaac barely hears Hosea's scoff over the sound of his own greedy gulping, though he minds himself well enough to leave some water for his father as he passes it back with a murmured thanks.

“It's food in our bellies, it doesn't need to taste good,” Hosea chides. “Besides, it's not even that bad, half the time. You're just picky, Arthur. Always was.” 

“Am not!” Arthur says petulantly, “You're the one tryin’a rob a kid.” 

“I'm doing no such thing, I'm helping,” Hosea insists. “I drew the bear out, got it into position for young Isaac here, which, by the way, should've been your job. Where the hell were you, anyway?”

Isaac perks up that, interested enough to set his agitation aside for the moment. This, he is curious to hear. Just from watching the two bickering, Isaac can tell Arthur and Hosea go way back. Isaac also has no doubt Hosea would've been torn to shreds had he not been where he was. If Arthur was supposedly such a reliable man, how was it he let Hosea go far enough away that it took several minutes to get to him once he heard the screaming?

Arthur shrinks in the saddle, shoulders curling in on themselves. “I wasn't payin’ attention,” he admits in a low rasp. “I told you this mornin’, my head wasn't on right. Barely slept all night. We should've just gone back to camp.”

“And I remember telling you this was the perfect way to take your mind off things, and I was right, wasn't I? Look how today turned out!” Hosea gloats, gesturing towards Isaac.

Isaac just looks between the two of them. Hosea, wearing a placid smile, and Arthur, looking all miserable, just glumly nods his head. 

“Tell you what,” Hosea says after a minute, once it becomes apparent Arthur has nothing else to say on the subject.“You want to sell that pelt? I'll give you twenty dollars for it right now.”

“Twenty!?” Isaac repeats in disbelief. “I could get forty for it easy!”

“Not from no one in Valentine, I'll tell you that much,” Hosea says. 

Isaac considers that. His plan was to take it to Mr. Worth, but he'd probably just turn around and sell it at a markup. Maybe Hosea's right. But Isaac's heard tell of a grizzled old Trapper up around Strawberry ways. Maybe he could make the trip out there his next day off, if he can manage to keep the pelt from getting swiped for that long, and that's a big if. The boy lets out a long suffering sigh.

“Thirty-five,” He offers reluctantly.

“Twenty-five,” comes the instant counter.

Isaac glares harshly at him, though he knows he must not look all that intimidating. 

“Thirty, and I let you keep one of those sacks. Final offer.”

Hosea cackles at that, and Isaac thinks he hears Arthur snort in amusement 

“Where'd you learn how to haggle, kid?” Hosea smiles gleefully. “Sure as hell didn't get that from your daddy. Fine, I'm feeling generous. Thirty dollars and a bag of meat.” 

He leans over and offers a weathered hand, which Isaac takes, gripping hard, meeting the old man's sharp brown eyes as he shakes once, twice, before letting go.

“Oh, to be young,” Hosea sighs wistfully, shaking out his hand.”When things like strong handshakes seemed so important. 

Isaac looks at him funny. Maybe he just got played, he doesn't know. Probably Hosea could run circles around him in terms of conning people, but then Isaac's always preferred honesty and directness to beating around the bush. What he does know is that he's content with what he's got. Thirty dollars will go a ways. He's already thinking about a new pair of boots and a bedroll to go with his dinner of grilled bear.

The acrid smell of cigarette smoke lazily drifts across his senses. He breathes in deep, savoring, and turns to find Arthur puffing on a cigarette in contemplative silence, the smoke curling around his face in silvery tendrils. As far back as Isaac can remember, he's always liked the scent. He doesn't know if Arthur prefers a particular brand, but the smell of whatever he's smoking now seems especially familiar, somehow. 

“Got your breath back, then?” Hosea asks, directing a knowing look towards him.

Isaac merely hums in reply.

“Alright. Once Arthur's done with his smoke, we need to pick up the pace again,” Hosea says. “Valentine's not far, maybe another hour or so.” 

Isaac bites back a groan, but it's a near thing. The last thing he wants is to give these men the impression that he's some weak, sniveling brat, but by god he is tired. The pounding in his head is only getting worse as the ride drags on, thundering right along with Banshee's steps. His legs are starting to feel like jelly, and his ass hurts from knocking around the saddle all day, though this he would never admit out loud. He doesn't think he has another few miles of galloping in him.

Yet he shifts said sore ass, moving back in the saddle in anticipation. It's not a question of what he has left in him. He simply must, lest he wants to get left behind, as he already has been too many times in his short life. He doesn't know what the future holds for him, what place the father he's found will have it in. Isaac suspects mostly it'll be more of how it was, with Arthur drifting in and out and Isaac left wondering and struggling. Half of him wants to save himself the trouble and cut loose completely, yet the other half, the one still holding onto a sense of childlike innocence and naivety, clings to an idea with foolish hope.

So his father still cares for him after all, at least a little. That much is clear. Maybe, just maybe, Isaac's finally found his people. Maybe Isaac can stay with Arthur and his ragtag group of lowlifes. Maybe he can overlook the killing and stealing so long as he doesn't have to be alone anymore, so long as he no longer has to wonder when he'll eat next, where he'll sleep, who'll be the next to take everything from him all over again. At the very least, it's a pretty thought.

He raises his head to the sky. The sun's already started her slow descent westward, though she still remains high for now. Isaac notes some dark clouds gathering to the south, towards where they are headed. He hopes whatever storm that may or may not come passes him by; sleeping in the mud is something he particularly loathes.

He feels some eyes on him and turns once again to see Arthur studying him, mouth working around the end of his cigarette. 

“How's about you ride with me, Isaac?” He asks steadily. “Banshee'll follow, won't she?”

Damn, do I really look to rough to keep riding?

Isaac shakes his head. “I ain't sure she'll follow.” 

“Then we'll tie her off,” Arthur's tone brooks no argument. With his mouth set in a line and his dim bluegreen eyes glaring coldly, Isaac sees the outlaw, the man the paper warned about. He figured most folks, at this point, would be scrambling to relieve themselves of their valuables under that stare. The only thing missing is a gun pointed at him. Isaac meets his gaze, holding his head high. Might be that Arthur can bully others to do his bidding with just a look and some gruff words, but Isaac refuses to be so easily cowed.

“Arthur, we don't have time for this,” Hosea warns, breaking the silent stand-off. 

“Banshee don't like being led like that, neither,” Isaac says. “I told you, I'm fine.”

And to prove it, he kicks her off without another word, lurching back before drawing his knees in to hang on. He hears an indignant yell from Arthur, and the call of Hosea getting his own horse to move, followed by the rumbling thud of hooves, but he doesn't look back, can't do much else but keep his head down and cling on, riding with all he has. 

