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splat-dragon · 3 years

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But he was a step above them - he was the boss, he couldn’t just plop down and spread out his wings, ask them to preen him. And none of them dared approach him and offer, either. So, though he never could reach some of his scapulars or secondary coverts, and coaxing free his crooked feathers was more ‘tugging’ considering he couldn’t twist to reach them right, he took care of his wings himself. Maybe they were a bit dusty, a bit too oily, the feathers a bit crooked, but it was the best he could do.

Flaco couldn’t remember the last time he’d had someone preen his wings.

His men preened each other’s wings, of course. They had no women to do it for them, no mates to curl up with and slowly untangle their feathers, coax free the feathers that had broken or come loose. And perhaps to the civilized folk it might have been odd - even illegal, in some places, for a man to preen a man he wasn’t related to’s wings - but they were no such thing as civilized.

He caught you looking at them, sometimes. When he was digging around to get the money to pay you, and he always took great amusement in the way that you blushed underneath your chilled flush when he flared his wings just slightly, showing off his wren’s feathers. And, to his glee, it hadn’t escaped him that you always started to flare your wings in return before catching yourself, giving him an absolutely filthy look before turning on your heel and trotting back out to head down the mountain, nose in the air.

And then you catch him trying to straighten a feather. You’d passed his men in a group preening session, all huddled together and coaxing feathers and taking advantage of the warm (for the Grizzlies, at least) weather to pull off their gloves and rub the oils from the oil gland over their wings. He’d sent you out a few hours passed to ‘handle’ some bounty hunters that had been giving him and his gang some trouble, and hadn’t expected you back quite so soon. He looked at you, hand frozen with the feather half-way out, then flinches as it comes loose with a painful ‘snap!’

You raise the head of the lead bounty hunter as to say ‘job done!’ before dropping it and perking your own wings and waggling them, then gesturing towards his. “Eh?” his eyebrows raise in surprise - after all, preening is a very intimate thing and he isn’t quite sure if you are quite there yet, but he’ll take what he can get - “If you’re sure, pequeña ave ,” and stands to offer you his chair, sitting cross legged at the foot of it. You have to spread your legs to fit him - he’s broad, after all, and after a moment you tug carefully on his rightmost wing to drape it over your lap; and then a moment, and you tug at his thick jacket, Flaco hesitating for a long moment (had you overstepped? you worry) before shrugging it off over his arms and wings and tossing it away, shivering in the cold.

Carefully, you run your hands over the bend of the wing in your lap, flexing it open and closed before leaving it open, his feathers spread across your lap. His feathers, you frown, are a mess, filthy, oily but not in a good way. They’d be pretty, you think, when covered in their natural oils, nice and shiny and straightened out, and at that thought your own wings try to flare but you tamp down the urge, draping them over the back of the chair.

Hours of sitting in the chair haven’t done them any justice, either. The feathers are tangled, twisted and split and matted, some missing altogether, others dangling halfway out and needing to be removed.

You reach over, grabbing a stained rag he’s set aside for just such a purpose, and wipe it clean on your pants leg before beginning to carefully wipe his wing clean, swiping down on each feather gently, the wren shivering, his wing fluttering in your hand. “Soft,” you mutter, and he presses his wing down into your hand, leaning back against your leg, and you set the rag aside, intending on getting all the gnarls and mats and tangles out of his feathers.

And there are so many, “Y’never tend your wings?” you grumble as you carefully coax free a snapped primary, Flaco bracing himself for pain only to sigh when it only tugs a little, like a gentle pinch, leaning back as you go to work untwisting a pair of tangled coverts, smoothing down the ruffled barbs with your thumb. You give his scapulars a wide berth as you go to work smoothing ruffled barbs and sticking-up feathers, humming something tunelessly under your breath as you fall into the instinctual rhythm — you hadn’t realized just how long it’s been since you’ve been able to groom someone, and his feathers feel so nice beneath your fingers. As his eyes go half-lidded with the pleasure your own do the same, the motions familiar, instinctive, as soothing as cleaning and oiling your gun at the end of a long day and before you know it there’s a pile of gently plucked feathers at your side and his feathers are perfectly neat as any ‘gentleman’s’, and all they need are—

—maybe later, that is a bit too intimate. So you nudge him, and the older outlaw jolts awake with a snort, clumsily shoving his other wing in your lap and you do the same to it, wiping it clean before beginning to preen him again, the motions nearly hypnotizing as you fall into that trance, the man slumping back against you and allowing his eyes to drift shut, dozing but not falling asleep. His left wing is almost worse than his right - most of his primaries are rumpled, and getting the barbs back into place is no easy thing - but once they are, a few that are too bent to be saved coaxed into the pile, he looks like a striking bird, though his brown feathers look a bit dusty, if only he’d just let you…

“Flaco?” you ask quietly, tugging your gloves off your hands and setting them aside. And he stiffens - he knows what you’re asking - before finally taking a deep breath and arching his wings so you can access the glistening oil glands at the base of his wings, the man gasping and shuddering as you rub your hands over them, making sure your hands are soaked through before beginning to massage his wings, carefully rubbing each, individual, tiny little feather between your fingers, starting at the top and working your way to his larger feathers, making sure not to miss a single barb. It’s rhythmic, as soothing for you as it is for him, and you only blink back to awareness when his wing is gorgeous, glistening and a rich shade of tan, and he’s all out dozing, your legs asleep where he rests against them. He wakes, just barely, when you tell him to give you his other wing, then dozes off again after the sudden jolt when you soak your hands in the oil of his oil gland, basking in the massage.

You could preen him forever, it is so soothing, but it is so easy to overpreen that you have to force yourself to stop, to wipe your hands clean on the rag (though you’ll have to wash them proper soon unless you want to reek of him) and nudge him awake.

He yawns, and stretches out his wings, giving a satisfied groan, “Aaah, that feels good,” and you can imagine, your own wings itch and it has only been a few months since you’ve been preened, Flaco must have gone years and that sounds agonizing!

Slowly he stands, joints cracking back into place and you try not to grin, though your grin is quickly wiped off your face in your confusion as he turns to you and gestures to the floor, “Well? Sit!” and when you move to stand but not to sit he huffs, grabs you by your arm and guides you to sit with your back between his spread legs. “It’s your turn, pajarita, it’s only fair.”

Any misgivings you might have, he quickly puts to rest.

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splat-dragon · 3 years

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Dutch curled up on the floor, refusing to let go of your hand long enough to get in the chair Hosea brought to him, other hand trailing along your clammy face and through your hair, murmuring softly to you. Promising you anything - a ranch, to settle down, to rid the gang of Micah, if only you'd open your eyes. Telling stories of when the gang had been younger, of when he'd been younger. Speaking of his dreams for you and him and your daughter.

---------

Meeting the Adler widow had rattled Dutch more than he was willing to admit.

She'd reminded him of finding you. Feral-eyed and scared, nearly taking out his throat. And maybe he'd spurred The Count a bit faster than he should have in his hurry to return to you; could you blame him? He wanted to curl up around you, to get warm, to see you as you were now, loving smile on your face, to clasp his hand on your swollen stomach and feel reassured that you were safe.

Hosea almost yanked him off his horse though, and one look at his face set a stone in his stomach. His voice was whipped away by the wind but he caught your name, and broke into a run towards his cabin.

Susan opened the door, face pale. Her arms were soaked in blood, the front of her dress to match.

His heart sank, began to race and, screaming your name, he nearly barreled her over as he bolted for your two's room.

You were horribly indecent, but that wasn't his concern. Your pants had been discarded, shirt exchanged for one of his. Your chest heaved for each breath, and blood soaked the blankets beneath your spread legs.

'Oh God.'

No, this couldn't be happening. You weren't due for months, this couldn't be happening.

He dropped to his knees beside you, taking your hand in his. Dutch gasped your name and your eyes were horribly glassy when they opened, struggling to focus on him. "...Dutch?"

He reached up and ran his fingers through your soaked hair, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead, "I'm here sweetheart, I'm here."

You opened your mouth as though to speak before your face twisted and you curled in on yourself, a scream so agonized as to be inhuman tearing from your throat as Susan rushed in, hurrying to hold your legs open with Abigail's help (the other woman had been waiting in the corner) and urging you to breathe.

Dutch could only stare in horror as blood gushed, red as the sunset, onto the blankets.

When you slumped back onto the bed, gasping for air, what little color you had left on your face had drained away. "Dutch…" your eyes darted this way and that, struggling to lock onto his until he leaned forward to kiss your clammy cheek.

"I've got you, I won't let anything happen to you." They'd already lost Jenny and Sean, Mac and Davey, and he refused to lose you too.

The next contraction, and you hadn't the energy to curl in on yourself. Dutch found himself sitting behind you, propping you up against his chest and murmuring love words and encouragement in your ears, holding your legs apart with his and fighting the urge to be sick when your blood trickled out onto them.

