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simply-eno · 1 year

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Superstition: A Short Story

Chapter 5. An Encounter With Ancestors

I stood stock still in the pale moonlight, feeling the essence that my great grandfather must have felt against this unknown creature: stoic and fearless.

“I have no interest in giving you my voice,” I spoke, barely a whisper but clear and firm; it seemed to echo off the pine needle trees.

“We do not wish to steal your voice; we wish to enhance it.” This voice came from the left of the nearest tree, higher in its pitch and somehow familiar.

“We know that you are not heard amongst your people.” This one from the right, sounding as venomous as a copperhead.

The hand reached out in a welcoming gesture, as if it were offering it to help me, save me.

“Come,” the creatures said in unison, “and see what we can offer to the voiceless.”

William boarded the windows with rotting wood, cursing his deserved paranoia. He had sent the children to town, and told them to not come back. He would go get them, if he survived. His thoughts raced as he considered what would happen if they disobeyed. He worried about Branch and how she would manage as a widow never knowing what had happened to her husband.

He stepped down from the window and turned to the land that his father had left him; 40 acres in total, mostly wooded and useless for anything other than hunting. He remembered the years that he had spent with his father and his brothers clearing out the land enough for the house, barn and small areas for gardening. It had been many years since he had thought about those hard times, and many years since his father and brothers had died. He felt a pang of sorrow, wishing that he had their strength again. He sighed, then went inside.

He set up his rocking chair next to the door and prepared for a long night of watch. He put the kettle on to the rod above the fire to make coffee and started a scratch of stew. The hunger in his gut growled as the smell of cooking gravy and steeping coffee beans began to permeate the house, and he grimaced at the sound that disrupted the silence.

The silence was normally welcomed, but this time it felt disturbing. There were no owls hooting in the pines, and with the cows and horses dead, there were no soft wandering hooves in the mud, no muffled huffs of content from the grazing beasts, and it intensified the silence in William’s ears.

When the coffee and stew had reached a satisfactory level for William, he sat at the table and ate, staring at the front door with stern determination. He would take down whatever came through that door. He would kill anything less than human.

“Mister Tower?”

William jumped at the sound and looked around. It came from behind his shoulder. His eyes landed on a young man standing in his kitchen, leaning upon the small countertop and dressed in dusty leather chaps and an opened button-down, white shirt. The young man had long black hair that hung loosely around his fierce face. The deep brown eyes peered at William, and they looked like Branch’s eyes.

“Mister Tower,” the stranger said again. “You are in danger.”

William burst out in nervous laughter. His head rocking back at the obvious notion.

“Young man, I am well aware of that, but I presume that I am not in danger because of you?'' His voice was shaky, but the sudden onset of fear that had overwhelmed him just a moment ago subsided slowly. “Now, if you could kindly tell me who you are and how you got into my house without me noticing, I’d ‘ppreciate it.”

“I am of no importance, now. And truly, I am not in your house,” the young man stepped forward, and William stepped back. “I am an ancestor of Branch, child of the whispering willow and wind, and I have been requested by her spirit to warn you.”

“An ancestor? Are you the ghost that my wife speaks to?” William asked, peering at the young man. He appeared not much older than Billy, but there was something off about his appearance. “And her spirit spoke to you? Is she dead? Is my Branch dead?” Worry rose in his throat as he spoke.

“Branch is quite well and alive, Mister Tower. I am one of the many ‘ghosts’ that your wife speaks with, but this is not the reason I am here for. I need to tell you how to defend your home from the malevolent spirit that has attached itself to your blood.” The young man reached out his hand, presenting a black dagger.

"Why is this thing attached to me?" William could feel his breath quaking in his chest as he tried to ease his nerves. The thought that an unknown monster could just bind itself to him and his family made him sick to his stomach.

“A wrong was deemed to have been done to the gods; gods that you do not follow nor believe, but they have sent a messenger to deliver their law.” The young man said plainly, as if it were so obvious.

“What wrong could I have committed to gods that I didn't know existed prior?”

