#and perhaps . eventually . colm

[miguel-owhora]

ive been thinking long and hard about that one drabble an anon sent about Micah and a reader with tentacles for dicks. It has me thinking about a parasitic reader, who perhaps is beyond our consciousness, whose body is beyond what I can describe. But he's a parasitic symbiote, essentially; no real form to speak of, except for the fact that he's a parasite, latching onto humans and living in them, relying on them to keep him alive, and in some ways, taking control of what makes them orgasm.

Perhaps it's Micah who finds you first, when alone in his hermit campsite. He's not sure what to make of you, more baffled on what you are, and has half the mind to kill you. When he reaches for his guns, well, he doesn't expect you to be quick, slipping into his veins with the speed of something beyond normal.

He drops his gun, perhaps; startled and caught off guard. His heart drops to his stomach when he sees your dark substance run through his veins, like lightning as it disappeared underneath his pale skin. He claws at his skin, panic settling in, confused all the same. He shouts at you to leave him, to fuck off, and of course, no such thing happens.

What he doesn't expect to happen, however, is the tentacles that extend from somewhere his hands can't reach, perhaps his back. Long and slimy, wiggling with minds of their own, bioluminescent in color. Micah freaks out, frozen in place—at least, long enough for the tentacle to start moving. Wiggling and squirming, sweeping him off his feet, they start to touch him.

Pinning his wrists together, locking his legs in place, they squirm over his plush body in curiosity and with a goal in mind. They rub over his face, curl around his throat like curious cats, touching his chest and over his belly. Red blooms across his cheeks, gritting his teeth, Micah gets both angry and embarrassed when he realizes how you have him.

Easy, accessible.

Like some cheap whore that's made for fucking.

He shouts, snarls some curses when the tentacles prod at his groin, nudging past his waistbands. He gags when some of the smaller tentacles slip into his mouth, eyes widening in shock. It's almost overwhelming, but it does a job at muffling him when the tentacles brush against his cunt—oh, Lord, have mercy on him; why didn't he think to wear briefs?

[alovelywaytospendanevening]

John Updike vs. Gay Literature

On May 23, 1999, John Updike published a review of The Spell in The New Yorker magazine. Written by Alan Hollinghurst, the novel is another of his tales of the gay underworld, an attribute that clearly displeased Updike:

The novels of the English writer Alan Hollinghurst take some getting used to; they are relentlessly gay in their personnel, and after a while you begin to long for the chirp and swing and civilizing animation of a female character. Save for the briefly and reluctantly glimpsed sister or mother, there are none. Boredom swoops in without hetero clutter to obstruct its advent. Novels about heterosexual partnering, however frivolous and reducible to increments of selfishness, social accident, foolish overestimations, and inflamed physical detail, do involve the perpetuation of the species and the ancient, sacralized structures of the family. Perhaps the male homosexual, uncushioned as he is by society's circumambient encouragements to breed, feels the lonely human condition with a special bleakness: he must take it straight. (Full review)

The backlash, as The New York Observer reported, was almost immediate:

“It really feels like an attack,” said Angels in America playwright Tony Kushner. Writer and activist Larry Kramer circulated an e-mail alert among gay writers on May 31, with certain of Mr. Updike’s lines highlighted. Novelist Sarah Schulman, who is a lesbian, said she wrote a letter to The New Yorker “the second I read the piece. It was so outrageous.” Craig Lucas, the writer of the movie Longtime Companion, also wrote a letter. “What he basically wanted to do is turn up his nose to distasteful sex,” he said. “This coming from the author of Couples! The idea that heterosexual sex is ‘sacralized,’ in his absurd phrase.” Mr. Kushner thought Mr. Updike knew what he was doing. “I have a suspicion that he thought he was being cute and naughty.” Mr. Kushner said Mr. Updike’s review “represents a kind of genteel tradition of disdain for homosexuals,” that has long been present at the magazine, going back to E.B. White and James Thurber. So far, none of the letters have appeared in the magazine; New Yorker editor David Remnick didn’t return calls for comment. A New Yorker spokesman said, “It’s our understanding that Hollinghurst was not displeased by the review.”

Asked about the controversy, Updike seemed to miss the point of the criticism:

He said he had never read Mr. Hollinghurst before, and that when he did, this was his reaction. “As with all books that you are reviewing, you try to give your impression of the atmosphere within the book, which seemed kind of gloomy and pointless to me,” he said. “So I’ll just have to withstand whatever letters come.” It’s not like he wanted to make generalizations about homosexuality. “I’d be happy not to discuss it,” he said. “Hollinghurst made it kind of tough. It makes it the unavoidable topic of discussion. It’s all about it. And for me to avoid his own emphasis would certainly be not doing my reviewer’s job.”

Colm Tóibín, another notable gay author, further bashed Updike’s views on homosexuality:

If you look at it carefully, that view of his will eventually eat into his reputation. Because his own elaborately confident and super-developed heterosexuality is actually an impediment to the proper writing and it eats at his sentences at times and it eats at his books… If you start reading Updike very carefully you start reading the astonishing boasting about sexual life which I found much more offensive than he does Hollinghurst’s book.

Years later, Hollinghurst himself spoke about the review:

Well, it was deplorable in various ways, but I also remember being very amused by it. There was this person who had gone to rather extraordinary lengths in his details of heterosexual sex and for whom the analysis of sexual behavior seemed to be so fundamental to his work as a novelist. But who was giving the impression in this review that everything he knew about homosexuality he gleaned from my novels, like he had never come across it in real life at all. I thought it was absolutely extraordinary, therefore so absurd, the old way he put it about the animating chirp of the female presence or something that he so missed in my books. It was terribly silly. It showed that he had chosen to emphasize his own failure with this large and interesting aspect of human behavior.

[troybeecham]

Today, the Church remembers St. Columba, Abbott of Iona.

Ora pro nobis.

Saint Columba (Irish: Colm Cille, 'church dove'; Scots: Columbkille - 7 December 521 A.D. – 9 June 597 A.D.) was an Irish abbot and missionary credited with spreading Christianity in what is today Scotland at the start of the Hiberno-Scottish mission, which followed the migration of Northeastern Irish colonists to the west coast of Scotland, which had been going on for hundreds of years.

In early Christian Ireland, the druidic tradition collapsed due to the spread of the new Christian faith. The study of Latin learning and Christian theology in monasteries flourished. Columba became a pupil at the monastic school at Clonard Abbey, situated on the River Boyne in modern County Meath. During the sixth century AD, some of the most significant names in the history of Celtic Christianity studied at the Clonard monastery. The average number of scholars under instruction at Clonard was said to be 300. Columba was one of twelve students of St Finnian who became known as the Twelve Apostles of Ireland. He became a monk and eventually was ordained a priest.

In 563, he travelled to Scotland with twelve companions (said to include Odran of Iona) in a wicker currach covered with leather. According to legend he first landed on the Kintyre Peninsula, near Southend. However, being still in sight of his native land, he moved farther north up the west coast of Scotland. The island of Iona was made over to him by his kinsman Conall mac Comgaill King of Dál Riata, who perhaps had invited him to come to Scotland in the first place. However, there is a sense in which he was not leaving his native people, as the Ulster Gaels had been colonising the west coast of Scotland for the previous couple of centuries. Aside from the services he provided guiding the only centre of literacy in the region, his reputation as a holy man led to his role as a diplomat among the tribes.

There are also many stories of miracles which he performed during his work to convert the Picts, the most famous being his encounter with an unidentified animal that some have equated with the Loch Ness Monster in 565. It is said that he banished a ferocious "water beast" to the depths of the River Ness after it had killed a Pict and then tried to attack Columba's disciple named Lugne. He visited the pagan King Bridei, King of Fortriu, at his base in Inverness, winning Bridei's respect, although not his conversion. He subsequently played a major role in the politics of the country. He was also very energetic in his work as a missionary, and, in addition to founding several churches in the Hebrides, he worked to turn his monastery at Iona into a school for missionaries. He was a renowned man of letters, having written several hymns and being credited with having transcribed 300 books. One of the few, if not the only, times he left Scotland was towards the end of his life, when he returned to Ireland to found the monastery at Durrow.

Columba died on Iona and was buried in 597 AD by his monks in the abbey he created. In 794 the Vikings descended on Iona. Columba's relics were finally removed in 849 and divided between Scotland and Ireland. The parts of the relics which went to Ireland are reputed to be buried in Downpatrick, County Down, with Saint Patrick and Brigid of Kildare or at Saul Church neighbouring Downpatrick.

O God, by the preaching of your blessed servant Columba you caused the light of the Gospel to shine in Scotland: Grant, we pray, that, having his life and labors in remembrance, we may show our thankfulness to you by following the example of his zeal and patience; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever.

Amen.

[pokemonomegaverse]

First art I ever did for this verse. Juri, Lucas’s and Barry’s oldest time at her creation, although she is now their middle child per PLA resulting in me changing things with Lucas. Has an older half brother named Creo and a younger brother named Colm.

My original description for this pic was as follows

So I’ve been tinkering on and off with a Pokemon Omegaverse AU and even though the original point was to explore how the world of Pokemon would be affected by Omegaverse, it inevitably turned into me making fankids.  I swear this wasn’t my original intent, but I blame all the amazing pokeani fankids people keep posting.  It inspired me to try making some of my own.  I should note that the Omegaverse AU I’m doing is set in the video game verse of Pokemon, not the anime or manga (although it could still apply to either).

So here’s my clingyshipping (Barry x Lucas) daughter, Juri.  Her bio is still pretty iffy, but I imagine she’s overly cheerful and hyper like her father. Chimchar is her starter, and is the child of Barry’s Infernape.  Because of this, she would recieve Chimchar when she’s fairly young (perhaps 4-5?) She wants to be a Pokemon trainer like her parents and eventually goes on her own Pokemon journey with Dawn’s daughter.

For those curious, Lucas is an omega while Barry is a beta in this AU.  Juri’s a beta and has an unnamed younger brother who’s an omega. 

[six-of-cringe]

Ok I have something to say about this. Yes and also no. It's true that the fandom doesn't often reckon with the fact that Jesper is deeply morally questionable because of the way he handled his situation (conning his father for money, getting into jobs that require him to kill people to fund his gambling). Obviously we are able to see the complexity of his case because of the nature of addiction - it's a painfully messy illness that can warp people's morality to get what they crave.

Adrenaline-seeking, which Jesper does, can be a symptom of ADHD, but I would say that's not really the reason that he kills. Canonically, he doesn't like killing, or get a rush from the actual act. But whenever he's in a gunfight, it's literally the only time he uses his powers, however subtly. Grisha more or less get a high from using their powers, and repressing them causes illness (in Jesper's case, repression is implied to heighten his adrenaline-seeking behavior like gambling and fighting). That leads me to think that Jesper can't seem to stop because he is addicted to shooting. He's described as practically glowing after a fight. It's the only time he is free of the itch inside him that comes from self-repression. If anything, his adrenaline-seeking should be lower when he's using his guns to exercise his powers. Perhaps I'm splitting hairs, but I don't interpret that he kills for an adrenaline rush - it's more that he kills for his only relief, without realizing it's just the use of his powers that is helping him.

The saddest part is that Wylan and Matthias were the first people to ever suggest to him that this was the case, and present the possibility that there could be other ways to find reprieve without fighting and killing. Jesper never learned about his own identity as Grisha because of his upbringing, and the fact that he finds out only after he's done so much is really kinda heartbreaking. He never really allows himself to stop long enough to think about the violence he partakes in the way we see other characters do. I feel like post-canon, Jesper would finally have space to really reckon with what he'd done to cope with not only his gambling addiction, but also his repression.

enough about kaz, jesper literally kills people just for the adrenaline rush

[0ldwest]

there’s a lot to be said about dutch and his downward spiral into an abyss of blinding paranoia, so i wanna preface this post by saying that none of his actions are meant to be excused here but because his character is so widely interpreted, i just wanna put in my two cents, as applicable to my portrayal.

first of all, i think it’s important to keep in mind that at the start of the game, the gang is already tangled in a web of trouble, with dutch forced to kill an innocent woman during their latest heist. this means that, when the player encounters him, he’s already burdened with fear that the law might catch them, as well as probable guilt over killing a bystander   ((  he does relentlessly advocate a no-killing attitude  )),   not to mention the deaths of some of his friends during said heist. taking these factors into account, most of dutch’s core personality (read: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐋 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐂𝐇) is by that time already only hinted at through lines of dialogues.   he is the man who raised arthur, and even if the player decides to play a low honor version of the game, it will inevitably end in arthur redeeming himself for his actions and wrongdoings. MEANING THE VALUES DUTCH TAUGHT ARTHUR WERE FUNDAMENTALLY GOOD, despite the outlaw ways that he helped develop.

van der l1nde gang members are the living embodiments of dutch’s teachings and education. and in that regard, hosea, arthur and john, who have ridden with him the longest, are the best outlook we can base ourselves on to judge his character. we are talking about three people with wildly different personalities, who all spent decades of their lives with dutch, who have come to know him inside and out, and who have made the the personal decision to stay with him. this applies to any member of the gang.   because beyond being the man who rescued john from hanging, who saved tilly from years of abuse, who took javier in despite the language barrier and happily assisted in his learning english, beyond being the man who took in minorities and women regardless of their background, gave to the poor and donated money the gang stole to orphanages, he is the man who gave them all a second chance. in that day and age, it truly meant something.

