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ethereal-not-occult · 3 years

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patience and the mulberry

"With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown."

Fandom: Good Omens Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Character(s) of Color, Sericulture, silkworms, past religious trauma, but nothing bad happens in this fic I promise, mixed bookverse w/ TV elements, references to Chinese culture Notes: Originally written for the @goodomensfashionzine !

“I'll only be a minute, dear.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley's cheek as he opened the door of the Bentley. “You don't have to see me to the door if you don't want to.”

Crowley tightened his grip on the wheel. “Sure, angel. Sounds good to me.” The sibilants slid far too quickly past his clenched jaw, and he bit his tongue to stop the instinctive hiss from escaping.

Aziraphale gave him a sympathetic look, but shut the Bentley's door behind him and soon disappeared through the doors of the church. Once he was out of sight, Crowley slumped forward slightly, sliding his sunglasses up and rubbing at his eyes. A few deep breaths later, and he felt composed enough to exit the Bentley himself in blatant disregard for the “NO PARKING” sign on the curb.¹

[¹ Given his new job position (or lack thereof), lawbreaking was no longer a necessity, but old habits die hard.]

The bright afternoon sun made him wince a bit, and two robins in a nearby bush were getting frisky in a way he would never be able to unhear, but they made it easier to forget the distant wail of air sirens. Even standing out on the road, Crowley's skin prickled faintly with the remembered sting of consecrated ground.

He pushed the feeling aside and walked resolutely forward. Aziraphale was bound to take his sweet time as he mooned over the church's dusty old tomes, but Crowley had his own investigations to conduct while he waited. No rest for the wicked and all that.

The concrete pavement under his snakeskin shoes gave way to grass, and the tingling sensation in his soles faded. Soon he found himself at his intended destination—an Edenic grove of mulberry trees, clustered together in a ring in the church's backyard. He'd spotted them on the drive over and couldn't resist the temptation of a closer look.

Crowley wandered into the garden with a scrutinizing eye. They were young, for trees, but growing well despite their callowness. A particularly stocky sapling hardly flinched when Crowley gave it a token glare, much to his disappointment. Then again, outdoor plants were rarely as well-behaved as properly cowed houseplants. It seemed this attitude persisted even in ecclesiastic gardens such as these.

He cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, then reached a hand up into the tree's umbrella-like branches and tugged. The season wasn't quite right for fruits, but he still withdrew clutching a handful of dark ripe mulberries. Hardly apples, but his lips twitched upwards nonetheless. He plucked a berry from the pile and raised it to his lips.

“Zaoshang hao!”

Only a hasty miracle saved Crowley from choking as he jumped and swiveled around. Hovering right outside the churchyard was a middle-aged human, well-dressed and smiling pleasantly at him. Judging by her formal clothing and the Bible she carried, she was a part of the congregation, maybe even the priest herself. Crowley swallowed and stepped backwards.

“Ni shi jiaohui de xinshou ma?” the human called again, picking her way across the dewy grass in his direction. Crowley eyed the Bible she held, willing himself not to break out into hives.

“Um. Wo bu—er, no. I'm not new. Not here for church at all, actually.” He fidgeted and clasped his hands, still full of pilfered mulberries, behind his back. “Just waiting for someone.”

The human raised an eyebrow. “You're welcome to wait inside, if you like,” she said, also switching to English. “I reckon we still have biscuits left from the children's morning service—”

“No!” Crowley said too quickly, and perhaps too sharply. He winced. “I mean. That won't be necessary. I'd much rather stay out here, if it isn't too much trouble.”

The human gave him a Look. Crowley's cheeks heated and he averted his eyes, willing his sunglasses a few shades darker.

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

Crowley's head shot back up. The human had turned her back to him and was running a hand through the glossy green leaves of the nearest mulberry tree. Crowley could practically see the branches stretch out in delight beneath her touch, like a purring cat.

“Volunteers from our congregation take care of them,” the human continued, smiling at the young tree. “The kids here like raising silkworms, you see, and we welcome them to pick leaves from the trees each week to feed them.”

Silkworms. Of course. Despite himself, a hazy memory rose to the forefront of his mind: Sichuan, China, several hundreds of years ago. A family farm, weathered and cozy and oozing enough sheer goodness to make the average demon ill with it. Crowley wouldn't normally be caught dead in such a place, but he had owed a favour to the angel. His fingers twitched at the phantom memory of butter-soft silk fibres against his skin; long, winding threads that stretched out thin and fine, tangling so easily around his uncertain fingers. With this memory came the golden, moon-round face of a child he hadn't thought about in centuries, grinning toothily as they held out a box to him, a box filled with small pale larvae that wriggled among the spade-shaped leaves. “Zhe jiao can.”

Crowley forced himself to return to the present. The human was speaking to him.

“—waiting on Mr. Fell?” she asked.

Crowley blinked. Shook himself a little. “Yeah. He's helping out with the restoration of some old manuscript or other.”

The human smiled again. It was an unnervingly piercing expression. “I'm aware. I was the one who requested his help. Such a lovely man. Are you a friend of his?”