“Gods of nature have many reasons to decree a wrong, whether or not the perpetrator knows of their doing. All I can say is that the creature that stalks you now, is not one easily swayed from their mission, and you will need to be aware of your voice, and the voices of those you love. They will be used against you.” The young man

William looked cautiously at the dagger, inspecting its gleam in the lamplight. It wasn’t like anything he had seen before. It glistened like a gemstone.

He looked back at the young man with an inquisitive eye.

"Now, I know nothing about a monster attaching itself to my blood, but I know a weapon when I see one. What am I supposed to do with a dagger that I can't do with my rifle?" He gestured to the gun laying upon the table.

"Mister Tower, your rifle won't pierce the skin of a thousand stolen voices."

Realization overwhelmed William. The thought that a creature of stolen voices, as the phantom had said, was soul chilling.

William’s eyes fell on the dagger in the young man’s hands. “What do I have to do to protect my family?”

The young man stepped forward and handed the dagger to William. It felt heavy in his hand.

“You must fight to keep your voice.”

I looked back at the tents that surrounded the campsite. The thought that I could be heard amongst my own people was tempting, and as sinful as lust or greed.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to be a voice? As beautiful as the songbirds, and as feared as the lion’s roar?” The slithering voice from the right said.

All three of the creature’s reached out their hands; disgustingly thin and boney, the skin seemingly foil-wrapped to the knuckles. A welcoming gesture that caused my stomach to turn with the piss beer that filled it.

“You can speak, sing; we have heard your voice reverberate from the cliffs and the water’s edge as you wander, isolated from those who have ignored you,” The center creature said, finally peaking its face out from behind the tree.

Its sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks looked hauntingly, hungrily at me as I stepped back. Its mouth agape, showing long teeth. It was worse than Mother had described it to be.

“You… you cannot have my voice,” I whispered. My strength and pride failed me as the thought of them having heard me when I thought I was alone crept in.

“Come, and see how your great-grandfather fared against our voices. Your mother is a liar, and her story is only the start.” The lips never moved, but the saccharine sweet voice came easily from the creature.

#short story #horror #mild suspense #fiction #writing #long prose #a little shorter than normal #but i hope you all still are enjoying this

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delacruzheller27 · 8 days

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grandpasorchard · 1 year

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I was walking on the farm by some brown and red rocks and looking to make sure no copper heads were lurking around. Those snakes are some of the most aggressive. But you know, other snakes are usually not so mean. I got to thinking, why are copperheads so mean? They are one of the most camouflaged of all the snakes. But that doesn't seem to be enough. Then I realized something. People get right in their face, step on them, and invade their territory all the time. Why? Why do we trip over things laying on the floor in the dark? Why do we struggle to find the right thing in that junk drawer full of buttons, lids, and old brass keys? Because it is hidden too well. Nature out did itself, it camouflaged a snake so well that the poor angry, bitter, and snap happy snake just gets everyone right in its face. It's a dangerous world out there, and hiding can be wise, knowing or learning when and when not to hide is wiser and we are blessed that our minds are powerful enough to slowly look over a situation and strategize. Some people have asked me why I get rid of poisonous snakes on the farm, and the two main answers are these; we belong here and have just as much a right to territory as any other beings on this planet, this planet is not just the animals' home, it is our home too, and I don't like going to the hospital for snake bites. Lastly, grandchildren are in our care because as children, their brains are not fully developed. It takes time to learn how to survive, who to trust, what to trust. Bad animals out there may bite from being handled or stepped on like those copperheads.

Some animals like bears, panthers, and untrained dogs just see them as walking happy meals. Even adults wrapped up in tents without a safety line and weapons have become bear burritos. You should see the national parks incident lists, thousands missing every year, hundreds found in bear tummies. I sometimes wonder, as I sit in my porch swing, looking through the maple leaves to the many stars above, if there are any worlds out there that are not dangerous? And on other worlds, do they feel like that world belongs to them? Do they protect their children until they are wise enough to know who to trust? Do they kill nasty mean tempered snakes, or just let them go around biting their babes? I'm not sure I'd want to go to such a planet, would you?