DUTCH IS DRIVEN BY LOVE. he is motivated by love. twisted as they are by manipulation and paranoia by the end of the game, his actions can all be traced back to his will to protect the members of his gang. and because he loves them, he is also prone to forgive them.   which notably also applies to the worst people in the gang in terms of personality such as bill, whom dutch is often seen reprimanding for his comments, or micah, to whom dutch gave the same chance he gave everyone else when they first joined the gang, BECAUSE HE SAW IN HIM THE POSSIBILITY FOR SOMETHING BETTER, room for him to grow and become a better person.

because he’s been depicted a manipulative sociopath, i also wanna point out that he never forces any member to stay. SOME OF THEM ACTUALLY LEAVE THE GANG, LEAVE THE CAMP. it hurts him, of course, he cares for them more than anything   ((  always all comes down to LOVE  )),   but he lets john --his son, the one he watched grow from a very young age-- leave, he lets hosea --the man who stood by his side for so many years and whom he always sought for advice-- leave. he missed them incredibly, but they eventually come back, which stands as another sign of the emotional and personal gratification that they find, not only in the gang, but in its leader as well. beyond the sense of loyalty, it’s a proof of the respect and admiration they hold for him.   [[   ARTHUR   M0RGAN   TO   BROTHER   D0RKINS   :

and when they come back, he welcomes them home. i think it’s important to mirror his behavior with another gang that the game makes a point of presenting as the complete opposite of the van der l1nde gang, perhaps to insist on dutch’s status as leader, regardless of his downfall, i give you, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎'𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒. unlike colm who takes no interest in the members of his gang   ((  up to the point where he ignores their names  )),   dutch strongly encourages the expression of individuality as well as creativity, a quality that, again, takes even more meaning in those days.

all this to say that, for all his misguided decisions, his general decline and crippling paranoia, he never intended to and was never actively trying to use anyone in the gang, never took advantage of anyone   ((  if that had been his goal, he’d have picked up random folk here and there and hired guns and outlaws to better discard them once their job was done  )).   HE COULD HAVE, AT ANY TIME, LEFT WITH THE MONEY of which only he knew the hiding place, BUT HE NEVER DOES. his actions were never self-centered like that. and deep down, surely, he hoped things would get better. that he’d find a way to sort their problems out, that things would go on being the way they used to be.

there’s a lot of indecision in dutch after hosea’s death, and micah saw the opportunity and took it. there’s a greater sense of fear, too. fear because the law is hot on their trail, because the entire gang   ((  including --and especially-- arthur, who relentlessly complaints, questions, doubts  ))   is leaning on him, relying on him, COUNTING ON HIM TO HAVE A SOLUTION FOR EVERYTHING, but he doesn’t. not anymore. and the pressure is definitely causing him to doubt himself, believing any lie micah whispers in his ear to twist his perception.   he doesn’t have a plan, anymore, because he’s noticed that every decision he’s made, lately, has led to the death of a member of his family. some people he’s known nearly all his life.   and his refusal to go rescue john from sisika is purely justified by fear that he’d further endanger the entire gang if he did. they’re already wanted in so many states.

this could go on for much longer but i’m gonna conclude with mount hagen, where, in the end, dutch saves john and sadie, shoots micah, leaves the blackwater money behind for the marstons. abigail, jack. it’s probably easy for him to imagine uncle is with them, too. in the end, he never actively hurt any member of the gang by his own hands except for micah.   and by the very end, he chooses to sacrifice himself to avoid the burden of guilt to john. because john is like him, the child he’s proudly watched grow into a valorous, loyal father who’ll sooner avenge his fallen brother than surrender to defeat, traits he fondly recognizes as his own, for the very last time.

[captain-kit-adventuress]

You know what kills me? What makes me lie down at night and want to cry a little bit into the pillow?

Possibly none of the events of Red Dead Redemption II following the thaw in Colter would have happened if Dutch had simply listened to Hosea instead of trying to score one on Colm O’Driscoll. Jenny and Davey, maybe there would have been no hope for them anyway. But those seven other graves? Could have all lived. Arthur could have lived. But no, Dutch had to prove what a big man he still was, that he was still worthy of being their leader, that his time was not over, and so, they all died.

Imagine: Dutch listens to Hosea and they leave pretty much the moment the thaw reaches them in the Grizzlies. Colm and his boys were going to rob Cornwall’s train, we know this. Maybe the gang still goes to Horsehoe Overlook. But it is O’Driscolls who stop that train, who kill its guards, who take the bearer bonds right out of Leviticus Cornwall’s personal safe in his personal train car. And yes, the Pinkertons are after the Van der Lindes, but perhaps they would have found that other target Dutch so desperately tried to create, the “smoke” he talked about over and over near the end, in Colm O’Driscoll. I’m not saying they would have forgotten about Dutch and his ilk. But the Pinkertons might have been distracted enough for the gang to disappear, at least for awhile.

I’m not saying it would have solved all their problems. They still had no money, but there might have been ways to get around the “their faces are all over Blackwater,” especially after running into Trelawny. It wasn’t impossible for them to retrieve it and go west. The Wapiti would not have been able to retrieve the documents from Cornwall, it is true, and their plight would have remained firmly in peril. But that’s the point of that storyline, isn’t it? That no one could help them because the government (or parts of it, anyway, in the form of Colonel Favours), was too hell-bent on wiping them out, all to save a little face. In the end, Dutch did them so much more harm than Arthur did them good, anyway, that perhaps a less awful solution could have been reached if the Van der Lindes had never met them.

But Sean, Kieran, Lenny, Hosea? They might be alive. Susan Grimshaw would likely be alive. Eagle Flies might have grown to learn wisdom. Micah might have given up eventually with whatever his plan was and left the gang of his own accord–that's a long-shot, I know, but one can dream. Strauss would always be Strauss, and it’s hard to imagine him doing anything but finding a way to start his sharking anew if he hadn’t been picked up by the Pinktertons; not everyone thinks they need to seek redemption. Karen, oh, Karen. Maybe she wouldn’t have had an excuse to drink herself into the grave. And Molly, who deserved so much better than the story gave her. No, she wasn’t pleasant, but that doesn’t make her worthy of death.

And the biggest of all? Maybe it wouldn’t have forced the events of the first Red Dead. John Marston could have settled with his family, bought a ranch, actually made something of it for good. Hell, maybe they all could have had a big plot of land together and done all right. The true tragedy of the piece is that Dutch’s first loyalty was to himself, and that if he’d actually done a little more of what he preached, none of it had to happen.

[ulircursed]

minotaur’s end

Exploring the dense, forested land surrounding the town leads you to the yawning mouth of a cave, one that you don’t recognize from the villagers’ explanations of their territory. Carved stone steps invite you into a manmade bunker, an underground web of hallways and rooms that are too well-maintained to be abandoned. Eventually your group manages to stumble their way into a treasure trove of information, a library stocked with books on a variety of magical topics from taming spirits to exorcising them. You read a book on barriers intended to block out wayward spirits from corrupting the mind, learning how the writer’s people would build labyrinthine strongholds underground to trap them in for the rest of their days. An underground maze… hallways that twist and turn… “no way home”? This may be time to trace your steps before this place becomes your grave. [Grants Any Skill +1]

     “One would expect the villagers to inform us of a place like this,” Andrei notes, suspicion heavy in his voice as he descends the stone steps, lantern’s weak glow leaving too much shadow for comfort. His bow’s grip is secure in his free hand, but he would have to drop their light source if he needed to react quickly to an attack. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

     “Keep your weapon at the ready,” he addresses Colm without a backwards glance, electing to trust his back to the younger man for the time being. While he hadn’t had occasion to see the other in battle thus far — their only interaction being some ill-advised tournament the monastery had set up — there had been skill, plainly visible if unpolished, behind Colm’s handling of a bow. With his preferred weapon in hand, he wouldn’t be a liability, at least.

     The echoes of their steps sharpen as they head through the twisting corridor, finally coming across the first set of double doors, slightly ajar in unspoken invitation. The lantern does little to illuminate what lies within, though what little he could see seems to suggest merely another hallway, with more paths ahead. Andrei turns to Colm.

     ���It’s odd that this has gone unmentioned,” he says to the other, “It could be something they felt a need to hide.” Something to do with the odd atmosphere of the village, of the knights that had refused to return. Even, perhaps, of the inexplicably detailed dreams that have filled his nights since his arrival... “In any case, the answers to all the village’s mysteries could lie just ahead.” The answers they’d been tasked to find. Could they be worth stepping into the darkness?

@cleversteel

[daggxrsanddrxamers]

lighters and candy, i’ve been a fool

Wesper fanfic, cuz i'm currently in love with them<3

Fluff, 1123 words

Wesper goes apple picking, that's the plot, warning for intense fluff

Wylan had noticed jesper working himself to the bone, what with trying to explain everything in the books related to the business to him, still working at the crow club sometimes, and just the stress of living in a city like Ketterdam, Jesper didn’t look too well rested.

And that would never do, would it? Wylan wanted to do something special for him, a perfect date, free of stress, away from the continuous noise of the city perhaps. He had contacted Colm Fahey, asking him if Jesper had any childhood memories he had favoured a lot, or a moment which he cherished.

Colm had chuckled and told him about a young jesper going out to pick apples every year, riding on the shoulders of his father, with his mother’s angelic voice singing everything from ballads to popular folk songs. The story had brought an inexplicable warmth to Wylan’s heart.

So he’d gone out one day, and found this beautiful apple orchard just outside the city, the branches were laden with apples now and open to the public.

So today, Wylan was gonna drag Jesper out with him, no matter what happens. It didn’t take much to convince Jesper to go out with him and soon they were strolling down the streets hand in hand, wide smiles plastered on their faces.

“So, where are we going?” Jesper asks, swinging their joined hands between them, a sunny smile on his face.

Wylan, caught up in staring at him, forgets to answer for a second. “It's a surprise, why would I tell you now?” he says with a cheeky grin.

Jesper laughs and pulls him closer, walking along with him towards wherever Wylan’s gonna lead him. The amount of trust Jesper puts in him, makes his world light up in all the prettiest colours there ever can be.

The walk is short, and they eventually reach the gates, but Wylan’s face falls seeing the gates closed, the orchard having been closed off to the public for the day, he turns to Jesper with a sad smile on his face.

“I...I wanted to bring you apple picking” he blushes “Your father said that that’s something you always loved to do” he shrugs, “Guess we can’t go, today then.”

Jesper laughs and brushes some hair away from his face, “Who said we can’t go in anyways?” and right then if Wylan could freeze the twinkle in his eyes, and take t out everyday to see, he would.

“What do you mean? The gates are closed, though.”

A bright grin spreads across Jesper’s freckled face, “We broke into the ice court, darling, don’t tell me you’re afraid to break into an apple orchard of all places?”

Realization dawns in Wylan’s eyes and he falls in love with this brave, golden boy all over again. “Let’s go, then, scale a few walls?”

And then they're running towards the wall, bright laughter ringing out behind them, like a trail of love and happiness, Jesper vaults up onto the wall and then pulls Wyan up, they jump down on the other side, but Wylan trips, and they land in a tangle of messy limbs and sharp elbows. Jesper looks like he’s about to say something sarcastic, but Wylan kisses him, effectively stopping all effective communication on his part.

They break apart and sit up, still laughing, and reluctant to move away from each other. Wylan wishes that he could stop time forever right here in this perfect moment, Jesper’s brighter than sunlight smile, his for all of time.

They slowly get up off the ground, and Jesper takes off running towards the nearest tree, calling for Wylan to follow him.

Wylan laughs and runs after him, keeping up with his long legs, proving to be a challenge, but Wylan’s up for it, and he catches up soon enough.

Jesper swings himself up using one of the low hanging branches, and Wylan can’t get enough of how he looks, silhouetted by the bright sunlight, the picture of confidence, as he walks across the branch with a wicked confident smile on his face, that makes Wylan’s heart skip a few beats. It can’t possibly be good for his heart to try and beat itself out of his chest, could it? He wonders absentmindedly to himself.

“Will you just stand there gawking or will you help me with apples, love” jesper teases, from the branch, while expertly plucking a ruby red apple and throwing it down towards Wylan.

He catches it with just a small fumble and grins up at Jesper, “I sure as hell can catch your wonky throws while gawking.”

“Game on, then you pyromaniac”

“I might be a pyromaniac, but you can’t deny that I'm your pyromaniac,” Wylan says while trying to catch the dozen apples Jesper throws at him in quick succession.

Jesper jumps down from the tree with a soft adoring smile on his face, he cups his face in his hands and kisses him lightly, it reminds him of buttery sunshine and beautiful days, when the skies are blue and he can get lost in the symphonies of his flute.

They break away, giggling and laughing, and go back to apple picking, always near each other but not quite sticking to each other, like two suns, forever pulled to each other, a system in perfect harmony.