Crowley tensed. “His husband, actually.”

He braced himself, but the human only brightened. “Goodness, then you must be Mr. Crowley! Mr. Fell talks ever so much about you. Finally gone and tied the knot then, have you?”

Before Crowley could stammer out a reply, something dinged loudly, making him jump. The human pulled a phone out from her pocket and squinted at the screen.

“Sorry, I have to run back inside. But it was lovely meeting you, Mr. Crowley.” She stuck out a hand—thankfully not the one that had been holding the Bible—and after a brief hesitation, Crowley shook it. As quickly as she had arrived, the human disappeared from the garden, leaving Crowley alone and off-kilter amid a grove of mulberry trees.

---

Aziraphale emerged from the church around an hour later to find Crowley seated on the curb next to the Bentley, basking in the last rays of the afternoon sun as he scrolled through his phone.

“My dear,” the angel sighed. His joints creaked as he eased himself down to sit next to Crowley on the roadside. “Don't tell me you've been sitting here the entire time.”

“Nope,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’. “I toured the gardens for a bit. Swiped some fruits, too. The mulberries aren’t half-bad, for a bunch of church plants, but they’ll need a good deal more threatening before they're really up to snuff.”

Crowley stopped when he saw Aziraphale chewing his lip, brow furrowed as he studied Crowley's face. Now it was Crowley's turn to sigh.

“Really, angel. It's fine. I was hardly bored.”

The expression didn't leave Aziraphale's face. A soft brown hand reached out and brushed aside stray wisps of hair from Crowley's forehead. The demon hadn't bothered to cut it since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and it was growing longer and more unruly by the day.

“I'm fine.” Crowley caught Aziraphale's hand and held it, carefully. He pressed his lips against the well-manicured fingers. “It was years ago, angel, and we both came out of it all right. You don't need to worry about me.”

Aziraphale still looked vaguely distressed as Crowley drew him close. With the sun setting behind him, framing his face and curly dark hair in a golden halo, he was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen.

He kissed him then, right there on the road, in full sight of the church and probably Someone Else, too, if She happened to be watching at that particular moment. Once, he would've been terrified of such a public display, but he hadn't gone through hellfire and holy water to care anymore about what others thought of them.

As he helped Aziraphale into the Bentley, he noticed abruptly that the angel was carrying what appeared to be a shoebox, of all things, along with his usual camelhair coat.

“What on Earth is that?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale carefully pushed the box over to Crowley. “Mrs. Lao gave it to me once I'd finished with those manuscripts. She said it was a gift for you, actually. Have the two of you met before?”

Crowley stared down at the box, baffled. “We talked for a bit in the gardens just now, but I can’t imagine why…”

He trailed off, and his mouth dropped open as Aziraphale eased open the lid and beheld the contents with a raised eyebrow.

“Good heavens. Are those caterpillars?”

“Silkworms,” Crowley corrected automatically, leaning in for a closer look. There were so many of them, somehow both smaller and larger than he remembered, all white and wiggly and chomping away busily at the layers of mulberry leaves filling their box. None of them paid any attention whatsoever to their occult observers hovering above them.

“Why would she give you such a thing? Not that they aren't dear little creatures,” Aziraphale added hastily, glancing into the box, “but I doubt I have the means to keep them in the bookshop.”

“No need,” Crowley said before he could stop himself. “I can raise 'em in my flat.”

Aziraphale gave him a curious look. “You know how to care for these… insects?”

“Yeah.” Crowley gently shut the lid of the inhabited shoebox and curled a hand around the Bentley's stick-shift. “I've done something like this, before. I know what I'm doing.”

“If you say so.” Suddenly Aziraphale chuckled. At Crowley's affronted look, he demurred, “I'm not making fun, my dear. It's only that you still manage to surprise me, even after all these years.”

Aziraphale leaned in and pecked Crowley's cheek, making him blush red and sputter. Much to his disgruntlement, the Bentley chirped a light-hearted rendition of Haydn's Crazy Little Thing Called Love all the way home.

---

Crowley had spent the past eleven years co-parenting the Antichrist with Aziraphale.² They had faced this challenge head-on, and in his opinion, it hadn’t gone too shabbily. Now, without the threat of the Apocalypse hanging over his head, becoming a surrogate parent was far less daunting the second time around.

[² Even if young Warlock hadn't really been the son of Satan, it was the principle of the thing.]

Still, Crowley worried. He had always been something of a worrier, and that hadn't changed even after the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives.

After dropping off Aziraphale at the bookshop, Crowley returned to his flat, where he commenced the preparations for introducing his unexpected twenty-odd guests to their new home. This was accomplished by miracling up a small glass aquarium onto his desk, lining the bottom with paper towels, and carefully (read: nervously) placing the silkworms one by one into the tank. Once this was done, Crowley scattered the half-eaten mulberry leaves from the box around the aquarium. The silkworms set upon their interrupted lunch with all the enthusiasm of Aziraphale devouring a meringue pie at the Ritz.

Crowley slumped into his chair, took off his sunglasses with a wince, and rested his chin on his desk, staring into the glass tank.