Anyways, I didn't see any copperheads, but I keep an eye out for them. But I also keep an eye out for bears, panthers, wild hogs, and mean canines of all kinds. Indians had bows and arrows, people in the past, swords, we carry a gun. But sometimes I use a bow, and I must admit, I'd really love to have a saber, maybe even a light saber.

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we-unlearn · 1 year

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“How to kill a snake” / 2021

Step One:

Accept what you just saw in the darkening light of your front yard.

What was once a garden, a sanctuary, a place for flowers to

Bloom

And children to play

Is shadowed by an unknown, currently unnamed

Visitor. No –

Invader.

Diamond hitch markings and a head like brass.

Step Two:

Accept that you cannot ignore it.

Slithered under a bush and out of sight, it’s not better to let

Sleeping

Snakes

Lie.

You put out your cigarette, go inside

Put your thick boots on,

Jeans in summer,

Put on armor, anything too thick to pierce with fangs like sewing needles.

Step Three:

Accept that you will try to talk yourself out of it.

And that while walking through the bushes you will pray you were mistaken.

You will try to distrust your own eyes.

“I didn’t see that, trick of the light, a piece of a rotting leaf moved in the breeze and this is an

Over-

Reaction”

But in your belly you know what you saw.

Pray, then, for a misidentification.

A snake by any other name would be less deadly.

Pray that you made the mistake –

Even though you’ve been identifying snakes your whole goddamn life.

Step Four:

Accept, once you see it again in the high beam of a flashlight,

That the snake must die.

Copperhead. You named it correctly.

Its namesake carries weight and visions of dead dogs and children, screaming sirens of ambulances and a constant pressure on the wound.

The snake did not choose this, like so many choices of people that lead them to a dangerous place.

The snake did not choose his name.

Step Five:

Accept the palm to the shovel.

The weathered wood grain on skin, the heft of a blunt object but also the weight of intention

To kill.

Hear the quick guillotine, a whistle through the air.

Kill the snake.

And maybe see yourself in it — too much

The ability to fight and flail even though there is no going back,

Nothing to repair the damage.

No chance.

Step Six:

Accept the next motions, automatically,

As you’ve been told.

Spout the series of events on autopilot.

A. Collect

B. Wait

C. Dig

D. Bury

You collect the jigsawed snake in a shoebox. Wrap it in a towel.

There is always danger in a dying thing.

You wait until the morning sun is hot on your back

even through the canopy of leaves.

You dig a hole a foot and a half down with the same blunt force

And the same blunt object.

You bury the unboxed snake in the hole, and sob a song

No one will ever hear.

Step Seven:

Accept the arguments you will have with yourself.

Did you do the right thing?

What if it had bitten one of the children?

Did you have to kill a living thing?

Why did you even have to see it in the first place?

Step Eight:

Accept the fact that this poem is no longer about the snake.

Step Nine:

Accept that there was no dignity in its death, exactly like there was no dignity

In the quiet death of the future you will never have.

And how the thud of his body in a hole

Unceremoniously dug with a rusted shovel made the same sound

as the removal of your engagement ring.

And just as empty.

Step Ten:

Accept the facts:

You Killed the Snake

You Filled the Hole

You Packed the Dirt

You Walked Away

Alive.

#poems and poetry #original poem #original poets on tumblr #poetry #creative #my poem #poemsdaily #poem #writing #poet #snake

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cxpperhead · 8 months

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"I have ...." rummages through pockets and pulls out four crumpled five dollar bills. "Twenty dollars to hire you to go paintballing with me. Or mini golfing. Or go cart racing. I'm not picky" / have a wally awkwardly trying to be friends despite people telling him not to be dumb

"You should save your money. You probably need it more than I do." Copperhead said, arching a scaled brow at the sight of Wally's crumpled notes. If this was a ploy to get him behind bars, it was a damn imaginative one but Copperhead didn't think the young teen was that duplicitous. He'd always seemed the earnest sort much like his predecessor, a ray of sunshine that was increasingly rare in this day and age. How old was he anyway? Was Wally even legally entitled to work? The Serpent Metahuman hummed. Nobody had ever really offered to *do* anything with him, much less offer to pay and frankly he was at a bit of a loss on how to react. He certainly wasn't about to take this kid's pocket money. "Besides, even if you're okay doing those sorts of things, people might panic and call the police if I showed up what with being a wanted criminal and all. That would bring the mood down pretty quick, wouldn't you agree?" Damn. Why was this so hard? Copperhead had killed many over the years without a shred of mercy and through various horrible means such as stranglation, suffocation, even envenomation.... so how was this half-pint able to make him feel bad for turning down a handful of crumpled notes? He hummed again. "How quick are you able to run to Arizona? I know a great fair there and nobody would bat an eyelid seeing us."

