[4] May I Stand Unshaken

May I stand unshaken

Amid, amidst a crashing world

Did I hear a thunder?

Did I hear you break?

I can't quite remember

Just what guided me this way, oh

May I stand unshaken

Amid, amidst a crashing world

— D'Angelo

Graphite scratched against parchment grain in wide, purposeful strokes. It'd been quite some time since Arthur sat down with his journal, back pressed against the trunk of a large tree. He sketched the horses tied at the edge of camp and lingering glances between Hosea and Dutch thought nobody noticed, silent conversations only they were privy to.

He made new entries, drawing directly from memory which wasn't always the most reliable. A doodle of him and Jack, fishing by the water and another page dedicated to a drawing of Abigail and John dancing in the firelight.

In front of him, not ten yards away, Charles was chopping wood for the entire camp. Which, to his credit, wasn't completely outside of the realm of typical for the Bowman— being that he was as strong and as capable as any two of them put together.

What was so criminal about it at all was the absence of a shirt; leaving his broad, muscular chest on display along with a generous show of his torso and hips that was nothing short of a distraction. Arthur's thoughts quickly turned unholy, so he buried himself in the pages of his journal instead of his imagination.

By now, many of the pages were dedicated to Charles. Portraits of his face to simple, rough sketches of his hands and the planes of muscle along his back. Any other man would call him obsessed or sick, maybe he was.

Arthur turned the page, meaning to start something else—anything else to get his mind off of the sharp lines dipping below his hips. His face burned red hot, and somehow, being that he was well into his thirties, Arthur felt similarly to when he was a young man, trying to win the heart of Ms. Mary Linton.

The sound of the axe swinging and connecting with wood stopped, he heard the absence of it first, then felt Charles’ gaze slide to him. That quiet prickle at the base of his spine, Arthur got the sense of being looked at without having to check.

When he felt brave enough he lifted his head, Charles had paused mid-swing, axe head resting against the stump. Sunlight caught along the edge of his shoulder, sweat dark at his collarbone. He looked at Arthur easy and unguarded.

Then, his mouth stretched across his expression and he smiled.

It wasn’t big or meant to be a teasing gesture, just a small, slow, private curve of his mouth, like he’d found something worth keeping to himself. The heat of it hit Arthur sharp and immediate, a flare low in his chest that stole the air from his lungs. For a breathless moment, the world narrowed to that look and the dull thud of his own pulse in his ears.

Arthur’s fingers tightened around the journal until the parchment bent. Charles held his gaze, eyes dark and steady, like he was daring Arthur not to look away. Then, just as easily, he turned back to his work.

The axe rose and fell with a solid crack again, splitting the log clean through. Arthur returned to his pages with an idiotic smile set in his features, heart still skidding hard against his ribs. The graphite left a dark, crooked line where his hand had slipped. He didn’t fix it, instead he shut his journal, palm flat over the cover brushing over warm leather before depositing it safely in his satchel.

Arthur leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes, letting the heat burn itself down to an ember. He stayed there longer than he needed to, listening, anchored by the sound of Charles still standing, still there, even as the world kept moving around them.

The heat lingered longer than Arthur expected it to. Not sharp or flavourful on his tongue and not threatening—just there; humming low beneath his skin like something newly woken that hadn’t yet learned how to settle in his bones. Maybe Arthur needed to stop fighting it to begin with.

He breathed through it, slow and deliberate, the way Charles had once taught him after a bad night; in through the nose, out through the mouth; give it somewhere else to go. Arthur counted his breaths, made sure they still came easy before deciding to rise to his feet.

Charles was still there, still working, movements measured and unhurried. Each swing of the axe was clean and gave Arthur a clear view of Charles’ rippling muscles and sweat slicked skin. Arthur watched the set of his shoulders, the flex and release of muscle beneath sun-warmed skin like a man hypnotized or under a spell.

Clemen's Point was hot and being by the water didn't help matters as much as Arthur thought it might. The only reprieve they were given was when a rainstorm would roll in and sweep through, until the humidity and stickiness of Lemoyne settled in and ruined it completely. Even at night when the sun had finally gone away to rest, the moggy, balmy heat made it impossible to get close to one another.

So, Arthur took advantage of the big, shady tree he was sitting underneath, back pressed as far against the trunk as it would go. And with the impressive muscle of a man to watch chop wood, what more could he possibly want?

The good thing about the Lemoyne heat was how much it slowed the rest of camp down; Pearson didn't rise as early as he typically did and even Ms.Grimshaw yelled and nagged less than she usually did. Dutch was slower to rise in the morning from the lean-to he and Hosea shared together, though Hosea was still among the first to wander around camp in the early mornings— he wasn't that morning.

Dutch had backed off for the better part of a few days, deciding not to push Arthur after their last confrontation came to a head. In this heat though, they were more likely to end in an all out war than a little, harmless scuffle between two brothers. Wrestling and rough housing was normal, especially amongst the younger members like Lenny and Sean who had extra steam to blow off at the end of the day.

Arthur let his hat tip forward, blanketing his face in shadow to shield his eyes as he watched Charles split another log clean down the center. The sound was steady and measured, reliable. It grounded him in a way that made him feel like he belonged again, like he wasn't a puzzle piece that didn't fit anywhere.

For now, the camp had reached some semblance of fragile truce. Dutch stayed quiet, Hosea stayed scarce, and Pearson slept in well beyond normal. Grimshaw barked orders without bite or conviction, and the camp chores had come to stockpile. It felt less like peace and more like the calm before the storm—one Arthur had no intention of letting break anywhere near Charles.

Eventually Charles left the axe buried deep in the stump of wood, decidedly finished for the time being. Arthur brushed aside the small pit of disappointment bundled in his gut with the practiced ease of a man long used to swallowing things he didn’t have the words for.

Charles wiped his hands on his trousers, rolled his shoulders once like he was easing the tightness out of his muscles, and finally reached for his shirt where it lay folded over a crate. Arthur listened to the sound of the Bowman's boots thudding against the ground until they stopped at his outstretched leg.

He felt his hat shift on his head, until he was no longer shielded or able to hide underneath the brim. Charles gazed down at him, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and expression soft around the edges. “Hey Cowboy,” he hummed, hair framing the sides of his face, much longer now. Arthur wondered if he might teach him how to braid someday— he made a mental note to ask, later. “Should probably get out of the sun before you turn to a crisp.”

Arthur squinted up at him, the sudden wash of light making him scowl more out of habit than irritation. “Ain’t that what hats are for?” he drawled, voice rough but easy. Still, he didn’t try to pull the brim back down. Didn’t look away, either.

Charles was looking at him far too sweet for him to look away.

The Bowman huffed a quiet laugh at that, something warm and low in his chest. He nudged Arthur’s boot lightly with the toe of his own. “Shade only does so much. You been sittin’ here all afternoon.”

“Someone’s gotta supervise,” Arthur said easily, “Make sure you’re doin’ it right.”

That earned him a look; fond and sharp all at once. Charles shook his head, finally reaching up to drag his shirt on, though his lips were still curved with amusement from their banter.

The fabric clung for a second before settling, and Arthur very deliberately fixed his gaze on Charles’s face instead of the way his hands moved. “C’mon,” He said, offering a hand down to the outlaw without ceremony. “Water’s cooler down by the river, you can hide from Dutch upstream for a bit.”

Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him before sliding his hand into Charles’, squeezing gently before he hauled him upwards, back onto his tired legs. He couldn't say for certain whether or not he actually felt Charles’ thumb brushing over his knuckles, but he chose to savor the feeling, however brief.

They fell into step together without discussion, angling away from the heart of camp toward the thin stretch of riverbank upstream. The farther they got, the quieter everything became—voices dulling, the clatter of camp life softening into the distant sound of buzzing cicadas and the slow lap of water against the shore.

Arthur tipped his hat back properly this time, glancing sideways at Charles, hands and arms brushing together. “You hidin’ from him too, or just doin’ me a kindness?”

“A little of both,” Charles responded honestly. “Figure we earned a break.”

Arthur huffed, half a laugh. “Careful. You talk like that, Dutch might hear it in his sleep.”

Charles’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed thoughtful. “He’s been watchin’ you,” he said after a moment. Not accusatory, just observant. “Tryin’ to figure where you stand now…I think he's gonna make a stand. Don't know when, but I can feel it coming.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. He stared ahead at the water cutting its lazy path through the reeds. Not unlike him, Charles felt the winds of change on its way— something on the horizon, coming for all of them.

When they journeyed far enough down the river from camp, Arthur's fingers slid back into the spaces between Charles’ and he clasped his hand like he was desperate for the contact. The Hunter didn't recoil or reject him, instead he responded by squeezing back.