"It's okay," he muttered to you when you sagged, whimpering, "I've got you my darling, I've got you."

You trembled and shook, gasping desperately as Abigail checked between your legs, arms coming away crimson and baring her teeth in something that could barely be called a grin. "I can feel their head, just a few more pushes!"

Dutch wrapped his arm around you in a hug as he took your hand in his, Abigail grabbing the other, Susan taking up position between your legs. You strained once, the world going grey, and the second time slumped, eyelids fluttering and Dutch's voice was suddenly in your ear, "No, no you must stay awake, stay awake for me," and he didn't often sound so scared so you forced yourself to rouse, to strain and then a scream split the air, shrill and high-pitched.

"You did it," Dutch praised, his voice watery, rubbing your side and running his thumb along your knuckles, and Abigail's voice was there too but it was wobbling and far away and you frowned, tried to look back at Dutch but only barely managed

"Something's wrong,"

and then you were gone.

Susan was holding your baby - a tiny little girl - and suddenly it was all, for just a moment, okay. She was tiny, and wrinkly, and ugly, but she was the most beautiful baby he'd ever seen.

And then you said something, so quiet he couldn't make it out, and you went slack against his chest and he couldn't breathe.

Susan passed your infant to Abigail, the experienced mother cutting the cord as Grimshaw tore you from Dutch's arms, the numb man stiff as a board as she yelled "Dutch, let her go! Let me help her!" and he could only stare at the blood that soaked him as she moved you to the floor and straddled you, beginning to breathe into your mouth between compressions to your chest.

Against all odds, Susan managed to bring you back.

Dutch had been useless, able only to stare in horror. Hosea had had to coax him out of bed, to hold you as Tilly and Mary-Beth stripped the bed and put on clean linens, Abigail wiping down your unnamed daughter as he settled you in bed. Abigail offered him his daughter but he could only see the blood that already was starting to darken the towels between your legs despite the medicine Hosea had tipped down your throat, and so she took her to Arthur's room to tend her through the night.

It was just gone midnight when you drew breath for the last time.

Within a week winter's fever settled deep in your daughter's underdeveloped lungs, and days later she joined you, your arms holding her to your still breast, to be buried when they got off the mountain where flowers swayed in the winds and birds would sing you to sleep.

#splatdragon #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #splatdragonff #splat dragon #fanfiction #splat_dragon #splat-dragon #Dutch #Dutch Van Der Linde #Reader #Female reader #Death in childbirth #Childbirth #Child death #Child loss #Rdr #Rdr2 #Colter

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splat-dragon · 3 years

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The man that looked him in the eye on that mountain, though, was Dutch. The one he’d known for twenty years, that had cradled him and loved him and known him and taught him. He knew his tells, knew his eyes.

And that man, the one who was silent though he’d never known him to be, was his Pa.

‘Pa, please don’t go. I don’t want to die alone.’

Thank you to @thedoodlenoodle-wa who got my butt in gear to finish this that has totally not been sitting in my WIPs for over a year

Written to this version of Knockin' on Heaven's Door

He couldn’t breathe.

His face was throbbing, his chest was burning. Micah had done a number on him, and his only solace was that he would die of his wounds instead of his illness. But… he didn’t want to die. There was so much he still wanted to do, he was terrified. He still had so much he needed to do.

He needed to talk to Dutch, get him to see that he was wrong. That following Micah would only drag him further into ruin, further down than he was already, if that was possible. He had already lost Hosea, had lost those he had raised as sons and daughters, to death and to leaving in hopes of a better life. What more could he lose?

His life, he supposed. But with all of his gang lost, everything he had built up destroyed, did he have much of a life left to lose?

No, not really. As much as Dutch had changed, he still loved them: the gang was as much his family as they were Arthur’s. If Arthur lost them… he would be crushed. He’d never be able to go on. Would go insane, most likely, lose his mind—they were all that was keeping him together. He’d rather die than lose them, couldn’t imagine a future where he wasn’t surrounded by his brothers and sisters in arms.

‘I don’t want to die.’

He wanted Hosea.

Desperately.

When he was a kid and he was sick or hurt, or just needed attention, the old man (although he hadn’t been that old back then) would sit with him, tell him that it would be okay, would card his fingers through his hair. Read aloud to him from whatever book he was reading at the time, even if Arthur didn’t understand a word of it. Tell him about one of his favorite cons or heists, and Arthur would be just as fascinated as the first time he’d heard it, even if it was the hundredth time.

But Hosea was dead, wasn’t he? He’d been shot in front of him, captured in that damned bank robbery that had gone so, so wrong. He’d been made to watch him turn to stare his death in the eye, collapse to the ground in a spray of blood and writhe pitifully in pain. His pa’s death hadn’t been dignified, or peaceful, or even something worth telling stories of as he had wanted; he hadn’t died in some amazing shoot-out, or protecting his family. He’d been shot down in the streets like some mangy, flea-ridden dog. Made the most horrific sound as he’d been torn open, punched through by a bullet and put down without a second thought.

If Hosea was still alive… well, this wouldn’t be happening. He would never have allowed Lenny to be shot on that rooftop, Micah to bring in Joe and Cleet, Dutch to stir the pot that was the Wapiti and the government. Would never have allowed Susan to be shot down as she had been. He would have been horrified, heartbroken, to see Dutch walk away from their sons and Arthur wondered if, perhaps, it was better that the man wasn’t around to see how far his pa had fallen.

Could Hosea have fixed things? Dutch had been falling for years, but he’d only gotten worse since Micah had joined them, worse since he hit his head, worse since Hosea died. No, maybe not. But Hosea could have lessened the impact. Could have gotten them all out before Dutch broke, could have kept them from being hit by the shrapnel, from being collateral damage. Could have restrained the ticking time bomb such that only Micah and Joe and Cleet were affected, so that only they were left to deal with the fall-out when Dutch drew the Pinkertons down on their heads, when Dutch turned on his family.

But Hosea was gone, and they had all been damaged. Shrapnel had dug deep, the shock-wave doing damage that no one could see, but that they would feel for the rest of their lives. Still, though, he wanted Hosea. He was sick, sicker than he had ever been. He wanted Hosea to sit with him, to run his fingers through his hair and read Rip Van Wrinkle or Robin Hood or any of those other books he seemed to always be re-reading, or even those books that Arthur could never remember even the title of, never mind the contents.

‘I want Hosea.’

Dutch wasn’t saying anything.

He wasn’t sure what he, himself, was saying. There was some sort of disconnect between his mouth and his brain, his mind fuzzy, his ears buzzing, and the edges of his eyesight had gone grey, but Dutch was a solid figure, as sturdy and unchanged as always.

And he had nothing to say.

For as long as Arthur could remember, Dutch always had something to say. He was always talking, always moving. Gesturing, pacing, orating.

But when it mattered, he was silent.

And then the pressure lifted from his hand, released his broken fingers, and Dutch made some sort of noise, an involuntary sort of one, a moan or a groan or a gasp, and then he was walking - staggering - away.

Perhaps it was Arthur’s fading mind trying to comfort him, but he could have sworn that he saw a tear in his Pa’s eye.

‘Dutch, please don’t leave me.’

He’d never been one to fear death.

It was part and parcel of their life. When your job included bullets flying, being chased by the law and by bounty hunters, then you became desensitized to death. He’d gone through being sick with the Russian Flu as a teenager, with Hosea and Dutch at his side for fear he might die alone, had suffered Scarlet Fever much the same. Had been bitten by more snakes than he could count on both hands, been bed-ridden by near half of them, had nearly died from so many bullet wounds that it was almost a common occurrence for him.

When he’d nearly died of an infection of the blood after escaping the O’Driscolls, he’d been angry and indignant, not mad. He’d sworn up and down that he would see Colm dead before he died, to protect his family from the man’s machinations, and he’d be damned before he died of an infection of all things.

And Hosea had, laughing wearily, said that it was that anger that had made him live. He was just too damn angry to die.

But now? Lying alone on the cold stone, bleeding out, drowning in his own blood, watching as his father walked away, abandoning him to whatever death took him?

‘I’m scared.’

They’d always been there for him.

From the moment they’d pulled him from the mud, shivering of the cold, his lips tinted blue, a sigh in Hosea’s chest and an offer on Dutch’s lips, he had always been able to count on them.

They’d fed him up, put a gun in his hand and taught him to read. Hadn’t needed to - he’d have been a perfectly good little soldier if he were illiterate - but had done so out of the goodness of their blackened hearts. Had sat for hours, put up with his sulks and whining, spent years shoving books in front of him until he could read even Dutch’s philosophy books, even if he didn’t understand them.