#celerem #;; asks #WALLY AWWWW 🥺#Pls don't try to be friends with the murderous snake man Wally he can't stop himself from killing #And you're a nice kid #Copperhead vc: I don't like superheroes or vigilantes they must stay 500 feet from me at all times #Wally: awkwardly offering to be friends #Copperhead vc: Okay maybe you get a pass

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docgold13 · 2 years

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365 DC Comics Paper Cut-Out SuperHeroes - One Hero, Every Day, All Year…

November 15th - Manhunter / Kate Spencer

Katherine ‘Kate’ Spencer had been a federal prosecutor who became increasingly tired and frustrated seeing guilty criminals evade punishment. One of her cases involved prosecuting the super villain, Copperhead, on multiple charges of murder. Utilizing an insanity defense, Copperhead avoided a deaths sentence and later escaped custody only to kill again. Spencer was at her wits end. She stole a number of high tech weapons from the evidence lockup (chiefly an energy staff once belonging to The Manhunter, Mark Shaw). Creating a custom for herself, Spencer tracked down Copperhead and used the staff to kill the villain.

Spencer decided to continue on as a customer vigilante, taking on the mantle of The Manhunter. There had been a high tech weapons manufacturer named Dylan Battles. Battles had built weapons for numerous super villains but was now living in witness protection after testifying against a former client. Spencer essentially blackmailed Battles into building, maintaining and upgrading numerous weapons and hardware, threatening to out his location if he didn’t comply. Battles modified for Kate a suit of lightweight armor derived from a suite once worn by a member of The Darkstars, a pair of gauntlets once used by the vigilante Azreal, and the aforementioned Manhunter staff.

Spencer proved highly successful in her turn as The Manhunter. She came to discover that she possessed a significantly high than average level of strength and durability; a mysterious matter that was ultimately revealed to the result of her being the illegitimate granddaughter of the golden age hero Iron Munro (and that a portion of Munro’s super abilities must have been passed down to her).

Spencer was later recruited into the Department of Extranormal Operations under the directorship of Mr. Bones. She also served as Wonder Woman’s legal council when the heroine was charged with the murder of Maxwell Lord. Some time thereafter, Spencer transferred to the district attorney’s office in Gotham and, in her guise as Manhunter, filled in for Black Canary as a member of The Birds of Prey; she later joined the contemporary iteration of The Justice Society.

Following the changes in continuity post ReBirth, Kate Spencer has reappeared in the Green Arrow series, acting as Oliver Queen’s personal attorney.

A version of Spencer features in the television series Arrow, portrayed by actress Chelah Horsdal. The heroine first appeared in the pages of Manhunter Vol. 3 #1 (2004).

#365 DC Comics Heroes #DC Comics #Manhunter #Kate Spencer #Birds of Prey #Arrow #Chelah Horsdal #cut-out #paper art

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mentally-dating-din-djarin · 2 years

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Nancy Drew is fucking killing me!

So I finally watched the last 2 episodes and holy shit!

First off, I KNEW Temperance was a shady bitch. Even when she's honest, she's lying. I have a feeling that little ritual to get Ace and Hannah back had more to it. Then to put a hex on children!? Plus she's talking about reuniting with her daughter and making her embrace her destiny. Did she ever really want to get her back or is it just a means to an end for whatever her plan is? I hope she gets what's coming to her.

Nancy and Park, kinda have mixed feelings about this. I like them together, they're cute. But I have to admit that I've been shipping Nancy and Ace since season 1.

I almost had a heart attack when Nancy and Park were hooking up because of that one camera angle. I thought they were gonna reveal that Ace saw them hooking up and my heart would not have been able to take it.