They stuck close to the treeline, the river remaining on their left side. Once they were well hidden, Charles came to a stop— tugging on Arthur's hand to stall his footsteps until they were facing one another.

Charles looked devastated, expression wracked with worry and exhaustion. Dark pools of coppery brown glistened down at him with emotion Arthur had yet to understand or place. His free hand reached up, palm cupping the curve of his jaw and rough fingers stroking his cheek. “I'm worried, Arthur.” He said, sounding unsteady. “We should start thinking about where we wanna go from here Arthur, and soon.”

“Go?” Arthur looked up at him, wide-eyed and stricken with fear. Mary had asked him to do the same thing for her— for a woman he claimed was the love of his life up until a few short months ago. He had wanted to go with her, promised her he would, and always ended up in another job or scandal that kept him from getting around to it.

“We need to get out, anyone who wants can come with us but we should get out—soon as we're able.” Arthur felt dizzy, both from what Charles was asking of him and the feeling of his hand against his skin, touching him with tenderness despite his size.

“Charles…” Arthur tried, voice rough and heart drumming against his chest. He swallowed, throat working, and for a moment he couldn’t make himself look anywhere but at Charles’s hand on his face. The weight of it: the gentleness, the way his thumb moved like it had every right to be there. It made an old hunger twist up in Arthur’s gut, memory and shame and fear all knotted together.

“This Gang is all I've ever known—” He broke off, jaw tightening hard enough to ache, Charles didn't scold or press him with platitudes, instead he waited, patiently. “I dunno what to do, yet.” he said finally, quieter now. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm not askin’ you to know yet,” Charles said quietly. His voice was low, even, but there was an edge of feeling in it that Arthur felt all the way down to his bones. “Just askin’ you to think about it. To look up once in a while and see what’s really happenin’ around us, think about where it's all gonna lead.”

Arthur huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t sound so tired. “I'm scared.”

“I know.” Charles’ mouth curved, not smiling exactly, but with understanding. “But you ain’t wrong for feelin’ that way. And you ain’t weak for not bein’ ready.” Arthur felt the rough pad of his thumb brushing against his bottom lip and he all but parted his mouth in invitation for him. “Just think about it, for me.”

Arthur swallowed hard, pulse thudding loud enough he was sure Charles could feel it through his fingertips. Fear still sat heavy in his gut, old and ingrained, but beneath it was something steadier—something that wanted to be brave, just this once, with Charles.

“I will,” he said, voice low and rough, but sure. He lifted his chin a fraction, forcing himself to meet Charles’s eyes. “I swear I’ll think on it, I give you my word.” The words felt different than all the other promises he’d made in his life: less like something said to keep the peace and more like something meant to be kept, cherished.

Charles exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath longer than Arthur realized. His forehead tipped forward until it rested briefly against Arthur’s, a quiet, reverent thing. “Thank you.” He murmured, and there was relief in it, real and unguarded.

Their noses brushed together and suddenly, all at once, Charles’ mouth was against his. Moving slow and unprepared, giving Arthur enough time to back out if he wanted. It wasn’t smooth or practiced. It couldn’t have been, not with the way Arthur stiffened at first, startled by the press of another man’s mouth against his own at first.

Charles’s lips were warm and firm, a little unsure, like he was checking in even as he went forward. Arthur’s breath caught, instinct warring with years of learned restraint, but Charles didn’t rush him. He lingered, adjusted, the kiss tilting slightly off-center as Arthur fumbled his way into it.

He kissed back clumsily, all teeth and hesitation at first, hands hovering uselessly at Charles’s sides before finally gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was something solid in a world that had just shifted under his feet. It wasn’t graceful. They bumped noses, broke apart for a breath, then found each other again—slower this time, deeper, the rhythm uneven but earnest and real.

Soft sounds escaped him, sighs and other breathy groans that Arthur hadn't realized he could make. Before long Charles was nipping at him swiping his tongue along his bottom lip and pulling away from him all too soon. Arthur chased him, dry and cracked lips reaching for him and Charles took pity on him with one last press of their mouths before parting from the outlaw for good.

“Come on,” He exhaled, rough and sounding as wrecked as Arthur felt. “John told me about those horses you're gonna steal from the Braithwaites— he's gonna be waiting on you soon enough.” Charles inclined his head, gesturing for them to turn around and head back in the direction of camp. The last thing Arthur wanted was for anyone to find them while his skin was on fire and his world was spinning.

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed, sounding tacky and heavy with repression. He brushed his hands along the front of his button-up, then down the middle of his face. “Yeah, we should…” He trailed off, despising how wrecked and dragged through the dirt he sounded. They walked side by side, shoulders brushing shoulders, hands ghosting over hands.

The promise he made Charles weighed heavy on his thoughts, as did the butterflies fluttering in his stomach. His body thrummed, pulsing— alight with electricity from being pressed against one another, lips locked only minutes ago.

Before they parted ways, they stopped at the treeline before camp. By now, even Kieran was likely awake. None of them slept too long with the heat reaching its peak as the day trekked on. Charles turned to him, hand resting over his wrist. “You be careful, I don't trust this angle Dutch and Hosea are playing, doesn't seem like a good idea.”

“I know, I'll be as careful as I can.” It was as good a promise as any, Arthur only hoped, like many others, that he would be able to keep it and follow through.

They parted there, easy and unremarkable to anyone who might be watching. Arthur veered toward his horse, forcing his thoughts back down.familiar roads; Braithwaites, horses, old rivalries and another job to get done. The warmth of that kiss stayed with him, a steady weight in his chest that Arthur kept close to his heart.

As he swung up into the saddle and nudged his horse forward, Arthur glanced back once more. Charles was already gone, swallowed by camp and canvas and routine but Arthur felt him there all the same. For the first time in a long while, riding out to yet another job, Arthur Morgan carried something with him that didn’t feel like a burden at all.

Stealing and selling the Braithwaite's prized race horses turned out to not be the high yielding payoff they were led to believe it would be. In all honesty, Arthur thought the money was not worth the trouble, but Dutch praised John for his entrepreneurship and went along with it anyways.

The next few days came and went without ceremony, they did what was asked of them and Arthur saw less of Charles over the last week than he preferred. They were always pulled into another meeting; a conversation they weren't really part of or sent on another mission that needed a high success rate. Which was fine, normally—when he could come back home and find himself pressed against Charles at the end of a long, hard day.

It was midday, in the middle of the thick, Lemoyne humidity that Pearson brought news of The O'Driscolls and talks of peace. Hosea huffed a laugh from where he sat, hunched over an old, worn novel and claimed it was nothing but a trap without looking up from the pages. Arthur agreed.

Micah and Dutch however, thought the idea worth sleeping on, at least. The camp was divided by the idea, with most of them wanting to play it safe and not engage with the O'Driscoll's at all. Some members, like Javier and Pearson, weren't so convinced that it wasn't worth their time to consider.

By nightfall, voices carried farther than they should have. Arthur woke more than once to the sound of Dutch and Hosea arguing in low, jagged tones that carried sharp edges despite their attempts at secrecy. Plans didn’t line up the way they used to and promises felt thinner, he was beginning to feel everything press down on him. Suffocating.

Arthur lay on his bedroll staring up at the stars through canvas, listening, pretending he couldn’t hear the cracks forming beneath them all. Dutch should've known better than to believe that Colm O'Driscoll would ever accept peace— not after sinking years of his life into their feud, not after Dutch had taken his brother from him.

The following morning, once the camp had all stirred awake, Dutch finally announced the meeting with Colm O’Driscoll and the choice to put an end to their decade long rivalry. Arthur felt the warning settle deep in his gut, weighing him down like stones at the bottom of a lake. It was all too neat and convenient, Charles didn’t say much when Arthur caught his eye across camp, but the look he gave him was enough: wary, guarded, like a man already bracing for the worst yet to come.

And of course Micah hadn't been any help; pressing Dutch about giving peace a chance, lecturing them on choosing the less bloody option instead of drawing more attention to themselves. If Dutch had any sense at all, he would tell Micah and Colm O’Driscoll to shove it where the sun didn't shine and carry on their merry way. These days though, Dutch didn't have much of anything, nevermind his wits about him.

He spent a great deal of time listening to Hosea and Dutch go back and forth the night prior, hesitating outside the canvas doorway of their lean-to, unable to pry himself away. “Have you been listening to a word I've been saying?” Hosea's voice, rough and wet, huffed at him. “Or are you too caught up in your own delusions again?”

Dutch's voice retorted, sounding incredulous, “I won't have you talkin’ to me in such a way, Hosea— last I checked I don't have a head full of air so don't try and tell me I do.”