When he’d fallen from the saddle, his pa never having taught him how to ride proper, they’d been there to pat the dirt from his shoulders and to boost him back up, to teach him that you always get back up on that horse, and to teach him how to ride a horse. How to sit a trot, how to show it how to go, how to hold on as you let it have its head when fleeing the law. How to break a wild horse, how to coax away a stolen horse.

And when he’d had his son, his baby boy Isaac, they’d been there to hold him close, to smile proud as any grandpas would be, to love and adore him, to give him gifts they’d made themselves, to hum and sing even if Dutch didn’t look particularly comfortable, afraid he’d break him.

And when Isaac and Eliza had been killed, they’d mourned with him.

They’d been there as he grew up, as he grew sour. Talked him down when he turned surlish, snarled and snapped, knew when to pull him aside and tug him in close, squeeze him tight and tuck his head under their chins until he stopped shaking, until the world stopped thrumming and he could breathe again.

No matter what, they’d been there for him. When he was scared he could turn to them, find them there, ready to lend an ear or just sit as he sketched, or look at the stars, or nothing in particular at all. Sometimes it had seemed suffocating, as though he couldn’t take a step without stumbling over them, but at that moment he’d give anything to have them back.

‘I want my dads.’

They’d never turned their backs on him.

Not when he’d been cruel - when he’d turned to the bottle after his baby boy had been killed, taking out his agony on the world, not when he’d tried to test them when he was young and mad at the world, at everyone and everything, terrified of them, sure that they had some motives he couldn’t yet see and trying to test them.

But they’d never turned their back on him. Sometimes they’d step away, take a breather if he was drawing their ire, but never did they give up on him. They’d pull him to sit by the campfire, try to talk to him or just sit with him, wait for him to cool down and wait for calmer heads to prevail.

Maybe… maybe things had changed as the world raced ahead of them. Dutch had grown suspicious but, even then, he’d never turned his back on him. Not until Lone Mule Stead - before then he’d accused him of being a traitor, of intending on betraying him in the future.

But he’d left him to rot there, to be tortured and to die. He’d sworn, up and down, that he’d been intending to come for him, but Arthur had known him for twenty years and though Dutch was a fantastic liar, it came with the territory after all, he had his tells.

And Dutch had been lying.

But then he’d been Dutch again - playing, racing him and calling him his son, taking he and Hosea fishing and singing in the boat, eyes bright and clear and playfully directing them as they all sang their ridiculous songs.

And he’d saved him on the cliff. Could have fled, left him to be chased by the military. But he’d even covered his back and sent him ahead. Curled around him as they leaped into the river, risked wading into the current to grab his arm and haul him out, waited as he fought to breathe, fighting his traitorous lungs, only leaving once he was breathing steadily or, at least, as steadily as his breathing got these days.

But then came the oil fields, and he’d turned his back and left him to die. He’d been so happy only moments before - “Arthur… we are nearly there…” - and then he’d looked him in the eye, his hands on his guns (and Dutch was a quick shot, it was a shot he’d made thousands, if not millions, of times before), and walked away.

Dutch wasn’t his Dutch anymore, he could tell that now.

Wasn’t his Pa.

Wasn’t the man who laughed and distracted him from the pain of his wounds being tended with ridiculous stories, who would put on weird hats as he told of how he got them. Wasn’t the man who held him in his arms and rocked him when he suffered the sadness he got from his mother, who knew how to talk him down when he lost himself to the anger his father gave to him.

Wasn’t the man who hummed and cradled John when the kid woke up screaming, clawing at a noose that wasn’t there. Who laughed and played horsy with Jack when he thought no one was looking - wasn’t even the man who snuck treats to Cain behind Pearson’s back, who twirled Molly by the campfire and took in Sadie up in Colter.

The man that looked him in the eye on that ledge, though, was Dutch. The one he’d known for twenty years, that had cradled him and loved him and known him and taught him. He knew his tells, knew his eyes.

And that man, the one who was silent though he’d never known him to be, was his Pa.

‘Pa, please don’t go. I don’t want to die alone.’

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splat-dragon · 3 years

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To be quite honest, Micah never really had a chance.

Prompt from @thedoodlenoodle-wa: Micah Bell - "The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree"

Contrary to popular belief, Micah did have feelings.

He just… wasn’t too good at expressing them. He’d been taught when he was young, and taught well, that Bells are made of steel. They don’t cry, they don’t hug, they don’t say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘You okay?’

They lie, they cheat, they steal. It’s all he’d known - he’d been dragged into cons by his father from the moment he could walk; after all, what was better than a doe eyed, blond hair blue eyed little boy to increase your credulity? “Please sir, we’re lost and my boys are just so thirsty.”

Amos had done his best to shield him from it. ‘It’s just a game!’ he’d say as he yanked Micah out of the way of a bullet, ‘They’re ‘it’, and if they get you you lose!’ and Micah had always wanted to win, what was the point of doing anything if you didn’t do your best after all? and so he always did well. Sure, sometimes he got ‘tagged’, and it hurt like the devil, but Amos said so long as he kept on his feet then he wasn’t ‘it’ so it was fine.

Amos wasn’t much older than him, but you’d never know it.

His pa had always had his head in the clouds — “This job boys, it’ll be it! We’ll be sittin’ fat ‘n’ pretty, just you see!” — and so it had fallen to Amos to keep him from dying. To keep him fed - to teach him to keep himself fed, to put a varmint rifle in his hand and to teach him to butcher and cook a deer. It had been his pa who put a proper rifle in his hand, who’d taught him to dead-draw a man in the head from hundred yards, how to throw your weight around and threaten a man into giving you his life savings and snivel until a man thought you were his right hand man only for you to rob him blind.

Amos had taught him to pluck apples from trees, to siphon gold dust from a river, to sweet talk a horse until it charged a cougar if you asked.

Amos had tried, really, he had.

His brother had grown disillusioned young. Had squirreled away money, snuck out and done jobs beneath their pa’s nose, and one day he’d woke up and Amos had been gone.

And maybe that had cemented his fate.

His pa had been furious. Had had to handle his young son, make sure he had food in his stomach and water in his throat, ammunition in his gun and something antiseptic on his wounds.

And without Amos to watch his back, he’d had to bring young Micah on the jobs that, until then, he’d been sheltered from. See things that would haunt him for the rest of his life, the deer-like final squeals of men with their throats slit, women shrieking as their men were cut down in front of them. Children younger even than him shot mercilessly to ‘shut [them] the fuck up!’, corpses strung up as a reminder of what his pa would do if they went to the law.

He grew. Blood and screams and corpses filled his days and haunted his nights, and he slept less and less. Micah taught himself to wield two guns, and for the first time his pa looked at him with something other than disdain in his eyes.

For his sixteenth birthday, his pa stole a pair of revolvers that matched his own.

The day of his seventeenth birthday, he slit the throats of a man and his wife, Roscoe and Jean Briggs, and strung up their bodies in a barn as his father worked their fields.

Twenty two years later, a dog named Cain bit him.

He slit its throat and strung its body up in a cave.

#rdr #rdr2 #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #splat #splatdragon #splat dragon #splatdragonff #drabble #character study #micah bell #micah bell ii #micah bell's father #amos #amos bell #animal death #cain #cain the dog

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splat-dragon · 3 years

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Boxers or Briefs

Arthur

Whatever’s clean and available, he can’t be bothered to buy anything particular.

Bill

Boxers. They’re comfortable.

Dutch

Briefs. They make him feel fancy.

Hosea

Boxers. They’re practical.

Javier

Briefs, boxers on rare occasions. What occasions? Only he knows.

John

Usually nekkie, Abigail tries to force him into literally anything.

Micah

Bold of you to think he wears underwear.

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splat-dragon · 4 years

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For reasons wretched and divine ~Jackie and Wilson, Hozier

Whumptober 2020, alt. #7: Found Family

Charles never regretted burying Arthur. The man deserved a burial, deserved a headstone, deserved more than to be left to rot.

But he’d give anything to be able to close his eyes without seeing Arthur laying on the mountain, without seeing his corpse. To remember Arthur without first seeing him dead on the ground, to remember him living and bright, even if it was angry and cruel, before he’d tried to redeem himself if only because it meant he didn’t first think of him half-rotted on that stone.

INSPIRED BY THIS ART BY @amesegue

@whumptober2020

When they’d said goodbye, when Arthur had tried to come with him, when he’d refused to let him, Charles had known he’d never see him again.

He’d been half right.

He’d never seen him alive again.

And he never regretted burying Arthur. The man deserved a burial, deserved a headstone, deserved more than to be left to rot.

But he’d give anything to be able to close his eyes without seeing Arthur laying on the mountain, without seeing his corpse. To remember Arthur without first seeing him dead on the ground, to remember him first living and bright, even if it was angry and cruel, before he’d tried to redeem himself if only because it meant he didn’t think of him half-rotted on that stone.

