Chapter Text
The sun was bright, though the air was fresh, signalling that he’d somehow woken up early enough to see the cool morning. The outlaw slowly sat up, feeling his muscles ache and stomach turn, and rubbed his tired eyes hard with the back of his hand. He sat for a while breathing slow and deep with his hands resting limply on his knees, watching his fingers tremble.
Arthur had gotten a bit carried away, as had everyone else, celebrating the return of Sean. It had been nice to let his mind stop thinking and see the gang happy for the first time in a while and truth be told, it was good to have the kid back. Unfortunately, though, that didn’t change how awful he felt right now; his head ached, his hands shook, and he had the strong urge to vomit.
The camp was quiet, and almost everyone was still asleep. Everyone except Dutch, who was within Arthur’s eyeline and stood at the entrance of his tent, a lit cigar in hand. He hadn’t yet noticed Arthur and was deep in thought as he exhaled smoke. Whatever philosophy that was no doubt swirling through his head, Arthur found himself not keen on finding out.
Arthur decided to get up and fought the screaming resistance in his body telling him to lie back down and go back to sleep. He needed fresh air, or at least air that wasn’t floating over from Dutch’s cigar. He stood up slowly and felt the strain of torn skin pulling tight. The sensation was felt through every movement, on his thighs and stomach. The same could be felt on his left arm, which especially burned with a sharp sensation as the fabric of Arthurs union suit stretched from the movement. He cursed quietly to himself, rubbing a rough hand along the damaged skin as if to check it was still there.
“Good Mornin’” the deep chipper voice belonging to Dutch spoke out, not too loudly but not as quiet as a sleeping camp probably would have probably preferred. Dutch was now stood facing him, a smug grin on his lips. “Didn’t expect to see you up so early.”
“Yeah, well me neither.” Arthur sighed. His head hurt.
The darker haired man blew a ring of smoke into the cold morning air and smiled, not saying anything else. How he had risen so early and was already fully dressed and smugly surveying over the sleeping camp was a mystery.
Once dressed and warmed up with some coffee, Arthur walked with sore legs towards his horse and the buttermilk buckskin mare gave a sweet grunt in acknowledgement.
“Mornin’ Biscuits.”
He couldn’t help but smile at the young mares’ ears flicking and nose scrunching as he fed her some hay before he pulled out the brush out of her saddle bag and began running it softly down her neck.
“I hope we didn’t keep you up last night girl.”
He gave her a good fuss with plenty of quiet compliments and sturdy pats along her neck, before climbing onto her saddled back and spurring her to a trot with his heels. The pair rode out of camp, and Arthur bowed his head to stop the low morning sun getting in his eyes. He didn’t really have a plan or destination in mind, he just knew he needed a ride out.
Lately, he couldn’t stand to be in camp. Even though the place was as open as a home could be, it still felt claustrophobic. Arthur liked his space and his silence, and especially didn’t like people asking him what was wrong all the time. He was aware he could maybe come across as… a little ‘moody’ sometimes, but what was so terrible about that?
He didn’t think he could stand to wait round the campfire until everyone woke up one by one and offered him polite greetings and conversation. There was something foul growing in his chest and he needed to be alone before it came out at someone who didn’t deserve it.
-
The sky deepened from a pale to a bright blue as the man and his horse steadily trotted along the road northwest from camp. A few wispy clouds stayed stagnant above, and slowly more and more people were travelling too, filling up the silent countryside with the occasional ‘howdy’ and the slap of horse reigns.
The cooler fresh air and taller trees of Cumberland Forest seemed to have soothed his hangover and Arthur decided they were officially far enough away from camp, where they found themselves in a small opening, just out of sight of the road which was hidden by sparse greenery. It was a small meadow, cut in half by a stream that Biscuits used the opportunity to drink from greedily, swishing her tail happily as she did.
Arthur sat down with his back against a wide tree hidden in the shade and released a pent-up breath. There was a cruel ache festering in him.
The presence of his knife, hanging loosely from his belt, felt heavy.
He hadn’t gone out that day with the intention of using it, but before realising it he had found himself in a secluded spot away from camp with bad thoughts swirling through his head. Maybe this was what he had set out to do without even realising it, he grimly thought to himself.
It was too soon, and a stupid idea, Arthur knew. He was quickly running out of space, and he knew he had to ration it, using only for special occasions. Using the phrase ‘special occasion’ to describe something like this almost made him laugh at the vulgarity. But it was true, Arthur always felt himself waiting for something really awful to happen, when he would really need to do some damage. That wasn’t right now, now he just felt empty and bored.
Still, he slowly gripped the handle of the knife and unsheathed the blade.
He sighed, still feeling the wounds that hadn’t quite healed ache. The newest were on across his waist, laterally painted across his stomach like some kind of animal marking; they were a few days old and had only just begun to scab over. It was stupid to do more.