“You're missing the point,” Hosea sighed, long and drawn out. “Colm's request for peace, this plan…We're walking ourselves into a trap and I don't like it, it's not a good idea.”

There was a long silence that followed, thick and heavy with tension and unspoken glances Arthur wasn't privy to on the other side of the canvas walls. After a short while, Dutch tacked on, short and curt, “Oh.”

“Dutch—” Hosea tried his best, tone dripping with a plea that went unanswered.

“—No, no,” Arthur could picture the flex of his jaw and the puffing of his chest. He could hear the defense in Dutch's tone, mixed with some twisted version of hurt, coiled tightly around his fiery words. “Please Hosea, go on and enlighten me with a good plan of yours then.”

Arthur couldn't listen any longer, his blood boiled at the thought of anyone speaking to Hosea in such a tone. Even recounting the memory of it now, stoked the flames licking up his bones. He did his best to stay quiet, to move through the crowds towards Charles, already feeling the invisible chord fraying, pulled tight.

Dutch's eyes found him amongst the camp heads, making him freeze like a buck out in a wide meadow. His boots felt rooted in the mud, hands clammy with sweat. “We shouldn't be doin’ this, Dutch. It's a load of horse shit an’ you both know it.” Blue eyes cut sharply to Micah, who feigned mock offense by the not-so-subtle accusation.

“Look, Hosea's probably right—it’s probably a trap… but what have we got to lose finding out?”

Arthur shook his head, “Could get shot. Someone could die, your way of doin’ things usually ends in some sorta massacre.” He all but spat the words, levelling Micah with his frustration and venom. If anyone else was to blame for Dutch's spiral in health, it was him, whispering bad ideas and plans of bloody glory to a man already lost.

“We ain’t getting shot because you’ll be protecting us,” Micah smoothed in a patronizing manner, laying a hand on his bicep in false friendliness, ignoring his evident dislike completely. “If it's a trap, you shoot the lot of them, if it ain’t a trap, that slim chance… It's a chance we gotta take.”

Dutch said nothing, watching their exchange with a fixated, analyzing gaze. Arthur turned to him, expression raised in exasperation. “Whatcha think, Dutch? You really wanna go through with this?”

For a long time he was silent, arms folded across his chest and shoulders set straight, unwilling to appear as anything other than the King he thought himself as. At the edge of the crowd Arthur caught Charles’ figure, standing by— watching over him.

Dutch's voice was steady with resolve when he spoke, drawing his attention back. His dark, inky eyes were as clear as Arthur had seen them for some time. “I killed Colm’s brother, long time ago… Then he killed— a woman I loved dear…”

“As you say… it’s a long time ago, Dutch.” Micah chimed in, helpful as always. Arthur forced the laugh in his throat to leave, and even though it's not the time for laughing, he feels helpless and unable to do anything else. He isn't used to being looked over or brushed aside, not by Dutch least of all. Arthur searches for Hosea amongst the faces of the camp, desperate and lost, spiralling.

Dutch and Micah spend a long time sharing looks in a language only they understand. After some time, he nods his head and shifts his focus back to Arthur. “This is the right call, son. You, me and Micah and no one else. You'll take the high point to protect us, we'll do the talking.”

Dutch was moving alongside Micah before Arthur could even think of slipping in another protest. From over his shoulder Micah called back at him, “Mount up and let's go, then, Morgan!”

“Yeah, yeah! You can wait ‘till I'm good and ready.” He snapped back even when there was no use, Dutch made his decision and Arthur had no choice but to follow him into the flames. He stormed off in the opposite direction, he needed a minute to regain his composure whether they wanted to wait for him or not. John was a good shot, Dutch coulda just as easily asked for him.

Arthur found himself stomping around his lean-to, gathering his weapons and strapping them to his person. More than necessary probably, but better safe than sorry. He thought of Dutch's eyes, faraway while Arthur and Hosea tried to reason with him. Micah was the only one that seemed to have his ear anymore.

He felt the presence of someone behind him before he heard their footsteps or the sound of canvas being pushed aside. Arthur sighed, a long, winded sound. “Said I would come when I was ready.” He managed, when the outlaw turned around, fingers flexed into fists at his sides to find Charles and not Dutch or Micah coming to rush him, his fury wilted away. “Sorry… Just, don't have a good feelin’ about this meeting.”

“You want me to follow?” It was the first time he'd spoken and it was to offer his help, Arthur felt his heart kick up. The idea was tempting and it made him feel safer by some margin, but Charles was safer back at camp, away from the likes of Dutch and Micah. As far away from Arthur as he could get was Charles’ only hope of not getting caught up in the middle of it at all.

“No,” His hands flexed and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Don't want you anywhere near this if I'm bein’ honest.”

All at once Charles was crowding his space, hands cupping his face, warm and tender. “You don't have to do this, you have a choice, Arthur.” He melted into the contact, leaning into large thumbs caressing either side of his jaw.

“It's just for a little while longer,” Arthur exhaled, allowing the knot in his chest to slowly come undone the longer Charles held him. Arthur boldly reached down, threading their fingers together in the privacy of the lean-to. “Just ‘til it's safe for us to…” He swallowed around the word, trailing off when it started to feel like a betrayal to his family on the back of his tongue. “Gotta figure out a few things first.”

Thoughts of a piece of land with their name on it came to mind, but that also meant they would need a loan from the bank or invest time and resources into a private sale. It was a wonderful dream, but for every dream they needed money— and a lot of it. More than Arthur had hidden or stashed away, far outside of Dutch's knowledge.

Instead of the argument like Arthur thought they might have, Charles dipped down and pressed their lips together. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome, Arthur melted into his touch, his hands, the smell of pine and musk rolling off of him.

He barely had time to kiss him back or move before Charles' mouth was gone, and his grasp moved from the Outlaw's jaw to his chin. “I love you, Arthur.” He confessed, pressed against him, nose brushing against his buzzing skin. Then, fondly, “Don't do anything stupid out there, come back to me.”

They kissed again, deep and hard until Charles was forced to let him go and Arthur had no other choice but to push himself to meet Dutch and Micah at the edge of camp. It didn't matter how angry or impatient they were with him, Arthur would be riding off the high from Charles long after he returned from their pointless meeting with the O'Driscolls.

Arthur mounted up with a feeling he couldn’t shake; bitter and sour on the back of his tongue, sitting heavy behind his ribs. The camp blurred behind them as they rode out, canvas, smoke, half-finished chores—all of it falling away too easily, like the gang itself was already thinning at the edges. He didn’t look back. If he did, he knew he’d find Charles watching him, and he didn’t trust himself not to break ranks if he met his gaze again.

They rode mostly in silence. Micah hummed under his breath, restless and pleased, while Dutch kept his posture tall in the saddle, gaze fixed ahead like he could will the world into bending his way. Arthur rode silently behind them, jaw tight, every instinct screaming at him, telling him to turn around and head on back home.

Micah gestured up towards the cliffside in the distance with an ugly, gnarled finger where Arthur is meant to keep watch, explaining the plan up his sleeve which is half-cocked and vague. He doesn't care, just grunts about everyone meeting back at the fork in the road when it's all said and done. Micah flashed him a smile that was closer to a grin; all teeth and tongue. “You can count on us Arthur, we'll be there.”

When they reached the foothills, Dutch reined in and tipped his head toward the rise ahead. “Go on Arthur, you'll take the high ground,” he said, like it was already settled. “Watch the perimeter, if anything feels off—”

“I know,” Arthur cut in, sharper than he meant to. He softened a beat later. “I’ll cover you.”

Dutch nodded once satisfied, already turning back to Micah to quietly discuss matters between the two of them. Arthur watched them go for a pause, then turned and guided his horse, Red, away from them, following the narrow path up toward the cliffside. Each step upward felt like moving further from solid ground, the air thinning, pressure building around them. Arthur had the sickly feeling that he was forgetting something; missing a piece of the puzzle.

About halfway up he dismounted Red, leaving the Turkoman amongst a grove of dense trees, tail swaying behind him like he wasn't feeling confident about their plan either. He patted her neck and hurried on his way, with Micah whispering like a snake in Dutch's ear so often, it was only a wonder what he was saying.

The last thing Arthur needed was to give him more ammunition to use against them.

He finds himself on the ground, chest to the dirt while he worms over to the edge for a better view. Micah and Dutch slow their horses to trots as they approach, and Arthur wished he could see the expression painted across Colm's features— the intent behind his dark eyes. He readies his rifle and does his best to break apart the bundle of nerves rooted in the pit of his chest. Arthur is used to half-cocked plans and guns blazing by now, it shouldn't fill him with a sense of wrongness or anxiety.