His world becomes very narrow for a while. All he has the capacity to track is the movements of the horse beneath him, and the open road directly in front of him. He hasn't the energy for much else, as the screaming of his abused muscles drown out near everything else. It hurts, squeezing his calves against her side, pain like lightning lancing up his lower back and spine with each stride, but to let go is to go flying off, so he can hardly do anything else but grit his teeth and hold on.

He loses awareness of Arthur and Hosea, of time itself, though the sound of their horses, distant compared to pain protesting his senses, tells him they're still nearby. He thinks he can hear Arthur yelling at him, but he can't discern the words. 

It's Banshee, in the end, that stops for him. Maybe he finally pushed her too hard, or  Isaac wasn't sitting as well as he thought, or maybe he was handling the reins too roughly, but whatever it is, she's had enough. All at once she skids to a halt, in spite of the heels digging into her side to urge her onwards. She throws her head back with a loud winny, shifting dangerously towards her back legs like she wants to rear.

“Shit,” Isaac gasps, clinging to her neck. “Shit, no, Banshee, easy, easy, I'm sorry, it's alright.”

He can feel the dampness of the sweat foaming in her coat. Hell, he can smell it. Drool drips from her mouth as she works feverishly at her bit like she thinks she can spit it out. Isaac can see the whites of her eyes. She stamps her front leg and snorts, like she's still thinking about throwing him, before settling down only slightly. 

“I'm sorry,” he pants mindlessly, stroking her neck with a shaking arm while using the other to hold himself up, bracing himself against her shoulder. “You're right, I wasn't paying attention, I'm sorry. We're good, girl, it's alright.”

She starts a bit, shifting uneasily as the thunder of hoofbeats draws nearer. Arthur suddenly bursts from his periphery, wheeling around before tugging his shire so harshly to a stop that it rears, though he smoothly rides out the motion.

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” he shouts as he dismounts. “You tryin’a prove something by gettin’ yourself and the horse killed!? Pay attention when I'm talkin’ to you, damn it!”

Isaac can offer nothing in reply, gasping like a dying fish the way he is. He hangs his head, sweat dripping from his dark brown hair as it falls around his face like a curtain. He regrets cutting it. Now it's no longer long enough to hide behind. 

He sees Hosea pull up now as hell, his horse's side heaving with exertion as it pants. The old man seems pale, with a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and Isaac gets a moment to feel smug about it, foolish as it is. Hosea just watches them placidly.

“Get the hell off that horse,” Arthur spits, walking forward and grabbing hold of Banshee’s reins. The mare barely reacts. Isaac realizes with a pang that she's trembling.

”You' was ridin’ like shit,” he continues,  “I would've thrown you two miles back.”

“I'm fine–” Isaac tries.

“The fuck you are!” Arthur yells over him, even as he offers a hand to help Isaac down. Isaac cringes back on instinct, only realizing he's done so when Arthur's face falls, his anger fading into something more resigned, something closer to that pitying expression from earlier.

Isaac doesn't even have the energy to resent it, but for his pride, he smacks the offered hand away and swings himself off his horse, not bothering to try and smother the wince that hisses past his teeth. He must look so sad. He doesn't care anymore.

To make matters worse, he nearly falls flat on his face. As soon as he gets both feet on the ground, his shaking knees buckle, refusing to support his weight anymore. He throws out his arms to break his fall, even knowing that his arms would probably give out next, but Arthur's hand quickly snakes out to grab hold of his arm, keeping him up. Isaac keeps his gaze low.

“Hosea, can you handle the horse?” Arthur calls, sounding somewhat calmer, if not still annoyed. 

“Absolutely not,” The old man calls back. “I like having all ten of my fingers, thank you very much.”

Arthur groans. Isaac can imagine the way he's probably scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Sit,” Arthur commands sharply from somewhere above him. 

Slowly, as he can't manage much faster, Isaac manipulates his uncooperative legs back under him. He pulls his arm back, and Arthur lets him go, but Isaac doesn't feel like bothering with sitting. He flops backwards, laying his arms out on either side of his head. They're still in the middle of the road, he realizes dizzily as the dust tickles his nose. 

Again, Arthur sighs, and his shadow lands across Isaac's face as he leans over to peer down at him.

“That was real stupid, you know. Takin’ off like that.”

His voice is gentle for once. Isaac lazily drags his eyes away from the clouds to look at him, and in doing so is reminded again just how much they look alike, between that summer shade of blue peeking from beneath the rim of his hat to the familiar frown tugging at his features. 

“Maybe,” Isaac agrees once he's somewhat caught his breath. “Didn't want to slow you down, is all.” Didn't want you to leave me in the dust.

“See how well that's going,” Arthur grumbles. “If you needed so’more time, we would've taken more time. It is what it is.” 

Isaac scoffs at that.

“How long you been riding for?” Arthur asks, “I mean, when did you learn?”

“Sometime last year, give a few extra months.”

Arthur lowers himself to sit beside him on the ground, reaching into the pocket of his worn, tan jacket for another cigarette.

“Lemme guess, you taught yourself?”

“Something like that,” Isaac hums. “Ran with some Indians for a few months, but they liked to ride without a saddle, so it's different.”

“Indians, huh.” 

Arthur seems to accept that at face value. If he's surprised, he does a good job of not showing it. Isaac is grateful for it, not feeling up for the questions or the elaborating he was expecting once that part came out. 

Clearly, you need more practice,” Arthur grumbles. “Ridin’ hard like that, well, it's hard on you. Need to be strong for it.”

“You was the one racing me,” Isaac reminds him dully. 

“Yup. Clearly not the best idea I’ve had today. Forgot who I was dealing with.”

Isaac closes his eyes as the smell of smoke washes over him again. He wants to ask what that's supposed to mean, but then decides he doesn't want to hear it, as it's probably something to do with him being skinny again or whatever. Instead he simply listens to the inhale and exhale of Arthur's quiet smoking for a time before he hears the crunch of dirt as the man gets to his feet and steps away from him. He’s nearly dozed off when he hears Arthur call his name, and blinks his eyes open to find the man leaning over him again.

“Can you stand on your own yet, or do I gotta carry you?” Arthur asks.

There's nothing mocking or derisive to his tone, just a genuine concern, but the idea of being carried like a child is utterly mortifying. 

“I'll manage,” Isaac mutters as he pushes himself up. For a moment the world suddenly seems too bright, and he presses a hand to his temple as the headache crests over him before dulling down to something slightly more tolerable. Arthur helps him to his feet, and doesn't say anything when the boy continues to lean on him once he's upright. 

Isaac sees a rope tied to Banshee’s bridle, with about a dozen or so feet connecting it to the horn of Arthur's saddle. He frowns.