They finish picking apples, and meander back towards the gates, rather than climb a wall this time, they sneak out from the front gates, guilty smiles on their face, Jesper seems to walk more freely, Wylan notices absentmindedly, as if some invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

As they walk side by side, Jesper brushes a shoulder against him and asks, “So you asked my father where we could go on a date, huh?”

Wylan’s face flushes red, “I..I did, he said it used to be a childhood memory,” He looks up at him inquisitively.”

A soft smile replaces the mischievous smile on Jesper’s face as he says in a soft voice, meant for recollecting rose tinted memories and whispering secret daydreams, “My mom, she made it a tradition, every year we’d go to the same orchard, it was the one day i had my parents all to myself, you know.”

Wylan nods along, watching Jesper sink deep into his memories, he knows they’ll have a thousand traditions like that, that they’ll make their own memories, already are making them. If you’d told a younger Wylan that he would get to have this life, he'd have told you that fairytales don’t come true, but right then Wylan felt his life come pretty close to that perfect fairytale he had always dreamt of.

Tagging some of you, who i think would like this...tell me if you wanna be removed or added

@wilhxlminxx @im-someone-i-guess @herondalesunsetcurve @jesper-fahey-supremacy @theshadowhunter (idk if you read soc yet)

[norafike]

Despite all this, I still love you 20

Content warning for depictions of violence and torture in this chapter. It is nothing too vulgar but may be upsetting for certain viewers, your are advised to proceed with caution.

Warnings: Kidnap/Torture

Nora came to in an unrecognisable place. The floor was slightly flooded and her feet froze against the cold air mixed with water. Nora began hyperventilating as a panic set in and the noises she made must have been loud enough for whoever was outside to hear.

A lock pulled open and with a bang the door opened and slowly he descended the stone stairs with a sinister smile, face framed with a head of greasy grey hair and she choked on her own breath once the recognition kicked in. “Colm.”

“It's great to finally meet the bitch who's been helpin' he who I hate most.” He sounded just as imagined; an Irish bastard who thought he was greater than the world and it made her sick to her stomach. She knew what he had done. Nora had heard of his crimes and even witnessed the aftermath of what he was capable of while out on her rides. She felt like she would throw up at any moment, being here. “I ain't done shit.”

He shook his head, a hand moving to poke her injury she earned from that ambush at Shady Belle. She withheld the pain but felt on the verge of screaming out when he touched it and his fingers were in no state of cleanliness either. “Your old friend has told me all about you. Kieran. I'm sure you're familiar.”

“I don't know no Kieran.” He pressed deeper and this time she yelped at the feeling. He seemed pleased with it and recoiled his hand. “Oh, he told me all about you and about that gang. It's a shame because you really trusted him.”

“Kieran would never-” She didn't get the chance to finish before he had smacked her across the face. She was stunned at first, forgetting how to breathe altogether before finally coming back to grips with the function.

“But he did; how d'you think we found their hideout.”

“I don't know why you're involvin' me.”

Colm sneered, balling his fist and hitting her again which prompted a gasp to fall from her lips. “Because Kieran got away, as did Arthur, so who better to get to Dutch than the bitch who is the only reason half of them are still alive?”

“Dutch don't care about me an' they been survivin' fine without me.”

“Don't matter.” Colm said, bringing down his fist against but this time only hitting harder. She tried to suppress her agony to not give him the satisfaction but he heard her gentle cry and it amused him to no end.

Colm unholstered his gun and she felt the breath hitch in her throat, worrying for her own life. He pointed the barrel at her hand and a blur of emotions flashed before her eyes, memories both fond and forgotten. Tears fell astray and he laughed at the obvious fear he settled into her before flipping the gun over and hitting her with it repeatedly until she begged him to stop.

“You're gonna help us get our way, Nora.” He sneered. “Or we'll kill that friend of yours, what was his name? Lemuel?”

With wide eyes she looked back at him, confirming what rumours he heard before. “Lemuel it is, then.”

“Just leave him, he ain't involved.” She sounded weak and frail and it was the direct approach that Colm wanted to go. He expected her to not break so easily; maybe the stories Kieran told him were an exaggeration after all. “Goodnight.” He sang before leaving the cellar and locking her in once again.

...

The nights were the hardest. She tried to close her eyes, focus on other things and sleep but it always escaped her. No matter how hard she tried she was not free of the hell she faced currently. But each time she closed her eyes her mind wandered back to Lem and how he warned her against going and how she didn't listen to him at all. He would be so disappointed with her, mad even.

Nora didn't want to go back knowing how upset Lem would be with her but she also couldn't stay there knowing the very last thing she did with the man was argue. “Quit feelin' sorry for yourself.” Colm sneered and she winced slightly just from his presence alone.

“What do you want now?”

“I'm just enjoyin' seeing you so.. vulnerable.”

Nora whimpered as she looked up at him before quickly pulling away to avoid his harsh gaze.

He didn't even need to do anything and she was already cowering in her chair. It pleased him, seeing her trying to back away in the chair but never having anywhere to go from the rope that bound her.

Countless times he considered cutting her free and having his own way, but he was being considerate… for now.

“Your friends still haven't shown up for you. How sad.”

“They ain't goin' too, I ain't nothin' but disposable for them. Hell, you keepin' me here is givin' them enough chances to move on out.”

Colm's grin flickered briefly into a frown before he grabbed his revolver. She thought he was going to shoot it but instead, he held onto the barrel and brought the butt into her stomach, winding her.

Nora gasped, struggling to take in air and causing a  revolting pleasure to surge inside of Colm. He grabbed a fist full of her hair, just taking in the face he considered pretty before letting her go. He had enough fun that evening. , Seeing her cry was enough.

He left the basement and the hatch slammed closed behind him. Cutting off the outside world once again.

...

Daylight speckled lightly on the stairs, but it was still so dark in that basement. Colm hadn't been down since the night before so she believed the infamous outlaw had left her alone. With any luck that would be one of those days where she could get a break from his cruelty.

Nora twisted the ropes around her wrist, wincing as it scratched and burned the skin. She almost gave up when she felt the flesh go raw but eventually the knots loosened enough so she could slip one of her wrists free. With both her hands no longer bound together she untied her feet from the chair legs and slowly, although hesitantly, stood.

Her knees felt weak and almost buckled underneath her but Nora managed to balance herself enough to not completely collapse and eventually felt she was well enough to continue on her escape out of the building. Around the cellar she failed to find anything that could be used as a weapon, a knife or perhaps a blunt object but for some strange reason, there wasn't anything near. “Shit.”

If she wanted the opportunity to escape she had to take it now before Colm came back and caught her, how she feared what would happen if he did.

She was hungry and she was cold but that was no valid excuse to remain hostage here while she had the opportunity. No matter how much she wanted to curl up into a ball and allow the earth to swallow her, she couldn't. She'd say it was for herself when in reality she only wanted to get back to Lem. How she missed him and his ability to somehow always be right… mostly.

“When did Colm say he'll be back?” Nora hid immediately when she heard how close the voice was. Luckily for her, he seemed to be walking away from the hatch but at any time he could simply turn around and walk back, to see her escape.

Her feet would rub against the inside of her boots and she winced at the unfavourable pain, but fortunately for her she didn't need to walk too far as their horses were left conveniently close by. Nora knew that perhaps the O'Driscoll's were not the smartest of the bunch but even she would have thought that they knew not to leave the best way to escape so close by.

They were drunk too, half of them already passed out. So the opportunity to steal a gun from one sleeping body presented itself and Nora took it. He stirred while she fumbled with the holster and almost did wake up before her, but with a small sniffle, he was practically back to being dead asleep. Now she needed to sneak over to the nearest horse, a Morgan and hope that he would let her ride out with being bucked off.

...

“You found her?” Lem shouted. He let out a long sigh after finding the revolver he gifted her a while back and worried for the worse, seeing as she never left without it.

Cripps turned the corner and was leading Casper, but there was no Nora near. They both shared an equal look of concern before going back to searching the area in the likelihood of her showing up somewhere but they had searched thoroughly for what felt like hours. Lem was in denial of something happening to her, he didn't want to accept the probability of certain danger and yet she wasn't around to account for her safety.

“We'll find her kid, she knows how to handle herself.” Cripps said but Lem didn't believe a word of it. She was tough and a good fighter but she could remain so stubborn on times.

“What a-about her bolt action?”

“She didn't remove it from the saddle.” Cripps answered with regret. Lem let out a quiet sigh, taking a hesitant step out of the clearing as if reluctant to accept that she still wasn't here after all the evidence suggesting otherwise.

Cripps placed a hand on Lem's shoulder and gently steered him back to the road, all the while keeping a hand tightly closed around the reins for Casper. They didn't say anything more to each other as they mutually agreed to not dwell on the uncertain severity of the situation, although it upset Lem that they couldn't find her, he did know that dwelling on her negative possibilities weren't good for anyone.

Cripps turned towards Lem and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Remain hopeful, for her sake.”

...

She didn't feel safe to mount the horse and gallop away just yet. Although she was far from the drunken mess of a hideout they found themselves in she still worried about being caught from the noises made about the horse fleeing the scene. Surely they would notice a missing animal and come looking, but they hadn't and it unsettled her deeply. Was this a part of a plan? Toying with her, thinking she had really escaped when in reality they were only playing a cruel game.

She wanted to collapse to the floor and sleep, her exhaustion finally catching up with her but if she passed out here then someone would definitely find her.

She got as far as the river which put a greater distance between them and gently she mounted the animal, kicking him into a gentle trot just to get further away. Nora looked back over her shoulder often, barely keeping her eyes front and slowly that house they kept her at became nothing but a dot in the distance.

Nora didn't think she could make it back all the way to where her camp was, not tonight and the nearest town was Valentine which even then she didn't think she could make it that far.. not in her current state.

Her eyes grew heavy and she felt herself slipping from the saddle, almost falling to the floor. Nora pushed, silently pleading for something or someone to help her in this state, she even hoped for Lem to miraculously appear before her... in fact, Nora never noticed just how much she really did miss Lem until now.

By some miracle, she did cross paths with someone on the trail and the timing was convenient enough that when she did fall from the saddle he was there to catch her. Nora tried to stay awake, tried her best to focus on him but eventually her consciousness had slipped from her grasp.

[meowdymista]

Van der Driscoll Pt8

Part 7 - Masterlist

Part 9

This is somehow only 3800 words long, possibly because I killed three pages of flashback and squished it into a handful of paragraphs. BUT there’s no in game script this time (hooray!) so hopefully will be a bit more of a fun read.

Gentle reminder that the only reason I’m still writing this discarded one shot is because @memekingofwwiii and @artisticpoet replied to the original post three months ago. Any feedback always goes a long way, and if you wish this project had died back at the beginning, you have them to blame #sorrynotsorry

***

“Miss LN, if you do not quit your incessant pacing, I will tie you to the mill stone in Rhodes and rent you out as a donkey!”

Your apology is empty and Miss Grimshaw’s scowl tells you she knows it. Hosea folds down the paper, pressing precisely over the creases before setting it aside. “They won’t be long now, I’m sure of it.”

O’Driscoll’s had intercepted Mr Pearson on his way to Rhodes with the message that Colm was proposing a truce. They claimed it was better to rally together as a dying species than to let the Pinkertons pick off smaller groups fighting amongst themselves.

That wasn't your primary concern. The thought of the O’Driscoll’s so close to camp rattled you, and shook Kieran like an oversized jelly. There was a chance they wouldn’t see through your altered appearance and you could slip past them, but for Kieran who rode with them for two months... To be shot on sight would be a mercy, and both of you knew that that wasn’t the O’Driscoll way.

Dutch announced that as doubtful as the proposition was, he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to put the past behind him. Assigning Micah as his number two and Arthur as back up, the trio rode out of camp despite the shaking heads and words of disapproval.

“We’ve been in worse situations before and got out of it,” continues Hosea, his bright eyes tired. “Arthur’s the best shot in camp. He’ll take care of any trouble before it starts.”

You hum in acknowledgement before dismissing yourself. You haven’t told anyone about the vibrantly vivid dreams you’ve been having. Abigail has told you in the past that she had them a lot whilst expecting Jack, something to do with the raging hormones, but you can’t shake the dread that’s become sediment in the bottom of your heart. There is something about the way Dream Micah is relentless in his beatings... the way he sneers at every missed punch from Dream Arthur… the shine of moonlight on the infamous double action revolver with its custom black and red grip, and the flicker of fire highlighting the etching Vengeance is hereby mine. To know Arthur is out there with Micah’s only cheerleader is unsettling to say the least. What if it’s not the chaos of change? What if these dreams are a premonition?

You shake the thought of Dutch’s polished boots crushing Arthur’s outstretched fingers from your mind. A dream, you tell yourself firmly. A dream and nothing more.

Stripping to your undergarments, you wade out into the lake in search of a distraction. There’s an island not too far from shore. You could be alone with your thoughts there if you took the boat out, or even if one of the horses wanted to take a swim, but the nagging in your stomach has tied a knot to the centre of the camp. You can’t wander far for fear of the Dream Arthur’s beaten corpse welcoming you back.

“Miss Thomas, I-” Kieran squawks loudly from the shoreline, staring up awkwardly into the evening sky. You sigh and retreat enough to stay underwater whilst remaining within earshot. “I-I’m sorry, M-Miss, I didn’t think you was- that you were-!”