Somehow it's different; maybe because Arthur has something to return to now or maybe because this is just a bad idea. Plain and simple. Either way, Arthur has to steady his breaths more than once as he watches from afar— all he can do is hope nothing goes wrong for either of them. Even at odds, facing a never ending chance in dynamics, Dutch is the closest thing Arthur's ever known to a father, he can't leave him when it comes down to the wire.

Silently watching, Arthur muttered something along the lines of hurrying up under his breath. He wanted nothing more than to wrap this up, whether it was going to end in peace or more likely, bullets, he'd rather know about it, soon. If he was smarter or rather, a man of opportunity like Micah, Arthur would've put a bullet through Colm O'Driscoll's head already. It just so happened that two of his men had guns aimed at Dutch in case they tried anything, so his hands were tied for now.

Arthur shifted against the ground, heard Red move somewhere behind him and readjusted his positioning. He realized far too late that the sound of hooves were actually footsteps rushing towards him, by the time Arthur swung his rifle around he saw a flash of light and the stock of a gun connected with his face before he had time to react.

The pines, they often whisper

They whisper what no tongue can tell

He who drinks from the deep water

May he know the depths of the well

Well

May I stand unshaken

Amid, amidst a crashing world

May I stand unshaken

Amid, amidst a crashing world

— D'Angelo

Arthur crashed into consciousness like a train running off the tracks. He and John found their fair share of hijinks and trouble together in their youth, even managing to derail a freight train once or twice in their stupidity. The thought of him and John as children is as unsuspected as it is jarring, jolting his nervous system awake again. He feels heavy, and unlike the familiar warmth of Charles at his back, this weight feels as though there's an anvil on his chest trying to drag him downwards.

In the back of his mind somewhere, the sound of chains clattering and voices snickering flicker and echo, but he finds himself unable to concentrate long enough to find clarity or anything that would provide use to him. The faint taste of metal coated his tongue and slowly, a dull ache swallowed the side of his face as he forced one of his eyes to crack open.

Arthur’s world tilted on its axis and shattered all at once. Pain bursted along the side of his face, sharp, searing, then dulled into a ringing haze that seeped into his skull. The ground beneath him vanished and Arthur, shrouded in darkness, couldn't decipher his whereabouts for the life of him.

The sound of chains rattling like bones in a distant cage caught his attention once more, before being hidden beneath the hurt, slowly blossoming throughout his body. Arthur’s mind scrambles, trying to piece together what had happened, but memory is a fogged mirror; his last clear thought was the meeting— Dutch, Micah, and Colm.

“Easy there, partner,” a voice rasps, low and amused. It carries over the scrape of boots against something solid. Arthur’s stomach twists. That voice—unfamiliar, deliberate, cruel, fills him with nothing but unbridled fear even if he's too proud to show it. “You should be almost halfway to dead by now, but don't you worry, we's still got some fun to be had before we're done with you.” He could hear the malice squeezing around their words, a warning of what was in store.

Before he could gather his thoughts to start asking questions, the sound of boots against wood coming towards him followed by silence, struck fear deep into his heart and distracted him. Without warning, pain exploded underneath his ribs and made Arthur's vision turn white. Ringing filled his ears and the world lurched sideways, pitching him into darkness once again.

Arthur’s mind scrambled, grasping at the memory of the river, of Charles’ hand in his and lips kissing him like he never wanted to stop. He heard his voice, felt the softness of his palm and then the present slammed back in and he jerked upwards violently in the dark, dank cell where they were holding him prisoner.

“C'mon, wakey wake, we wanna play Cowpoke!” A new voice, harsh and higher in octave, taunted him. Arthur tried to move but his arms and legs wouldn't give, instead the feeling of something sharp and cold bit into his skin. Slowly, then all at once, it dawned on the outlaw that the rattling was not some metaphorical law out to get him— instead, when he looked down at his wrists through small streaks of red and blurry orange, he found each arm attached to a restraint.

“Don't have all the fun, remember Colm's still gonna wanna have his way with ‘im when he gets back!” Another voice, the one Arthur initially met from earlier chimed in. He desperately urged his eyes to open, unable to lock on anything except inky shadow, leading him to believe it was swollen shut.

When Arthur spoke his words were slurred and thick with hurt. “Ain't dead yet, still got enough time t’ kill the lot of ya once I get outta—” Pain exploded in the middle of his face and he felt water rush down his chin, he gasped for air around the taste of copper and choked on whatever he was going to say.

“You still don't get it,” The voice snarled, closer to him now. Arthur's body went rigid and his anxiety spiked at an all time high. If only he could see, then it would be a question of being able to move his limbs to get a decent enough hit in. There was a moment where silence lapsed in the cellar, then Arthur felt fingers in his hair, wrenching his head backwards. “It ain't hard, you got a brain in that head of yours?”

Arthur choked on his retort, another voice joined in. “C'mon, Colm don't want us—” The fingers wrapped around his strands of hair tightened and pulled, eliciting a hiss from the beaten down outlaw. “If Colm don't want us havin’ ourselves some fun with his prisoner, he should be down here himself watchin’ the sorry bastard.” He spat back at his partner, cruel and ugly.

He felt the cold press of a blade against his hairline and his gut twisted and churned with terror. Colm's man dug the edge of the blade against the skin of his forehead, sour breath reaching around to his nose. Then, the burning of the sharp point slowly slicing across his skin. “Probably still get a price for scalps down in—”

“The hell are you on about now Tommy? I said that's enough, put him out again ‘n’ be done with it.” He didn't have time to react before pain was exploding in small bursts behind his eyes, until he felt the bone in his leg shatter and his world narrow with horrifying pressure— then nothing at all as he helplessly drifted off into a state of unconsciousness, helpless to escape.

Blood roared in his ears and spilled from his mouth. Arthur was drowning, sputtering around ash and copper, unable to pull breath into his lungs.

He couldn't breathe.

Pain hollowed him out until reality fractured, leaving Arthur unable to tell what was reality and what was imagined as he drifted in and out of a haze of half-consciousness. Arthur willed memories to fill the darkness, he urged moments with his son to play out– anything, but they wouldn't yield to him. Instead a sharp pain hammered at the side of his head as punishment and having no choice, Arthur relented, stewing in his own torment.

His bones and muscles cried out for relief. After losing complete feeling in his left shoulder and leg, Arthur was convinced he had a few broken bones that needed tending to but he couldn't tell worth shit. His last hope was Dutch coming to his rescue— he would, once he realized Arthur was abducted he would send someone for him. He needed to believe it.

If all else fails, Arthur knows he can rely on Charles. He thought about it often; of Charles realizing he's been gone far too long, taking action and putting his tracking skills to use. When the pain became unbearable and he needed to escape, Arthur imagined himself back at camp; cradled in his arms in the dead of night when no one was wiser.

Time lost all meaning while he was being kept in his own personal purgatory for enjoyment. It would seem that Colm's plan was never peace, but to get to Dutch through him. Arthur wanted to scoff, these days he would have better luck abducting Hosea or Micah.

Each return to consciousness arrived with fresh agony; his body reminding him it hadn’t finished breaking all the way yet. Blood rushed uncomfortably to his head, his vision swimming in dull reds and blacks as he slowly realized he wasn’t lying flat anymore. The world felt wrong—tilted or backwards somehow. When he tried to shift, white-hot pain tore through his shoulder and down his spine, wrenching a raw sound from his throat.

The realization came sluggishly, sinking in alongside the throb of his pulse pounding behind his eyes. His wrists burned where the rope bit into inflamed skin, every small movement tightening the fibers further, cutting off circulation until his hands felt swollen and distant, like they belonged to someone else. His leg screamed in protest when it twitched, pain blooming sharp and nauseating, and Arthur bit down hard to keep from crying out and alerting one of Colm's goons.

Arthur's thoughts turned traitorous in the dark. Regret crept in where fear had settled, sharp and biting. He thought of the way Charles had looked at him that morning before he was ambushed; the way he’d said I love you like it was a certainty and not something to be held against him as a consolation prize.

The memory of soft, deep chocolate eyes and tender touches twisted painfully in his chest, a comfort and a punishment all at once. He tasted blood, always tasted blood. Old and metallic and the smell around him was damp and sour, thick with rot and earth and humidity. Somewhere nearby, water dripped steadily, each echo a cruel reminder that time was still moving, even if he wasn’t.

Voices carried through the cellar— some real and others a symptom of his own mind. At times, he could hear Dutch's voice roaring through the O'Driscoll's camp, demanding that they give Arthur back or fear the inevitable war that would follow. Other times, it was the sound of howling laughter that shattered his dreams or the sound of boots thudding overhead that haunted him.