“I raised your ancestors once, you know,” Crowley informed the wriggling creatures. “Tiny farm in China several centuries back. We'd weave branches together into a tray and let you loose inside. Bit like how manmade beehives work, or something.”

Crowley paused. Watched one silkworm slowly inch its way across a stem to tackle a new section of leaf. “‘Course, humans use wire mesh nowadays, but the general premise is the same. Always thought it was bloody clever, what humans could come up with. If you gave me a bunch of moth larvae and told me to make a living out of them, I definitely wouldn't think to make clothes.” He snorted. “Whoever came up with that, I'd like a glass of whatever they were drinking.”

The silkworms munched on. They ate much faster than they crawled, that was certain. In the quiet walls of his flat, away from prying human eyes, Crowley loosened the knot of his silk tie and tugged it off, easing the tightness around his neck.

“You're the ones who made this, in a sense,” he said, waving the tie at them. He laid the tie beside one glass wall of the tank at just the right angle for the inhabitants within to see. Several silkworms looked up curiously.

Crowley tossed his suit jacket aside, then unbuttoned his shirt collar. He had always prided himself on his sharp, modern attire over the years, the better to tempt humans with—or so he claimed. Despite repeated scoldings from his superiors, his Lust quotas had never been quite up to par.

Sufficiently dishevelled, and feeling all the freer for it, Crowley sank back into his chair to watch the silkworms.

“The only thing I didn't like about the process was the boiling,” he murmured. “Logically, I can see why it was done. And you would all be in cocoons, so it's not like you'd be in any pain. Not like I was.” He exhaled, the sound becoming a low hiss. “But still. Never liked it. Always felt like an awful lot of trouble just for the sake of some silk threads.”

One particularly adventurous silkworm had nosed its way upwards and was now creeping over the edge of the tank opening. Crowley made a mental note to devise a lid of some kind and stuck his finger against the lip of the tank. The silkworm crawled onto his hand without any hesitation. Tentatively, he drew it closer. Its many feet stuck stubbornly to his skin, and it reared up as he approached, swaying slightly, its mandibles twitching.

Crowley stared at the silkworm. The silkworm stared back, and seemed disappointed when Crowley had nothing else to offer. Just to prove it wrong, Crowley materialized a single large mulberry leaf in his other hand and presented it to the insect, who fell upon it with gluttonous enthusiasm.

Staring at the miracled leaf, an idea formed in Crowley's mind. He smiled, slowly.

“I need a hobby, now that I'm jobless,” he said aloud to the silkworm, letting it creep onto his palm. He ran a careful finger over its smooth back. “I think I'll take up sericulture again, for old time's sake.” He reached back into the tank and gently encouraged the silkworm to crawl back inside.

“Humans have to boil you alive to get those nice unbroken threads off your cocoons,” Crowley mused, withdrawing his hand. “Fortunately, I don't have to do things the human way.” He lowered himself until he was eye-level with the inhabitants of the tank. The silkworm he had carried paused in its perpetual eating and turned its head, almost like it was looking at him.

“How's this?” Crowley asked. “You'll be able to grow into a fuzzy, fully grown silk-moth, and I can take your cocoon after you've finished with it and miracle the threads whole again.” He paused and mulled it over. “I guess I could take it a step further and just miracle the finished silk together, but there's still something to be said about the human way of doing things.”

The silkworm bobbed the front half of its body as though in agreement. Crowley smiled again.

“We can make silk, and no one gets hurt. I'm a few hundred years out of practice, but I'm sure I could make it work, somehow.”

The silkworm turned its attention back to its meal. Crowley didn't notice. He was too busy wondering if Aziraphale had any old texts on silk-weaving that he could borrow, just so he could refresh his memory.

The angel would appreciate having a new silk bowtie to add to his collection.

---

Thank you for reading! Replies and reblogs are always much appreciated. <3

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #go fanfiction #good omens fanfiction #go tv #otp: ineffable #li writes #zine fic #insects tw

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vindemiatrix-moonpies · 3 years

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hi, just jumping in to tell you that i'm in utter love with every single work of yours so far - and that i'm fairly certain i'll love everything else that you will create in the feature too.

your art is just so soft (which is something i literally yell every time in the tags when reblogging your stuff, but god i will continue to repeat this cause it's so damn true) and incredibly beautiful!

the colors are so pretty! everything is just so nice and warm and absolutely lovely!

thank you for sharing all your amazing artwork here! i'm looking happily forward to more of it whenever you feel like creating and sharing more 💕💕💕

Ahhh first ask! So exciting!!

Thank you so much. You're so kind~ There are probably a gazillion great artists sharing their works here and I was very self-conscious the first time I posted. I'm a very introverted person, honestly null communication skills. I draw all my works on my phone, so the thought of posting them always intimidates me :v Although seeing people's reaction and the overall enthusiasm pushed me to be brave.

I'm thrilled that you like my art and find enjoyment from it. Seeing the reblogs, the tags, the likes makes me feel all kinds of warm inside. My art professor once said that an artist is nothing without the appreciators. So thank you. 💕💕💕💕

I'll try my best to continue sharing my work here and resist the temptation to disappear to the other side of the world 🤣 So here's a lil sketch for you! Hope this brings you joy and you have great days ahead.