“It ain't that far back to town,” he protests, looking around and finding his surroundings familiar. Valentine is just at the bottom of the hill they're on.

“I don't care,” Arthur says flatly. “You’re with me. I don't wanna hear nothing else about it.” 

With that he starts dragging Isaac over towards his horse. Up close, Isaac doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to get on the thing, but he doesn't have long to ponder it long before Arthur is hefting him up, startling an embarrassed squeak from the boy as he tries to clamber on as quickly as possible.

Again, Arthur chooses to keep quiet out of consideration. With Isaac settled, he simply swings up behind him. Isaac scoots forward a bit, gripping the horn, as Arthur reaches around him to take the reins. 

“Where’re you staying?” Arthur asks once they get moving again, with Hosea in the lead and Banshee ambling behind.

“What, I ain't coming back with you?” Isaac answers, only half joking.

He gives up trying to keep his balance on the rocking draft horse, and lets himself lean back against the man behind him, eyes half closed. He feels an arm snake around his middle to help hold him in place, the point of Arthur's chin coming to rest atop his head. Isaac breathes a tired sigh.

“Didn't know that's what you wanted,” Arthur says quietly. 

“Depends on where you're at,” Isaac yawns. “I still want to keep my job at the stable, but if you're close by, why not? I've been living at the laborer camp. It's awful. Folk keep taking my things."

He hears Arthur suck in a breath at that. 

“What, those tents set up near the stable?” 

“Mhmm.”

“You ain't got nobody lookin’ out for you? You're not even fifteen.” 

Isaac shakes his head, feels Arthur's chin digging into his scalp. 

“Like I said, it's just me and Banshee. Mister Levi, the stable master, I guess you could say he looks out for me, sort of, and this lady at the camp is nice too, but I'm on my own, pretty much.” 

Arthur goes quiet. Isaac can feel his jaw working from where it's sat on top of his head.

“Listen, Isaac,” he says gently. “I would. I want to, but place we're staying, the people we run with…” he trails off, unsure.

“Well, you said you saw the paper,” he goes on in a rush. “We're wanted, all of us, and we've got plenty of folk after us. I don't want you caught up in all that. I think it's best for you to stay in town. I know it might not seem like the best, but you could be doin’ a lot worse.” 

Isaac was half expecting it, but it still hurts, somehow. He blinks furiously against the sudden burning in his eyes and nods.

“Could be doin’ a whole lot better, too,” he mutters. “And you? Will I see you again, or should I just go back to pretendin’ you're dead?”

“Isaac,” Arthur chides softly. 

He blows a long sigh. Isaac feels the arm around his middle tighten, just for a moment.

“We’re working on a way out of this,” he says vehemently, as if by believing in it hard enough he can force it to be true. “Dutch, our leader, sort of, he always sees us through. We just gotta figure out how to shake these Pinkertons and get back out west. Once we do that, I'll come back for you, I promise.”

Even as he hears them, the words ring hollow to Isaac. He swallows and nods, watching the buildings of Valentine slide into view.

“Sure,” he says tightly. 

He doesn't believe a word of it, but he's too tired and wrung out to press him further about it. For now, he plans on getting Banshee back to the stable, getting the bear meat to Mr. Ivory, and laying down for a long dirt nap. He'll wake up tomorrow and go to work and try to forget that today and the day before ever happened, even though he knows it's a useless endeavor.

Should've never gone and got my hopes up, he chastises himself. Even so, he still can't be bothered to pull away from Arthur to sit up straight, content to soak up the man's warmth in spite of the day’s dying heat for as long as he can.

Hosea turns onto the main road of Valentine just as the church bell begins to chime. Isaac squeezes his eyes shut against the noise, each banging gong feeling like an iron ball knocking around in his head. They echo oddly, too warped to count by his distorted perception. Arthur follows, nudging his horse just a little faster to close the gap between them. 

“Mister Ivory’s stall is at the end of the road, just behind the hotel,” Isaac directs. 

“Are you even sure he's gonna be out today? It's Sunday,” Hosea asks skeptically.

“Sure. He does his best business on Sundays. People like to eat good after church, or something like that.”

They turn the corner, and sure enough, there's a tanned, dark haired man hawking meats from his little wooden booth, though his voice, low as it is, is impossible for Isaac to pick out with any clarity among the chaotic soup of noise that is the town's general atmosphere.

“Hullo, Mister Ivory,” Isaac greets once the butcher finishes helping a woman standing ahead of them. 

Mr. Ivory looks up, and squints at the pair of strangers before recognizing Isaac. Once he does, his bearded face breaks into a smile.

“Ah, Isaac!” He greets him enthusiastically. “I was wondering what you've been up to. I hardly ever see you outside the stables anymore. Are you alright? You don't look well.”

Isaac fights the urge to roll his eyes and forces himself to sit up straight. Arthur's arm drops from around him easily enough. 

“Just a rough couple of days, you know how it is,” Isaac says.

“Certainly,” the butcher replies sagely. “And who are your friends?”

Hosea and Arthur look at each other for a moment, and Isaac rushes to get a word in before the geezer starts spinning some lies Issac doesn't feel like having to keep track of.

“Just some fellas I ran into this morning,” Isaac says easily. “They were trying to get themselves eaten by a bear. I've got something for you.”

He shifts as though to dismount, only to be stopped by Arthur's thick arm barring across his chest. Isaac turns around to aim an annoyed look at him, but Arthur just shakes his head and looks away.

“Hosea,” he barks.

The old man swears under his breath but dismounts his horse, relieving one of the sacks from his saddle before plopping it unceremoniously on the butcher's counter.

“The boy tells me you've got an arrangement,” Hosea says. “You'll keep him fed for the next couple days?”

Mr. Ivory peers into the sack, sniffing the contents.

“You bagged the bear?” he asks, disbelieving. “When?”

“Yup,” Isaac affirms, but he's too tired to inject his earlier pride into the word, so all it sounds is flat. “A little bit after noon. Should be fine.”

Mr. Ivory whistles. 

“Kid's a hell of a shot,” he tells Hosea. “Couldn't believe it was him doing the hunting when he first started showing up with does. Clean shot, lungs or head, everytime. You're lucky you ran into each other."

“He's the lucky one, as he keeps saying,” Hosea sniffs, “But it was quiet impressive. Took it out from, God, had to be over fifty yards.”

Isaac allows himself a small smile at that. He may not like Hosea all that much, but he's always happy to be praised.

Mr. Ivory takes the sack in hand, feeling the weight of it and nodding, apparently pleased. 

“What about the other one?” He asks, spying the sack that's still hanging from Hosea's horse.

“Ah, well see, since I so helpfully baited the bear out of hiding, Isaac agreed to let me take half the kill.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Ivory asks skeptically, looking back to Isaac.

Isaac just shrugs. 