Arthur preferred the ghosts.

Another wave of pain hit and his shoulder spasmed violently, his leg sending jagged lightning up through his hip and the world narrowed again, down to nothing but sensation and hearing alone. He focused on counting his breaths and staying awake just long enough to not disappear completely. Passing out felt too close to dying now, and Arthur wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

Above him the cellar door moaned out in agony, hinges long since rusted over and needing replaced before they buckled. Arthur was grateful for the alarm, announcing another brutal attack yet to come. Boots thudded slowly against the wooden steps; taunting him, dragging his torture out.

“Ain't dead yet,” Arthur slurred into the darkness, sounding wholly unlike himself, bearing closer resemblance to a feral animal than a person. His tone sounded amused and the complete opposite of how terrified he inwardly felt, Arthur wasn't much of anything to anyone— but the man was damn prideful to a fault. “You'll have to really…really put your back into it this time.”

The sound of heavy, measured boots on wood, reverberated off the walls of the cellar, deliberate, but different. This time, there was no laughter, no voices trading crude bets for amusement or speaking loudly about their sick plans for him. Just the creak of each slow step descending into the cellar, careful in a way that made Arthur’s skin prickle and his pulse spike into overdrive.

Light flared briefly in the room, cutting through the dark to his line of sight. Arthur hissed as it scraped across his swollen eyes, thrashing on instinct, a hoarse snarl tearing from his throat as his body swung uselessly against his restraints. Pain tore through his shoulder and leg, white-hot and blinding.

Arthur welcomed the sensation if it meant he was still conscious enough to fight.

Footsteps stopped by his left and he braced for impact. They checked his restraints and prodded at the expert level knots, testing them with practiced fingers instead of yanking or striking. The ropes shifted, tightened, then stilled. Arthur’s breath came fast and ragged, teeth bared in anticipation, every nerve screaming for the blow that never came.

The hands settled at his ribs, steadying him where his body sagged, thumb pressing lightly just beneath his sternum as if counting breaths. Arthur jerked reflexively, muscles firing on pure survival, a low, growl tore from his throat as he kicked and swiped at an invisible target. “Get on with it already.”

The hands didn’t retaliate yet, they held firm instead, anchoring him, absorbing the useless struggle without anger or mockery. That alone sent a tremor through him, the men who hurt him always laughed and rushed to make him bleed. This one waited.

A blade flashed briefly in the low light, glinting across the darkness in Arthur’s vision. He waited for the impact; expected the burn of the blade against his skin— stinging while it separated, but it didn't come.

He felt the ropes tighten and sway, then the sound of whooping and hollering made him flinch. Arthur felt his restraints being shifted, rope sliding against his raw skin to make him hiss. Here we go, Arthur thought, finally.

Instead of embedding the blade into his flesh like Arthur was patiently waiting for, Arthur felt the fibers of his bindings give, and thought he heard the soft snap as tension released. His hand hit the wooden floor and panic surged, why were they cutting him loose?

His stomach lurched as gravity reclaimed him, blood roaring in his ears. He gasped, vision tunneling as the sound of blade sliding across rope instilled a sense of terror within him. Dutch hadn't come for him, so Colm's plans of keeping him for that reason were pointless. What use was he to a bunch of O'Driscolls?

They were gonna kill him.

Arthur hit the floor hard enough to knock what little air he had left out of him. Pain rang through his shoulders and leg, white and blinding, and he lay there for a second, maybe longer—waiting for the boot, the knife, the end of everything.

A voice, one that Arthur distantly recognized in the back of his mind and would've been able to place if he had his wits about him, was unlike any of Colm's other men. At first Arthur thought he was toying with him, but now he wasn't certain. A heavy pressure formed in the middle of his face, and very reminiscent of how a child might, into the darkness he asked, “Dutch?”

God, Arthur wished he could see even the slightest. It had been days— maybe weeks since he had seen anything other than inky shadows and fractures of light or faces and teeth.

“Oh Arthur,” The voice exhaled, long and shaken. Comforting and deep, rich and full in sound and warmth. The hypnotic timbre washed over him like heat from a campfire, warming his insides and bringing some of his flighty nerves a false peace. “I'm so sorry.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, a faint, confused noise catching in his throat. Sorry wasn’t something Colm’s men ever offered, not before, not after— not ever. His breathing stuttered as the pressure at his face shifted, careful fingers brushing dirt and blood from his cheek, cradling instead of restraining, making him flinch.

A thumb brushed beneath his eye, gentle enough it almost hurt more than Colm's brutality ever had. Arthur flinched anyway, instincts screaming, but the touch didn’t turn cruel. It lingered, warm, and grounding. “It’s Charles,” the voice said again, closer now, thick with something that trembled dangerously at the edges. “You’re safe. You hear me?”

“Charles.” Arthur repeated the name like he didn't believe it, his eyelids would've fluttered with relief if they weren't already swollen shut. “You…You found me.”

“I found you,” He agreed, and he heard Charles shift closer, careful as a man approaching a wounded animal. Arthur felt the movement more than he heard it, the change in air, the heat of another body near his own. His instincts snapped sharp again, fear flaring hot and ugly in his chest. “Gonna get you out of here, okay?”

For the first time since his arrival Arthur felt exhaustion sink into his bones, his body slumped forwards and he made contact with Charles’ chest with a soft thud. “I got you, gonna have to cut the rest of these ropes and move you.”

The outlaw shook his head from side to side weakly. “Can't move.”

“I know,” Charles said softly, immediately stilling. He didn’t retreat, but he didn’t advance either. “I know you can't, but I need to get you out of here.”

The blade moved again and Arthur tensed, breath catching hard in his chest as he waited for pain that never came. Instead, the last of the rope slackened and fell away, rough fibers scratching against his skin as his body sagged fully into Charles’ arms.

The sound Arthur made then wasn’t dignified. It tore out of him—ripped, raw and broken, as his weight shifted and his injuries screamed in protest. Charles caught him instantly, one arm braced beneath his shoulders, the other careful around his ribs, holding him like he might shatter if handled wrong.

He might.

“I got you,” Charles murmured, over and over, a steady chant that hooked into Arthur's soul and tugged on his heartstrings. “You're okay now.”

His heart clenched and twinged painfully, somewhere deep down Arthur had known Dutch wasn't coming. Still, a part of him had hoped. He felt hands around him, real hands, solid and warm, nothing like the cruel grips that held him before.

Charles adjusted his hold with careful precision, shifting Arthur just enough to take the strain off his leg, one broad hand firm at his back, the other bracing his side. Every movement was slow, deliberate, announced before it happened. Arthur had half a mind to ask how he located him undetected, but the thought was buried underneath his own agony.

Arthur’s fingers curled weakly into the front of Charles’ coat, clutching like instinct and adrenaline alone was keeping him upright. His breathing came shallow and uneven, each inhale catching painfully in his chest. The cellar felt smaller now, closing in, the damp air thick, clingy and hard to draw into his lungs.

“My leg.” Arthur moaned pathetically, spittle and blood and whatever else accompanying his words.

“I know, just gotta make it to Taima.” Charles reassured weakly, arm tight and secure around Arthur's waist. He felt surreal, foggy and asleep. Maybe he was. “Then we can get you safe.”

Arthur grunted, pitifully. “Red?”

Silence stretched between them, filling each corner of the cellar. Arthur felt his heart spasm painfully, another crack down the middle he couldn't see. His breath hitched once, barely audible, before he snuffed the emotion out. The arm around Arthur’s waist drew him a fraction closer, protective without being possessive, like Charles was bracing against something unseen.

“I know,” Charles said quietly at last. The words were rough, worn thin by too much meaning and fear of his own. “I know. I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur sagged further into him at that, forehead knocking gently against Charles’ shoulder. The apology slid through him deeper than pain ever could; Red was gone, and Dutch hadn’t come. The world Arthur built his spine around— the ideals he grew up with had splintered straight through, and no amount of balm could fix it now.

He couldn’t recall the exact physics of how Charles managed to haul him up out of the cellar and onto Taima without getting caught or stopped. The memory came apart in fragments; cold air biting at his skin, the scrape of wood against his boots, Charles’ breath going tight with effort as he took each step as though it mattered more than speed. Strong hands never left him or faltered, even when Arthur’s weight dragged behind them and pain tore loose another broken sound from his throat.

Charles remained a lighthouse in the storm.

At some point the dark gave way to night, the sky a blur of stars smeared across his failing vision. Arthur remembered the feel of Taima’s warmth beneath him, the steady strength of her back as Charles swung him up with impossible care, murmuring low and constant, words he couldn’t quite decipher. Apologies, maybe. Promises or whispered prayers.