Cwtches for everyone~

#thanks for coming to my ted talk #justsomeoneunordinary #asks open

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annaphoenix1994 · 3 years

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Colter - Old Friends (3)

Whole story masterlist here!

It was no surprise to Arthur that the knawing cold didn't seem to let up by morning. With a gruff sigh, he arose from his cot and fastened his gun belt around his waist, resisting the urge for a cigarette that he felt he desperately needed. He scratched his head before covering his unkempt hair with his weathered hat before opening a tin of biscuits and a can of peaches, quenching his hunger for at least a couple of hours.

He stretched before the old wooden floorboards creaked under his weight as he walked, seeing Dutch and Hosea gathered around the hearth as they discussed their plan.

"So what now, Dutch?" He heard Hosea question.

"We get strong. We get warm. And we wait. When the storm breaks, we need to move, but we're safe here." Dutch explained.

Arthur couldn't help but eavesdrop as he walked by on his way out of the cabin. He felt as if he needed the reassurance since he couldn't provide any type of explanation for himself. He shuttered his shoulders as he closed the cabin door behind him, welcoming himself to the morning wind as it felt to him as it was going to cut him in half.

"Javier," Arthur greeted as Javier was holding his post, a Carbine Repeater in hand.

"Arthur, how you doing?" Javier said through chattering teeth.

"Not freezing is good news," Arthur grunted as his palm rested on the doorknob. "What's he in there fussin' about?" He asked, referring to Micah.

Javier shrugged his shoulders, "Not sure, but he's probably upset because he has to share a room." He replied, sharing a chuckle with Arthur.

"Sure, the poor boy needs his privacy," Arthur snickered as he entered the cabin, greeted by the smell of bourbon and tobacco.

"-up with you boys, because I thought you liked action," Micah continued. "Couple of days on the lam and you lot have all turned yella!" He sneered as he handed the bottle of bourbon to Arthur as he found a seat for himself. "Apart from you, of course." He teased as he looked at his colored fellow gang member, Lenny Summers.

"Shut up, Micah!" Lenny hissed as he took a drag off of his well-needed cigarette. 'I didn't even smoke this much until I got stuck sharin' a cabin with this clown!' He thought.

"I ain't never seen so many long faces," Micah continued, not noticing Arthur glaring at him for his ignorance as he placed a log in the small hearth, presenting his gloved palms to the warmth, a slight jolt running through him as Javier slammed through the door, shaking the fresh snow from his coat.

"I guess... I guess folks miss them...that fell," Bill added, taking a needy drag from his cigarette.

"Well, when I fall, I don't want no fuss." Micah sneered.

Lenny snickered, "When you fall, there'll be a party!"

Bill laughed as Lenny playfully pat his shoulder as he looked over briefly at Arthur, who was bringing his freshly lit cigarette to his lips, letting the temptation take over as he couldn't go any longer without having one.

"A party...probably!" Bill repeated, snickering along with Lenny, not noting how Micah had stood to his feet to walk towards him.

"That funny, huh?" Micah said. "Sure," Bill replied before Micah delivered a blow to Bill's face before he could react, only to be stopped by Arthur and Lenny, who were both clenching their lips around their lit cigarettes as they forced Bill to sit back down.

"Maybe I don't feel like being laughed at by the likes of you two!" Micah sneered before shuttering as Dutch had now made his presence known.

"Stop it!" Dutch hissed. "Now! You fools punching each other when Colm O'Driscoll's need punching, hard. You wanna sit around waiting for him to come find us? All of you, we got work to do!" Dutch preached as Arthur made his way around him to go to his horse.

"Are you sure about this, Dutch?" Arthur asked as he rubbed his gloved hands together.

"Yes," Dutch replied sternly.

"Folks been through a lot recently...we hardly back on our feet yet," Arthur explained, exhaling a small cloud of smoke as he spoke.

"And the last thing we need is to be bushwacked by Colm O'Driscoll. Let's go." Dutch replied, guiding Arthur along with him to their horses.

"I know you hate him, Dutch,"

"He's here for us," He protested.

"I doubt that," Arthur shrugged.

"No, you're just doubting me,"

'Actin' just like a woman!' Arthur hissed to himself. "I would never doubt you, Dutch, you-you always said revenge is a luxury we can't afford."

"This is the right call, Arthur," Dutch insisted. "Take this," He demanded after he watched Arthur inspect the new repeater he had given him. "And this is about more than revenge for business long ago," He explained as he pulled a coil of rope from his horse before handing it to Arthur. "They were talkin' about trains and detonators. Colm always had good information."

"And you think now is the right time to hit a train?"

"Now you might fancy living on deer piss and rabbit shit...I'm getting too old for that life," Dutch teased as Arthur angrily flicked his cigarette into the snow. "Mr. Matthews, Mr. Smith, Mr. Pearson, would you please look after the place? There are O'Driscoll's about!" Dutch warned before leading his clan into the mountains.