“Sure. He wouldn't let it go.”

Mr. Ivory mirrors his shrug. “Well, it's late in the day. Most folk’ve already come for their dinner, but I think I can get some of this on ice for tomorrow, probably salt the rest. Reckon we'll be good for a couple weeks.”

A couple weeks? Isaac blinks. That sure is generous.

But, gift horses and all. Isaac smiles, brighter this time.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“Pleasure's mine,” says Mr. Ivory happily. “You should go out more. Mr. Levi is wasting you keeping you in the stables.”

“Maybe, but I like it well enough,” Isaac says.

Mr. Ivory chuckles and shakes his head. 

“Well, I guess that's what's important. You take care of yourself, Isaac.”

“You do the same.” Isaac replies, and then Arthur is turning them towards the stables. 

“I'm gonna head back,” Hosea says, following them for now. “Here, Arthur, take this. Make sure you remember to bring back that pelt. I think the bastard that tried to eat me should make a fine rug."

Hosea leans over on his horse to pass a small stack of bills over. Arthur gives it a cursory glance before pressing it into Isaac's hands.

“Will do,” he says.

With that, Hosea turns his horse as if to leave, but he hesitates before trotting off, spending a long moment just staring at the pelt before his eyes come up to meet Isaac's.

“Thank you again,” he says sincerely. “You really did save my life. I hope things work out for you.”

His eyes shift from Isaac to Arthur as he speaks, but then he's spurring his horse forward before either of them can reply. 

Isaac would watch him go, if only to see what general direction they're holed up, but he's too busy staring at the cash. He can't remember having ever held so much. He counts it twice, just because he can, and shoves it into the pocket of his shirt.

“Mr. Levi should be in today, too,” Isaac murmurs, “He said he was gonna wait around in case you still wanted to buy a horse.”

“Yeah, he mentioned it,” Arthur says as they meander over towards the stables. “But I dunno. This one's kind of growin’ on me, big as he is.”

“Have you had him long?” Isaac asks, feeling around the horse’s mane.

“Since yesterday,” Arthur says. “Hosea stole him, though he insists the other feller tried to rob him first. Thought we may as well sell him.

“Of course,” Isaac sighs.

The double doors of the stables are closed when they approach, though Isaac knows Mr. Levi will most likely be sorting through pedigrees or whatever he does at his desk.

“Wait here,” he tells Arthur. 

Arthur tries to hold him in place again when Isaac moves to get off the horse, but lets him go when Isaac starts squirming. Isaac slides down the shire’s side, finding his legs are steady beneath him now, if not still overly sore, but he'll take what he can get. He turns around and spreads his arms in a see? I'm fine gesture that Arthur just frowns at, before turning and trudging towards the door.

The door opens quickly after Isaac knocks, Mr. Levi’s worn face appearing in the way.

“Long day?” he asks in greeting, and Isaac is starting to get real tired of people politely telling him how shitty he looks.

“No longer than usual,” Isaac says gruffly. “Can you let me in? Need to put Banshee up.”

Mr. Levi nods and disappears behind the door. Isaac turns back to find Arthur has already detached Banshee’s lead from his horse and is working on moving the bear's pelt over as well. Banshee just stands there, uncharacteristically still.

That eager to get rid of me, huh? 

He leans against a post, more than happy to watch for once, until he hears the barn doors clatter open. He pushes himself up, walking over to take hold of Banshee’s reins once Arthur's got the pelt off. The mare seems utterly placid. Either Arthur is better with horses than he lets on, or Banshee’s nearly wore out as Isaac is. Perhaps it's a little of both.

“Alright then,” Isaac says, standing in front of Arthur. “Guess I'll see you whenever I see you.” 

Isaac supposes he expected saying goodbye to be harder, but it's about as easy as waving anyone else off. Could be he's just too exhausted to care. Maybe he'll feel more cut up about it after a bit of rest.

Arthur's eyes dart from the open barn to the nearby tents he sees on the other side of the building before settling on Isaac again.

“Naw, I'll see you home,” he decides. “It ain't far. I'll wait out here.” 

“Whatever, suit yourself,” Isaac mumbles as he turns, leading Banshee inside. 

Mr. Levi is standing just beyond the barn doors, watching them, though Isaac doesn't notice him until he's properly inside. The Stablemaster gives him a strange look. The other horses nicker and whicker in greeting as Isaac walks Banshee down the aisle towards her stall 

“That's the feller from yesterday,” Mr. Levi notes.

Isaac simply nods. Not like he could be mistaken for anyone else, walking around with that shiner.

“Thought you wanted nothing to do with him,” Mr. Levi presses, sounding sour.

“Yeah, well,” Isaac shrugs. “Ran into him while I was out huntin’ this mornin’. Talked some more about it.”

“And?”

Isaac sighs, raises his head to stare at the wooden beams on the ceiling, and counts to ten. He might get away with mouthing off to outlaws, but he knows better than to try Mr. Levi’s patience, vast as it seems to be.

“And nothing,” he says at last. “Probably won't be seein’ him again.”

“Here's hoping,” Mr. Levi mutters under his breath. “I'm sorry, kid. Some fathers don't deserve their sons.”

“Some sons are better off as orphans, I reckon,” Isaac says flatly as he begins taking Banshee’s tack off.

“Now what are you saying that for?” Mr. Levi asks, taken aback.

Isaac remembers their conversation yesterday. Mr. Levi’s subtle suggestion that he'd groom Isaac to take over the place, whatever that entails, should Isaac be willing. It didn't make much sense, at the time, nor did Isaac want to spend much time thinking about it, but it comes back to him now.

Mr. Levi is a father who outlived his son. Isaac is a scrap of a boy with a father only in name. He knows that Mr. Levi likes attending the Sunday Service. Maybe, just like Mr. and Mrs. Tempest, Mr. Levi is figuring God brought them together, for whatever reason.

Isaac shakes his head of the thought, setting Banshee’s saddle on a nearby rack. He'll bring it back up to the loft tomorrow. The rifle, too. He leans it against the back wall for now.

He walks Banshee into her stall, removing his bridle and hanging it on a nearby hook before turning back to pet her. She dunks her head into a bucket of water and drinks. 

Banshee, the omen of death, Hosea had called her. Isaac's thoughts veer back towards the Tempests, towards his own mother. It's silly to think that they died because Isaac was in their lives, he knows. But still. He's a boy of fourteen who has already seen more than his fair share of death. He can't help but think, for however ridiculous it is, that Mr. Levi should really avoid getting too close if he wants to see his retirement after all. He's perfectly fine with the way things are.

He also thinks about how he really needs to brush Banshee down after running her as hard as he did, but that too will have to wait until tomorrow.