The new revelations about the Copperhead, whoa. Getting more of the story of what it's like for victim's of the Copperhead. They must have been terrified not knowing why they're suddenly acting this way. And what is up with the Copperhead only being able to kill them at 11:57 pm? I understand it's the darkest part of the night, but why is that important?

Ace admitting his feelings!!!! Then fucking Ryan and his PERFECT timing again!

#i won't make it to friday #nancy drew #nancy drew spoilers #the cw nancy drew

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sweltering-in-central-city · 3 years

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Romantic Headcanons

Name: Leia Morales

Alias: Swelter (Earth-1) / Crucible (Earth-2)

Gender: Female? (Might be NB, but that may just be the mun projecting)

Sexual Orientation: Asexual (undiscovered by default)

Romantic Orientation: Biromantic (undiscovered by default)

Preferred Pet Names: Princessa (by her mom). Hasn't discovered any romantic ones she's liked yet. Definitely not 'babe', 'sweetheart', 'darling', or 'doll', due to previous negative associations.

Relationship Status: It's complicated... (by default) / Single (by default)

Opinion on True Love: Wants it to exist, but isn't sure it does / Believes it's a misguided and childish dream

Opinion on Love at First Sight: Personally, she needs to physically interact with and talk to someone first, but maybe just looking at someone works for others / Hates it even as a media trope and considers it absolute fairytale bullshit

How ‘romantic’ are they?: In her own way, very much. She's not super showy about it, but she likes cuddling, cooking for her partner, and showing up to support them in anything related to their endeavors or interests. She also enjoys going on cute little casual dates and just quietly enjoying each other's company. / Crucible used to be like her Earth-1 counterpart until her boyfriend finally pushed her too far. Then, she killed him and practically swore off love. Any partner of hers should count themselves lucky they broke down her walls enough to even get to that point.

Ideal Physical Traits: She doesn't really have any that I can think of. Different features can look nice in their own way. But also, as a sci-fi and fantasy nerd, she definitely has an appreciation for nonhuman features, like fangs, pointed ears, unique skin tones, etc.

Ideal Personality Traits: Caring, dependable, affectionate, sweet, confident, and maybe a little quirky / Like-minded; people who actively harm others or let others harm them aren't for her

Unattractive Physical Traits: Probably the same traits that basically nobody finds appealing, like greasiness, bad hygiene, an untidy appearance, etc. Also, like the whole fuckboi aesthetic and when people just genuinely look malicious (like when their facial features give off bigot or abuser vibes)

Unattractive Personality Traits: Abusive, egotistical, manipulative, lazy, and cruel. Anyone who's ever caused harm to someone else could potentially end up as one of Crucible's victims. She also has no interest people who don't stand up for themselves and others

Do they have a type?: Fellow nerds and goofballs, or alternatively, anyone who gives her positive attention for even a second / She'd rather never date again, but it will be easier to get her to consider the idea if the person in question isn't a man; guys are welcome to try, but their chances are next to impossible

Opinion of Public Affection: Pretty uncomfortable with anything past holding hands and hugging; a small kiss works if her partner's trying to fluster her, but more than that in public risks making her legitimately anxious / If she puts up with so much as a hand on her shoulder around others, she must really care about that person

Favourite Canon Ship: Leia's an OC, so I'm just counting this as her partner canonically existing in the Arrowverse. I obviously ship her with Cisco, but I can also see her with Caitlin and/or Frost. For Crucible, I think maybe Killer Frost if she stopped working for Zoom and only hurt people who might reasonably deserve it.

Favourite Non-Canon Ship: Copperhead (Sameer Park) / Poison Ivy

Tagged by: N/A ( stolen from @who-is-muses )

Tagging: @who-is-muses (for Sameer) and anyone else who wants to do it

#headcanons #crucible #murder tw #dash games

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delacruzheller27 · 8 days

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squidproquoclarice · 5 years

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Was recently replaying chapter 6 in RDR2 and noticed Arthur and Charles both tear up and sniffle a bit when Eagle Flies dies. He's obviously trying not to cry when he talks to Sister Calderon. Do you headcanon him crying at any point during the game's main story? How about John? I know John's VA said R* told him not to cry when he parted with Arthur, but I think shedding some tears would have been more IC, honestly. John wasn't really all that stoic at that age.