“It’s fine, Kieran. Pass me the towel on that rock?” He obliges, eyes still scouring the heavens like a lost monk until you’ve tied it around your waist and shrugged on one of Arthur’s old shirts. “You heard something?”

“Should I have? Oh, about Arthur and Dutch. They ain’t back yet. I was- I was just wanting to, erm, to check how you was feelin’ with the whole… Colm... thing.”

You consider lying. It would be an appetising distraction to feed him a cool indifferent nature and watch him squirm in paranoia, however you’re not sure how much longer you can fight the burn of madness at the edge of your mind. 

“Scared shitless,” you admit eventually, the corners of your mouth tugging downwards despite your best efforts. “Not even for Arthur being gone, but… if they know. If they know the truth, or if they find out about…” Your fingers touch the soft curve of your stomach. “About Arthur and... I don’t know what I’ll do. What we can do.”

Kieran nods quietly, clearing his throat as his eyes dart over the shore, like a rabbit catching the scent of coyotes on the wind. “Colm burns through men like cigars, but Lord knows what them O’Driscoll boys’ll do if they get their hands on us.”

“We’ll be dead if we’re lucky,” you mumble, turning a smooth pebble in your hands before skimming it over the water. “The lucky ones… they go quick.”

You can feel his gaze burning into the side of your skull, but you try to keep your posture indifferent. You know what he’s going to ask before he even inhales.

“What happened with Peader? Was it quick or…?”

“Quick.” You skim another stone as your heart battles its way into your throat. You don’t have the energy to feign ignorance this time. “I made sure of that.”

“What- what he do?”

Shadows move around the camp, indifferent to your whereabouts. Taking a deep breath, you begin to tell the story honestly, hoping that perhaps if you acknowledge and repent your sin out loud, whatever God there is out there will return Arthur to you.

You tell him about meeting Peader in a quiet saloon on the outskirts of Blackwater - a place where even the cobwebs had moved on in anticipation for the new place opening on the main road. How Peader swooped in, landing on a chair opposite you, his grin brighter than a beacon from his day drinking.

“Yull never guess the shit I just got us. A boat with a shit tonne o’ gold is docking here end o’ this week. Minimum security, no guards, easy pickings. Can you believe it?”

“No,” you scoff, stifling a yawn. “Ain’t no such thing.”

“Tha’s what I said, but this feller I was talkin’ to was from the bank. He was sayin’ that it'd be the steal of the century if anyone pulled it off. They’d tried hiring security, but no one was taking ‘em up on it. Said it was travelling too far, was too high risk of being hit, so they decided to play it all poker like and just send the ferry anyways.”

“And you trust this feller?”

“Sure, as much as anyone else I meet on the street.”

“How’d you know he isn’t setting us up? Or that he really works for the bank?”

“Bastard was dressed up all fancy. Had the same chain on his waistcoat you see ‘em all wearing and the stupid twirly moustache. Ain’t many jobs that afford a man a belly like his. He reeked of paper and safe codes, trust me.”

You tell Kieran how the saloon was empty apart from the bartender and a man catching a nap in a booth across the room, neglecting to mention the way his white hat sat low over his eyes and the thick blond handlebar moustache twitching in sleep. You do tell him the details of the job - that Peader reckoned you’d need at least five men to carry the gold, plus a couple more for shooting. You even tell him when the ferry docked - a date black on your tongue - and how your panic was exacerbated with rising frustration when Peader began to bite back at your doubt, accusing you of doubting him, of stealing the credit for past jobs he’d arranged.

“Obviously some other outlaws got wind of the same tip you did. It’s not the first time we’ve crossed paths with folk like us - and with the law tightening up the way it is, of course we’re gonna start stepping on each other’s toes-”

“Look, I get you have your day trips or mini vacations and the like. I get you’re a good shot an’ all, but you’ve gotta stop lyin’ to me! Knocking me out and keeping the take for yourself-”

“There was no take, Peter, because I was hauling your heavy ass out of their way! Them Van der Linde’s are a better shot than either of us, an’ between a few dollars and a can of vegetables or an extra gun at my side, I’ll choose the latter every time.”

You take a deep breath to slow your quaking heart and keep your emotions from getting the better of you. Your voice cracks as you recall following your friend outside for him to tell you Colm had come by camp earlier that week asking for you. His black eyes fiery, the stubble on his face uneven from his last shave... The proper use of his given name was lost on the wind whistling over the plains, because Colm had personally promoted you. You, who had no prior experience with weaponry before Peader took the time to show you. 

Your vision fades to black. The panic, the total contrast to your good friend, everything accumulates to cast darkness over your sight. You know this can only end one way, and it’s too painful to consider. The pearl grip in your hand is cool at first touch, but quickly grows hot as your ears ring with bullets fired.

The stallion rears and bolts west of town.

Kieran must realise he’s openly gawping as he quickly clears his throat. “W-was that the same ferry these fellers hit?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “Guess the idiot that told Peter didn’t keep his trap shut.”

“I heard he was working with them Pinkertons?”

You shrug sadly. “I might have… twisted the truth a little when Colm asked about him. Made it sound like he was a snitch… with hindsight he would have got us all killed, but he knew too much about me. Suddenly, with Colm asking after me, he had motive to dig deeper and find out the truth. I couldn’t risk it.”

You catch Kieran’s hand hesitating in the corner of your eye, before he decides the comfort would be improper and instead puts it back into his own lap. “I’m sorry to hear that, Miss. Sometimes we gotta make choices an’... an’ we just have to live with what comes afterward.”

You hum in agreement. Kieran takes a deep breath, clearly about to say something else, when you hear a horse whinny in the distance. Apologising hastily, you jump to your feet, relief flooding you as you hurry back up onto the grass in time to see the Count and Baylock trotting in with their owner’s sat tall astride them.

“So?” calls Hosea from the front of the crowd gathered by the hitching posts.

Dutch shakes his head once, sighing. “We ain’t got shot at least.”

Your ears strain for further movement, your stomach dropping every passing second as the chill of your recurring nightmare creeps down your spine. “Where’s Arthur?” 

“Calm down, Guinevere, he’s probably off doin’ somethin’ or other.” Micah smiles all smarmy. “Probably watchin’ our backs, being the little hero that he is. He’ll be back before long.”

Hosea mirrors your frown of concern. “You ain’t seen him?”

“He’ll be fine, Hosea,” Dutch sighs, waving his hand dismissively as he strolls back to the large white tent on the shore. “He always is.”

You shiver violently. Arthur never lets the group disperse after a job until everyone is accounted for. One night after a few too many bottles of whisky, Karen had told you how Arthur had to be all but dragged from Blackwater during their hasty retreat into Ambarino. Eventually Dutch had ordered him to scout ahead for somewhere to camp so that they didn’t need to worry about losing their sharpest shooter to any law catching up to them.

You pull yourself away and head back to the waters, trying to hear any gunshots or further movement beneath Hosea’s continued dispute.

“I see Micah and Dutch are back?” You shrug at Kieran’s hesitant observation. “I’m sure he’s fine. You seen him with a gun?”

You drop the towel and sink your head under the water as soon as you’re able to, effectively ending the conversation. When your head next breaks the surface, Kieran is gone and your towel is folded neatly in his place.

You don’t sleep that night. You can’t sleep. Despite the luxury of space for your expanding body and the warm Lemoyne air acting as a blanket in its own right, you’re still unable to rest without his body heat, without the weight of his arm around you, pressing against your back, the itch of facial hair on your exposed skin.

Every little movement has you sat up expectantly. There is no need for privacy without Arthur’s preference for hidden intimacies, so you’ve rolled up every wall of your tent to keep lookout. The fires in camp are dying down to ash as Micah caresses his knife with sandpaper nearby.

“Yes, Miss LN?” Micah smirks. “Can I help you?”

“What have you done?” Your voice is barely a whisper. Micah’s breathy laugh matches your volume - the most manners he has shown you since you met.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“Where is Arthur?” You’re stood behind him, your fists shaking at your side as you try to contain the terror of the unknown. “You must know something.”

“Guinevere, I’m sure your white knight will make an appearance eventually.” Shaking his head, he chuckles and turns back to the wisps of burning ash. “I mean, unless another princess has taken his attention. What’s her name? Maggie? Molly?” He throws you another look over his shoulder. “Or was it the queen that took off with someone else? I ain’t ever really had the patience for fairy stories myself.”

“He wouldn’t just disappear!” you argue, setting aside your confusion at his jibes. “This is Arthur. What did he say after you left Colm?”

“He told me he needed a little less mollycoddling from his baby carrier.” He scoffs, his pale grey eyes meeting yours in the last of the light. “How do I know? It ain’t no secret we ain’t the closest of buddies. Maybe he’s done a John and got cold feet, hmm? Now leave me alone!”

When the sun eventually rises, you pull your blouse and skirts over your underclothes without bothering to wash. With a fist full of pins to fix your hair out of your face, you hurry over to where Miss Molly is applying a faceful of powders.

“Jesus wept!” she gasps, stepping back as though your dishevelment was contagious. “What happened to you?”

Looking up at the interruption, Dutch marks his page and sits up. “Something the matter, Miss?”

“Arthur’s still not back.”

He rolls his eyes, body relaxing and book already reopened with his finger finding where he left off. “When you’ve known Arthur as long as I have-”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t disappear for days, I just want to know what happened after you saw Colm.”

“Why? Has your escape plan backfired?” The thick moustache twitches in fake humour. “Maybe your O’Driscoll charm has paid off and Arthur’s switched sides, taking your place as Colm’s number two.”

“Arthur would never betray you like that,” you argue, but the flash in the leader’s eyes makes you question the degree of betrayal felt when you were brought into camp. “You all rode off together. You must have seen him leave to cover for you? What happened when you met back up?”

“He’d already left, Y/N. It was clearly far too underwhelming for him. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like a little quiet. Some of us still have to earn our keep, you know.”

Not wanting to waste energy on a force as strong as Dutch, you busy yourself with chores. You feed the chickens, you feed the horses, you darn socks, all whilst watching the treeline. Even Miss Grimshaw’s fury cannot stir you away from the outskirts, and so by midday, with confidence in your position as most detested in camp, your decision proves easy.

“Kieran, do you have a spare saddle?”

The jittery head snapped up, gaping at you. “Going out, Miss?”

“To look for Arthur. I’ll be back, I promise.”

“You can’t go alone, Miss, especially not- not in your condition.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, no small feat with your lack of sleep. “I looked after myself before, and I can look after myself again.”

“Mr Morgan will kill me if anything were to happen to you.” He licks his lips, his hands wringing the corner of his jacket. “Lemme grab somebody to go with you-”

“Kieran I said I’m fine!”

“I- I- I can come. Jus’ gimme a minute to saddle up Branwen.” He’s itching with anxiety. “Shit, I don’t wanna think what Mr Van der Linde will do if we go off together.”

“Something wrong?” Charles watches you both closely as he pauses his stroll back from guard duty.

"Arthur’s not back yet. I’m going to look for him.”

His gaze slides over to Kieran, then shakes his head. “I’ll come with you. It’s best you stay here, Kieran - one missing O’Driscoll is less concerning than two.”

“A-Are you sure, Mr Smith?” The relief is palpable. “Then Y/N take Branwen. She’ll do you right.”

You try to keep your tics of impatience internalized whilst the men fix the horses. Hosea seems to be watching you in the distance. You almost believe he gives you a nod before acting as a distraction to Dutch, allowing you to lead Branwen out of camp behind Charles and Taima.

“Do you know where they met with them?”

You shake your head clear, digging your heels in to ride up alongside your companion. “The Heartlands, I think, but I don’t know the exact location. Can’t be further than Valentine.”

“I think you’re right about Valentine - there’s no real vantage point past Emerald Ranch. Dutch talked like Arthur was a surprise, so he would probably need a good hiding spot with a clear view.”

“Must be further out than Dewberry Creek… they wouldn’t have taken so long to get back.”

Charles hums in agreement. “Let’s head that way anyway and get up on a ridge. There’s a whisky tree with quite the view, might help us narrow our search.”

A long silence stretches between you. It would have been comfortable if it weren’t for the intrusive thoughts, the ghost of imaginary gunpowder tainting your nostrils, the burning images of Dutch’s boot crushing his outstretched fingers…

Just a dream.

You arrive at the summit and draw your binoculars, scouting the horizon, desperately trying to pick between each grain of dirt.

“I reckon we should take each of these points.” Charles gestures to each summit on the horizon. “If we take them one by one, we’re sure to overlap their meeting point, and maybe find some clues.”

You mumble in agreement, chewing on your lip as he focuses his strong brown gaze on you.

“Did Arthur say something about this to you?” he asks finally.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been on edge pretty much since they mounted up… Is everything alright between you?”

You laugh, albeit shakily, at the prospect of something coming between you. “We’re fine. I just keep having some real bad dreams and... “ You exhale loudly. “I’d feel better if I knew where he was.”

Charles nods and doesn’t press for details. He’s like Arthur that way - unwilling to speak unless necessary. You let the silence coddle you again as you descend and re-ascend another peak.

“Y/N!”

You hurry to him at the first syllable of your name, cursing the ache of your muscles slowing you down. Charles is crouched by the rocky edge, examining the ground closely.