“Isaac?” Mr. Levi calls expectantly 

Ah, that's right. Mr. Levi asked him a question, but Isaac's already forgotten.

“It's nothin,” he says quickly as he steps out of the stall. “I'm just tired, ain't thinkin’ clear.” 

“Did that man do something to you?” Mr. Levi asks, suddenly all stern and serious.

“What? No!”  Isaac rushes to answer. “No, I pushed myself too hard on the ride back, I'm fine. Just need to sleep it off, is all. I'm good to work tomorrow, I promise.” 

Mr. Levi looks him up and down, one hand playing thoughtfully with his mustache. 

“If you say so,” he says at length. “But remember what I told you yesterday. I'm here for you, if you need anything. I'll see you tomorrow.”

What I need is an extra couple dollars a week and for you to mind your business.

“See you tomorrow,” Isaac says lightly, and quickly ducks back out into the street.

Arthur is waiting for him as promised, leaning against a post by the forge, his horse hitched to the post outside the hotel. Isaac looks at him, then simply turns around and starts heading for the tents. Arthur has to jog a little to catch him.

“Everythin’ alright?” 

“Yup.”

“You sure? You seem mad.” 

“Just a bit.” 

There, at the far edge of the camp, is Isaac's scrap of canvas. He's never been overly fond of it before, but as his weariness and headache crash into him with renewed force at the sight, he can't think of a place he'd rather be.

Without any fanfare, he drops to his knees and crawls under the scrap to curl up in the indent his body's worn into the dirt over the weeks, not even bothering to kick off his boots. His raggedy, smelly old shirt is still there. Must be too foul for anyone to want to take. He shoves it beneath his head and snuggles into it.

“So, this is home,” he yawns, looking back up to him. “Sorry I can't give you a tour.” 

Arthur stands rooted to the spot, mouth partly slightly in what, horror, revulsion? He takes in the moth-eaten canvas sheet, the small stack of cans, the crusty, tattered pair of socks, the sheets of paper with the stub of a pencil tossed across the top, and there he goes making that face again, setting his mouth in a straight line. Isaac watches him bite the inside of his cheek. 

“Right,” Arthur says faintly.

Hey, you the one said it ain't that bad, Isaac pouts silently.

And then Arthur is turning to take in the rest of the place, the other scraps of tents, the other strange men already passed out drunk or halfway there. Isaac doesn't know if Mrs. Forez is around yet; she may still be at the hotel. He’d see if he'd raise his head to look. He really just wants to sleep.

“So, I guess I'll see you when I see you,” he repeats, an earlier echo from outside the stables.

Arthur looks back to him then, just stares at him for a good minute or so, his face a blank mask for once. Then without a word, he turns around and stomps off. Isaac watches him go to his horse and mount up. 

Guess that's that then, he thinks tiredly, throat feeling tight. Don't know what else I was expecting.

He closes his eyes against a fresh wave of hurt, though this one only has half to do with his headache and his tiredness. Already, the sounds of the town are growing distant and muffled. He breathes a long sigh, and drifts.

-

“Isaac.” 

The call of his name pulls at the threads of his consciousness. He grunts, scrunching nose, and raises a hand as if to wave the voice away like an annoying fly, before shifting to settle back into that comfortable void. 

“Christ, kid, it's me. Wake up,” The voice insists, colored with humor.

Isaac knows that voice, doesn't he? Where from? Oh, it doesn't matter. 

“‘M sleepin’,” he slurs. 

“I see that,” the voice replies patiently. “Reckon I found you a better place to do it. C'mon.”

There's a hand on his shoulder now, shaking him gently, and what is that smell? Stew? It's so familiar.

“Five more minutes, ma, please,” he groans.

“Ma?” the voice scoffs incredulously. “You hit your head or somethin’, boy?”

Isaac blinks his eyes open at that, only to find a familiar shade of blue haloed in black and gold. He blinks again, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. The image resolves itself into the battered face of his father, with his tousled, sandy hair fanning out from the edges of his hat, sitting cross-legged across from him with a pleased grin plastered on his face.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Arthur says sarcastically as Isaac slowly sits up. “Or, I should say evenin’. Here, eat this.” 

Isaac looks down at his offered hand. It holds a bowl, with browned chunks of meat swimming in a thick golden broth along with bits of carrots and potatoes and peas. There's even herbs peppered across the dish. His mouth waters instantly, and he wordlessly reaches out to take it.

“What’re you doing here?” he says around his first mouthful, his thoughts still thick and syrupy, though his headache seems to have abated for now, at least. “And where'd you get this?”

Arthur huffs at the gruff greeting. 

“Well, I ain't leaving you to sleep in the dirt, that's for sure,” he says as a spoons a bit of stew into his mouth from his own bowl, humming in appreciation at the taste. “Got this from the saloon across the street. Damn sight better than what I'm used to.” 

Isaac nods and takes another couple bites. It's true, the food is amazing, and he reminds himself to slow down so he can savor every bit. He scans the camp, catching Mrs. Florez watching them curiously and intently. She doesn't even look away when Isaac catches her staring; she merely cocks a questioning brow. Isaac just shrugs at her, and then looks across the street. He notices that Arthur's black horse is nowhere in sight, and then that the sky's gone a lot darker since he laid himself down, even though he feels like he wasn't out that long. Maybe an hour or two at most. The wind’s picked up too, carrying those heavy clouds ever closer.

“Looks like rain,” he notes.

“Bad one, at that,” Arthur nods. “Another reason to get you out of here. You'd catch yourself pneumonia or somethin’, sleepin’ out in this.”

“I've managed worse,” Isaac shrugs, remembering how cold the nights were when he first arrived in Valentine, all the way back in December. “Thought you said I wasn't coming with you.” 

“You ain't,” Arthur confirms, still smiling. “Got you a room at the hotel.”

Isaac almost chokes on his next bite, coughing and spluttering. Arthur huffs a laugh as he smacks a heavy hand across the boy's shoulders, then pulls his canteen off his belt for him. Isaac takes a swig and clears his throat.

“Really?” he asks, tentatively hopeful, but with the way Arthur's smiling, it could also be the setup of a cruel joke.

A room. Four walls and a roof. With a door that locks. And a bed.

“Sure,” Arhur says easily. “Ended up selling the horse, after all. That bastard stable hand hardly gave me nothin’ for him, on account of me not havin’ papers. Who the hell just carries around horse pedigrees?"

Isaac laughs and shakes his head. 

“I dunno, but he's hard about that sorta thing.” 

He doesn't add that he thinks Mr. Levi simply dislikes him. He doesn't feel like elaborating on why he thinks that is.

“Anyway,” Arthur continues, “Got enough for a couple hot meals and the room for six days, at least. The rate’s not too bad. Reckon I can scrounge up enough to keep paying for it, so don't you worry about that."