───※ ·❆· ※───

"Alright, gentlemen, this is it!" Dutch said as he and the gang rode silently on the outskirts of their target's camp. "Are we goddamn ready?"

"Ready, Dutch!" Lenny, Bill, and Javier said almost in sync.

"Good. Now, Mister Morgan and I, we're going to head up here a little, see if we can't get a sense of the layout of the camp. Mister Williamson, Mister Bell, you two take up a hidden position just outside the camp. Mister Summers, Mister Escuella, you two hold position here. Let's go!" Dutch commanded before he and Arthur dismounted their horses and making their way up the hill to be perched on a ridge, getting a clear layout of Colm's camp.

"Perfect," Arthur mumbled as he pulled out his binoculars, scanning around the camp.

───※ ·❆· ※───

"Who's he talking to? He don't seem very happy." Dutch whispered as he and Arthur were analyzing the commotion below.

"No..." Arthur replied, keeping his binoculars set on Colm and the soul he had just slapped.

"Are they leaving?" Dutch asked as the unidentified man had climbed on his horse.

"Seem to be. Should we go get 'em?" Arthur asked.

"No. Colm can wait. Best to get some of them outta there," Dutch replied. "And much less fun to rob him and his score if he never finds out about it," Dutch and Arthur snickered. "Come on, let's get down there."

───※ ·❆· ※───

Kieran fumbled through his saddlebag on his horse, desperately trying to find the manuscript that was almost stolen from him by Minnie Barlow. Sweat beaded on his cold skin as he knew Colm was closeby, seeing that his solid black stallion was ground-tied a few yards away from him.

"Duffy!" Colm yelled. Kieran jolted as he immediately jogged to his leader.

"Why weren't you gonna tell me about runnin' into Miss Barlow?" Colm questioned with a sly grin on his lips.

"I-I was..." Kieran stuttered as he looked around. "I-I didn't let her get it, though. She almost shot me!" Kieran explained.

Colm chuckled, "You're damn lucky she didn't! And you'll be damn lucky if I don't shoot you right now for runnin' away when Dutch van der Linde is shootin' up my boys!" He hissed.

"I-I didn't run away!" Kieran protested.

"That's not what Phil's cousin said!" Colm argued as he slung his leg over his horse's back before lunging down and grabbing Kieran roughly by the collar, pulling him harshly into his horse's shoulder. "Said you were runnin' away. I'll tell you what: you get outta here and bring me Miss Barlow. I don't care how you do it, just do it," He hissed, his tobacco and whiskey tainted breath filling Kieran's nostrils.

"I'll die out there if I go now, please!" Kieran begged.

"I don't really care if you die or not, boy! Do it!" Colm demanded before slapping him and letting him go. "And don't you come back unless you got her!"

Kieran nodded as he ran to his horse, mounting quickly before digging his heels into the horse's sides, urging him to go as fast as he could. 'Just south-just find my way down south and I'll be fine!' Kieran assured himself as his adrenaline was causing his body to feel like it was taken over by static.

───※ ·❆· ※───

"Maybe I should take the lead on this one Dutch, they're gonna be gunnin' for ya once it starts," Arthur warned as he and Dutch trekked through the snow, clutching a weapon as they snuck through the outskirts of the camp.

"They haven't got me yet, but if you want, I'll wait on your call!" Dutch replied as they soon caught up to the others, who were behind one of the thin wooden walls that made up the perimeter of the camp.

"Hey! Anybody seen that new kid?" Arthur heard a fellow member ask from a nearby cabin.

"The one with the funny lookin' horse?" Another asked.

"Yeah!"

"Colm told him to bring back that Minnie Barlow if he wanted to come back!" A man answered.

"Minnie Barlow?" Dutch questioned as he looked back at Arthur. "She's around here?"

"I wouldn't think so..." Arthur replied, trying desperately to hide the sting of hurt that pinged through him. 'What the hell is wrong with me?' He scolded himself as he tried to subside the feeling, focusing on the task at hand.

"Ah, yeah, can't wait to see that pretty blonde fightin' 'round here!" He heard a man say.

He let himself snap.

He took his place in cover as he fired shots from his new repeater. Seven bullets at a time before it took two seconds to reload. The environment around him became slow and at his pace as he, Bill, Micah, Lenny, Javier, and Dutch shot down each O'Driscoll gang member one by one.

───※ ·❆· ※───

"Good work boys! Now, let's tear this place apart!" Dutch commanded as he mounted his horse. "Arthur, you take that building to the left!"

"Find those detonators, explosives, anything you can!"

Arthur nodded as he followed Dutch's directions, making his way to the desired building as told. He grinned as he approached the suspected explosives, recognizing the SAMSON BROS. SAINT DENIS DYNAMITE case, opening the weathered crate to see the prize possession.

"Here...this looks good...what do you think, Bill?" Arthur asked as he handed the former Army soldier the explosives.

"Looks fine...smells good." Bill snickered as he held the dynamite to his nose.

"Come on," Arthur said as Bill followed suit to join the rest on their horses.

"Did we get everything?" Dutch asked.