He hadn’t found out that the gang had been scattered for a day or so after the fact.

Rains Fall had, face more solemn than usual (which was saying something) stepped into his tent, a newspaper in hand. Pressed it into his palm without a word, and he’d known before opening it what it would say.

He’d been gone by morning, but it took days to reach Beaver Hollow.

Though he’d hated Beaver Hollow, seeing the camp decimated hurt. He’d not run with them long - only a year and a half, maybe a bit longer, they’d been his home, been his family, even towards the end. And though most of it had been reduced to ash, he could still determine what most of it had been - there was Dutch’s tent, there, the remains of the campfire, and there, Arthur’s wagon.

Half tangled in Dutch’s tent, Grimshaw’s body, skull picked near-clean by crows that he chased away.

They had never been particularly close.

She hounded him when he came back bloody from hunting, and more than once had boxed him around the ears when he hadn’t been quick enough to wash clean.

But she’d been like a mother to him, if a poor one. Chased him to his bedroll if he didn’t sleep after taking the night watch duty, shoved ‘dinner’ and ‘breakfast’ into his hands if he didn’t eat. He didn’t remember much of his mother, they’d been separated when he was too young to remember her, but he liked to think she’d be like Miss Grimshaw… if a bit nicer.

So seeing her left to be picked clean by scavengers hurt. He took the time to stoop down, cutting the tent and wrapping it around her carefully, mindful of her exposed skull and keeping it together as best he could, her mandible nearly coming loose, before fastening her to Taima’s rump.

She deserved better, but he didn’t have better, so he gave her the best he had.

The trail wasn’t hard to follow.

Corpses, picked half clean by scavengers, led into the cave. Led to the ladder, and he knew where it led out, so he left the cave and led Taima up to the hole, followed the trail from there - horse carcasses left to rot where their riders had been collected, though he didn’t know why the Pinkertons back at the Hollow had been left behind - until he found Old Boy and Dipper, pain a shearing wound in his chest.

Old Boy had been largely eaten, a gaping wound in his side - a bear, maybe, seeking the nutritious innards - but Dipper had been left to decompose, untouched as though she were something holy, something that would bring sour luck on any who dared touch her, though flesh had begun to slough away from her dark face, baring her gleaming skull, and he took the time to kneel and stroke her mane, hair coming out in chunks caught in his fingers, thanking her and then Old Boy though he hadn’t known the Half-bred half so well.

Up the mountain, and he struggled to keep the trail. Finally found himself clambering up a ledge - then down, and the crunch of breaking bones trickled ice down his spine.

He saw, first, what was easily the largest coyote he’d ever seen. Black as a starless night, it stood impossibly still aside from its head, jerking from side to side and -

though Charles was not one who was quick to anger, or to fault an animal for its instincts, he reached for his gun and fired at the coyote.

But it was quick and, as though it had known what he was going to do, danced back with the grace of a deer, paws so light they didn’t seem to touch the ground, stopping to stand in the middle of the ledge and just barely he was aware of its paw resting on a revolver, but couldn’t look away from its muzzle, dangling open and dripping blood.

His eyes met its - dull yellow, like spoiled egg yolks - and he couldn’t look away. It went still, didn’t seem to even breathe, and then the spell was broken as a drop of blood splattered to the ground and he brought his gun up again, firing over its head. With a nonchalance that no wild animal he'd ever met had, it sauntered away, turning the corner and kicking away the revolver as it went.

He stared after it until long after its paw-steps had faded away, jerked as though coming out of a trance and looked over at the form the coyote had loomed over and

“Oh god, Arthur,”

he’d thought he’d never be unable to see his brother, and he’d been right.

One of his eyes was gone, only a bloody socket left in its place, skull bared, long stolen away by a scavenger, a bird or something precise, looking for an easy meal, something soft that wouldn’t require much fuss to get to. His stomach churned and he fought the urge to gag - he’d dealt with many corpses in his time, but never one of a man he’d call brother, and finally he lost control and turned, emptying his stomach, as a fly crawled out of his nose, fluttering down and crawling into his mouth, dangling open as though he’d been gasping for air when he died (or, some part of him hoped, his face had relaxed in death, he’d seen that happen before.)

Blood and… and other liquids, he didn’t know the name for them, wasn’t much of a learned man in such a way, decomposition fluids he supposed they were called, oozed from his nose, from his eyes and mouth and ears, and he had to turn his head to keep from vomiting on Arthur. Though he hated the sight of it, he prayed that the way his nose was at a wrong angle, looked crushed and shattered, was because he was dead and that it hadn’t happened as he died, though from the bruising on his face - at least, he thought it was bruising, but Arthur’s skin sat odd on his face, those frown lines that once lined his mouth now stretched strange down near his cheekbone and jawline, so who knows what it could be - he had a sinking feeling it was due to how he died.

Charles never did know how he died.

He’d thought Arthur looked beaten in, though he’d been dead long enough that he’d started to look small, skin sliding and falling along his bones, and he’d been sick in the end, losing weight and muscle mass until he’d looked more skeleton than man, so he wasn’t entirely sure.

Hoped, almost, that he’d been shot, that he’d suffered the short death of a well-placed bullet.

But when he’d sat back, unable to look his brother in the face any longer, unable to see that single stony eye staring accusingly back at him, he’d found a mess.

The coyote hadn’t been the first to get there. That, or the coyote had been there for a long time as he was torn open from stem to stern, a mess of torn flesh and bared meat, shredded organs and shattered bone, the flayed remains of his beloved coat, writhing with maggots and he couldn’t unhear the coyote cracking Arthur’s ribs between its teeth.

He lurched to his feet, put his hands on his knees and gasped for breath, tried desperately to ground himself even as he shook apart. Shucked his jacket - wished he had that tent but he’d have to make do, refused to leave Arthur behind for fear the coyote came back, or any other scavenger for that matter - and lifted him carefully, swallowed convulsively, stomach rebelling at the feel of his loose skin shifting beneath his hands. It wasn’t his first time handling a body, even one long rotted, many rotted even more than this one, but it’s different when it’s your brother.

There was a chunk missing from his leg - the coyote, he thought, it fit for its size, and maggots poured from it as he scooped him up, cradling him like a bride, holding his breath against the scent of rot and sick, turning and beginning to walk up the cliff.

He wanted, more than anything, to bury him near the Overlook.

Arthur had been happiest there, he knew. When the gang had been happy, before it had all fallen apart. When they were all alive, before Dutch had well and truly lost his mind. Where Micah had been gone - first in jail, then hiding while he made reparations.

But he feared trying to bring him down the mountain, wasn’t sure he could hold together for even that small trip, much less on the back of a horse that far of a ride, and he didn’t have enough room on Taima if he managed to either way.

So he went up the mountain, cradling Arthur as though he were something precious - which he was - mindful of the open wound in his leg, of the hole in his stomach, painfully aware of the eye staring into him. Looked and looked, determined to find somewhere to bury him - he deserved, at least, that much. Remembered overhearing him talking to Lenny and Tilly and Hosea once, a long time ago—

“Face me to the west, so I can… watch the settin’ sun an’... remember all the fine times we had that way.”

—and Arthur, when he found him, had been facing east, and so Charles was determined to bury him facing west if it was the last thing he did.

He looked up, frowning as he carefully stepped down a small ledge, and the coyote was staring back at him.

If his arms weren’t full, he would have shot the damn thing for the mess it had made of his brother.

It huffed, tilted its head, licked its lips, and trotted away.

Behind where it stood was the perfect spot.

An outcropping, not too far out but long enough for a man of Arthur’s size, a massive rock at the end like some natural headstone. The grass thick and lush, cradling Arthur when he set him down and knelt to feel the dirt, finding it loose enough to be dug with a tool but hard packed enough that an animal would have to work their paws bloody.

It was perfect, almost too perfect, and he looked back, frowning when he didn’t see the coyote anywhere. Felt a chill run down his spine, shook it off.

He moved Arthur so he could keep an eye on him, ready to chase off any birds that might be attracted, not trusting the coyote - clearly brazen, used to humans - not to try its luck.

Charles carried a trowel in his satchel, having found it useful for a great many things, so he pulled it out and set to work.

Hours passed. By the time he was done his clothes were sticking to him with sweat and he was shaking, muscles throbbing and near to giving out. But he had a grave, ten feet deep just to be safe, and so he wiped off the trowel and set it aside, picking up Arthur as carefully as he could with hands that shook with more than just exhaustion, said a prayer and set him down in the grave, making sure to face him west before clambering out of the hole, collapsing onto his side and gasping for breath.

He didn’t dare to rest though, knew that just a hole wouldn’t deter any scavengers, and set about filling the grave. Hated to cover his brother with dirt, wished he could give him the dignity of a coffin but had no way of getting one, so could only offer an apology as the dirt scattered over the side of Arthur’s face.