“Reckon this could be our man?” he asks, gesturing at the disturbed dirt. Yes, you realise, it very well could be. The length of the disturbance was almost Arthur’s height - especially if he had rested on his elbows to watch over. You try to picture his broad shoulders and envisage the same broad distance.

Could there have been a scuffle? There’s not enough disturbance for him to have leaned back onto his knees and stood up - one of the arms is smudged, like he had rolled over. The inconsistencies in the outline… had he stood up and walked all over where he had been lying, or was someone else here?

Charles seems to share your doubts as he points out the multiple horse tracks. “Either this spot is popular with the locals, or there’s been a group here in the past couple of days.”

“Dutch and Micah split off earlier down the track - Arthur came up here alone.”

Charles hums again, fanning the panic in your gut. “Did they meet up again afterwards?”

“Did they hell!” you scowl. “Neither of them would tell me what happened after they parted ways.”

Charles sighs, mounting Taima gracefully. “The tracks seem to double down this way.”

You follow, enveloped again in the silence bar your thudding heart. At the bottom, you find an old camp. Charles decides it’s about a day old. You don’t really say much before spotting the blood not much further away. Alarm bells are ringing and you’re feeling faint.

I guess I saw you an’ the mess I might leave you in one day.

“Y/N?” Charles’ round face surfaces before your eyes, his forehead furrowing. “Are you alright? Here, I have some water…”

“They got him, didn’t they?” You can feel your stomach turning, but you haven’t eaten since they left the day before. “The blood - it’s Arthur’s, isn’t it?”

“Could be animal’s blood,” counters Charles calmly. “They might have set up camp nearby to save carrying the carcass.”

You try to stand, determined to keep searching, but Charles holds you down by your shoulder. “Rest. Kieran was right - Arthur won’t be happy if he finds you in this state.”

“Provided he comes back!” you argue, but you can feel the world spinning around you. As if already aware about your lack of sustenance, Charles pushes a bread roll into your hand, and you begin to eat wordlessly.

“Are you strong enough to ride?” he asks eventually.

You nod, brushing crumbs from your clothes as you look out towards the setting sun. “How far do you reckon they’ve got?”

“We’re going back to camp.” You whisk around ready to protest, but Charles steadies you easily. “Falling off your horse is one thing, but it’s completely different when you're carrying a child. I’ll come back for him, but for now let’s get you safe and pick up some reinforcements.”

You reluctantly agree, even if it’s just for the way your mind rattles as he helps you mount up. Charles rides close beside you, ready to grab you when you sway too precariously. The ride back is much slower than the ride out.

Hold on, Arthur. They’re coming.

[abitterlifethroughcinema]

THE St. Jordi BCN Film Festival ’21 FILM REVIEWS, VOL. II: What’s Fine…and not!

by Lucas Avram Cavazos

YOUR #VOSE take on upcoming international cinema premiering in Catalonia & Spain soon!

Hotel Coppelia by Jose Maria Cabral ###-1/2

As I screened Hotel Coppelia at this year’s festival, I was rather taken aback by how little I knew about the history behind the Dominican Republic and the US involvement/engagement/disruption of the island country. It is 1965 as the film commences and the ladies of the bordello and hotel, Coppelia, attend to their clientele with razor sharp precision and beguiling ways that aim to keep a roaring crowd coming back to fill the coffers, run by the icy and fierce bish, Judith (Lumi Lizardo). While the film mostly follows young server/performer Gloria, played with mild perfection by actress Nashla Bogaert, it’s the intermingling of the ladies at the brothel that aids in building an emotional response to the characters rather quickly. And when the US army invades the coastal town and ensconce themselves within the confines of the hotel to “fight the communists,” we see yet another heinous example of why so many despise the guise with which the US army lies with it appearance of helping by taking with force. This, incidentally, is exactly how every modern power on Earth has taken their stance to get to whatever they perceive they are. Hotel Coppelia, and a new student I’m teaching, has made my new history study a waltz around this incredible island, rumoured to be where Columbus actually landed as his furthest Northern reach. Lovely and necessary film…

Where to watch: TBA

Penguin Bloom by Glendyn Ivin ###-1/2

Not knowing what to expect with an Aussie film with the word ‘penguin’ in it, I was mostly moved to screen it because who doesn’t dig Naomi Watts? But what a lovely if heartbreaking tale of truth turned celluloid treasure with this unexpected, wee gem of a film. Oscar-nominated actress Watts plays Sam Bloom, a mum vacationing with her family in Thailand when a terrible accident leaves her paralysed from the waist down. Feeling like a burden to her husband (Andrew Lincoln) and her kids, when one of them rescues a little magpie chick and the parents decide the kiddos can keep it, what ends up happening is a bond between the depressed, defeated mother and the little bird with a broken limb. You can probably imagine what happens but the easy nature of this true tale leaves you feeling grateful, happy with perhaps a few tears of joy rolling down your lovely cheeks.

Where to watch: will be in local cinemas 10/9/21

Wild Mountain Thyme by John Patrick Shanley ##

I really can’t begin to explain how much I couldn’t believe I was watching Emily Blunt cop to an attempt at an Irish accent in this blasé, Nicholas Sparks-style romance. Starring Blunt and Christian Grey-typecast character actor Jamie Dornan, this film tells the story of the selling-off of an Irish family’s farm to a wealthy US-American nephew (read: the asshole and he is Jon Hamm...yum yum) instead of the family’s son (Dornan). What I also found most odd was watching Christopher Walken try and feign being an Irish patriarch. Could we not cull together Colm Meaney or Brendan Gleeson or ANY wonderful Irish actor above 65 to play this role? At one point around the middle juncture of the film, I actually found myself counting cliches of too many modern romance dramedies, and I eventually became perplexed as to how this was greenlit in the first place for production and why Blunt and Dornan would have signed up for this trite shite…absolutely no idea.

Where to watch: in local cinemas 23/07/21

Blithe Spirit by Edward Hall ##

Part of the comedy lineup at this year’s BCN Film Festival, Blithe Spirit is based upon the like-titled 1941 comical play by Noel Coward. Screening the film on a smaller room at Cines Verdi BCN, I really did find it strange that top actors’ actors like Judi Dench and Isla Fisher would sign up for what turned out to be a sad sap of a film. Telling the story of Charles (Dan Stevens) who’s a wealthy writer embroiled in a bad case of writer’s block who takes his wife (Fisher) to see a medium (Dench), whose performance goes madly awry and so Charles decides to commission the older medium to perform a session in his home, but this seems to summon Charles ex-wife (played beyond annoyingly so by Leslie Mann). Jokes that fail, overacting and weak scripting made this particular comedy a dud on arrival.

Where to watch: in local cinemas on 22/10/21

Last Call by Steven Bernstein ##

This film marks a moment when an accomplished cinematographer finally brings a long-desired project to fruition and onto screens. Director Bernstein has been working behind the scenes for over 35 years on innumerable movies, but he actually released an unfinished draft of this film entitled Dominion and also starring Rhys Ifans and John Malkovich back in 2016. With Last Call, a full-length feature film starring the aforementioned actors come together to tell the story of the final hours of Welsh poet Dylan Thomas’ final day. It’s a grim day where he downs eighteen shots, chats up a myriad of people, who may or may not be there, and that is until the seizure that eventually brought about his death. What Bernstein serves up however is a choppy story with certain scenes that throw continuity to the wind, but you can tell the director is a true fan of the poet and desired to create a testament to the man for whose name ‘Bob Dylan’ was transformed from Robert Zimmerman. Alas, no wannabe deep conversations or great actors can save this MEH! piece…sorry!

Where to watch: TBA

[trvelyans-archive]

There’s a woman at the end of the bar who won’t stop staring at Arthur.

At first, he thought maybe Colm sent her, but she doesn’t look like his type of woman. She’s a little too American for that bastard’s tastes. Then Arthur thought that maybe the bartender called her over to keep an eye on him, which he couldn’t blame the man for, really, considering the trouble he’s caused here lately. But it doesn’t seem like she’s watchin’ him for either of those reasons, really. If she was, she probably woulda made some sort of move sooner. She’s just… sittin’ there, with her eyes trained on him like he’s a Goddamn Christmas hog she’s gonna shoot and cook for dinner.

She’s pretty, too. He doesn’t much like that.

He downs his finger of whiskey with his left hand, his right hovering against the gun in his holster. (It’s a new one – pulled it off the body of some O’Driscoll he shot dead in the middle of the Heartlands the other night.) Not that he thinks she’s gonna shoot his head off, mind you, but it never hurts to be prepared around these parts, especially when he’s a couple of drinks into his evening already. It’s not doin’ much to help his pounding headache – being around that jackass Micah Bell for too long would do that to a man – but he’d rather sit here by his lonesome and wallow in his pain for a little while than be back at camp arguing with Dutch about… well, he’s sure they’d find something.

Seems all they do nowadays is argue. Or talk in a way that makes them feel like they’re not arguing when they really are.

He lowers his face to the tabletop, examining the cigarette cards he’s laid out to take a good look at, but out of the corner of his eye he can still see that woman watching him. She looks about twenty-five – might look older if he saw her in the sun when he was sober – and she has warm brown hair pulled into two braids on either side of her head, messy like she’d done them herself without a mirror (which he knows very well to be difficult, because Mary-Beth complains about it often when she begs Arthur to let her use his). She’s pale, too, with a face full of freckles and a handful of moles, and she’s got dark eyes like bullet holes, still pointed in his direction.

When she raises her arm, he half expects to hear a gunshot ring through the air, but she just gestures her cup towards him and takes a sip.

That’s when he realizes he’s been lookin’ too long, and perhaps that he’s drunk much more than he thought he did.

Unfortunately for him, even after shaking his head and forcing his attention back to the cards on the table, it’s only a couple seconds ‘til the seat across from him is pulled out and the woman sits down across from him. “Thought maybe you didn’t see me,” she says, placing her cup – empty – in front of his cards.

“Hard not to,” he replies, forcing himself not to meet her eyes. “Can’t quite ignore you when you’ve spent the past hour starin’ at me.”

“So you noticed.” She smiles. “Why didn’t’cha come up and say anythin’?” she asks, leaning forward to make sure he can see her.

He does lift his head up at that, though. “I, uh… didn’t think that’s what you’d wanted,” he replies, clearing his throat and reaching forward to grab one of the cards between two of his fingers, flipping it over to take a look at the writing on the back. “Thought maybe you were just waitin’ for me to cause some trouble and kick me out, and I didn’t intend on causin’ any sort of trouble tonight.”

“Mmm… A shame, that.”

He holds the card up higher, hoping it might hide some of the newfound heat rising on his cheeks.

“I’m Mabel.” She holds her right hand out to him from across the table, forcing him to put the card down so he can see her still smiling the same darlin’ smile. “Mabel Olsen. And your name is…”

“Arthur,” he replies before he can think better of it. “Arthur Morgan.”

“Arthur Morgan.” She clicks her tongue against the top of her teeth like she’s tasting the sound of his name in her mouth. “I like it.”

“Well, thank you,” he replies. “Can’t quite take all the credit for it, though.”

She laughs, leaning back in her chair and glancing around the room. Up close she looks just about the same as she did from the bar, but now he notices a couple of scars littered across her hands and shoulders, and her voice sounds much deeper than he thought it would. So she’s definitely older than twenty – twenty-five still seems like a good guess.

She’s definitely not as old as he is.

“What’re you doin’ in town tonight, Arthur Morgan?”

Hopefully nothing, he wants to say. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks, after all – months, even, when he thinks about it. First, having to ride out of Blackwater with the whole gang after the ferry job went wrong, then hidin’ out in the mountains and freezing half to death every night, and now, after meeting those jackasses Milton and what’s-his-name when he was out with fishing with Jack last week, it seems like Arthur can’t quite catch a break at all nowadays without someone shooting at him or yelling at him to clean up someone else’s mess every hour or so.

He can’t tell her any of that, though. He doesn’t want to scare her off, even if she is interrupting his carefully made plans for a boring evening. Might be nice to keep her around and talk to her for a little while.

So, instead, he flattens one of his hands against the table, fiddling with his belt buckle underneath the table with the other. “Drinkin’,” he replies. “Lookin’ at these. You?”

“Drinkin’,” she responded. “Lookin’ at you.”

He’s lucky he finished his last drink before she came over. If he had been drinking when she said that, he would’ve choked on his whiskey. Even now, he just about chokes on thin air.

“What’s so special about these?” she questions suddenly, pushing herself up from her chair and bracing one of her arms against the table to lean on it. “Aren’t these just cigarette cards?”

“Well, yes, but…” He clears his throat, scrubbing a hand against his beard. “I like collectin’ them, I guess.”

She doesn’t say anything for a couple seconds. When she does, her voice is much quieter. “Used to know someone who liked collectin’ ‘em, too.” And then she smiles at him again. “He liked the famous gunslinger ones, though he couldn’t’a been less of a gunslinger himself if he tried. Which ones do you like?”

Arthur thinks about it for a moment. “I like the ones with all the animals on them,” he says, grabbing one and pushing it towards her. “And the horses.”

“The horses,” she repeats, then cocks her head at him and squints like she’s giving him a thorough inspections. “Are you a cowboy, Arthur Morgan?”