"Think so, Boss," Micah replied, handing him a manuscript. "Found this on one of them."

Dutch nodded as he opened the manuscript to see not only a map of a train's schedule but a small map of the whole region with small markers on certain areas such as the western region of the Grizzlies and an area close to Citadel Rock. Dutch furrowed his brows as he continued to study the map. "Did you find anything else?" He asked Micah.

"Found this," He replied, pulling out a small journal-like folder from his coat. Dutch retrieved it from him, seeing a 'wanted' poster enclosed. He chuckled as he knew he could poke fun at Arthur.

There she was.

Her 'wanted' poster opened to another gang leader.

"Looks like a train ain't the only thing they're after," Dutch said, getting the other member's attention.

"What is it, Boss?" Micah asked.

"They're after another outlaw aside from us," Dutch explained, holding the poster up for everyone else to see, noting Arthur's reaction once his eyes finally lay on the woman he had been so curious about. "Minnie Barlow. Sounds like she keeps herself busy by takin' robberies from Colm. Remind me to buy her a drink!" Dutch joked. He looked at Arthur, who didn't pay any attention to what was just said. His eyes were fixated on Minnie's picture: blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a slight scar on her cheekbone.

She was beautiful.

'She wouldn't have to hold a gun to me to steal my heart.' He sighed to himself, blinking his eyes quickly to rid the doubtful thought to keep the focus on what he was doing.

"Lemme see it!" Micah asked as he reached his hands up at Dutch to retrieve the poster. "I can see why Colm's after her. Fine lookin' woman!" Micah teased, hiding his past

Arthur shook his head, not wanting to hear anything else come from his mouth. "Give me that!" He hissed as he took the poster from Micah. "Remember the task at hand here, you fool!"

Micah put his hands in the air, "Oh, I'm sorry, you can have that so you can have somethin' to jack off to later!" He seethed.

"Enough!" Dutch intervened. "Arthur's right, we have far more things to worry about than drooling over a picture! I'm sure you boys can take out your frustrations when we get out of here and find a town, but for the time being, remember what we're doing!" Dutch preached. Micah and Bill groaned as they mounted their horses.

"Arthur, hold these for me," Dutch said as he handed him the manuscript and the 'wanted' poster. "Keep the poster. She has a high bounty on her head. Maybe we can rack in extra cash." He explained. Arthur looked at him almost appalled but soon realized that he only said it because he knew the other men were listening. Dutch knew Arthur too well to know that he was developing an early crush, which wasn't likely of him, but he didn't do a good job of hiding it. "This was something about the train they was gonna rob. A Mister Leviticus Cornwall," Dutch continued. "Mount back up. Let's keep moving!"

Arthur gripped the reins tightly as he was not mentally prepared to face the harsh winds of Mother Nature. Dutch's speech the entire ascent down the mountain went through one ear and out the other as if he had heard it before. As a matter of fact, he had heard it all before.

Multiple times.

"Hey, you see that feller? Wasn't he at the camp with Colm?" Dutch asked over the whistling wind, interrupting Arthur's thoughts.

"Leave him to me," Arthur grunted, nudging his horse into a canter before breaking to a trot to cross the river.

"Alright, we're heading back. Just bring him back alive. He could be useful!" Dutch said as he and the rest of the gang parted from Arthur.

"Okay, you got it!"

"You got the wrong feller!" He heard the young man yell from ahead.

"Not so fast there, partner!" Arthur mumbled as he dallied his rope around the saddle horn, pulling the young man from his horse and into the snow. "You're comin' with me!" He said as he effortlessly tossed the man to where he was laying on his torso.

"Please, please, you don't need to do this!" He begged.

"What's your name, boy?" Arthur interrogated as he tossed the man over his horse's hindquarters before tethering the man's horse to his own.

"I don't know!"

"You don't know your name?" Arthur questioned.

"It's Kieran! Kieran Duffy!"

"Well, I ain't gonna lie to you, this is a real bad day for you Kieran Duffy," Arthur chuckled.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere you ain't gonna like,"

"Why? What are you gonna do to me?"

"Something you ain't gonna like! So I'd advise you to save your breath for screaming," Arthur demanded.

"No, please!" Kieran begged. "A-Are you runnin' with Minnie Barlow? She threatened to shoot me a couple of days ago and-"

"She was a fool for not shootin' ya!" Arthur replied, not liking that the subject of Minnie Barlow had yet been brought up again to him.

"I-I'm no use to you!" Kieran pleaded.

"You better shut your mouth, you little shit, or I will shut it for you," Arthur threatened.

His horse whinnied at the other horses as they arrived back to camp, "Here we are, you sack of shit. Let's introduce you to the boys." Arthur chuckled as he slung Kieran over his shoulder.

"Don't hurt me, please!"

"Are you trying to test me, is that it? Because I will break every bone in your body!" Arthur threatened.

"N-no! I'm sorry!"

"That's two bones right there!"

📷

"You found the little shit, did you," Dutch chuckled as he stepped outside the cabin as Arthur slung Kieran into the snow.