He doesn’t remember much of burying him. Pouring the dirt back in took hours, he had only his hands and a trowel and he’d dug it deep, but finally he could collapse onto his side after patting it harshly, making sure it was packed down until, aside from the lack of grass and plants, it looked barely different from the rest of the ledge, barely disturbed.

He dozed on and off for the rest of the day, waking as the rising sun cast its light into his eyes. Reached up and wiped his face, was jerked back down to reality when he found himself with a streak of dirt across his face—

—looked up, and found himself staring down the coyote again. It shifted from paw to paw, looked back over its shoulder, and his only warning was the faintest, far-away clattering of hooves before the most golden stag he’d ever seen strode up to stand beside the coyote as though the coyote wouldn’t eat it if given a heartbeat’s chance, peering down at him critically, before turning right back around and walking away, gone as quick as it had come.

The coyote looked down at him for a moment longer, then turned and trotted after the stag.

He shivered, and stood, grabbing his satchel - he’d intended on eating and having a drink, but he wanted to get started on Arthur’s grave marker, could always eat as he worked.

Arthur’s grave marker took him five days. Finding the wood took the better part of the first, breaking down the trees took the second. And then was the matter of carving it, of working the wood into a circle, of making it take the shape he could see in his mind’s eye, of making all the separate pieces come together and, more importantly, stay together.

He intended on taking as long as he needed to make the grave marker. Every time he closed his eyes he saw it, saw it look a certain way, and though he didn’t know why he knew it needed to look as such.

And on the fifth day, every one woken to find the deer and coyote peering down at him, he had the marker, and all he needed to do - though it was no easy undertaking - was engrave it. He was no religious man, but he knew some sermons, knew some verses as any man of his time would, had spent most of his time carving trying to decide, trying to picture them carved into the wood until it fell to rot, and finally he planted the grave marker carefully and stepped back to look it over a final time,

His knees went weak, and he sank to the ground.

The culmination of a week - two days ride, five days taken to bury and make his grave marker, a break taken only to bury Miss Grimshaw - stood before him. He felt… oddly empty, until a tear trickled down his face, and then another, and another, and he’d never been one to cry and his face didn’t twist and he didn’t sob but he couldn’t stop.

Something soft nudged against his face, a warm puff of breath, and he caught a glimpse of golden fur before he was nearly knocked over with the force of the stag’s shove.

Despite himself, he grinned - it was watery, and shaky, and tasted of salt as tears ran over his mouth, but the stag sighed into his face, smelling of sweet-grass and smoke and horse-sweat and familiar and he reached up, tangling his fingers in the thick fur of its neck, bringing their heads together.

ARTHUR MORGAN

BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO HUNGER AND THIRST FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS

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splat-dragon · 4 years

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Dutch couldn't make it right.

His boy was dying. So many had already died.

But, at least, he could make sure he wouldn't die alone.

He looked him in the eye, and he walked away.

And then… he turned around. Got to the top of the hill and hesitated, a vice grip freezing his heart in his chest.

His son was dying. Only a few paces behind him, the man he’d raised for twenty years was dying, and he was walking away. Hadn’t so much as said a word, just looked him in the eye and turned away.

His last words had been to tell him that he’d lost. And only after stepping on his hands, he’d felt bones break, and before that… accusing him of turning on him, of being a traitor, of throwing twenty goddamn years away. God, what had he done?

Arthur was dying. He had known it, they all had though they weren’t willing to admit it. It was impossible to ignore the horrible coughing fits that kept them awake at night, the way he’d turned pale and thin, the way his eyes had gone watery and bloodshot. And he hadn’t looked well on the ground, even without the pain on his face from having his fingers stepped on and god why had he done that? his face bruised more than before, nose at an impossible angle, blood dripping from his mouth.

He wasn’t laying there.

He wasn’t there-

there was a streak of blood, a crescent of awful black and he thought, for a horrible moment, Micah must have dragged him off to finish the job, thrown him off the edge of the cliff or stabbed him or or or

but no, thank god, there he was laying against a rock, silhouetted against the rising sun but, christ, he looked dead, and Dutch thought he’d failed him again, left him to die alone. "Arthur?” he barely dared to even try, each step slow, trudging, feeling as though he were back in the swamps and he and Arthur were trying to help that kid “I don’t think I ever heard you squeal like that before Dutch!” “I weren’t squealin’!” (And what had he been thinking? Arthur could have been eaten alive!)

Arthur’s chest moved.

It was only the barest of motions, a slight up-down, but oh god he was alive, though he looked dead, face pale as a fresh piece of paper and lips blue as the sky he’d never see again, he wasn’t and Dutch dropped to his knees, “Oh, Arthur,” and gathered him as carefully as he could, apologizing over and over and when had he last apologized? oh, he owed so many apologies to so many people and so many of them were dead or gone and were well within their rights to never forgive him when the man groaned, the lines around his eyes deepening with his pain.

He paused, only for a moment, to shuck off his coat - he’d taken so much pride in it before, and what for? it was only a piece of fabric, some dyed cloth - and fold it up, put it in his lap as a pillow before carefully laying Arthur down, head cradled gently. “I know son, I know, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Those eyes squinted, opened if only just barely, blue-green already beginning to haze over, and Dutch’s brown eyes were hazy for a wholly different reason, “Oh Arthur, I’m so sorry,” he ran his fingers through the man’s hair, remembering when he was so much younger and would wake screaming and whimpering and sobbing, terrified of a man long-dead, and they’d bring him into their bedrolls, curl around him and reassure him that he was safe and that they’d never allow harm to come to him (and what a liar he’d been!) as they stroked his hair until he fell asleep.

“Du-,” his name died in his boy’s throat, the sound breaking into a horrible, hacking cough, and all Dutch could do was cradle him, try to soothe him as he coughed and fought for breath, splattered blood down his front and felt his heart race, prayed that this wouldn’t be it, that Arthur wouldn’t die suffering, choking and coughing and drowning in his own blood.

Thank god, thank god, but Arthur managed to catch his breath just as Dutch began to really and truly panic, the tiniest of wheezes between splutters, and as carefully as he could Dutch propped him up, rubbing his back and murmuring, trying to encourage him to breathe, “Easy, Arthur, that’s it, that’s it,”

Finally he slumped down again into his lap, though his weight was noticeably heavier, and Dutch’s heart refused to stop bounding in his throat.

“Du-,”

“I’m here, son, I’m here,” Dutch grabbed his hand, pale and cold in his, and leaned over him, and the force of Arthur’s gaze when it locked on his almost stole his breath away,

“Dutch, Dutch, he’s-” his voice cracked and he began to choke again, coughing, and Dutch hurried to prop him up again, murmuring and humming some tuneless song he’d heard a very long time ago, uncaring of the blood that soaked his front, staining his pinstripe shirt, already well set in on his cuffs.

“Rat,” Arthur choked out, and Dutch’s heart clenched - even dying, unable to breathe around lungs full of blood, he was trying to warn him, “‘s rat, Dutch, Micah’s rat-” and his strength faded, slumping back into Dutch’s lap, still gasping Micah’s name though Dutch tried to insist “I know, son, I know,” but whether Arthur had stopped registering that he was there or thought he was simply placating a dying man, he didn’t stop, kept trying to warn him.

“Dutch…”

His eyes darted around frantically, breathing picking up, rapid and frantic but not productive enough to bring in any air - at least it seemed so, and Dutch had never thought he’d be so panicked by a lack of coughing, of rasping or gurgling,

“You gotta… gotta let’m go, please,” and it took a moment for Dutch to put it together - the women, John and his family, those what had already left. Arthur’s mind was going, and going fast.

“Dutch… please, let’m go,” his eyes darted this way and that, breathing beginning to slow, and Dutch nodded, trying to look reassuring though he was fighting sobs, forcing his face not to twist into a grimace though his lips were straining downward, eyes burning.

“I will, Arthur, I swear it,” they’re already gone, and though he’d raged when he’d woken to find them gone now he was glad for it - who knew how many of them would have died? At least it had only been Susan (oh, poor Susan she deserved so much better!), they could fight but even the best of them had fled under the onslaught and the Reverend and Pearson, Miss Jackson and the rest weren’t anywhere close to ‘the best’, so he could only hope that they’d reached safety, wherever they’d gone.

‘John. John made it.’ and god, but he hoped so. He was losing one son, had lost his dearest, oldest friend, had destroyed his family. Losing his last son would kill him.

Though, watching Arthur slowly relax into his lap, blinking long and slow but still gasping, spluttering nonsensically, he thought that this might just kill him, too.