Isaac can only blink at him, the rest of his stew forgotten for the moment. His hands are shaking around the bowl now, for some reason.

“Why're you doin’ this?” He asks quietly. “You saw all that money I got from Hosea, so you know I can pay for myself.”

The smile slides off Arthur's face. He ducks his head, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck.

“Why wouldn't I?” he mumbles, almost shy all of a sudden. “You're my boy.”

Isaac looks down, idly pushing the last bits of potato around his bowl. Not that the food isn't good, he's just not that hungry anymore.

“Your mother and I, we had an arrangement,” Arthur explains carefully. “She'd work and keep you fed and clothed, and I'd keep y’all in house. That ain't over just ‘cause she's gone.”

“Ah, so it's pity, then,” Isaac mutters bitterly. “I'm just an obligation, is that it?”

Lord, how he hates this feeling.

“What? Are you even listenin’ to me? No!” Arthur snaps, frustrated. “I mean, yes, I have an obligation to you, of course I do, but it's not just that.”

He sets his bowl to the side and sits back, rubbing tiredly at his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. He winces then, having forgotten it's still tender.

“Christ, I'm no good at this,” he mutters, more to himself. His hands fall to his lap, his fingers digging into his palms. His eyes have gone dim, staring at some point over Isaac's shoulder. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

“All my life, I had to fight to survive,” he starts slowly. “That meant robbin’ folks, beatin’ em, killin’ em, all of that. It weren't never nothing’ good, and I’ve never known anythin’ else, but you,” he pauses, his eyes drifting across Isaac's face. His one good eye is shining, and his lip trembles, barely noticeable, before he swallows hard and looks away.

“You were such a good kid,” he continues thickly. “The only good thing I ever gave the world, and then you were gone.” 

He ducks his head again, trying to stealthily wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his coat before clearing his throat, coughing a bit. A bolt of lightning streaks across the distant clouds, thunder rumbling a handful of seconds behind.

“This is all such a damn mess,” Arthur mutters to the dirt. “I'm sorry, Isaac. I know I already said it. I'm doin’ what I can, here.”

Isaac takes his time to let the words wash over him, feeling them curl both warm and dreadful around his ribs, worming their way in. 

The only good thing.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

“Okay?” Arthur echos, his eyes searching the boy’s.

“Yeah,” Isaac says, a little more confidently. “Let's see this fancy room of yours.”

He swallows down the last of his stew and sets the empty bowl on top of Arthur's before getting back on his knees to gather his things. The cans and the papers are most important to him. The old clothes, the deteriorating scrap of shelter, those can rot for all he cares.

And they will, he realizes with a thrill. I ain't sleeping out here ever again. 

It doesn't matter if his father falls through on his promise. Hell, it doesn't matter if he ever comes back at all, though Isaac very much hopes he does. Thirty dollars, and a room for a week? This is just the break he needs. 

Thank you, he thinks, eyes darting up to the darkened sky, Ma, God, Whatever. Thank you.

Arthur stands tall beside him, seeming lighter. His eyes are also studying the sky, though his gaze is more critical than Isaac's thoughtful staring.

“Say, you mind me staying in the room with you tonight?” He asks, scowling at the clouds. “Walking back in this sounds miserable.”

A fat drop of rain falls on his black eye, followed by another splashing across the brim of his hat, and then all at once the sky opens up, rain pouring down as they scramble across the street to the hotel. 

The well-dressed man behind the counter startles when they burst through the door, halfway soaked, but he quickly manages to school his expression into something more neutral. 

“Evenin’, Mister Callahan,” he offers politely. “Some weather, yeah?”

“Sure,” Arthur grunts, shaking the excess water off his arms onto the patterned rug. 

The clerk wrinkles his nose at the display, but says nothing on it. Isaac tries to keep his dripping to the wood floor, his possessions held close to his chest.

“This is Isaac,” Arthur says, gesturing to the boy. “The one who'll be staying in that room.”

The clerk peers at him over his glasses.

“Yes, I've seen him around before,” he says airily. 

Arthur starts stomping up the stairs without another word, so Isaac follows, nodding to the clerk as he goes.

“Callahan?” He hisses questioningly once they're at the landing.

“Callahan isn't printed in all the papers,” Arthur reminds him quietly as he turns left and treads all the way down the hall. “This one.”

He stops in front of a door with a golden ‘2c’ on it, then pats down the pockets of his coat until he finds the key. He turns it in the lock and opens the door with a flourish, before handing the key over and stepping back to let Isaac walk in first.

It's huge, that's the first thing Isaac notices. The wood paneling on the walls gives way to faded teal wallpaper about halfway up, except for the wall facing the window, which is a papered subdued shade of red instead. There's a whole fireplace on that wall, right next to the wooden nightstand and the double bed with its brass headboard and paisley patterned brown quilt tucked along the corner. A pair of candlesticks with old wax melted into trails sit on the mantle, and a pretty painting of a cottage in the woods hangs above that.  

The window reaches almost from the floor to the ceiling. It's curtained with laceywhite drapes that have partially yellowed with age and cigarette smoke, but are free from holes and other stains. There's a dark, mahogany colored dresser against the wall at the foot of the bed. In the corner opposite of the bed is a tall, polished mirror and next to that, a worn wooden chair as well as a coat rack with a fluffy red towel hanging from it. 

Arthur's faded, russet saddle has been dumped on the floor near the widow, his patchy saddle bags laid across the top of the dresser. Isaac has to remind himself to keep his jaw off the floor as he takes it all in, turning in a circle in the middle of the room. After looking around considerately, he stacks his cans in a row along the mantle. His papers, he notes with a sigh, have been turned into a useless wad of wet mush, the sheets all stuck together. He leaves them on the floor near the fireplace, hoping maybe to salvage some once they're dry, but deciding that it's hardly a huge loss if he can't. 

Athur is smiling again as he steps into the room, caught up in Isaac's infectious excitement. He replaces the towel on the coat rack for his hat, roughing up with wet hair with it before tossing it to Isaac and shrugging off his coat And hanging it up before sitting in the chair to work off his boots.

“Well,” Arthur raises a brow in his direction, still smiling all lopsided. “Think this’ll work for you or what?”

“Will it ever,” Isaac gushes. “Gosh, it's been ages since I slept in a bed.”

He's somewhat thankful for the rain now as he drags the towel across his face and hair, chipping at the layer of dirt and sweat that the rain's help loosen. He pats his clothes dry as best as he can before wadding the towel up and hurling it back across the room at Arthur, still preoccupied with his boot. His aim is true; the towel smacks his face with a wet plop, and Isaac collapses into the bed with howling laughter at the undignified yelp it drags out of Arthur.

“Ow, you little shit, that hurt,” Arthur complains without any real heat.