He also knew however, that he could draw just a little blood and he would feel a lot better.
He just wanted some relief from the horrid dread that kept building up quicker and quicker.
He needed something to take away this empty space inside of him.
Arthur cautiously rolled up his sleeve as far is it would go, halfway up his upper arm where the skin started weathered and tan, showing signs of the years spent outdoors and neglect, then fading to a pasty white that rarely saw the light of day. What was most noticeable however, were the clumsy red cuts lined up in a row. If you looked beyond that, wide paler lines could also be seen, old scars that had almost fully faded but were still visible if you knew they were there. The new ones, although some already beginning to scar, were fresh and angry, the oldest only being a month old. Or was it two months? He tried not to use his arm too much, knowing the space there was precious and the pain was the most annoying to deal with days after he had inflicted the damage.
But it was also the most punishing, and right now he craved it.
He felt his blood become loud and breathing quicken. He was excited, in some twisted sort
of way, and realised then that he had been looking forward to this moment. Arthur had been in some kind of different head space ever since blackwater and everything had started going wrong. He hadn’t had the time to be on his own much, instead walking around on autopilot in order to keep the gang alive and get themselves established in this new place they had found. In this time, Arthur had really begun to itch. It was torturous and with eyes everywhere the man couldn’t even sulk in peace.
Don’t misunderstand, there is love and tenderness in the feelings shared between most of the camp, however even that often became suffocating. He would chop firewood and do jobs and get into fights, all the while this claustrophobia was gnawing away at him. The picture of bleeding wrists would haunt his mind.
Things were better now that Sean was back, and the camp had visibly taken a sigh of relief as the kid had strolled back in, nattering away as usual. Arthur had felt himself relax as well, as if he had climbed back into his own head.
Unfortunately, his head wasn’t always the best place to be.
And so last night he had gotten very drunk, and this morning he woke up with that familiar ache within him that found him riding out on his own with no goal in mind, which brought him here, sat against a tree with a blade held against his arm. The familiar tension was already building, he sighed, hyping himself up for the pain.
He deserved this. He deserved this.
Warm blood cried down his arm, as he felt his body relax and a sigh escape his lips. It was euphoric, like the feeling of the perfect amount of whisky that leaves your head blank and light.
His body fizzed. Letting his head hit against the tree trunk behind him. He chased the feeling before it could subside and held the knife up again to his arm, this time less careful about placement and not really feeling himself care.
There was really nothing to compare to the feeling. A smile spread across dry lips and tired eyes closed as the outlaw slumped further into the dry dirt beneath him. He shuddered as the pain stung so sharp he could almost still feel the blade.
Time blurred and Arthur felt his head empty. It was a beautiful feeling, knowing he could do this to himself and knowing that it felt this good. He wasn’t much of a poet, but he at least knew this was the purest thing he’d ever felt; it was better than alcohol or smoking or holding a stack of freshly stolen bills, hell, it was even better than sex. It managed to hit him somewhere so specific where nothing else seemed to reach.
His arm twitched as blood continued to slide down and onto the ground, forming a small dark pool on the dirt. Arthur didn’t worry, he was sure the earth was used to having blood spilled by now.
He was lost in bliss, and only opened his eyes when he felt cool metal against his head.
“Give us your shit, and we’ll be on our way.” A nasally voice spoke from behind him.
Arthur was taken completely by surprise. His moment of pleasure had completely consumed him and his brain desperately tried to catch up as the figure remained hidden.
“Your shit, now. Or we can loot it from your corpse, your choice.” The man spoke in a softened Irish accent. Arthur shuddered.
“Okay, easy now. Look I aint gonna give you any trouble”. Arthur tried to sound as genuine as possible while aware his expression of disgust probably gave away his true intentions.
One of the men with a greenish kerchief wrapped clumsily round his gaunt face had made his way to Biscuits and was already going through her saddle bag. Arthur noticed he was wearing a green shirt too, as was the man in front of him. Of course it was just his luck that he’d manage to be held up by a bunch of god damn O’Driscolls, today of all days. Serves him right for going out to get some peace and quiet.
The O’Driscoll obviously didn’t find much in the saddle bag and was throwing the random shit that Arthur kept in there, such as oatcakes and carrots as well as a story book he’d been meaning to give to jack, onto the dusty ground. Biscuits Stirred, she always had been extraordinarily patient and gentle, but even she could tell something was off.
The barrel against his head moved, and the man came in front of him, the gun now further away but aimed directly between Arthur’s eyes. It was unknown whether the O’Driscoll had noticed Arthur's bloodied arm, but either way didn’t seem to care, and extended out a leg to kick the knife lying next to the outlaw’s hand away. This man was tall but thin and hadn’t even bothered to cover his face, and that didn’t bode well for Arthur. He paused a moment, studying Arthur’s face with a confused expression as if figuring something out.