“It’s okay, son, it’s okay. You’ve done so good, I’m so proud of you.” He knew what Arthur needed to hear and oh, but it hurt, he wanted to scream and to rage but if it would put Arthur at peace then he would say it. “It’s okay, Arthur. You can sleep now. We’re all… we’re all okay, you’ve earned your rest.”

Arthur’s eyes never left his as he breathed in deep, then gave a last, rattling exhale, then breathed no more.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #major spoilers #rdr2 spoilers #red dead redemption spoilers #red dead redemption 2 spoilers #arthur #arthur morgan #arthur morgan's death #arthur morgan dies #dutch #dutch van der linde #splat dragon #splatdragonff

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splat-dragon · 3 years

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been far away for far too long, stop breathing if I don't see you anymore ~Far Away, Nickleback

Whumptober 2020, #30: Today's Special: Torture: "Left For Dead"

‘They’re going to find me.’

The basement door was huge, he’d seen three men walk through it together though they’d had to stoop, surely it couldn’t be missed.

‘They’re going to come for me.’

Happy Halloween y'all!

And I hope y'all enjoyed Whumptober!

@whumptober2020

Arthur couldn’t say how long he’d been in that basement.

Two days? Three? Maybe four?

As it were, he’d long lost track of time. Down in the basement he had no way of telling when the sun rose and fell, could only try and guess based on whether the sun burned his eyes when Colm or one of the others came down to pay him a visit.

Maybe even longer.

He was so hungry. His stomach screamed, and his mouth was so dry his tongue had cracked and bled, his head throbbing from being upside down for so long.

‘Dutch…’

‘Hosea…’

‘John…’

He didn’t want them to come, but he desperately wanted them to come. It was a trap - had been a trap from the start - and the moment they came to save him, the law would snap them up like Cain would a treat. But he was in pain - for every wound that healed, Colm and his men would put five in its place - and he was hungry and hurting and he wanted to go home, but Colm was no fool and he was hardly left alone for a moment, never long enough to even try to break free of his bindings.

Colm shoved food down his throat, once or twice. Just enough to keep him from starving, but not enough that he didn’t grow weak - though, he supposed, that could be because his pulse was throbbing in his head, blood dripping to the floor.

It had to have been a week, maybe longer, and Colm was growing more and more angry. “Where’s Dutch!?” he’d demand, though of course Arthur didn’t know, before setting him to spinning again with a strike that reopened his shoulder wound, descending on him like some rabid beast.

Arthur was certain he was going to die down in that basement.

His head spun even when he was still, and his eyes felt like they might burst. God, but he was hungry - he didn’t know how long it had been, at least nine days, he’d counted the sun being up and down nine times when they came down for a ‘visit’ though there were many times he’d woken up to them being in the basement and he hadn’t seen the state of the sun, and he’d had only a few bites of food, only what water they splashed on his face.

Arthur’s shoulder screamed, his arm throbbed, every wound burned and he was sure he’d expire hanging in his bindings to never be found. “Septic, it ain’t nice.” Colm had said, and he could feel it.

A man whacked his gun into his side, and he saw stars. Whined, would have been embarrassed but he was all screamed out, could barely make even that sound his throat was so dry.

A gun fired overhead.

"What the hell was that?" the man barked, freezing with his own still in the air, halfway through hitting him again. "Goddammit!" He hit him one more time for good measure, before bolting up the stairs and out of the basement, leaving Arthur to gasp for breath.

More gunfire, and Arthur allowed himself to hope. And then a familiar voice—

"WHERE THE HELL IS MY SON?!"

—and his eyes burned though no tears came. 'Dutch. Run. It's a trap.' but he'd come, he'd come for him, it had taken a week and a half but he'd come!

"Sons of bitches! Where's my brother!?"

'John. Get the hell outta here.' he'd never forgive himself if Jack lost his pa because of him.

More gunfire, the thud of a body hitting wood.

Abrupt silence, and his heart thudded sluggishly in his throat. Had that been one of them? Had he gotten one of them killed?

And then—

“Mr Marston! Mr. Smith! Tear this place apart!”

—Dutch sounded half-unhinged, screaming at the top of his lungs. But… they’d won. None of them had been killed, had been hurt, as far as he could tell. Thank god. Thank god.

“Arthur!”

His eyes drifted shut, thank god, they were going to find him.

“Arthur, son, are you here?”

Weren’t no way they were going to miss the entrance to the basement,

“Arthur, can you hear us?”

He opened his mouth, tried to call out “Yes!” but his voice died long before getting anywhere close to his throat, “Dutch, I’m here!”

He tried again, tried just to yell, a wordless sound, managed a breathless croak, he was all screamed out, and even that made his throat scream, made his eyes burn with want for tears that he couldn’t make.

“Arthur!”

“Arthur?”

“Arthur, son?”

Arthur tried, over and over. Managed, only barely, a croak, once or twice, then not even that.

‘They’re going to find me.’

The basement door was huge, he’d seen three men walk through it together though they’d had to stoop, surely it couldn’t be missed.

‘They’re going to come for me.’

“Arthur! Arthur, come on! Son, can you hear me!”

“Dutch… Dutch, I don’t think he’s here.”

No.

“He has to be, that fool told us he was here.”

Please.

“He lied, Dutch.”

No.

“We’ve looked everywhere. Unless… unless they buried him, he’s not here.”

No!

“...alright. Let’s go back to camp, regroup. We can start again from there.”

No!

He croaked, and he rasped, and he wheezed, sobbed dryly as pain tore through his throat. But horse hooves thudded away, leaving the corpses to rot.

‘I’m here.’

‘Dutch!’

‘Charles!’

‘John!’

‘I’m still down here!’

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splat-dragon · 4 years

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You were the song that I'd always sing ~Passerine, Oh Hellos

Whumptober 2020, #19: Broken Hearts: "Grief" "Mourning Loved Ones"

Uncle Dutch came home that night with Uncle Javier. He went to run up and hug him though he was looking behind him for Uncle Hosea - Uncle Dutch and Uncle Hosea were always together, but the door closed behind them and everyone was closing around him and he was being jostled and Uncle Hosea wasn’t there. He jumped up, tried to yell and be heard, but adults are loud and groups of them are even louder so no one even noticed him.

INSPIRED BY THIS POST BY @snowymarston

@whumptober2020

Jack was so confused.

They’d moved camp again, but he was used to that. Sure, they didn’t usually do it this much, or this often - but he’d had a lot of homes in his life. Some were better than others - he didn’t much like Colter, the snow was fun but Mama hadn’t let him go out and play, and Uncle Charles and Uncle Javier had shuffled him inside when he’d snuck out, and that one camp (he thought they’d called it Cliffock?) had been all rock and ledges and boring, Uncle Dutch and Aunt Grimshaw always chasing him away from anything fun cause “You’ll fall, Jack!” - and he didn’t much like this one.

He’d liked Shady Belle.

It’d been like something out of a story book - a mansion, two stories tall! With a staircase even, and a ‘gazebo’, and a fountain though it didn’t work, a roof and rooms! He’d had his own bedroom (that he shared with Mama and Pa, of course) and he’d gotten to meet Papa Bronte (but don’t tell Pa he still called him that) and made friends, though they weren’t nice folk, were kinda rude, and he’d gotten to try spaghetti and wear fancy clothes!

He had missed Mama and Pa and his Aunts and Uncles though, Uncle Hosea and Uncle Dutch especially. Uncle Dutch didn’t spend as much time with him anymore, didn’t have time to read books with him—

“I’m busy Jackie, go ask your Ma or Pa,”

—but Uncle Hosea always made time for him even when he was busy, would scoop up a stick and play knights, would even be the maiden in the dress if he asked nicely, would sit down and try and teach him to read.

But they’d left Shady Belle, too.

Uncle Kieran (“don’t call him that!”) had come riding in all funny, falling off his horse (and he’d never seen him again) and then it had been like something out of Uncle Hosea’s books, shouting and screaming and loud noises and Pa dragging him inside, and when it was done there’d been hollering and yelling and he’d been scared, but Uncle Hosea had checked on him, and Uncle Dutch had too if only for a moment, and then he’d seen even less of Uncle Hosea.

The night before they left Shady Belle, Uncle Hosea was the one to put him to bed. Read him three chapters of Otis Miller and the Boy from New York, tucked him in and kissed him on the head like he hadn’t since their camp by the lake (he’d liked that one well enough, though they’d kept him away from the water Uncle Bill had taught him how to skip rocks and would sometimes skip rocks with him, and it was where they got Cain so it couldn’t be all bad! Though he hadn't seen Uncle Sean since they’d left that camp, and he really did miss him, even if Uncle Sean confused him at times.)

“Love you Jackie,” Hosea had said, smoothing down his hair, and he’d already been half asleep but he’d said back

“Love you Uncle Hosea,” and the man had smiled, blowing out the candle and leaving him to sleep.