“You could say that,” he responds, finally smiling back at her.

“Do you collect anything else?”

He inhales deeply, pursing his lips as he thinks. “Don’t know if I mean to so much as I end up doing it accidentally,” he answers. His bag is full of little bits and pieces of things he picks up – feels like he can’t walk two steps without finding something that catches his eye. “But sure, I collect plenty of things. And I have a journal, too.”

He didn’t mean to say that – he normally doesn’t like to talk about his journal with people, because then they always ask to see it, and it’s much more boring and personal than they think it’s going to be if he does show them or they get offended when he doesn’t. “A journal,” she echoes. “’s funny. You look like some rough-and-tumble outlaw, but you got a soft side to you. I can tell already, if you collectin’ cigarette cards and writin’ in a journal wasn’t enough.”

“I guess,” he grumbles good-naturedly, lowering his head to look at his cards again. “Do you collect anything, Miss Olsen?”

She laughs. “Oh, don’t call me that, Arthur,” she says. “My mother would never stop rollin’ in her grave if you did. Mabel is fine. And no, I don’t. Don’t see much point in it.”

“Guess that’s true.”

“Might change my mind now, though.”

He clears his throat and forces himself to look around, to look at anywhere that isn’t her smiling face.

The bar is nowhere near full, even at this time of night in this nice weather. (Though maybe that’s why – some of the folk in Valentine might be out enjoyin’ it.) Mabel’s old seat near the bartender is still empty. She could go back to it, if she wanted to, or move to a table to talk to someone else, but she doesn’t. Instead she keeps sitting across from him, watching him, running a finger around the rim of her glass with the tip of her tongue sticking out between her bared teeth, like a wolf waiting to pounce.

“So what made you come over here?” he asks eventually, letting himself look at her again.

She shrugs. “Thought you looked interestin’,” she answers, “and you certainly are. Although I like just about any man that doesn’t offer to fuck me before he even buys me a God damn drink.”

Arthur clenches his jaw. He doesn’t know what to say to that, but now his mind is definitely beginning to fill with somewhat indecent thoughts he’d rather not dwell on.

“And I thought it’d be nice to talk to someone. Thought you’d actually want to talk to me.”

He frowns. “What’s that mean?”

She shrugs again. “Don’t quite know,” she says. “Just… thought we’d get along. Most people don’t like talkin’ to me after a little while, probably ‘cuz I like being a pain in the ass.”

He didn’t consider her to be a pain in the ass at all, and if there’s something that Arthur Morgan hates more than suckin’ snake venom out of another man’s leg and runnin’ out of bullets in the middle of a gunfight, it’s people – like God damn Micah Bell - who are a pain in the ass. So he chuckles, hopin’ it might make her feel better. “Believe me, I’ve talked to much worse.”

Mabel smiles back, to no surprise, but she seems to stiffen a little as he watches her. “Anyway, if you’re askin’ because you want me to leave you alone –“

“Hey, now, did I say that?”

That gives her pause. “No, I guess I just…” She purses her lips. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?” she finally says.

“Can’t much say the same for you,” he teases.

“Chicken shit.” She grins at him. “Now who’s being a pain in the ass? You stay here, file all your little cigarette cards away in your bag next to your... I dunno... hairbrush and mirror and hair pomade, and I’ll go get us some more drinks. You look like a whiskey man, Arthur. Are you a whiskey man?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Hang on, I can pay –“

Before he can finish, she pulls a heavy sack of what he assumes to be money from her bag and hefts it onto the table, where it lands with a loud thud. “Please,” she says, “let me.”

Arthur stares at it for a second and then looks up at her. “Maybe you are full of surprises.”

“Oh, I certainly am.” She stands up and rifles through the bag, completely ignoring the other patrons in the bar staring at them as she pulls a couple of bills from a stack. “Get a few more drinks in me and I’ll have even more surprises to show you, then.”

Before she heads off to the bar, she looks over her shoulder and gives him a playful wink that just about knocks the air out of his lungs, and all of a sudden Arthur is very, very glad that he isn’t going to have a boring night.

[otherworldhq]

Oh, its a glorious tradition, frequently enjoyed and invoked by the fair folk. There are a great number of prey worthy of a gathering such as this –– but this wild hunt will be a prolonged and unusual thing for those who take up their part as midnight riders. You aren’t hunting a mythical beast, you aren’t hunting souls or children to steal away. You’re tracking and hunting a murderer. Whatever creature it is that plagues the fair folk and their kin will find a bloody end at your hands, you vow this before all the creatures of the Otherworld. It won’t end in a night, it won’t end in a week, but you vow that one way or another it will be finished. 

More unusual still is the synergy and synchronistic achieved in the organisation of the hunt. Two courts, working together in apparent harmony. Allies, at the very least until the sun rises on a new era of peace. Humanity, too, has thrown its hat in the ring. Seer’s with their keen eyes are just as involved as the rest, planning and working in an effort to save those they hold dear. Quick as hunters, they may prove their might to those who considered them weak before now.  

This hunt may last for weeks, it may be brutal and exhausting and drawn out. You may have to fight harder than you ever have before. Those who choose to pick up arms and defend their people may not come out the other side alive. 

Danger lurks in other ways, as well. Detective Colm Ó Conchobhair of the Garda Síochána is an ever present spectre on the streets of Dublin now. He lurks outside of Cafe Flux, he questions drunk humans outside of Loophole. He catches your gaze across a crowded room, and you realise that he must be a person who always saw more than he was meant to. Part of the Otherworld, yet outside it. Gifted with the sight, yet he never embraced it. He sees, but he doesn’t understand and he doesn’t comprehend. You’ll have to be careful, lest he take more notice of you than you hoped. 

IC INFO: 

Welcome to our second plot drop of our reopening! I’m sure you’ll find this one to be much more detailed and offer a very wide expanse of things for your character to do. Please feel free to take any of the minor plots bellow and run with it. You can decide to have your character investigate certain aspects of the plot, write self para’s about it or pair up and explore the story together! 2-3 people are allowed to pick up each plot point and explore it either on their own or with one another! Just let me know what you want your character to do and I’ll mark your name down next to it. 

All of the following will take place between the dates of June 22nd –– July 5th. 

* TRACKS IN THE WILDS (June 22nd – onwards) –– Poisoned blood and scuffed footprints, the tracks of a wounded thing or a vicious killer? They were found near the stone circle, the morning after your midsummer feast. Yet no one was wounded. Yet no one died. Who do they belong to? Is the killer you hunt the type who likes to lurk and watch and wait for the golden moment of opportunity? Has it picked its next victim and is stalking their every move? The tracks are haphazard, nonsensical, built to confuse. Perhaps they’re calling you in to a trap, perhaps they’re a siren song that promises you glory but will only lead you to your doom. ( Keiran / Nathair / Thorne ) 

* THE ARMORER AND THE ENCHANTER (June 23rd onwards)–– They’re a legend in these parts, written of in myths and legends. All the fair folk know of them, in their far off and solitary home. They belong to neither court, they survive on their own. The earth is their domain, magic runs through their veins. They can craft you weapons and tools that will make you the most formidable warriors in the land, if the price is right. Sometimes they ask you for a dream, or for your fondness memories. Sometimes they ask you to trade your purest love. Sometimes they ask you for your weight in emerald or ruby. The courts will pay any price now, for weapons to aid them in the fight. One must only go and ask for it.  ( Fiadh / Mordred / Open ) 

* THE DAGDA INSTITUTE (June 25th onwards ) –– Zion de Paor first heard their name almost a month ago, when the murders started to ramp up and the police got more and more involved. The Dagda Institute. They want to learn to live forever. They deal in iron and genetics, and it’s very possible they’re linked to the killings. Still –– you’ll never know unless you learn more. The investigation will need many hands, people to keep an eye on them, people to infiltrate and find out as much information as they can. ( Afric / Open / Open ) 

* WHAT SARAH KNOWS (June 25th onwards) –– Sarah O’Neill runs cafe flux with her wife. Sarah O’Neill is a changeling. Detective Colm Ó Conchobhair believes that Sarah O’Neill is connected to the Dagda Institute by a maternal Uncle. She’s the only person you know of that might be aware of what’s going on, that might be able to ferret out some information about the Dagda Institute and what they really want. She might be able to point you toward her Uncle. Problem is, Sarah doesn’t seem willing to talk. This has all scared her, so badly. She haunts her cafe now, offers shadows of smiles and tries to dodge any more reasons for the Detectives to want to speak with her.  ( Dáiríne / Open / Open ) 

* SURVIVOR STORIES (June 29th onwards)–– As the hunt unfolds and you meet more and more people, you realise this: some people have come close to death yet managed to escape it. The fae named Fiadh escaped from those who hunted her and fled to court. Another solitary fae passed trough as he moved to the mountains, seeking shelter in further seclusion. A girl who lives at Hotel Titan swears that a spectre followed her home night after night before it attacked, she can’t even remember how she got away, only that she did. How they describe the spectre that hunts them may be useful, endlessly so. Any details you can follow back to the source have to be a priority, now.  ( Ailis / Katurian / Oz ) 

* DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES (June 27th + July 2nd respectively) –– You almost hoped that the killings had died down. No, not at all. In the weeks after the midsummer festivities, two people are found dead. A changeling named Christopher O’Mara and a solitary fae who went by the name of Willow. Their crime scenes match the others, yet there may be some chance of finding clues if your eyes are sharp enough.  ( Ailis / Zion / Open ) 

* THE WALLS HAVE EYES –– The Seelie and Unseelie Court are working together in perfect harmony, or so it seems. They’ve had to mix and mingle more than they’re comfortable with, more than they have in years. Happiness, prosperity, harmony. But there are snakes in the grass on both sides, keeping their eyes keen and seeking out any signs of weakness from the opposite court. Spies, in a way. Ready to gather information and use it, eventually, to bring the court they hate to their knees. Secrets hold so much value, lets see how many you can find.  ( Maeve / Canaan / Open ) 

* THE DARLINGTON ESTATE (June 26th onwards) –– Ever since word of a hunter stalking residents of Hotel Titan, many members of the otherworld have grown wary of staying there. They’re scared, fucking terrified, and they wish they had somewhere safer to stay in the wilds. Prince Brín of the Seelie Court has offered a new home. The old Darlington Estate, a place reclaimed by the wilds and the otherworld, impossible to find for any human without guidance. It has been reshaped into a safe-house for those who need it, and a gathering place for members of the Wild Hunt.  

OOC INFO:

This event will run until MAY 1ST, after which all threads should be finishing up! Please tag all your posts with some indicator of the event it belongs to. 

[ohdeputy]

100 Letters PART V

Arthur Morgan x John Marston

Words: 5,513

Read on Archive

Part IV

-

“John, John!”

John’s heart dropped when he heard his name being called and squeezed his eyes shut as he braced himself. After letting out a deep sigh, he opened them again and turned around to see Uncle approaching him.

“What do you want, Uncle.”

It had been another week or so without John leaving camp and he was slowly going crazy. He didn’t know if it was from feeling better and itching to leave or if his current company had finally made him crack.

“Oh, now don’t be like that! I actually had some information you might want to hear, considering you’ve just been sitting around since we got here!”

John couldn’t bear to listen to the old drunk. “Don’t talk to me about sitting around, old man. I know someone who’s quite good at that.”

“Hey, I do my fair share, like getting this information! So do you want it or not?”

John sighed, flatly responding, “what is it.”

“Well, see, Mary-Beth told me about this train,” Uncle shoved a map he seemed to materialize out of thin air into John’s hands. He carefully unfolded it, not sure where exactly Uncle had been storing it.

“I told Arthur about it but I’m not sure he was listenin’, you might convince him though. You two always did make a great team! It would be a good score, I’m tellin’ ya!”

John narrowed his eyes, “you just want the credit for it.”

“I just want to help out, is all!”

John sighed, looking down at the map. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t be so sour! Just think about it at least, jeez.”

“Fine.” John put the map away in his pocket, “I’ll think about it, but I’m not promising anything.”

Uncle wandered off while John thought for a moment longer. As much as he hated to admit it, it did seem like a good job. And with his lack of doing pretty much anything, he wasn’t in much of a position to be picky

So in the days that followed, John continued going over the map that Uncle gave him and trying to turn it into something feasible. Eventually, he started to believe that the idea had some potential. With something solid in mind, John was left with deciding who would accompany him to do the job.

His initial thought was Arthur, but he quickly pushed the idea out of his mind. He tried to convince himself that he didn’t need him, seeing as it probably wasn’t a good idea to get him involved.

He knew the job needed at least three people, so naturally Charles was his first choice. But as for a third, John had no idea who else he could bring. Javier would have suited the role, but when John asked him about it, the other man informed him that he was already preoccupied with a job of his own. Something about a farm robbery not far from where they stayed.

“Sorry compadre, you know I would run with you anytime.”

John assured Javier that it wasn’t a problem, though he was running out of options for other people he trusted well enough to partake in the heist. His mind wandered back to the one person he knew would be perfect. He cursed to himself, Arthur was the best suited to aid them. John knew it, and he couldn’t fool himself otherwise. Slowly accepting that, he concluded that he might just have to ask him.