The ride itself dissolved into something half-dreamed. Arthur drifted in and out, jolting awake whenever his suffering flared too sharp to ignore, only to feel Charles’ hand on his leg, his shoulder; grounding him, reminding him he wasn’t alone, that he hadn’t been left to rot in the dark, dank cellar after all. Each time Arthur slipped or swayed too far to one side of the saddle, Charles was there, solid as the earth, guiding Taima forward through brush and shadow alike, carefully helping him to readjust.

By the time the trees thinned and unfamiliar land opened before them, Arthur was barely clinging to consciousness. His body felt wrong; heavy and distant, like it no longer belonged to him. However, the steady rhythm of Taima’s gait and the presence at his back kept him tethered, grounded in the present.

He didn’t know where they were going. Only that Charles had him. And for now, that was enough.

Each step of the horse sent a fresh jolt through Arthur’s leg, bright enough to pull a sound from him before he could stop it. Charles tightened his grip every time, murmuring something Arthur couldn’t hear, words pressed close to his ear, meant only for him. Once, Arthur thought he felt rain on his face. Another time, he was certain it was blood.

Arthur spent most of the ride drifting in and out of consciousness, wondering when the dream would come to an end. Charles had appeared to him before, offering affection and promises of reprieve, only to melt away into suffering and misery.

Every time he slipped too far under, pain hauled him back, his leg screaming, his shoulder burning with a deep, nauseating ache that felt structural, wrong. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt his fingers properly, his hands tingled, then went numb, then burned again, an endless cycle of his nerves being set on fire.

At some point the pressure at his scalp shifted. Cool air brushed a place that felt raw and tight, making Arthur grunted in pain. He weakly lifted a hand that didn’t quite obey him, his fingers grazed thick, sticky warmth tangled in his hair.

“Don’t,” Charles said quickly, catching his wrist with gentle urgency, returning it to his lap after pressing his mouth to his aching knuckles. “Leave it. Please.”

Arthur's heart thumped painfully against his chest, confusion knitting his brows. He didn't fight him or bother asking questions, he could only assume he looked halfway to dead by now. He had paid the price for Dutch's rivalry with Colm, and Dutch hadn't even bothered coming to look for him.

He didn’t need details; his body already carried the truth. The pounding in his skull, the strange tightness along one side of his head, the way every breeze felt too sharp there. Another mark, another scar that wouldn’t ever quite go away.

He lost track of time.

When Arthur woke again, the air was different; woodsmoke instead of damp rot and stale wine. He heard voices, not loud, or cruel but low and measured, speaking in a language he didn’t know.

Firelight flickered behind his eyelids, warm against his skin. Hands eased him down, with care and precision, and murmured voices discussed his condition while he fought and writhed. Discomfort started to settle in, and the adrenaline from trying to stay alive was beginning to dissipate.

Arthur came up fighting on instinct every time, a broken sound ripping from his chest as he thrashed weakly, his good arm lashing out while his injured one screamed its refusal. Someone cursed softly nearby, hands held him down. Another voice, older, calm, spoke sharply, and the hands stilled and moved based on the commands he gave them.

Arthur’s strength burned out as quickly as it flared. Whatever fight he had left drained from him in uneven gasps, his body finally betraying him completely. He went slack with a shudder, breath hitching hard enough to hurt, his vision swimming with firelight and shadow and images of Charles’ deep, chocolate eyes.

“Easy,” Charles said, close—closer than before. Arthur felt him at his side, a solid weight anchoring him. There wasn't a time Arthur didn't feel his presence. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Arthur tried to answer, tried to say his name, to ask where Dutch was, to demand why it hurt so bad but all that came out was a hoarse, broken sound that scraped his throat raw and sounded something pathetic.

Someone pressed a cloth to his mouth. Cool water followed, dribbling past cracked lips. He choked, coughed, and then swallowed, instinct stronger than pain. The taste grounded him more than anything else had in days.

“He’s been holding himself together on nothing but fear,” the older voice said quietly. “Shock’s setting in now, we should watch his condition very closely.”

Arthur felt hands again, careful and practiced cut away what remained of his ruined shirt. Cool air swept over his chest and shoulder, and when they attempted to move his arm he screamed despite himself. The sound tore out of him, ugly and helpless and entirely involuntary while stars danced through his vision.

“Don’t move it,” Charles snapped, sharper than Arthur had ever heard him. “Leave it, you're hurting him.”

They listened and the intense, shooting pain stopped. For now. Arthur moved his hand, reaching for Charles in the dark and warm, thick fingers found him. Squeezing, holding onto him firmly like he needed to touch Arthur as badly as Arthur needed to touch him.

Someone muttered an apology under their breath. Arthur’s breathing came in ragged pulls, every inhale scraping his ribs raw as the pain slowly receded from blinding to merely unbearable. “Easy Charles, our only intentions are to help him, not hurt him,” the voice, clearly older in age, spoke again, calmer than Arthur felt. “We’ll stabilize it first.”

Pressure followed; measured, deliberate. A folded cloth was pressed beneath his shoulder, another wrapped tight across his chest to keep the joint from shifting. It didn’t fix anything, but it stopped the agony from cascading every time Arthur so much as twitched. He clung to that small mercy, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Charles stayed close. Arthur felt him there more than he saw him—a steady presence at his side, one hand braced against Arthur’s ribs, the other firm on his thigh, grounding him whenever his breathing threatened to spiral. “That’s it,” Charles murmured, voice oozing with tight affection. “You’re doing good, just keep breathing for me.”

Those hands wandered down his side, prodding and pressing until they reached his leg. They shifted the limb and pain exploded through his hip and back, white-hot and furious, lashing out at his nerves until they felt inflamed and pinched.

Arthur cried out, the sound breaking off into a strangled gasp as his body tried to curl away from it. “Rains Fall.” Charles warned, quieter but no less firm or constricted with repressed emotion.

“Something’s wrong here,” the older man who Arthur distantly recognized as Rains Fall, said after a moment, fingers probing with grim precision that made his muscles jerk. “Not just bruised…Look, this bone has been broken before. Won't be putting weight on this for a long while—maybe not right again at all.”

The words landed heavy, even through Arthur’s haze, blurring in and out of focus. Even if their voices sounded muddled and faraway, his body seemed to echo the verdict, a deep, grinding ache settling into his leg, wrong in a way that felt permanent.

Arthur sagged back against the blankets, whatever strength he’d been hoarding finally giving out. The pain didn’t lessen, but it dulled at the edges, like his body had decided it could no longer afford to feel all of it at once. His breathing came shallow and uneven, teeth clenched hard enough that his jaw ached.

“Before,” Charles rasped, the word dragged up from somewhere deep and stubborn. His hands twitched against Arthur's, “When?”

Rains Fall hesitated, Arthur felt it in the pause, in the way the man’s hands stilled gainst his leg. “Recently, likely during his capture. The break is new and old, how long was he held for?” Arthur realized, in the back of his mind, that he must’ve opted out of his reality over the course of the last few weeks. Making himself forget, forcing himself to believe that he was safe and sound, back at camp.

When Charles spoke his voice was low, dripping with self-deprecation and shame. “Don't know, happened after I left to help your boys.” Arthur felt the hand against his thigh tighten, protective and firm.

“So that’s it,” Arthur muttered, bitter even through the thick fog. “Gonna walk crooked forever.”

“No,” Charles said immediately, sharp with refusal. “You’ll walk again, might limp. Might hurt when the weather turns but you’ll walk.”

Arthur huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t crumble halfway through, pathetic and pitiful. His leg throbbed in deep, sick pulses now, pain no longer explosive but constant, unrelenting—a reminder that it was no longer something he could trust. He tried to shift, just a little, and the joint protested viciously, sending a hot spike up his spine in warning.

“Will I ride again?” The Outlaw challenged, negatively. Even if his vision hadn't returned and he still couldn't decipher shapes outside of dark blotches, Arthur did his best to appear his usual intimidating self.

“Don’t,” Charles warned again, softer this time. He leaned closer, forehead touching Arthur’s temple. “Arthur, please—”

His mouth twisted, pain and something darker pulling it down. “You know what this means,” he muttered, not quite looking at anyone—like if he didn’t aim the words, they wouldn’t hit so hard. “One busted leg, shoulder half-dead… might as well put me out to pasture.” A breathy, ugly laugh followed. “Dutch don’t keep lame horses.”

Charles stiffened. Arthur felt it even through the fog, felt the way his name went rigid in Charles’ chest.