“Oh shit, it’s Van Der Linde’s bitch!” The man exclaimed, excitement in his voice. Another man suddenly appeared from the other side of the tree, holding a pump action shot gun in his arms.
“Shit, you’re right! Guess it’s your lucky day pretty boy, we were gonna just kill you but now, oh man, Colm’s gonna be happy to see you buddy.” The second man, shorter and wider, laughed as he spoke.
This wasn’t good. A common vagrant could be handed some money and sent on their way if worse came to worst, but these fools weren’t only interested in money anymore. Arthur’s blood ran cold.
“Stand up.” The lanky man said, nudging his gun towards Arthur’s face.
Arthur in response, didn’t get up, a million thoughts running through his head, blood still leaked from his arm and his brain was soupy. Obviously not going to be able to play the compliant act now he had been recognised, he spat towards the man’s shoes.
“I said, Get. Up.” The taller one said, now in a serious tone, and hit the butt of his pistol against Arthur's head and fuck, it hurt like a bitch. It took a few moments for his eyes to come back into focus and the pain to dull to something manageable.
The wider of the two reached down and roughly grabbed his right arm, yanking him up to his feet. Arthur stumbled and felt faint from the blow to his head, the slightly unexpected volume of blood he had lost because of his own stupidity probably didn’t help either.
The men seemed slightly surprised by how little resistance Arthur put up and how much blood was leaking down his arm and barely flashed a quick glance at each other before continuing to yank him harshly towards one of their horses, a pretty grey appaloosa.
The head blow had made him dizzy, and his thoughts were scrambled, but he knew had to get out of this before he was restrained and taken somewhere, he just needed the right moment.
Thankfully, the moment came just seconds later when the taller man training his gun on Arthur’s head was distracted by an ugly shout from behind them.
Biscuits had used her back legs to kick the third man in the chest who had been trying to lead her with little success and resorted to slapping her rump. The taller man cursed and Arthur silently thanked his mare. She was sweet, but she also kicked real good.
With a limp and stinging arm, Arthur quickly reached for his shotgun on the right side of his body that they had been stupid enough not to remove from him- It was a completely amateur move. Arthur had realised that with the number of men that Colm burned through that most of them were cannon fodder and very much idiots, much to Arthur’s benefit.
He pulled the trigger to shoot the wider man escorting him directly through the gut who was almost torn in half by the blast. The taller man who was walking behind them raised his gun once again his focus brought back to Arthur, who turned and tried to raise his gun again. The man shot at him, and Arthur felt an explosion pain in his left shoulder, making him drop his shotgun in the dirt. He hissed.
Luckily, his right arm remained unscathed and was now no longer immobilised, allowing Arthur to quickly draw his revolver and shoot the O’Driscoll in the throat. He died quickly with hideous gurgling sound, while the other two O’Driscolls groaned horribly in the dirt.
Arthur picked up his shotgun and holstered both guns using his right arm before bucking it to Biscuits, who thankfully hadn’t run off. He clambered on the best he could whilst gripping his shoulder that was quickly spitting out blood, fuck, he really was bleeding fast, he didn’t know how long he would last.
“Go girl, git!”
Biscuits made a strained noise of terror, already distressed by the gunshots and man who had hit her. She didn’t set off fast enough though, as another bullet rang through the air and hit Arthur in his side. He cried out, but it felt more like a sharp sting than blunt force.
The horse trampled O’Driscoll was still laying on the ground and had his gun raised and poised for another shot, but the previous blast had thankfully caused an already nervous Biscuits to set off quickly and the bullets that rang out behind them shot into the empty air. The O’Driscolls horses had scattered as well, and they bucked wildly from the noise, meaning that no one could follow. Arthur held on with bloody hands and bullet wounds onto the reigns. Everything was hurting.
He was no stranger to getting shot, however some pains you can never really get used to, and each time it seemed to hurt just as bad as the first. Using his bullet-free arm he pressed hard against his shoulder, wincing sharply, to try and slow the blood that was quickly leaking down his torso. He quickly glanced down at the wound on his side and found his shirt torn open and a shallow slice just grazing across his waist, consequently opening a couple of healing cuts that were already there. It was bleeding quickly but had seemed to only skim his side rather than hit anything vital. He got lucky.
Biscuits ran fast, and soon there was no way the three men, or what was left of them, could still be insight. The Mare followed the familiar route home, through the large rocks and towards the forest of horseshoe overlook.
Arthur was growing faint and the strength he had to squeeze his shoulder was quickly fading away. He was losing too much blood and concussion was setting in.
He bent down and brought his face to Biscuits mane, bringing both of his hands to her reigns and wrapping them tightly around his wrists. He just had to hope Biscuits remembered the way home and that he could stay on her.
The train tracks grew closer, but his eyes couldn’t stay open even as the fast wind whipped into his face.