“I'm sorry, I had to,” Isaac gasps, still giggling. “You left yourself wide open.”

“Didn't know I had to be on the lookout,” Arthur grumbles. 

He shakes the towel out and hangs it from a peg to dry, then makes his way over to crouch in front of the fireplace.

“What's with these blank pages?”

“Oh, those are for practicing my letters,” Isaac says quickly. “I've been told, that my handwriting is “Illegible and unintelligible.” 

He pitches his voice high and nasally towards the end in a mocking impression of a shrill woman, earning a snort from Arthur. It's not a complete lie; he has been told such things a long time ago by some of the nuns running the school, but he could care less about practicing handwriting. No, those papers were for writing the occasional letter to his mother. It was the writing of those letters that motivated him to learn how to do so in the first place, encouraged by a rare, motherly nun whose name he no longer remembers but who's open, browned face and accented voice he'll never forget. 

He knows it's childish, but he has no other way to feel close to her, doesn't know how else to honor her, except by putting a pencil to paper and writing about his days like she's out there somewhere waiting anxiously to hear from him. 

“Well, these are just about useless, but here.”

Arthur pulls a leatherbound journal from his bag and flips it open, tearing a couple blank pages from the back and setting them securely under a can on the mantle.

“Whatchu keep a journal for?” Isaac asks.

“Practicin’ my letters, same as you,” Arthur answers gruffly as he tucks it away.

Isaac curls himself up on the bed with his back flush against the wall as Arthur gets the fire going, watching him coax the wood to burn with practiced ease before settling back and gazing thoughtfully into the flames with one arm propped up against his knee. 

Outside, the storm persists, the rain drumming against the window in dense sheets while flashes of light and crashes of thunder rhythmically roll through. Isaac hopes Mrs. Florez is managing to stay dry enough. Arlight. Hosea got home alright.

“Is Hosea and your other friends gonna be good in this?” he wonders aloud.

Arthur hums and looks up, cocking his head as though listening to the rain.

“They'll be fine,” he says. “Sure am glad to be here, though.”

“Me too,” Isaac says softly, eyes drifting back towards the fire.

While his limbs feel heavy, his hand itches for a pencil. So much has happened the last couple days, and he wants to write Momma all about it, partly out of pure habit and partly because doing so really does help him sort through his thoughts.

He watches Arthur watch the fire. Might be that the warmth of the room and the soft bed beneath him is lulling him into some sense of security, because now his thoughts are embracing ideas he once resolutely shut out. Like how maybe there's another way to feel close to her, sitting on the floor right across from him. What's the harm in asking?

“Arthur,” he whispers. 

For all that's happened, it still don't feel right calling this man Dad or Pa or anything like that. He's still half a stranger in Isaac's esteem, though he's debating furiously with himself on the merits of keeping him that way against the desire to know more. Isaac knows what devastation comes with getting close. He knows he's more likely than that he's only setting himself up for more of it, but then, he's gotten quite good at handling all that.

Arthur looks up at the sound of his name, his expressions shifting through confusion and then hurt before settling into resignation.

“What is it?” He asks, sounding tired.

“You said earlier today, that you wanted to know my business,” Isaac starts hesitantly. “So, let's play a game. I ask a question, you answer. Then you ask, and I answer.”

“Shoot,” Arthur says immediately, seeming more engaged.

Isaac takes a deep breath. 

“What was ma like?”

Almost instantly, Arthur's face twists, his mouth turning down as his brows scrunch together. He stares into the fire, and for a moment Isaac thinks he's not gonna answer, until–

“Kind,” he murmurs. “Honest, clever. Everything I wasn't, and nothing I ever deserved.”

Isaac stares at him, hanging onto every word, hungry for more. His fingers find a loose thread in the quilt and start twisting around it.

“She'd been dealt a bad hand in life,” Arhur continues, sounding surer, encouraged by the boy's rapt attention. “I sure as shit didn't help, but she never let nothin’ keep her down. She had this way of seein’ the world that, I dunno, made me feel better about myself, I guess. Tried to find the good in things.”

“She loved music. When I first met her, she was singin’ along with some sailors some shanty about sirens, whatever those are. Liked to hang around the saloon to listen to this feller that would play on the piano. Had this big dream about goin’ to New York, bein’ in the theater. Didn't care that she couldn't even read.”

He looks at Isaac, then, a tiny, wistful smile tugging at his lips.

”She loved you like nothin’ else,” he adds. “Woulda thought you painted the sky, the way she went on about you. Used to call you blueberry, you remember that?” 

“I do,” Isaac gasps, feeling his heart ache in his chest. He'd forgotten until just now, but the memory of her voice curling around countless endearments comes rushing back like it never left. Suddenly the room seems blurry, and when Isaac brings a hand to rub at his eyes, it comes away wet.

“I wasn't there when it happened, but I must've heard the story a dozen times,” Arthur shakes his head with a chuckle. “Apparently, she'd gone out and spent all day gatherin’ up these berries to make a pie for your first birthday. You'd only just started walkin’, and you were a goddamn menace, always tryna get into everything, though she wouldn' hear a cross word about it. So she left the basket on the table and went across the street to ask the neighbor for some flour. Swears she was gone for all of five minutes, but by the time she got back, you'd pulled the cloth off the table, spillin’ everything on the floor, just helpin’ yourself and makin’ a huge mess. Your hands were still stained by the time I came around a few days later, and all you were saying was “boo,” asking for more of the things. Pretty sure that's the first thing you ever said, now that I'm thinkin’ about it. And from there it just stuck."  

Isaac laughs wetly and swipes at his eyes, smiling through the tears. He's not sure why he's crying; he feels happy, finally learning about her, even if each word adds to the weight on his chest. He has categories for her now beyond being a ghost. His mother: the singer, the baker, the dreamer. Someone who was real, someone who existed in other people's memories besides his own.

“Thank you,” Isaac breathes, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He untangles his hand from the blanket to bring it to rest on his chest. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend his own warmth is hers.

“Heh, don't thank me yet,” Arthur says smugly. “It's my turn. Who taught you how to shoot?”

Isaac groans and squeezes his eyes closed, feeling the imagined warmth vanish from under his hand.

“I already told you, I taught myself,” he says.

“Bullshit,” Arthur replies firmly. “I don't know if I could've made that shot. A kid on a rifle? Gimme a break.”

“It's true!” Isaac insists, “I don't know what else you want me to say. It was lucky. It's not like I could go and do it again.”

“Maybe,” Arhur concedes, “But someone had to show you how to handle it, at least.”

Isaac thinks about it for a moment. He really doesn't want to get into it, but then, it seemed like Arthur didn't want to talk about his mother at first, either. And yet he did anyway, for the sake of playing Isaac's silly, spur of the moment game.