John paced around the small area inside his tent, going back and forth in both his movements and his thoughts. If he was being honest with himself, he would prefer Arthur to take the lead for the train robbery, anyhow. He trusted the man could pull it off better than anyone else, including John, and would rather leave it in his hands.

Outside his tent, multiple voices could be heard, with Arthur’s mixed in between them. Thinking he might catch Arthur before he was absent from camp once more, he moved toward the opening of his tent. He didn’t want to give himself more time to think about the situation or back out of asking Arthur, so John quickly exited in search of where their conversation was taking place.

Upon leaving, he heard a commotion going on where the O’Driscoll boy they'd held captive was kept. Peering over toward the source of all the noise, John could make out Dutch, Bill, and Arthur surrounding the tied up man. John hadn’t really paid any attention to him until now, not even knowing his name. He avoided going near the O’Driscoll boy for the most part. Abigail had mentioned him a couple of times, saying she almost felt a little sorry for him. She had even admitted to giving him water when the weather had been particularly hot.

All John knew about him was that he was an O’Driscoll, a bit pathetic, and someone Dutch took pleasure in torturing. And as much as John didn’t want to admit it, the fellow kind of reminded him of himself. He thought of how Abigail seemed to have a soft spot for types like them, goddamn fools.

He watched the group as they harassed the O’Driscoll, John thinking that perhaps this wasn’t the best time to make himself known. Dutch motioned to Bill, who seemed all too pleased to oblige to whatever Dutch had proposed. Beside them, Arthur stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. It was clear he did not share the same enthusiasm as the others for whatever it was they were doing.

Only a moment later did Bill return with a pair of gelding tongs and a look in his eyes that showed he was enjoying this all a bit too much. Dutch proceeded to yank down the O’Driscoll’s trousers in humiliation then waved for Bill to come closer.

“You sick bastards!” The O’Driscoll yelled while struggling against his restraints.

Dutch paid his pleading no mind as Bill took his time inching ever so agonizingly slow toward him, snipping the tongs with every step he took. The O’Driscoll flinched each time, and even John could see him begin to tremble.

“Dutch,” Arthur rasped, wearing a frown, “do we really have to?”

Dutch didn’t even look as he responded, “patience, Arthur.” He had a glint in his eyes that made John shudder.

“Fine-FINE!” the O’Driscoll stammered out, his eyes tearing up. “I’ll tell you everything I know!”

Dutch laughed triumphantly, catching John’s eye as he did. Without breaking the stare he put a hand on the tongs Bill held out, lowering them.

“Awh, can’t we do it anyways, boss?”

“No,” Dutch spoke, a menacing smile pulling at his lips. “He has no sins to hide.”

John finally broke their eye contact, turning away from the group. He was aware of how fast his heart was beating in his chest as he tried to walk away from the scene, suddenly finding it hard to put one foot in front of the other. He could feel the sweat on his palms and rubbed them against his pants.

He retracted back to his tent in fear of meeting Dutch’s gaze again. The safety inside the canvas walls was short-lived when he heard a voice behind him.

“Enjoy the view, did you?”

John jumped, looking back to see Dutch standing at the entrance. Even though John was terrified of the man, he felt his cheeks grow hot from anger, angling himself away to avoid his stare.

When he didn’t answer, Dutch continued, “hmmm, I’m sure you loved to see that. Someone like you, that is.”

Still, John stayed silent. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of an argument but also scared of what might happen if he did respond.

Dutch gave his lack of response little mind, only continuing to prod at John further. “It’s a shame Nico isn’t here to protect you any longer.”

John flinched when he said her name, clenching his jaw.

“No worries though, the O’Driscoll can be your new best friend. His name’s Kieran, by the way. I’m sure you’ll get along jusssst fine.”

Dutch dropped his smile, “anyways, I want you to go with Arthur, Bill, and that O’Driscoll boy to Six Point cabin. There is word Colm could be close.” He paused for a moment, “oh, and I want you to be the one taking Kieran on the back of your horse.”

John whipped his head to Dutch, not able to stop himself. He thought about protesting before he met Dutch’s icy stare. It bore into him, yet he swore he could see an underlying amusement there, too. It was as if he were purposely trying to rouse John into disagreeing with him. So instead John stood up, grabbing his gun belt and coat in compliance.

Reaching the tent's entrance, Dutch’s voice made him falter for a moment longer. “Birds of a feather, John. Who knows? Perhaps the two of you will run away together.” His voice lowered to that of a sneered whisper, “though, this time maybe it would be best if you didn’t return.”

Figuring he’d heard about enough, John pushed through the tent’s opening and hurriedly made his way to where Arthur and Bill waited. He was interrupted when Abigail came out of nowhere and practically jumped in front of him.

“John-where are you going?”

“Out.” He tried to move past her, but she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I thought maybe you could take Jack fishing, the boy wants to see you, John.”

He shrugged her off, “no-just-leave it be, woman.”

She didn’t try to stop him the second time as he walked away from her. He didn’t look up as he mounted his horse, his movements a little stiff as he did so. He was more than ready to get out of there.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Wasting no time, John helped Kieran onto his horse and spurred Old Boy toward the direction he was told to go. The others followed closely behind as the O’Driscoll led them along the path toward Valentine.

“Take a left up here,” Kieran pointed at an overgrown path exiting into a densely wooded area. John slowed his horse as the terrain became less regular. He could make out Arthur riding up beside him, who looked over at John.

“You alright, Marston?”

“Fine,” he answered while keeping his eyes straight ahead.

The more distance John put between him and camp, the better he started to feel. It was nice to ride out together with the others and do something other than sitting around. He tried his best to push away his short interaction with Dutch. The things he’d said… John only just started to relax once his hands stopped shaking. He wanted to tell himself it was from anger but knew it was more than that.

Soon they made it to a clearing littered with tents and supplies, with a cabin at the far end. There was a smoldering fire with food and drink left out like it was only recently abandoned. Clothes hung on wires left to dry but even with everything going on there wasn’t a single person in sight. John sent Arthur a questioning look, to which the other man only shrugged.

“Whatchu expect, that we’d actually find Colm here?”

John squinted, suspicious as he scanned the clearing, “no, but I thought we’d at least run into some of his men.”

Arthur dismounted, everyone else following suit. “We should look around, maybe we can find some idea as to where he ran off to.” When Kieran didn’t move from his spot, Arthur gave him a stern look, “that includes you, O’Driscoll.”

Kieran nearly jumped out of his skin before scampering after Bill to search the site. John only shook his head and pulled his rifle out from Old Boy’s saddle, slinging it across his shoulder.

“Nice new horse, by the way.”

John turned around to see Arthur still stood there. “Thanks.”

The two of them walked together toward the clearing in awkward silence. John thought back to the train heist and asking Arthur about it. Now was the best time to say something. He fidgeted with the strap of his rifle.

“There’s this train-”

“About the other day-”

They both cut off what they were about to say, waiting for the other to continue until a bullet whizzed by their heads and the conversation became an afterthought, their heads snapping to the source.

Bill ran to where Arthur and John stood, throwing himself behind a tree for cover, “get behind something, it’s a damn ambush!”

John ducked behind a log, clenching his rifle in his hands. He looked up just in time to see Arthur find cover behind another tree and immediately start firing his revolver. O’Driscolls appeared out of the woods, surrounding them. They were outnumbered but John was quite confident in their odds seeing as the rival gang was up against at least two adept gunslingers.

John peered over the edge of the log, locking onto one of the men and quickly releasing his breath as he pulled the trigger. He moved onto his next target before the first even dropped to the floor.

“Cover me, I’m gunna get closer!” Arthur called out before moving from his tree to a couple of crates not far from where John knelt. As he did, John quickly reloaded and stood to shoot an O’Driscoll who had the same idea of advancing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another appear from behind an old tent to aim at Arthur. The man’s intention was short-lived as he dropped to the ground a moment later and John reloaded a couple of bullets.

Steadily, they picked off the opposition until a few stragglers were left, who chose to leave with their lives rather than face the same fate as the others.

“Whoooie! Look at ‘em run off!” Kieran called out as the last few just made it out of sight.

“You’re quick to change loyalties from the men you once fought alongside, O’Driscoll.” Arthur searched the pockets of a fallen enemy, shooting Kieran a look of judgment.

“I keep tellin’ y’all, I ain’t no O’Driscoll.”

Arthur didn’t say anything, but John could see he wasn’t convinced.

“Nice shooting there, Marston.”

John only nodded his head as he scanned the ground. He turned over a container in search of anything worth taking.

“You had mentioned something about a train before, uh, you know.”

John looked up, “oh, yeah. Well, Uncle told me something ‘bout a train that’s gunna be heading through Scarlet Meadows real soon. It’ll be at night, not too heavily guarded from what I hear. It’ll be good, plus-” John cut himself off. Plus it would give me a chance to start doing something, he thought to himself.

“Hmmm,” Arthur scratched his beard, looking doubtful.

John got up from where he knelt, “we’ve done it plenty of times, it’ll be good money.”

Arthur squinted in thought “Yeah but… stopping a train? Pain in the ass.”

John was prepared for Arthur’s hesitation, having spent a while going over the plan in his mind. He continued excitedly, “sure, but what if we could force a train to stop.”

Arthur gave a chuckle, sarcastically responding, “well, of course.”

Arthur knelt beside another body to loot, assuming the conversation to be over. But John persisted, moving closer to keep his attention. “I’m serious, look, we get a wagon, a wagon full of something flammable-say oil. Put it on the tracks,” Arthur stood, nodding his head slightly as he listened to John.

“Only two choices, they know they’ll either have to stop or die.” When John finished Arthur looked at him, unblinking.

“So?” John continued, “you in?”

Arthur gave a breath of laughter to which John furrowed his brow in confusion, “that is… kinda brilliant.”

Whatever John was expecting, it wasn’t that. He quickly avoided Arthur’s gaze, looking to the ground.

“Uh, for you that is.” Arthur cleared his throat, “you know, for someone who’s brain is half-eaten by wolves. But I think that’s the first time you came up with a decent plan!”

John rolled his eyes, “shut up.”

“No, I’m serious! How did you manage to end up MORE intelligent!?”

John waited for Arthur’s chuckling to die down, “so we doin’ it then?”

“Sure, sure. But were gunna need ammunition, guns, and probably some dynamite to crack open that train.” He listed the items off with his fingers. John nodded along, “I can get those from town if you focus on getting us an oil wagon, I can go there now assuming I’m not needed here anymore?”

“Sounds like a good plan, Marston,” Arthur smiled. “You sure you don’t want to head back with us?”

“Nah, I only just got out of camp. I’d like to enjoy the serenity of being away from it a little longer.”

Arthur gave a nod of understanding, “sure, I get it.”

“Alright then, I’ll catch up with you later.” John started walking back to his horse as Arthur tipped his hat in farewell. When John knew he was at a safe enough distance, he let himself smile. As much as he knew he shouldn’t let it mean anything, a little bubble of excitement swelled inside his chest.

He rode Old Boy into town and straight to the gunsmith, picking up the necessary equipment to get the job done. He made sure not to forget the dynamite before leaving, too, as it would be crucial to their plan. After thanking the owner and heading back outside, he noticed that it had started to rain.

By the time John made it to the end of the street the rain turned from a light drizzle to what looked like buckets coming down. He made it to the hotel and ducked inside, shaking himself off a bit. Thunder rumbled in the distance, making John reconsider travelling back to camp.

“Can I help you, sir?”

John turned around to see a young woman stood behind the front desk of the hotel. He gave her a smile and a nod, “as a matter of fact, do you have any rooms available? I’ll take anything you got!”

The woman returned the smile, “why, of course! I’ll show you to your room, it’s just upstairs.”

John entered the room, making sure to thank the lady as he did. He looked around the room, it was quaint and small and not at all what he was used to. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept in a proper bed, waking the next day with an energy he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He spared no time in making the trek out to the train tracks near Dewberry Creek. It was located some ways past camp, but John thought it was worth scouting out the area, so he headed southeast out of Valentine. He passed the opposite side of Citadel Rock into the open plains. The sun was high in the sky without a cloud in sight, the rain from the day prior long gone. He breathed in, thankful for the warmth of the sun with the cool wind in the air. It was perfect.

By the time he arrived and studied the spot, the sun was hanging considerably lower. John aimed to find the best spot to ambush the train, eventually finding a dense cluster of trees just beside the tracks. When John was satisfied that this location was suitable enough, he began riding for camp. He was eager to return, wondering if he might go over more details with Arthur.

Upon his arrival back, John could smell the scent of stew being passed around for dinner. He quickly hitched Old Boy, not realizing until that moment how hungry he was. The usual bustle surrounded the stew pot as people grabbed a bowl and sat together around tables and tents. John strained to see if Arthur was amongst any of them, disappointed when he thought he spotted his blonde hair only to reveal Micah. He couldn’t help his face from twisting in disgust, disappointed to know of his arrival back.

“Looking for someone, brother?”

Charles approached John with two bowls of stew in hand, offering one to John. He took it gratefully.

“Yeah, have you seen Arthur around?”

Charles shook his head, moving to sit near one of the campfires. John followed, sitting across from him. He was thankful it was just the two of them.