Dang, I love this Ask even though it’s an ouch.For Arthur, I HC that he’s been very much dissuaded from crying in his life. Aside from the stoic expectations of Victorian masculinity, I have his father having hit him when he was little and crying over his mother’s death. He also found out as a street kid that nobody cared if he cried. People passing by him wouldn’t help him even then, and other street kids would mock him and even beat him harder. So it’s not something he does easily. John, probably similar in having his own rough background.During the game? There are a few points.Between Chapters 4 and 5, I do think Arthur probably found a quiet corner of the Antenor away from the others to cry it out. He’s been running hard for months, including being kidnapped and brutalized himself, trying to save the gang. But everything is now falling apart. They’ve left most of their people behind and they’re running away to another country on Dutch’s crazy whims, with no plan, and no certain return. The bank robbery failed spectacularly and he must know they’re doomed now no matter what. The gang isn’t going to recover from this. Lenny, who Arthur loved as a little brother, died brutally. John, who he loves despite their differences over the notion of being a husband and father, has been captured and will presumably hang. And most of all he watched Hosea, the man he very loved and cherished as a father for the past twenty-two years (he fears and respects Dutch and wants his approval so much, but he clearly and uncomplicatedly loves Hosea), coldly executed right in front of him. He’s likely able to cry for Hosea unlike when he was a child watching Lyle, his biological father, die. He’s due for a bit of a breakdown, and I think he has one when he finds somewhere safe. The good news is there are plenty of corners to hide in on a vessel at sea, even a smallish tramp steamer.I think it’s also likely that it happens again in Chapter 6. Probably after “Visiting Hours” when he and Sadie get back with John from Sisika, because until that point he’s been able to stuff it down in the interest of a job that needs doing--he rolled right from the doctor to the balloon reconnaissance to getting John out the next day. They get back with John, and Dutch screams at him for it. Add that to the fact that he hasn’t really had the space yet to process his TB diagnosis, and he and Sadie ran to get John almost immediately after the move to Beaver Hollow, and again, there’s a whole lot crashing down on him at once. The Dutch he thought he knew, the man he trusted, feels totally gone. And he’s just been told that unless he goes somewhere warm and dry to go on almost total bed rest, it’s very likely that he’s going to die slowly and painfully--if he doesn’t get shot or hanged first because they’re living in squalor and misery with no realistic hopes of freedom or escape. The sense of doom and hopelessness he has to be feeling is unbearable. He’s a fighter, but this isn’t something he can fight his way out of this time. These are all forces far beyond his control. So I think he probably either left Beaver Hollow, or wandered somewhere back into the caves to be alone, and let himself have a few minutes to just let it out again and try to regain even keel to do what he now knows has to be done--damn chasing his slim chances of survival, he’s going to fight to get out who he can.For John, I think after he and Abigail and Jack and Tilly got away from Copperhead Landing, he kept it together until he could be alone himself. But given he’s had a hell of a time too, hearing that his own father figure Hosea was killed, enduring a likely brutal imprisonment in Sisika, knowing Dutch wasn’t planning to get him out, and seeing that he was left behind to die on the train robbery, is a lot. Then Arthur went and very calmly sacrificed himself for John, even as John’s trying to tacitly plead with him to save himself too. That was a lot already, and the overwhelming force of facing a life ahead of him that he’s totally unprepared for (and we see that in 1907 he’s still struggling with that), is too much. He’s grieving and he’s terrified, so he’s going to need that moment to cry and let some of the emotions out.

#arthur morgan #john marston #rdr2 #thank you for coming to my red talk #Anonymous

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raewrite · 5 years

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The West is all that You Have

Arthur Morgan x Reader

Ohhhhhh Okay wow so this is A Lot.

This is something I’ve had in mind for a little while. Essentially, its an AU where Arthur gets a happy ending instead of TB. I’m planning for this to be a 2-part series, and then using it as a basis for some future requests, if you guys are down for that.