“I ended up stayin’ a while with this couple, down in blackwater.” he offers timidly, sensing how he immediately has Arthur's attention. “It was only for a few months, but the man, Mr. Tempest, he taught me about guns and stuff.”

“And how is it you only ended up stayin’ with them a few months?” Arthur asks. “How old were you?”

Isaac only makes a tsk'ing sound with his tongue, wagging his finger in Arthur's direction.

“That's more questions from you, but you ain't answer any more of mine,” he says playfully.

“C'mon, kid, that ain't fair,” Arthur grouses. 

“Them's the rules,” Isaac reminds stubbornly. 

He hears Arthur sigh as the floorboards creak under his weight.

“Fine.”

Isaac hums thoughtfully, making a show out considering what he wants to ask next, even though it's lingered around the forefront of his mind since he came across that newspaper in the general store.

“How'd you end up an outlaw?” He asks mildly

“My old man was a bastard,” Arthur says, his voice going flat. “What brought you to Valentine?”

Oh, so that's how he's gonna play this.

“Needed some place to stay through the winter,” Isaac mirrors Arthur's disengaged tone. “Ended up stayin’ longer. What's the deal with Hosea?”

And so it goes as the storm rages on outside, the two trading probing questions for guarded half answers as the night descends properly.

What's the deal with Hosea? (He ran away from the circus.)

How'd you end up runnin’ with Indians? (I shot someone and got run out of town)

How many folks are in your gang? (About two dozen, give or take.)

What the hell you mean, you shot someone? (I was defendin’ myself!)

How many people have you shot? (Too many.)

How old were you when this happened? (Thirteen.)

Arthur caught on fast to Isaac's strategy. It becomes its own sort of separate game, trying to piece together a story from the bits and pieces the other offers. It's not one that Isaac finds himself enjoying, nor Arthur, it seems. His questions only grow more impatient,and his answers only shorter. Isaac can feel his headache returning.

After a while of it, Arthur goes quiet once it's his turn again. He adds another log to the fire, letting the renewed crackling fill the silence left by the storm moving on. Isaac feels his drowsiness pulling at him, getting heavier all the time. Eventually, Arthur pulls himself off the floor and drops onto the bed, laying on his back and crossing his legs at the ankles as he stares at the ceiling like he's counting the grains of wood. Immediately Isaac can feel the heat spilling off him. He shivers slightly, still chilled in his damp clothing, but neither of them move more than that.

“You like dogs?” Arthur breaks the silence after a while.

Isaac shakes himself a little, turning his head to look curiously at Arthur's profile, shadowed in firelight. Now this is a line of questioning he can get behind.

“I dunno, I've never really been around them much,” he admits through a yawn. “What's your favorite color?”

That one seems to trip Arthur up for a moment, as if he's never thought about it before.

“Blue, I guess,” he shrugs.

They launch into a series of lighter questions from there, and the answers come longer and easier for it. They talk about wildlife and fruit, books and rivers, all the while, Isaac's eyes grow heavier, his words slower and thicker.

[galacticjonah]

[Come close, oh lover and see me for what I am. Your most loyal hound, your worst enemy.]

This is what happens when I just go ham with all the imagery I like best: teeth and knives and lounging characters. Here's Vespertine being...inviting? Threatening? Is there a difference? Who knows.

_____

Vespertine | they/them | OC

[inexplicifics]

Random thought while rereading ch3 of Another Man's Treasure:

Alpha!Milena with CAW!lambert/aiden

I have no idea how it happens (contract gone wrong? Theyre contracted to get her from Roggeven to Velen holdings after a previous escape attempt?) But milena is very intrigued by the witchers who work together so *smoothly*, and *they* smell so wonderful -

And Lambert and Aiden are utterly besotted with each other, obviously, but they can't ignore the fact that *Milena* smells so delightful, and her scent *fits*

And then, of course, her rut hits, or some sort of spell is flung, or there's a poison mixup, and whoops the only recourse is for all three to spend time *very* close together because dynamics-related-bullshit-reasons a la Prize to Be Won

(And of course, afterwards, the witchers abscond with their alpha, and Vesemir just throws his hands in the air that winter when they show up with her because 'of course, since we're already picking up a griffin and a gods-be-damned *viper* - )

Vesemir is going to go and get his Cat, and possibly also his Countess and maybe an elven king, that'll show his lads right and proper. They're not the only ones who can scandalize everyone! He did it first and he does it better!

Alpha!Milena would absolutely give a different flavor to the story and I love the idea. Hmmmm.... *plotbunnies intensify*

[telestorm]

maybe i’m delusional but i still believe mel is meant to break the cycle, it’s just gotten harder. she removed her family ring for a reason. in s1, her arc ended with a rejection of the medarda ideals and legacy because it was no longer about whether or not she could live up to the archetype of a medarda, but whether or not she wanted to. she smeared noxus in gold paint, she removed her ring, and she chose to do things the her way (i.e., vote for peace). her position at the end of s2 as, presumably, the new head of the family and ambessa's final words to her don’t negate that. is she back to being a passenger at the moment? unfortunately, but we know she’s capable of breaking free from that mold. a large part of her next chapter is learning what that new mold is and how she can reclaim agency in her life.

[heavybreathingcatt]

Draft Scene of Rhys TRYING to connect with Timothy Lawrence. Tim speech is in bold.

"Do you know what years of performing extreme violence does to a person? It becomes physical. Psychological. Instinctual."

Rhys looks like he wants to interrupt. Lawrence cuts him off with a cold stare.

"I once broke a man's neck because he took too long to move along in the line."

Rhys looks sympathetic. He's trying so hard to 'see' the real Timothy Lawrence.

"Living on Pandora — among desperate people — this place has a way of making us all do things we regret —"

"I was at a Hyperion Mother's day breakfast."

Rhys goes pale. Lawrence continues:

"Jack wasn't watching me. Hell, he was off planet somewhere. I was unsupervised. Free practically. Could have left, but I didn't. I stayed to score a free muffin and flirt with a few desperate single aging middle managers, and then, when the monotony got too much, I snapped. And so did Johnny Dancer's C7 vertebra.

There is a long pause from Rhys before he speaks.

"You rembered the name of the man you hurt. Some where deep down. You do care."

"Every heard of fucking exposition? Storytelling?" Lawrence waved the bottle he was drinking from, revealing the Boubons label.

'Johnny Dancer 2886 Elpis Boubon'

[semicolonmanny]

Adeptus Amongus Pre Heresy Space Wolves

I love the look of the old vlka fenryka. Before they got a little weird with the baby blue look. I might add one with pelts later. looks a bit naked without them. Don't forget to check out my redbubble for all the other legions I'll be uploading this month.

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