“He left early this morning. Did you need help with something?”

John couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that Arthur was gone once again. He tried not to let it get to him, pushing it deep in his mind.

“Actually, Arthur and I are doing a train heist and I’ve been meaning to ask if you’ll join us, too. We could use someone like you, Charles.”

“Sure, anytime.”

John smiled down at his stew, taking another bite.

“You seem surprised.”

John looked back up at Charles, “I suppose I am. You never hesitate to offer your help.”

“Only with those I find worth offering that help to. For you, it’s an honor. As honourable as you can be amongst thieves, that is.”

John raised his eyebrows. He was not expecting such high praise from someone like Charles, who he thought was better than any man he knew combined.

Charles continued, “it’s hard to find good people, and I mean wholeheartedly good people, John. I see it in Arthur, even though he doesn’t see it in himself… I saw it in Nico.” Charles looked up at John, “she always did try to look out for those she cared about.”

He paused, then gave a slight chuckle, “I see it in you, too. Though I have to admit it took me a little while to fully understand you.”

John let out a snort of laughter at Charles’ words. A moment later, the smile faded from his lips. “Can I ask you something, Charles?”

When Charles nodded, he continued. “Why did you join us? Why did you follow Dutch?”

Charles steadily set his bowl down on the ground, then sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I ran on my own for a long time. I did fine, too, but it makes life more difficult. The world is a lot crueler when you’re alone in it. I spent most nights worrying that someone might kill me in my sleep. Running with Dutch, well. Dutch is different. He treats me fair, he doesn’t see me for what others hold against me. Most of you don’t, so here I am.”

John nodded, swallowing dryly, “I see.”

He sat with Charles a while longer before departing for the night. He lay staring at his tent ceiling for what felt like hours. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Charles had said about Dutch. It was disconcerting. To be reminded of how deeply rooted people's faith in Dutch was. He wondered how someone like Charles could see such morality in John. And Arthur and Nico. Yet, he also trusted in Dutch. It made John feel sick, knowing the deceit that lay there instead.

He’d spent so much of his childhood seeking Dutch’s approval, to be praised by him. And what for? So he could fall in line with the others to be blindly shepherded along like lambs to the slaughter? Still, a part of him yearned for that validation. It was twisted, and cruel to subject himself to the thought, but it was present nonetheless. No matter how much he might deny it.

The following day there was no sign of Arthur. John didn’t expect to see him return so soon, but he had held onto the slightest hope that he might’ve been proved wrong. When one day turned into two, and two days turned into a week, John became anxious that Arthur wouldn’t come back soon enough.

John mostly preoccupied himself by going over the plan. He talked with Charles, too, which helped ease his mind slightly. After a few more days passed and there was still no word from their third party member, John started to grow a little annoyed considering the train was due in three days' time.

On the morning of the heist, John was pissed. The previous day, he ended up taking matters in his own hands by securing an oil wagon by himself as he felt he couldn’t trust Arthur in appearing out of thin air to say he found one.

John sat at his usual spot under the oak tree. He held a cigarette in one hand and the map Uncle gave him in the other. He looked over the marked X where the train tracks crossed over the road like he had countless times before. He had gone over the plan again and again in his mind, determined to do it right when the time came.

He brought the cigarette up to his lips, thinking of how little his efforts were met by Arthur. He blamed himself for thinking they could do this. It was too good to be true, John knew that now. He just wished he didn’t try to trick himself into believing otherwise so that he would’ve saved himself the trouble of trying. That, and the sinking feeling he had since coming back from Valentine.

He folded the map up and stuffed it in his pocket, not paying attention to it anyways. He was angry with himself that he was so upset over the whole situation. He didn’t know what he expected to get out of it all. To try to be closer to Arthur? Physically, since emotionally was never an option. In all the past eight years that idea had never gone well. So John didn’t understand why he thought that could change.

John could hear indistinct conversation coming from the edge of camp, which he paid little mind in his deep thought. That was until he heard what he thought was Arthur’s voice reply. John’s head snapped up, thinking his ears may have deceived him. To his bewilderment, there Arthur stood in the flesh.

John took a long drag from his cigarette while he watched Arthur hitch his horse. As if he felt his eyes on him, Arthur turned his head toward him. John quickly looked away, scowling as he did. He heard his footsteps approach but still refused to look up when they stopped in front of him.

“Hey-”

“You never got us that oil wagon, did you.” John finally did look up at him, flicking the cigarette away after blowing out his last breath.

It took a second for Arthur to register what he said, “Ah, I’m sorry,” he gave a little chuckle. “I clean forgot.”

“Are you? Sorry?” John shook his head, “nevermind.” He stood, “it’s taken care of, anyways.”

He moved to walk past Arthur, “otherwise we’d miss that train.”

Arthur took the few steps with him, opening his mouth like he was going to say something then closing it. John stopped to turn to him again, “are you still interested in the job? Cause if not I’m sure I can-”

“I am.”

John nodded, “okay then. Well, good.”

When neither of them said anything further, John continued on his way.

“Er, Marston-”

John faced him again but didn’t say anything. Arthur continued, “thanks… for getting it, by the way.”

John stared at him without saying anything, he blinked and without thinking blurted, “maybe we shouldn’t do this job together.”

It was a joke to have thought he could work jobs with Arthur again. He thought perhaps things were good enough between them that they might be civil. But the tension was there already, and it would only continue to build. The two didn’t work well together anymore. John’s heart dropped at its realization and from the look of surprise on Arthur’s face.

“You take it. Get Charles and Sean or someone to go with you. You don’t have to give me a cut, either.”

“What, why? Is this because I didn’t get the damn oil wagon?”

John winced at that, “No. It wasn’t. But it was your job to get it.” He felt his frustration rise, like a fuse that had been waiting to be lit upon Arthur’s arrival.

“You know, I’ve been pretty busy running all over the damn state. Perhaps you should’ve gotten it in the first place, seeing as you’re not preoccupied by much these days.”

John scoffed, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. Since when does John Marston finish anything he’s started. Maybe I will take Sean with me, seeing as he’ll be a good replacement for your incompetence to see things through!”

John raised his hands in frustration, “I’m not talking to you like this, Morgan.”

Arthur laughed dryly, “go on then, run away like you always do when you can’t handle it.”

John gave a look of disbelief, “are you joking? Can’t handle it? You’re the one who didn’t bother getting the damn oil wagon! I actually want this job, believe it or not!”

“Yeah? Well what’s it like being disappointed?”

Their yelling immediately ceased, the air growing quiet like the silence that follows the crack of a whip.

John blinked, “what?”

Arthur hesitated for a second before his features hardened, “maybe you’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t work together on this.”

Not waiting for a response, Arthur turned and walked away, leaving John behind in the quiet aftermath of their argument. Alone and with nothing but a boiling anger that grew inside him, John turned too, stomping off toward the direction of his tent.

Without stopping, he grabbed his coat and left again. He found Old Boy and mounted the horse, steering him out of camp. Spurring to go faster, he flew through the countryside. John didn’t know where he was going but knew he just needed to get away for a while. He didn’t slow his pace until he came up to the river. He didn’t recognize this part of the winding waters, making him realize just how far he’d gone. But he didn’t care.

He slowed Old Boy and launched himself off and paced on the sands of the river a moment. He wanted to scream from frustration, yell at the top of his lungs. Looking down, he picked up a rock and threw it into the water. Then he picked up another and did the same, repeating himself again and again. When he got tired of throwing rocks, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. He paused for a moment, feeling the map. His fingers curled around it, then yanked it out. Without hesitating he ripped it apart and hurled it with all his might.

For all his force, the pieces merely fluttered around him, getting caught in the wind. They lingered briefly before a breeze swept by and took them away. John watched them go, and suddenly he was on the ground with tears streaming down his face. He didn’t know where it came from, but he couldn’t stop now that he started crying. The sand was cold and damp yet he continued to sit there, unable to move.

He wished he didn’t rip up the map, he wished he could put the pieces back together.

No. that wasn’t it. He wished Nico wasn’t dead. He wished what he and Arthur had wasn’t dead. He wished he didn’t fuck up every relationship he ever had. He treated Abigail poorly, and could barely look at Jack. John didn’t know how they all deserved to have someone as flawed as him. He thought he could move on, but it seemed he would be dealing with the repercussions of his actions for the rest of his life.

John held his head in his hands, gazing into the churning rapids of the river. He wondered when things got so out of control. It felt like just yesterday when he and Arthur were still kids doing nothing but spending their days never apart. Now John was so much older and alone, growing into someone he never wanted to be.

Night fell over the sky making the crickets song come to life and the stars flicker up above. John didn’t realize how long he had sat there until the evening had come and went. Wiping his cheeks with the sleeves of his coat, he eventually stood. His bones ached once he got up, stiff from sitting for so long.

Old Boy grazed not far from the river, looking up when John walked over. He gave the horse a few pats, ���sorry, boy. Let’s get you home.”

John retraced his way back to camp, this time much slower than before. He tried to collect himself along the way, finding it to be pointless as his heart was still heavy. He waved to Bill as he crossed over the border into camp, quietly hitching his horse and retreating to his tent. He took off his coat and crawled into bed, his last thought wishing the day had never happened.

[vanderlindemangofarm]

(If Arthur hadn't escaped from colm... I do think they'd be sending his body into camp instead of Kierans! And since I saw a previous ask about 'if dutch was gonna save him or not! =) ) The reaction of the gang maybe? =D maybe as a follow up with the fact that Micah had actually convinced them that our poor Arthur would've been fine on his own.

This is such a grim scenario, Anon! 😖

Also, this turned out to be much longer than I first anticipated (I got carried away!). I feel a bit drained now. Writing two separate posts about Arthur dying in less than two days is rough, folks. 

Gang Reactions to Arthur dying instead of Kieran

The gang are all jerked into action when they hear Mary-Beth screaming. The poor girl can barely form words - in fact, she passes out. Dutch rushes to her aid, only then noticing what caused her distress. He freezes. 

There’s no mistaking it - it’s Arthur. Or what used to be Arthur. “My god, what have they done to him?” 

The shootout between the gang and the O’Driscolls is one of the bloodiest in anyone’s memory. Dutch is fueled by ice-cold rage. His face is expressionless but his pistol fires so rapidly he barely even notices what he’s doing. He doesn’t stop until the camp is silent. 

Sadie is so beside herself she’s sobbing. No one has seen her like this since they first rescued her in Colter. She shuts down completely, refusing to speak to anyone for several days. 

Micah is speechless, at least for a while. Eventually, he attempts to console Dutch. “It ain’t your fault, if Morgan couldn’t get out on his own…” 

That’s as far as he gets, though. Charles has sprinted towards him and punched him so hard in the jaw the entire camp hears the crack. 

“Don’t,” he hisses, his voice trembling and barely coherent. “don’t you even try. You goddamn coward.” Micah staggers to his feet, his face bloody and snarling. 

“I’m just tellin’ it like it is, don’t y’all go blamin’ me.” he chokes, blood dribbling down his chin from his split lip. “And if you lay another hand on me again, you red-skinned half-breed…”

Again, Charles can’t be contained. No one even tries. Before long, Micah is unconscious. 

Ms. Grimshaw finally manages to steady herself enough to demand that someone move Arthur’s body. Charles and John carry him together, their collective breath deep and steady. John insists on burying him by himself. He’s digging for hours, refusing to rest until it’s done. 

Charles spends the next few days crafting the most beautiful grave marker he can for Arthur. 

Jack spends a whole afternoon picking every wildflower he can see to rest on top, which Abigail helps him weave into a wreath. 

If Molly felt ignored by Dutch before, it was nothing compared to now. He practically shuts her out of the tent. She spends the long days smoking, at a loss of what to say. In the evenings she brings him bowls of Pearson’s stew, which return uneaten and cold. 

Hosea is the only person Dutch allows into his tent. The two men sit in companionable silence together. After a while, Dutch lets out a long sigh. “I abandoned the boy.” 

Hosea is quiet for a while, letting Dutch have the silence. “What’s done is done.” he says simply, after a few minutes. “Now we just have more reason to keep goin’.” 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s Kieran that feels the brunt of Arthur’s death the hardest. 

“It should’ve been you”, Sadie whispers at him one night. It’s the first thing she’s said since the shootout. Her eyes are red and her voice hoarse. 

For the first time in his life, Kieran feels the burning, inescapable need for a drink. He practically tiptoes to the campfire, which is all but deserted. Well, save for Bill, who’s glugging whiskey straight from the bottle. He peers up at Kieran with hooded eyes. Kieran swallows. 

“Can…do you mind if…?” he stammers, his mouth dry. Bill doesn’t respond, turning his gaze back to the fire. Kieran, deciding to throw caution to the wind, kneels beside him. 

“She’s right, it should’ve been me.” he croaks after what could have been an hour. Realising too late that he said it out loud, he waits for the inevitable insult from his companion. But it doesn’t come. 

“Don’ matter who it shoulda been. You’re still here. So keep goin’, and have a goddamn drink.” he grumbles, thrusting the almost empty bottle at Kieran. Kieran is surprised, but he earnestly sips the fiery liquor. 

 He knows at that moment that Arthur may be gone, but he’d be glad that Kieran had stayed.