Then the next day Uncle Charles and Ma had come flying in on Taima, and they were moving. He knew better than to get in the way, so he’d sat off to the side as they packed up as quick as they could, shoving necessities in their wagons while Aunt Sadie and Uncle Charles tore out of camp, clasping his hands over his ears to protect them from Aunt Grimshaw’s shrill screaming.

And he hated the new camp - it was filthy, and gross, and the ground squelched beneath his feet in a way that he didn’t like. It had done the same down in Shady Belle and he’d liked it but it hadn’t done it this much, and Aunt Sadie and whoever was outside usually didn’t let him out at all, shoving him back into the cabins before he could get anywhere because “There are gators, Jack” and he could hear them hissing all around but there had been gators near Shady Belle too, hadn’t there?

Ma cried a lot, too. Tried to smile when she saw him but he could tell, and when he asked what was wrong she’d say “I just miss your Pa,” which he didn’t understand because Pa had been away for longer before and she hadn’t cried like this, and he had Uncle Bill and Uncle Javier and Uncle Hosea and Uncle Arthur and Uncle Dutch and Uncle Lenny and Uncle Micah so why was she upset?

Everyone seemed upset though, and he didn’t understand why. They smiled when they saw him or, at least, tried to look less upset - Aunt Sadie never really smiled, but she looked even sadder than usual when she and Uncle Charles rode out one day and didn’t come back until late the next - he’d been left with Uncle Uncle while the rest of his family gathered outside and it wasn’t fair but Uncle Uncle had patted him on the back and said ‘you’ll understand some day, Jackie.’

Jack was nineteen, his father’s blood still on his hands, a pair of graves freshly dug, when he finally understood what Uncle meant.

Uncle Arthur came back, and of course Jack was happy. It was his Uncle! And Uncle Arthur was one of his favorites (but don’t tell the others), but with Uncle Micah, not Pa or Uncle Hosea, Uncle Bill or Uncle Javier or Uncle Dutch or Uncle Lenny and he was confused - where were they? Still, he hugged him, and the man was glad to hug him back though he stank, and then they were pulled away because Aunt Grimshaw was insisting that Uncle Arthur ‘get that filth off your face right now!’ and then the adults were talking and he was being shoved off to the side again - something about Pa and ‘Sisika’ and a ‘chain gang’ but he didn’t really understand.

Then Uncle Bill came home, and everything went crazy. Uncle Arthur shoved him under a table and told him to ‘stay there!’ and he always listened to Uncle Arthur so he did, voices screaming outside, wood exploding everywhere and then Aunt Tilly was grabbing him and pulling him with her behind a crate, and then just as suddenly as it started it was done.

Uncle Lenny, Uncle Hosea and Pa didn’t come home that night, and he didn’t get to talk to Uncle Dutch until very late the next day.

He tried asking Uncle Arthur first, on account of that he’d been with Uncle Hosea last so surely he’d know.

And the man’s face had turned a funny shade of white, and he’d started to make a funny sound in his throat, like he was trying to make words but couldn’t get them out, and his eyes that were already red had gone even redder, had glazed over like that dead opossum’s he’d found the other day, then Aunt Sadie had been shoving him away with an apology to Uncle Arthur.

Even Sadie had jumped when, after they’d entered the cabin, the door barely closed behind them, Uncle Arthur made a sound that was a scream but wasn’t a scream, high-pitched and awful and though he didn’t know why Jack had burst into tears right alongside him, and then there’d been a crash and Aunt Sadie had shoved him towards Aunt Mary-Beth before hurrying back outside.

He tried asking Aunt Mary-Beth, too. Then Aunt Tilly, and Aunt Susan, but all three’s faces had drawn up like they’d eaten something sour, and their eyes had gone funny too, though they didn’t scream, and finally he’d been handed over to Ma and she was already glassy eyed so he didn’t ask her.

As soon as he could (which wasn’t very soon) he went looking for Uncle Dutch.

He found him leaning on the fence, over the swamp with the gators, and it wasn’t fair because if he did that he’d have gotten a spanking but adults had different rules than he did which wasn’t fair, jumping when he called out “Uncle Dutch?” which was kinda funny because he never scared no one.

Uncle Dutch ran his hand down his face, looking very tired, which was strange because Jack had seen him go to sleep right after things went quiet last night, but adults are Strange so he didn’t say nothing, “What is it Jack?”

“Where’s Uncle Hosea?”

and Uncle Dutch’s face did a strange thing then, seeming to fall into itself, lips baring his teeth for just a moment before covering them, falling down as though he’d eaten something awful, those funny wrinkles getting deeper until they weren’t so funny anymore, and he gulped audibly though he didn’t start making those funny sounds that Uncle Arthur had, instead opening his mouth and closing it like a fish. “I…”

He reached up and pressed his fingers into his eyes like he did sometimes when the others were getting on his nerves, and Jack was worried he’d annoyed him - had he heard that he’d been asking about Uncle Hosea? But he just wanted to know, Uncle Hosea had promised they’d read Otis Miller and the Black-Hearted Lady next and he’d had a copy since Clemens’ Point, and Uncle Hosea was never gone this long without telling him!

“Jack…” Uncle Dutch started again, and when he brought his hand away his eyes were glassy, glassier than he’d seen on the others, even on that stinky opossum he’d found, and his breath shook, rattling in a way Jack had never heard before, as he knelt in that way he hated, the way people did right before they talked to him like he was a dumb little kid.

“He’s not…” he swallowed, reached out in that ‘come here’ way adults used and he jumped into the hug, finding Uncle Dutch shaking like a leaf, “Your Uncle Hosea’s not coming home.” and… that didn’t make sense. Uncle Hosea always came home. But… so had Uncle Mac and Uncle Sean, up until they’d all left and never come home again.

“Like Uncle Mac?” he pushed back to look Uncle Dutch in the eye, but Uncle Dutch wouldn’t meet his gaze, blinked rapidly, shook his head,

“Like… like your Uncle Davey, Jackie.”

and he remembered Uncle Davey, remembered them coming flying back with Uncle Davey slumped on the back of Uncle Javier’s horse, remembered sitting there as Mama and Aunt Grimshaw tried to stitch him up, remembered blood everywhere, remembered him going limp as they set him down on the bed in Colter, remembered them burying him.

He couldn’t imagine Uncle Hosea like that. Couldn’t see him being put beneath the ground forever, couldn’t see never seeing him again - couldn’t imagine never being tucked into bed by him, never having him read an Otis Miller book to him, never being called ‘our little prince’ by him again.

“No!” burst out of his chest, surprising even him, and Uncle Dutch flinched, reaching up to grasp his wrists when Jack began to pound on his chest, “I WANT UNCLE HOSEA!” and he’d never been one for tantrums - he’d tried, once, and been laughed at so hard he’d never tried again - but he began to slam his fists into Uncle Dutch’s chest as hard as he could, screaming “NO!” over and over at the top of his lungs.

“I know,” Uncle Dutch’s breath caught, and he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in until all he could do was wrap his fingers in his vest and cling, screams dying into sobs, whimpering “I want Uncle Hosea,” until he was breathless and hiccuping, the older man shuddering and making a strange, choked sound, clutching him close, “I know, son, I know.”

His Ma still cooling in the ground, Edgar Ross not even starting to rot, Jack Marston visited the graves of all his Aunts and Uncles - even his Uncle Dutch, Uncle Javier and Uncle Bill, though they’d wronged his family he remembered them fondly and felt the need to pay them his respects.

He left his Uncle Arthur’s hat hanging on his grave marker - the age of the outlaw was over, and he thought it was time to put it to rest - and when he finally visited his Uncle Hosea’s grave, last of the thirteen, he left a tattered, well-loved copy of Otis Miller and the Boy from New York behind alongside an aged but otherwise pristine copy of Otis Miller and the Black-Hearted Lady.

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splat-dragon · 4 years

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Whumptober 2020, alt. #13: Accidents

But then he hadn’t gotten back up.

“Arthur?” Hosea had asked, more confused than concerned - the boy’s eyes had been open, staring up at the sky above him, and his chest rose and fell, but he hadn’t even tried to sit up. His eyes darted to Hosea, so wide they could make out the white from where they sat perched on their horses, and he opened his mouth as if to speak before seeming to think better of it, closing his mouth.

@whumptober2020

It was so stupid.

But none of them had ever had a new horse before. All their horses had been desensitized to things by their previous owners, practically bombproof by the time they entered their hands.

So when Arthur had, after seeing the paint go dancing by with her herd and fallen in love, broken her in, spent months teaching her to accept him, hand-desensitizing her to things had never come to mind.

He was damn proud of that horse. Had worked with her until she had gone from screaming and kicking when he so much as breathed in her direction to dozing with her head in his lap. So when she’d reared, screaming in fright, as a rabbit bolted across her path, and dumped him - well, at first Hosea and Dutch had laughed. Arthur had been a bit of a braggart when it came to the mare, so they’d looked forward to him having to admit that she wasn’t perfect.

