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

chapter 19; home one way or another

Arthur has no clue where he is but can tell he's still in motion. Though desperate to get home as soon as he can, he's thankful the horse isn't moving faster than a slow gait. With his top half draped over the horses neck, each slow movement presses the horses body into his broken ribs. He's too tired to change positions now. It's taking a large portion of his remaining strength to keep himself awake and aware, knowing if he falls asleep again he may never wake up. He thinks about his family finding him dead in the middle of nowhere with no answers to what happened. The pain it would cause them to know he died trying to get back home.

The temperature drops but Arthur hardly notices, his body already feeling frigid cold with settling hypothermia. He manages to open his eyes, glancing up at the starry night sky above. It's oddly peaceful, the quiet clop of horse hooves, bright stars above and the pain slowly leaving his body. He feels it draining from his feet first, the cold traveling up his legs and into his chest until he can no longer feel at all. His heart thumps in rhythm with the horses steps, sound flooding his ears and eyes drifting closed again. This must be it, his final moments with no strength left to hold on. He lets go, surrendering to the numb feeling taking over him just as a soft hands cup his chin, a thumb stroking over his bloodied bottom lip.

"Arthur..." A familiar voice coos.

"Lottie." He mutters, lips hardly parting to make space for the words. He smiles weakly, pleased to find he'd made it to heaven despite the hell he'd raised. It certainly wasn't where he'd expected to end up.

"Arthur!" Charlotte's voice is urgent with panic now, shattering his peaceful entrance into the pearly gates. "Arthur, wake up! Please!" Her hands let go of his face to catch his sliding body, his weight crashing onto her shoulder. She does her best to hold him up, pulling him out of the tall mares saddle. Arthur hears a second familiar voice then, one belonging to his brother, John.

"Dutch! We need some help over here!" John takes over, relieving Charlotte from carrying his hefty weight. Gingerly, he lowers him onto the ground, Charlotte immediately pulling his head into her lap.

"My boy... my dear boy, what happened?" Dutch crouches beside his daughter, looking down at the almost unrecognizable face of his protégé.

"I told... you... it was... a trap, Dutch." Arthur groans the words out between gravelly, shallow breaths. The three exchange nervous glances. He can tell they're speaking but he's too out of it to make sense of the words. He's focused on the hand resting on his chest, the thighs supporting his neck, and the dark hair tickling the side of his face. Her contact is the only thing he wants to be aware of, ready for it to be the last thing he feels. Dutch leaves again to search for the two people in camp trained in healing.

"You're safe now... You're safe, Arthur." Charlottes eyes lock with his, running her hands through his hair. They both sense the fear the other one feels. Something physically pulls him away from her grasp and he wishes he could protest but all he can manage is a hoarse cry at the pain panging in his chest with the motion. Charles has him by his legs, John by his shoulders and they're carrying him to his bed as quickly and gently as they can. Arthur relaxes slightly when he feels his cot under his back, a pillow under his head but his thoughts are flooded with where Charlotte disappeared to.

His silent prayers are answered when he feels her hand entwining with his, her warm mouth pressing against the back of his fingers. She continues murmuring reassuring words to him, reminding him that he's home and safe and that he'll be okay. The wavering in her voice tells him that she's unsure. He wishes he could squeeze her hand, tell her she'll be okay even if he isn't. Remind her that she has so much to live her without him, a family of dangerous outlaws to take care of, and so many places she hasn't seen yet. He wishes he could apologize that he wasted so many years hating her and that they weren't given enough time for him to love her the right way.

"You don't have to stay John, I'll sit with him. Go back to Abigail, I'm sure she's worried." John? He wasn't aware that someone else was there with them.

"He's my brother." He feels a soft pat on his leg. "I ain't going anywhere." John rests his hand on Charlottes shoulder, pulling up a stool to sit beside her.

"She has someone with her... someone to comfort her." Arthur thinks to himself, thankful that John is here. Yet another person he's wasted too much time hating. He makes a mental note to spend more time with the people he loves... given he makes it through this. For now, he allows himself to relax completely, Lottie's comforting touch bringing that peace back to him, John reminding him to stay with them keeping the numbness away. A good balance.

Hosea can be heard in the distance, growing closer, accompanied by Dutch and Swanson. He tries to pinch Charlotte's finger to warn her, yelling for her to let go before they see but he remains motionless and silent. Hosea enters first, taking in the pitiful condition of Arthur first before his eyes land on Charlotte's hands roaming over his broken body. He has no time to react, no time to turn and stop Dutch before he enters. Once inside the full tent, Dutch is silent, jaw clenched and spine stiffened.

Arthur waits for him to yell, shout or have some kind of reaction but it's painfully quiet for far too long. Her touch doesn't cease, softly stroking his face as if she's become completely unaware that anyone else exists but him, her sole purpose now being bringing him back to health with her touch. It's then that Dutch finally speaks but the words are distorted in Arthur's throbbing head, fogged by a concussion. He's shouting, screaming even, that much he can tell. He expected Dutch to be mad when he found out about them, whatever they are, but this was exceeding his expectations. He is furious.

He feels Charlotte's hand yank out of his, her fingernails scraping across his palms. She cries out, sobbing, begging to return to his side. John, Hosea and Dutch are all speaking over her lamenting but his focus isn't on them. The sounds become hard to separate, the only one easy for him to distinguish is Charlotte's painful wails carrying over the volume of the others. He becomes more alert when Hosea's voice is replaced with Micah's.

Micah and Dutch are both barking words at his girl. His girl. He grits his teeth, angry that it was his fault she was even if this position. Had he not pressured her into whatever their relationship is, there wouldn't be anything for Dutch to find out. No dangerous secrets to hide between them. She's been through enough and he's not eager to forgive himself for putting her through more. Van der Linde's are durable but not unbreakable and Charlotte has been on the edge of breaking for months now.

"Lottie..." Arthur moans, mustering enough strength to raise a hand to the voices carrying away, her cries getting farther and farther away from him. His urge to protect her isn't enough to revive him despite his hard headed, stubborn will to do so. A hand takes his again but it's not his Lottie. This one is slightly larger but lighter, dry and fingers are wrinkled. Hosea.

"Don't worry son, she's okay. John's with her. Dutch won't hurt her, he loves her too much to lay a finger on her." His other hand claps on top of the other, patting the back of Arthur's. "You just rest now, we've got her."

She's safe... she's safe... He says the words over and over again, unsure if they're leaving his mouth or just repeating in his mind. Either way, it's enough to reassure him that it's okay to rest now. He has no choice but to put all of his trust in his brother. In all the craziness, he'd nearly forgotten that he was on the edge of death himself. He's thankful to hear a sober Swanson above him, making plans with Susan to treat his wounds. He begins prepping several medicines and bandages while Grimshaw runs off to boil water.

It's time to focus on himself and living through the night. The treatment he is about to endure is going to hurt like hell and he knows he needs to prepare himself for it. He wishes he was lucid enough to take a swig of whiskey before they start. As if Hosea had read his mind, he slides a hand under his neck to lift his face to the mouth of a cold metal flask.

"Take a drink, boy. You're gon' need it."