"Yep...I got him,"

"Very good. Welcome to your new home. Hope you're real happy here!" Dutch explained in sarcasm.

"You want me to make him talk?" Arthur asked as he stood the man up after cutting his ankles free of rope, gripping his shoulders roughly.

"Oh no, now all we'll get is lies! Uncle. Mr. Williamson, tie this maggot up someplace safe. We get him hungry first. I got a saying, my friend: we shoot feller who need shooting, save fellers as need saving, and feed 'em as need feedin'. We're gonna find out what you need," Dutch explained, holding the manuscript briefly up to let Kieran see that it now was in his possession. "I can't believe it! An O'Driscoll in my camp!"

"No, I ain't an O'Driscoll, Mister!" Kieran begged. "I hate that feller!"

"Oh, whatever you say, son! Well done, Arthur!"

"I'm just sorry we missed out on Colm,"

"Oh, there's time enough for that. Now, I gotta figure out if we can hit that train," Dutch replied before dismissing himself into the cabin to talk about matters with Hosea.

"Okay," Arthur replied, looking around before pulling out the 'wanted' poster of Minnie that he was given by Dutch back at Colm's camp. He only had a brief look at her then, but now that everything around him had slowed down, he could really take her in.

"WANTED"

DEAD OR ALIVE

$8,000.00

MINNIE "BANDIT" BARLOW

THEFT, ROBBERY, and ARSON

ARMED AND DANGEROUS

APPROACH WITH CAUTION

LAST SEEN OUTSIDE CITADEL ROCK, NEW HANOVER

#minniebarlow #arthurmorgan #reddeadredemption2 #fanfiction #arthur morgan

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actually--olivia · 4 years

Text

19 January 2020

Day nine: mighty fine!

My dearest Giggles,

I've been talking to Quinn about the logistics of backpacking; I'm starting to walk away from our conversations wanting to live from what I can carry, ultimately retreating to a cabin in the woods I build and sustain, farming all of my own food. For now, though, I still dream of a kitchen where I can save food scraps.

I am beyond proud you've found a calling worthy of your full ambition. I have no doubt that you'll be fighting against any and every injustice with the force of the Gonzales's before you. Survival is in your bloodline. You are fighting a worthwhile battle, and you are making those who care about you infinitely proud. You are worthy of this life, and every kindness it brings you. Just reading the passion and reverence you have for what you're doing is enough to envy your discovery of a lifelong mission. I can only hope to dedicate my life to a pursuit of equal virtue.

I don't feel particularly called to this island. I'm here now, but as much as I foresee, this trip is the extent of my connection to this land. We visited a cliff face again, but there was a lighthouse and an abandoned lighthouse keeper's house. It was filled with trash. Acres of this untouched coastal land was sold to a millionaire who will strip it of the boulders we named measured, and calculated, and use the land to develop houses. This is the last year the public can visit the park. He will most likely demolish the lighthouse which has stood since 1910. While surveying the boulders, we found that where there were overhangs was carved into the rock, there were piles of garbage. We hypothesized these were the remnants of someone living there who was evicted, and perhaps jailed for squatting, when the sale went through.

I feel guilty for learning this island's beauty, knowing I most likely won't return to right the wrongs I have seen. I’ve been thinking of the impacts of travel, and have justified it when traveling ethically or when using it for a greater scheme of justice, but I feel like I’ve used it for personal growth and that feels filthy when considering what I could be doing locally, affecting change closer to home.

There will always be someone who wants to dam the river. There will always be another beer bottle in the sand. There will always be the mark of humanity on this world.

My English teacher in hs spoke of perceived good vs actual good. He used his grocer-boy day as a parable; the same older lady would come in to recycle her collection of plastic bags once a month, placing them in the cardboard bins at the front of the store. She didn’t know that the end of each day, those bins were emptied into the dumpster, joining the reffuse on its path to burial. Makes me think of an art piece I saw a while back by Howardeena Pindell; The most common theme throughout her later works were focused on how violence can be non-confrontational. It is violent to dehumanize someone; to take away what makes them a function of society, and I fear that more than I fear physical violence. Someone in a tower can declare those beneath his footing to be lesser, and who are we to disagree when we have no concept of what it means to be in the tower?

It's inevitable, but it makes me think: where will I be in the revolution?

We are on our own for dinners, but rather than eat alone, some groups have decided to cook large meals for whoever wants to come over, and rotate the chore of hosting/cooking. I'm still on my mission of infiltrating the geology majors, and I've found some mathematics/Creative writing double majors, and LEMME TELL YA, that has made this so much easier! I plan on being all their besties before the week is up, I'll keep you posted.

Dana and I made a pact to touch fire coral on the last day here.

Quote of the day is from Sydney

“I'm very buoyant, so I'll have to find a girl to love me for them [boobs]--and I hope also my personality..."

yours, for now and through every tomorrow,

olivia

(PS: I go numb thinking of your mouth on my thigh, your hand in my mouth, and the feeling of your teeth biting down. My bruise has mostly healed, so add "reclaim my territory" to your to-do list. I'm awfully disappointed this headrest is going to waste, I guess that just means we need to be creative. Next time I see you, you're getting a kiss on your forehead, cheek, neck, and I'll slowly make my way under your shirt, leaving clear evidence of my route.)

