Dutch's Daughter [[RDR2 Arthur Morgan x OC]]

chapter 18; children of god

"Arthur Morgan... it is good to see you." 

Arthur blinks his eyes open, head pounding with the pain of pooled blood. He realizes he is hanging from his feet, the room around him dark and reeking of mold and decay. It's an abandoned cellar of sorts. A single candle burns on a table to his right, the main source of light coming from a lantern in the center of the room. He squints into the darkness to make out the shape of Colm O'Driscolls face.

"Hello, Colm." He mutters, becoming increasingly aware of the pain surging through his body.

"How's the wound?" Colm snickers, poking a finger at the gaping hole in Arthur's shoulder.

"Hardly feel it." Arthur lies through gritted teeth.

"You will... septic, it ain't nice. Now, tell me... a fine gun like you, why you still running around with old Dutch? Come ride with me and make real money."

"It ain't about the money, Colm."

"Oh, no, it's Dutch's famous charisma." The spur of his boot jabs into Arthur's side, earning a holler. "You killed a whole bunch of my boys back at Six Point Cabin."

"I ain't got no clue what you talking about."

"You lie, my friend... and I thought Dutch preached truth!" Colm pulls up his revolver, sticking it between Arthur's eyes, crusty lips cracking into a smile. "The way I see it, we lure an angry Dutch in to rescue ya, grab all of ya and hand ya in... then disappear. The law will forget all about us."

"So you only met with him to grab me?"

"Of course!" Colm spits. "He gon' be so mad. He gonna come raging over here... He'd be coming faster had we gotten that daughter of his. Too bad she didn't show up with yo... but I'm bettin' we'll be seeing her soon."

"You stay away from her!" Arthur swings himself forward, rattling the metal chains, arms swinging towards the bastards throat but he takes a step back just in time.

"Oh, Arthur... Arthur, I missed you." Colm smirks before whipping his revolver around to grip it's barrel, hammering the handle into the hanging mans ribs. They crack loudly, breaking under the brute force. He can no longer keep the pain in, hoarse voice yelling out with painful bloody coughs before a final strike to his temple knocks him unconscious once more.

When he awakes again, he finds himself still hanging upside down in the cellar but this time, he's alone. Sunlight pours in from cracks in the door way, illuminating a staircase. He surveys the room, eyes landing on the still candle with a dying flame and the knife the old fool left behind on the table next to it. Adrenaline takes over, making the aggressive pain raging through his body feel minimal. He swings back and forth until he gains enough momentum to reach out and grab the blade, using his remaining strength to pull himself up to the chains binding his bare feet. Meticulously, he picks the lock of the metal cuffs and drops to the floor with a thud, knocking the wind out of of his lungs.

Each movement takes great effort but his determination, or rather natural stubbornness, pushes him on. A few minutes resting on the floor allows the blood to flow down from his head to rest of his body, allowing him to think clearly. He pulls himself into a chair at the table, dipping the blade of the found knife into the flame of the candle until it's red with heat. His captors had not only stolen his weapons and satchel but his clothing as well, leaving him in his red union suit. He rips the fabric of his left shoulder to expose the wound, already red and angry with a settling infection.

Gritting his teeth, he pushes the hot metal into the gaping wound. He finds a shotgun shell and cracks it open, dusting the gunpowder over the bloody mess. Taking the candle in hand, he sucks in one deep breath before pressing the flame directly into the gash. He cries out with the nearly unbearable pain, unfortunately alerting a guard just outside his door. He acts quick, re-covering the now cauterized 

"What the hell is he still doing down there?" It's the same Irish asshole who'd shot him, the accent being a dead giveaway.

The cellar doors swing open and Arthur presses his back to the wall, just out of sight. The guard steps into the cellar, immediately noticing the pile of chains on the floor and the trail of dripped blood leading to the table. He is just a moment too slow in solving the puzzle as Arthur jumps on him from behind, arm wrapping around his neck and cracking it in one motion. His limp, lifeless body drops to the ground and immediately Arthur searches him for weapons. He finds three throwing knives but no guns... he'll have to make due. 

Outside, the sun is beginning to set, the voices of several scattered guards can be heard in the distance. He uses the conveniently silent weapons to take down the the guards standing closest to the building above. Crawling around the building, he finds a shed with a lock box, his signature hat resting on top. He slips knife underneath the lid, forcing it to pop open. Inside he finds his clothes, hat and guns but unfortunately, his boots are still no where to be found. With no time for an outfit change, he swings the rifle over his back, equipping his ammo belt and hat. 

He notices four horses hitched to a post nearby. His ticket out of here, at last. The only thing standing between him and his freedom is one last standing guard, his back resting on the wall of the shed. Arthur is out his line of vision but there is no way to leave the shed without being seen. One guard is no problem, easy even for a man like Arthur. He tackles him, disarming in the same fluid motion, shoving the guard to the ground. The man fights him, pushing against him with all his might. Determination fills Arthur again, his will to get back home fueling him as his hands find the man's throat, strangling him. Once he's motionless, Arthur searches his pockets. 

"Son of a bitch..." He mutters, realizing the man's wearing his boots, recognizing the brand new spurs he'd purchased one of his 'errands' with Charlotte. The sight of them makes him pause, thinking about her smile as she teased him for buying spurs he didn't actually need. He rips the boots off the stranger, thankful to cover his own bare feet.

Now is his chance to escape. He rushes to the horses, choosing the dark chestnut bay closest to him, heaving himself into the saddle. The horse, alerted by an unknown rider, immediately rears before taking off into a sprint. The roads are not safe, likely being patrolled by more O'Driscoll's. Knowing this, Arthur directs the mare in the opposite direction, towards the banks of Flat Iron Lake. Once out of immediate danger, Arthur begins to succumb to his wounds, head spinning and body falling over the back of the horse. Holding on to the neck, he can feel himself going faint once more. 

"Come on, girl... take me home..." He groans, eyes closing.