“Don't look at me like that,” Arthur snapped, sharper now, hysteria bleeding into cruelty because it was the only thing he had left to wield, he could feel Charles’ sorrow— his sympathy. He didn't want it. “You know I ain’t wrong. What am I good for, huh? Can’t ride point, can’t haul, can’t fight worth a damn. Can’t even see straight.” His voice cracked despite himself. “I was already on borrowed time with him.”

Rains Fall shifted nearby, but Arthur barrelled on, words spilling faster, messier, more emotional than he intended. “He left me,” Arthur said hoarsely. “Left me to rot for Colm. So don’t sit there tellin’ me I’ll be fine—fine don’t mean a damn thing if you ain’t useful.”

He turned his face away, jaw trembling as he clenched it tight, like he could physically hold the grief back. “Shoulda let ‘em finish it,” he muttered, unsteady. “This is what they wanted,” Arthur shook his head, his voice pitched and trembled, his entire body felt wrong. “Puttin’ a bullet between my eyes woulda been too sweet a mercy.”

Charles’ hand tightened around his, not enough to hurt just enough to remind him he was there, that Arthur wasn’t falling into the dark alone, not if he didn't want to. “Don’t say that,” Charles said, low and rough. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

Arthur said nothing, instead he tucked his chin towards his chest and desperately prayed exhaustion would claim him. Eventually Charles' hand fell away from him and Rains Fall's voice filled the tent, “You should get some rest Arthur, if we were able to get to you in time and you don't succumb to your injuries, you'll need your energy. You may get your wish yet.”

The tent fell quiet after that, save for the soft crackle of the fire outside and the distant sounds of the camp settling around them. Arthur lay still, chest rising shallowly beneath the blankets, his body humming with pain that no longer spiked but never truly eased.

He felt it most in his leg. Even unmoving, it ached with a deep, hammering insistence, as if reminding him it would never again be something he could take for granted. His shoulder burned dully too, heavy and unstable, sending warning flares every time he so much as breathed too deep or turned too tight.

Sleep came in fragments. Not the deep, merciful ocean of black he prayed to swallow him whole, but thin, broken stretches filled with half-formed nightmares. Rope fibers bit into his wrists again and grating laughter echoed too close to his ear. Teeth flashed in the dark, forked tongues curled around ugly words.

Each time he jerked awake, a low sound tearing from his throat, there were hands there; steady, and familiar—pressing him gently back into the blankets. “It’s alright,” Charles murmured to him every time, never raising his voice, always patient. “You’re safe, just a bad dream.”

At some point, Arthur realized Charles hadn’t left his side once. He was there in the quiet moments too, when the fire burned low and the world felt far away, watching over him. Arthur turned his head just enough to face the sound of his breaths, though his vision still swam uselessly. “Charles?” he rasped, barely more than air.

“Still here,” He hummed quietly, sounding as tired as Arthur's soul felt. Charles shifted his weight against him, furthering proof of his presence at Arthur's back. “You're okay, Cowboy.”

“Everything hurts.” He admitted, sounding so unlike himself Arthur hardly believed the words slipped from his own mouth. Charles pressed his lips against his forehead, his earlier transgressions seemingly forgotten. “Healing takes time, you'll see. Have some patience and trust me, okay?”

Arthur exhaled, shaky sounding, eyelids fluttering and heavy as he melted back into Charles’ warmth. “Okay.”

Days blurred together, one into the next—measured not by sun or shadow, but by pain and sleep and the steady rhythm of care. Arthur woke to the scent of crushed herbs and smoke, to Rains Fall’s low voice murmuring instructions, to Charles’ presence, a constant weight at his back or beside his cot.

Hands cleaned his wounds with practiced patience, salves cool against fevered skin, bandages changed slowly and carefully.

Eating came in small victories: broth at first, spooned between his lips while he drifted in and out; later, soft food he could manage himself once his hands stopped shaking long enough to hold his utensils. Charles considered every movement worthy of a celebration.

His vision returned in pieces. At first it was only blotchy shapes, then light and dark followed by colors bleeding back in; the deep brown of Charles’ hands, the red and ochre of woven blankets, the green of leaves hanging to dry near the tent entrance. Faces took longer. Arthur cried the first time he could finally make out Charles’ eyes again, sharp and dark and too gentle for the world they lived in. He turned his head away, embarrassed, but Charles only squeezed his hand and pretended not to notice.

Weeks passed in similar smaller victories; regaining his energy and passion to pick up his journal again were rewarded with Charles tucking him close to his chest like something he treasured greatly. Arthur learned his body all over again. Learned which movements were lies and which ones could be trusted. Arthur was forced to grieve and accept that his mobility was limited, much to his own displeasure.

His shoulder never quite stopped aching; some days it felt disconnected and knotted, like it didn’t belong to him anymore, and Rains Fall warned him more than once not to push it. His leg was worse. When they finally had him standing, the pain was deep and grinding, an ache that sank into his bones and stayed there. He swore, loud and bitter, nearly went down again—until Charles was there, arms braced around him, solid and unyielding.

“I got you.” Charles said, breath warm at his ear. As always, without ever needing to ask or return a favour of any kind, Charles was at his side without fail to support him. As time stretched on, Arthur became more grateful of his endless support, and hyperaware of Charles’ presence like a young man obsessed.

They worked him slowly with short walks at first, weight shifting, muscles screaming protest while Eagle Flies hovered nearby, offering encouragement that sounded suspiciously like amusement. Arthur caught Charles watching them more than once, jaw tight, eyes tracking every hand Eagle Flies laid on him—every laugh Arthur managed to pull free despite himself.

“You gonna glare him into submission or help me up?” Arthur muttered once, breathless and sweating from the ground. Charles scowled. Then bent to haul him to his feet anyway.

Within months, Arthur grew stronger—not the way he used to be, not in the sharp, dangerous sense Dutch prized and worshipped but in a quieter, reserved way. He ate properly again and slept deeper, especially with Charles curled around him.

His limp settled into something familiar, something he could work around, even if it flared mean when the weather turned. The scar along his scalp healed ugly and pale beneath his hair, a hard reminder every time his fingers brushed it. Rains Fall called it a mark of survival, Arthur wasn’t sure yet if he believed that.

Some nights, when the camp was quiet and the fire burned low, Arthur would sit outside wrapped in a blanket, Charles beside him, shoulders almost touching. They didn’t always talk and they didn't have to. The silence wasn’t empty here.

Arthur still dreamed. Still woke sometimes with his heart racing and his breath locked in his chest—l but the hands that found him were real, and the voice grounding him wasn’t going anywhere. Above all else, Arthur had learned that he could trust Charles more than anyone.

The stronger he got, the more he found himself looking for Charles, gazing at him from across camp while Eagle Flies explained the intricacies of carving to him. It would've been useful for a finer touch at skinning his kills in a hunt, if Arthur was paying any attention at all.

He watched the way Charles’ hands worked, precise and steady, whether he was carving wood, mending a tent, or tending to a fire. Every movement was deliberate and measured, everything Arthur had always admired in him before, now sharpened by worry and necessity.

He caught himself lingering on Charles’ eyes too often, noticing the small dark flecks that caught the firelight, the way his brow furrowed when concentrating. Arthur pretended not to, but sometimes he let his gaze follow him a little longer than politeness or common sense would allow. Eagle Flies noticed, once or twice, shooting him a knowing look, smirking, but Arthur only shrugged, cheeks heating under the firelight as he ducked his head.

Even during chores, the observation didn’t fade. Watching Charles slice meat or adjust a splint, Arthur imagined being the one under those hands, being guided, being steadied, being cared for in a way that made the bruises and burns of the past months fade, if only for a moment.

Every time Charles glanced his way, Arthur’s stomach tensed like the first time he had felt Charles hold him in that cellar, the memory still sharp enough to make his heart thrum painfully against his ribs. He realized, with a mixture of shame and thrill, that he desired Charles’ presence not just for safety or habit, but because he craved it, needed it, in a way that unsettled him.

Even with his body scarred and marked, his shoulder stiff and his leg forever altered, there was a part of him that felt alive only in Charles’ shadow. And perhaps, in the quiet stretch of evenings when no one else watched, when the fire burned low and the stars pressed against the sky like witnesses, Arthur allowed himself to hope that maybe, he had found a reason to keep surviving beyond Dutch's means.

The camp had quieted for the night. Fires burned low, embers glowing like distant stars, and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures punctuated the stillness. Arthur sat on the edge of his cot, leg outstretched and body aching in ways that reminded him of the cellar and every step since. His leg throbbed stubbornly, his hip complaining with every small shift, the familiar ache gnawing deeply at him.

Charles found him before long, broad shoulders set and dark gaze sweeping over every inch of him. “Hey there,” Arthur rasped, hand pressed into his thigh to ease some of the pain knotted there. He felt restless under his watch, bashful like some idiotic tween in love for the first time. His face burned at the thought of associating Charles with love, this felt similarly after all.