——————————

Day Nine: Chérie of Mine

Captain’s log:

Six days until I can hold an Angel

Baby —

I saw so many birds today!!! I got all muddy because I ran after a bird and tripped but it was worth it to come within a few yards of a great blue heron, binoculars pressed into my sunglasses and jaw hanging wide open. I’m convinced I’m turning into an old man with these old man hobbies like archery and whittling and NOW birding. Yikes hope you’ll still date me when I inevitably suggest going square dancing.

Most of my day was spent in travel from Tickfaw State Park to Cocodrie on the edge of Louisiana’s torn, boot-shaped state border into the sea. Turns out I’m reaaally good at falling asleep in cars.

Your paragraph about me finding my passion added kindling to the campfire you occupy in my heart. I’ve never had anyone understand me so well and actively seek to know me — to want to. I’ve never had anyone be proud of me like you are. I’ve never met anyone like you at all. And as much as that scares me, I’m also — I’m glad that you’re mine.

I’m sorry about your Bonaire Realizations. It’s a real shame about that developer on the park lands and the garbage that seems to be everywhere, even at home.

If you’d like to know what an old coot (see American Coot, a silly bird with a silly call) thinks about the situation, here you go:

(A reflection)

We have to move past grief in order to defend our homes, our coastal lands, our culture, our people. I cope with this eco-grief by turning my fear into service. I find comfort from my despair in learning how to best serve others, how to protect the most vulnerable populations, how to communicate and find loopholes through policy to take care of people.

Your grief reminds me of something Elizabeth Rush once said in her book, “Rising.” She invoked James Baldwin and related the fight against racism to the fight against climate change:

“I am done dreaming the earth undrowned; it is no longer a useful skill… ‘Guilt is a luxury that we can no longer afford,” he continues. ‘I know you didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it either, but I am responsible for it because I am… a citizen of this country and you are responsible for it, too, for the very same reason.’”

It is perfectly normal and okay to grieve for the area you inhabit now, to feel like you’re not doing enough to solve the crises before you, to be mad at yourself for not being more committed to Bonaire. But as you rightfully criticize your environment and mental framework, please remember that in your scholastic work, you are serving.

You are learning the names of people and places and experiences and sharing those stories with others who otherwise would never have seen that island. It may not be perfect, but I see your willingness to learn and grow and reflect and question as cultural preservation, as resistance against the forces that seek to discourage our endeavors by listing mounting problems, as an act of great art and struggle. Let yourself sit with this discomfort and move past grief into service.

I hope that you can begin to find peace this way, regardless of how many rivers are dammed or parks developed. We have a responsibility to ourselves and to others to do justice, and grief is a robber in the night that takes potential from us. Think of Greta Thunberg, who was once someone who grieved deeply and hid her eating disorder, staying home and not talking to anyone. And then she started striking on Fridays. And now she gives lectures around the world: “No person is too small to make a difference.” She is no different from you or me.

Seek the opportunity to do justice from your learning experiences. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve applied Everglades knowledge to problems in our Mississippi River system or the coastal land loss in Louisiana without even meaning to. Everywhere is an opportunity to learn and to serve others. That work is Everything. You are and always have been Enough.

Here are some moving pictures from my day:

Gawking at Hunter, who has — get this — strep throat, as she tries to pet a fish through the aquarium glass

Witnessing the kinetic choreography of the Little Cocodrie Bayou and fearing for the houses along its banks, some with foundations already as high as eight feet lifted on stilts

Laughing with Mia as she scoffed at the “sand volleyball court” that was licked halfway by thick white clover stalks

Hearing the creaking of the Acadiana research ship as I tripped over wooden planks to find little blue herons, brown pelicans, common grackles, great blue herons, herring gulls, and foresters tern diving into the water to grab fish or puttering around ship roofs until taking to the skies

Hiding with Ryan “Po’Boy” Lefaivre as security nearly busted our asses for illegally fishing off the pier

Saying, “don’t worry — I’ve got asthma!” after Ivy, the near-retirement security guard, warned me not to smoke next to the low-sulfur diesel tanks and salt-heavy oyster shells I was leaning up against

Traipsing along the rock-tossed shore of salt marshes and smelling the presence of fish not too far from common cordgrass, seaside goldenrod, and the roots of deadly nightshade berries, which hang pert and tomato red in temptation of a passing taste

Playing “referee” for six freedom-drunk kids jumping barefoot on the shell-lined court and clapping and using my air horn as a whistle even though I don’t know the rules, thinking of you all the while

Goodnight, baby. I’ll tell you all about the salt marshes I trip through tomorrow. Sleep well.

Your girl,

P.S.

I am... fuck it, you should already know what I’m going to do to you. You should be able to feel that ache when you get to this section of our emails; you should be able to clench around nothing at the thought of my nails raking down your back as I let you mark me. Otherwise, I haven’t been doing my job.

P.P.S.

Here’s a picture of your favorite girl looking for birds ^

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