But then he hadn’t gotten back up.

Dutch frowned, dismounting and approaching, calling his name again before finally seeing the black-red that was starting to pool beneath him. “Shit, Hosea! He’s bleeding!” and dropping to his knees beside him, Hosea dismounting and hurrying to do the same, helping Arthur to prop himself up, the boy whining like a struck dog as he was leaned against Dutch’s chest.

The source of the blood was immediately apparent - a ring of it slowly spreading out, darkening that ugly duster of his he insisted on wearing, something as big around as Hosea’s fist in the center, “What the hell is that?”

That, Hosea realized, running his finger over it as gently as he could, pulling away when he found himself with a massive splinter, was the tip of a tree branch, and of course Arthur would manage to fall just wrong to get run through with a tree branch.

Sometimes he thought that Arthur was proof there was a God, because that was the only way someone could survive everything that happened to him, and that that God hated him.

Arthur’s eyes slowly moved over to meet his, but he didn’t say a word. Opened his mouth, closed it again, blinked long and slow.

“I know, son,” Hosea took a deep breath, looked at Dutch, “He needs a doctor.”

and normally Dutch would argue - you can handle it, Hosea! - Hosea had become somewhat of the camp doctor, stitching them up and doling out the medicines they got their hands on - but the man was slowly going an alarming shade of grey-green the longer he looked at Arthur’s shoulder, clearly fighting the urge to shove him away and lunge for his saddle to clean off the blood. So he nodded, gagged “Alright,” then, haltingly, “Should we… take it out?”

Hosea shook his head, leaning down to hook Arthur’s good arm over his shoulder, helping him to his feet and apologizing when the boy whimpered like a struck dog, face draining of what little color it had left. “It’s plugging his wound and stopping the worst of the bleeding, leave it be.”

Dutch hadn’t had The Count then, had had a massive Thoroughbred by the name of The Duke while he’d had a little Morgan by the name of Lucky Penny that buckled if he put a rabbit on her, so it took some struggling, cussing, and whimpering to get Arthur up on The Duke, soaking the gelding's rump with his blood, and with how poorly Dutch was starting to look Hosea almost offered to ride with him but Dutch took a deep breath and mounted, kicking the horse into a gallop before Hosea could even slip into Penny’s saddle.

Though Lucky Penny was weak, and only a year from the glue factory, she was quick, and so he caught up quickly with Dutch, calling up to Arthur “How you holding up son?”

Arthur blinked down at him, taking a moment to answer, “Been better, have’ta admit,” trying for a grin that came out as more of a grimace.

Hosea stretched up, just barely made it to pat him on the knee, “Won’t be long son, then the doctor’ll have you feelin’ real good,” and even Dutch, face having long gone alarmingly chalky, laughed at that.

They were, thank god, because Arthur was starting to look alarmingly pale, wavering on his perch, not far from the nearest town. Had only left it not an hour ago, and the butcher at the edge of town looked very surprised to see them back. Even more surprised when he saw the state Arthur was in, coat soaked through, The Duke’s coat more red than brown, hurrying to point them to the doctor’s office.

Hosea was right and, by the time Hosea was helping the doctor pin him down so he could work the spike out of his shoulder (the doctor had taken one look at Dutch and ordered him outside), Arthur was flying high.

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splat-dragon · 3 years

Text

Sunstroke

Going back to Blackwater, the danger was supposed to be Pinkertons.

Bounty hunters, maybe. Anyone foolish enough to recognize him, to see his crimes and dare approach him.

Never the Del Lobos.

Never the sun, burning overhead.

But when, last, had one of Dutch's plans gone right?

Chapter 1 - a wilting flower Chapter 2 - to sneak through Chapter 3 - the dangers of being a del lobo

#Red Dead Redemption #red dead redemption 2 #whump #arthur whump #cw: torture #headstroke #arthur #arthur morgan #dutch #dutch van der linde #fix-it #masterpost #masterlist #splat #splatdragon #splat dragon #splatdragonff #rdr #rdr2

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splat-dragon · 4 years

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the ten duel commandments ~Ten Dual Commandments, Anthony Ramos, Lin-Manuel Miranda, Jon Rua, Leslie Odom, Jr.

Whumptober 2020, alt. #14: Shot

Hosea stepped forward, scowling as he looked at Arthur and the man - he’d never even gotten his name - staring each other down. Dutch’s gun belt was too big on the boy, even fastened as tight as it’d go, and Arthur was praying it wouldn’t fall.

“I’ll count to ten,” the man was clearly no stranger to duels, considering how quick he’d been to challenge a boy to one, but Arthur was new to them and it was procedure to announce how they’d work, “one pace away for each count. On ten, you fire. Understood?”

@whumptober2020

Hosea had tried to talk the man down.

And then, when that hadn’t worked, he’d tried to talk Dutch down.

That, of course, hadn’t worked either.

“The boy’s eighteen, Hosea, and he hasn’t seen a duel!”

Hosea had made the valid point that he’d seen much more than that - wagon hold-ups, train robberies even, but Dutch had been adamant that Arthur needed to see a duel.

“He’ll be fine, Hosea! You’ve seen him shoot, that man won’t have a chance.” Dutch had patted him on the shoulder as though he was some worried old maiden, fussing over nothing. “Come on, he turns eighteen today. Let the boy live a little!”

“I wouldn’t call killing a man in cold blood living a little, Dutch.” Hosea’s voice had dripped with disdain.

Dutch gave him that spread-armed ‘I’ve done nothing wrong in my life’ gesture, “It’s not in cold blood, old girl, he’s the one who challenged our boy to a duel. And over nothing. So really, it’s his fault.”

Hosea had looked over at Arthur, who’d looked two seconds from diving beneath a table to avoid being drawn into the argument, and finally acquiesced. “Alright, alright. Just… Arthur. Be careful.”

The duel was over the dumbest thing, in Hosea’s mind.

Arthur would agree, too.

They’d taken him to a saloon to celebrate his eighteenth birthday - or, at least, what they’d determined to be his eighteenth birthday. When they’d asked when his birthday was, not long after taking him in, he’d said “I dunno, March?” because his family hadn’t celebrated it much, had more important things to do, so they’d picked March twenty-fourth, having taken him in on the twenty-fourth of another month, to be his birthday. He’d been picking up a beer to take back to their table - hadn’t even had a single drink yet - when the man had walked plum into him, started yelling as though it were Arthur’s fault then, when Arthur wouldn’t apologize (he had, actually, but the man had been hollering too loud to hear it and then, by the time the man had demanded an apology, Arthur had been too incensed to give him another), challenged him to a duel.

Arthur, caught flat footed, had looked to Dutch, who’d nodded an enthusiastic ‘yes!’ so Arthur had accepted the duel.

Hosea had been furious, but Arthur was a grown man and had insisted he wanted to do it - though Hosea knew he was just doing it to make them proud, was desperate for their approval - and the man wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, had laughed in his face when Hosea had tried to step in, tried to find a compromise.

So they walked out onto the patio of the saloon, the man standing in the middle of the dirt path, waiting for them with his hand on the grip of his gun, other patrons walking out to watch as though this were some show, not someone about to be gunned down into the dirt.

While Hosea often had to force himself not to laugh at Dutch’s rants about civilization, he’d fully agree with him here, hearing the man muttering about their cruelty, their callousness, their… something or other, he couldn’t quite tell.

Arthur was staring, wide-eyed, at the man.

He’d killed before, of course. Lawmen and O’Driscolls, people that were trying to kill him. But only ever in the heat of a battle, never having to stay back and see the corpse lie where it fell.

But Dutch had reassured him that he would win - and he was a crack-shot, never missed no matter what, even if he was firing without looking over his shoulder as he rode at a gallop, so why should he doubt Dutch? Hosea seemed worried, sure, but Hosea always worried. That was his job, his fussing annoyed Dutch into not doing things that were too dangerous.

But he was quick with his gun, and never missed. So he’d have no choice but to watch the man collapse to the ground, watch his blood pool in the sand.

He shuddered, startling when Dutch clapped his hand on his shoulder, before pressing one of his beloved revolvers in his hand, “Here son, use one of mine,” already beaming at him as though he’d won the duel and a hundred more.

and Arthur felt ten feet tall and bulletproof.

Arthur took a shuddering breath, nodded a second after the man.

“One,”

they turned their backs to each other,

“two,”

a step,

“three,”

a step,

“four,”

a step,

“five,”

a step,

“six,”

a step,

“seven,”

Arthur took a step.

A gunshot cracked through the air.

Dutch drew, the man fell.

Hosea rushed to Arthur’s side.

The boy was dead before he hit the ground.

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