“You want some help?” He slowly crouched in front of Arthur, observing with such careful intention he was forced to look away. “I would love to help, if it'll ease some of your pain—I'll do anything.”

Arthur’s throat tightened at the words, a strange mix of vulnerability and stubborn pride warring inside him. He blinked, forcing himself to look down at Charles’ hands hovering near his leg. “I…don’t know if it’d do any good,” he muttered, voice rough, almost a scoff hiding his hesitation. “Might just…make it worse.”

Charles’ dark eyes softened, unwavering. “You won’t know unless you try. I’ll be gentle, I promise.” Arthur exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tight, and then, against his better instincts, nodded.

Charles smiled faintly, almost a whisper, and pressed his hands to Arthur’s thigh. His touch was warm and deliberate as he slowly kneaded his fingers into the knots along Arthur’s hip and leg, coaxing the muscles to relax. Arthur’s body reacted immediately, tension unwinding despite the ache that lingered deep in the bone. He let out a low, pleased sound, part sigh, part groan.

The Bowman's cheek brushed against his knee almost by accident, and a shiver ran through him. He tried not to think about the closeness, about the heat radiating from Charles’ body pressed near his own, but his chest betrayed him, hammering against ribs that travelled south to his abdomen.

Charles leaned closer, hand lingering near the crease of his hip and Arthur felt the warmth spread in ways his leg never could. He swallowed, heart thudding, and when Charles’ eyes met his, dark and steady in the firelight, Arthur felt something inside him finally come undone.

Then Charles’ hand moved higher, brushing a loose strand of hair from Arthur’s forehead. The gesture was soft, tender, almost intimate—and it made Arthur’s stomach flip and his cock twitch despite himself. “Arthur…” Charles whispered, leaning closer, breath fanning against the shell of his ear. “You’ve been through hell. Let me take care of you.”

Arthur’s breath caught. His head tilted just enough, and then, as if the moment had been waiting for them, Charles’ lips found his. Soft, deliberate, grounding, pressing warmth into all the places Arthur hadn’t realized were still aching, not just in body, but in heart. He hadn't realized how much he missed the press of Charles against him, the smell— the real thing was so much better than any dream or far-off memory.

Arthur’s hands moved on their own, weakly gripping Charles’ arms, leaning into the kiss, letting the ache in his leg, in his shoulder, in his soul melt into the presence of the man who had never left his side. The firelight flickered across both of them, shadows dancing across skin and hair, and for the first time in months, Arthur felt the tension in his chest unwind.

“Charles…” Arthur's eyelashes fluttered and his skin burned, alight with desire and hunger and something other than pain mixed with loathing for once. His shoulders dropped as Charles' hands reached for the belt of his pants, making Arthur ache deeper for him.

He moved and shifted his body with his lover's guidance, heart thundering against his chest as Charles’ strong hands shucked his pants down his hips. Arthur resisted a moan as his drooling cock was exposed to air, hips tilting upwards towards Charles’ soft palm on their own accord. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No, just…” He huffed, embarrassed and alight with want.

Charles gazed at him with tenderness and barely restrained desire, his calloused hands gently caressed the inside of Arthur's thighs as he knelt between his legs. “It's okay,” He reassured him, nuzzling against the inside of his knee. Arthur's hands twitched and flinched, threading between strands of Charles’ oilspill hair. “I'll take care of you, Arthur. You have my word.”

Arthur's pupils dilated, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly at claim. The air between them crackled with tension, the heat of their bodies mingling in the cool night air. For a long, suspended moment, Arthur remained frozen, his grip on Charles' shirt tightening fractionally as he seemed to war with himself, torn between the ingrained discipline of a lifetime and the magnetic pull of temptation.

Then, with a low, almost animalistic growl, Arthur surged forward, closing the remaining distance between them. His lips crashed against Charles' in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and pent-up passion. One large hand fisted in Charles' hair, holding him in place as Arthur plundered his mouth, while the other splayed possessively across the small of his back, pressing their bodies flush together in the dark safety of their tent.

Arthur moaned brokenly into the kiss, his resistance crumbling under the onslaught of Charles' passion. His hands flew up to grip the other man's wrists, fingers digging into taut muscle as he clung for dear life, overwhelmed by the sheer force of his own desire. Tears leaked from the corners of his tightly shut eyes, trailing down his cheeks to mingle with the sweat beading on his brow.

When Charles finally broke away, leaving Arthur panting and dizzy with need, he looked utterly wrecked. His lips were swollen and slick, his skin flushed a deep scarlet beneath the smattering of freckles. Chest heaving, he stared up at Charles with wide, imploring eyes, silently begging for guidance, for absolution.

Charles silenced Arthur's protests with a look, his dark eyes flashing with determination and barely restrained hunger. He held Arthur's gaze as he slowly, deliberately sank to the space between his knees before him, never breaking contact.

Leaning in, Charles dragged the flat of his tongue along the underside of Arthur's cock, tracing the prominent vein there before swirling around the weeping slit. Arthur muttered a string of curses under his breath as Charles’ hot mouth enveloped him, making stars flicker behind his eyes.

A hoarse cry tore from his throat, echoing obscenely through the quiet night air as his hips jerked forward involuntarily, driving his cock deeper past Charles' lips. His hands fisted in the other man's hair, tugging sharply as he fought to maintain some semblance of control, to hold back the tide of pleasure threatening to sweep him away.

“Fuck, fuck, Charles!” It was a litany, a chant, falling from his lips in broken gasps as Charles worked him over with lips and tongue and teeth. Each pass of that wickedly talented mouth sent jolts of electricity shooting up his spine, pooling in his gut until he was trembling from the force of it.

Arthur cried out, his back bowing off the bedroll as Charles' talented tongue and mouth worked its magic on his oversensitive cock. Each lap of Charles' skillful tongue sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through Arthur's veins, making his vision blur at the edges. He rocked his hips, fucking Charles' face with shallow thrusts, desperate for more of that exquisite sensation.

“Don't stop, please... I'm so close already…” Arthur's voice rose to a keening wail, one of his hands fell away to cup Charles’ cheek, holding him tenderly while he rolled his hips into the wet, heat of his lover's throat, chasing the feeling.

With a hoarse cry of release, Arthur's entire body seized up, his cock jerking violently as it pumped spurt after spurt of hot, sticky seed directly into Charles' eagerly waiting mouth. Wave after wave of intense, mind-numbing ecstasy crashed over him, leaving him a quivering, gasping mess as he rode out the aftershocks of his climax.

As he slowly came back to himself, Arthur's hands gentled in Charles' hair, stroking soothingly as he fought to catch his breath. “Oh... holy... fuck, Charles.” He managed weakly, his voice a wrecked whisper. “That was... I've never…” Arthur shook his head, unable to find the words to adequately express the magnitude of his pleasure, the profound connection he felt with the man kneeling between his thighs.

Charles gentled him through the aftershocks of his orgasm with generous sucking and licking until he was spent and boneless. Then, the Bowman looked up at Arthur from between his legs, smug and utterly pleased with himself. “You did so good.” He cooed, and chuckled something warm and gooey when Arthur flushed with embarrassment at his syrupy tone.

Charles collapsed beside him in the cot, and Arthur turned to face him— heart alight and hammering painfully against his chest. He watched Arthur with a tender, curious expression, smiling at him something so sweet it made his stomach ache. He was still a long ways off from being all the way healed, but the one constant up until this point had always been Charles. “Arthur?” He hummed, brushing his hair back and away from his face. “Are you okay?”

Arthur moved without thinking, hand fisted in the front of Charles' shirt, pulling him forwards to slot their lips together in a deep, slow kiss he poured everything unspoken into. He kissed Arthur back deeply, reaching up to cup both of his cheeks in his palms— swallowing as much of each other as they could get.

When they parted, foreheads resting against one another, noses brushing and lips slick with each other's spittle, Arthur murmured, “I love you, Charles.” He heard Charles' breath hitch, and his hands stilled for a drawn out moment. “As much as a man like me can–I love you.. ‘n' I know I ain't the man I used to be—”

Charles didn't let him finish, instead he moved forward this time, pressing their mouths together in another deep, affectionate kiss. Making Arthur forget his self-doubt altogether as he pushed him back down into the bedroll.

The morning light

When it comes to me

It was there but I could not see

Am I to wander

As a wayward son?

Will the hunter be hunted

By the smoking gun?

May I stand unshaken

Amid, amidst a crashing world

May I stand unshaken

Amid, amidst a crashing world

May I stand unshaken

Amid, amidst a crashing world

— D'Angelo