(Title inspired by the song ‘Western Expansion’ by Jared & the Mill *wink*)

Ahem.

~~~

Like hell you were gonna let Micah make off with that money.

Sadie, Abigail, and yourself had made it a few miles out from Beaver Hollow by now, having put some distance between yourselves and whatever hell was about to break loose back at camp. You had been deadly quiet for the better part of the ride south, letting Sadie take the lead. You knew there was no going back to the way things used to be, and every part of you burned with an undeniable rage that made you want turn back, go find Arthur, and kill that rat bastard Micah yourself. But a voice in your head told you to keep the other women safe; a voice that sounded an awful lot like Arthur’s. A sneer spread across your face as you warred silently with yourself.

Another few minutes of riding found the three of you coming down a hill to a crossroads where Sadie slowed up to check the signs. You halted your horse behind her, your grip tightening around the reins.

“Sadie,” you called just as she was pulling her horse into the turn. She glanced over her shoulder at you inquisitively, with Abigail turning to look as well. Her eyes were puffy and red, causing you to waver.

“Y/n, c’mon. We’ve still got a ways to go,” Sadie implored, and you knew from the tone of her voice that she knew what you were thinking.

“I gotta go.” You tried to be firm, deciding it was best not to look Abigail in the eye as you did so. You knew Sadie would take care of her.

“Hey, don’t go playin’ the hero now. You heard Arthur.”

“I gotta…” You looked down at your hands as you tried to steel your resolve. Letting out a sigh, you met Sadie’s eyes. “Keep on ’til you get to Copperhead, like Arthur said. I’m going back.”

“Y/n…” It was Abigail now, her voice hoarse. You did your best to look apologetic as you met her eyes, pulling your horse up alongside Sadie’s so that you could reach out to her.

“It’s all gonna be okay,” you tried to soothe, taking her hand in yours. “It’s gonna be okay, but right now that little boy needs you. He needs you and that’s your business to attend to. I’ve got some business of my own.” You squeezed her hand. “I have to go.”

Abigail nodded once, fresh tears welling up in her eyes as she looked down at your hands. You patted hers gently and looked to Sadie.

“Now, both of you get on out of here,” you finally said, though you couldn’t hide the little crack in your voice. Pulling back, you straightened up in your saddle. Sadie gave you a look akin to understanding, readjusting the reins in her hands.

“You stay safe, honey,” she said, catching you a bit by surprise with the gentleness of her tone. All you could do was nod.

Without another word, you steered your horse back in the direction of the camp, only daring to look back over your shoulder once you had topped the hill. Sadie was tugging at the reins with Abigail’s arm around her waist now, and you caught Abigail’s gaze one last time. You bowed your head to her before turning back in your saddle and urging your horse onward.

Galloping through the thick woodlands, you couldn’t help but notice the echoing voice in your head. Whispers of what sounded like old Reverend Swanson murmuring something about the shadow of death and fearing no evil. You were never sure what to make of Swanson or his afflictions, but now, as you barreled headlong towards whatever awaited you in that cave, you felt the same cold comfort you felt back in Colter whenever he would read to you and the others. It was enough, whatever it was, and you felt a burst of assurance bloom in your chest as you rode ever northwards.

~~~

It was dark by the time you reached Beaver Hollow, the moonlight catching eerily in the trees as you slowed your horse to a trot. From the edge of the clearing, you could see flames eating away at two of the wagons, casting a sinister red glow over the mouth of the cave. You pulled off into the trees and hitched your horse there, glancing around for any signs of life as you did so. You took your saddlebags and hefted them over your shoulder.

Carefully, with revolver in hand, you edged into the camp itself, skirting along your left-hand side by the smoldering wreck of Arthur’s wagon. Glancing under the half-fallen tarp, your heart sank when you saw the charred remains of most of his belongings. The photographs had been reduced to ash, with only the nails that pinned them to the wagon’s paneling remaining. His old horseshoe still hung in place, though it was likely too hot to pick up at the moment. The glint of firelight off glass caught your eye and you noticed the little jar Arthur kept on his bedside table. You snatched it up, rubbing away a bit of soot. Inside, the little flower he preserved still sat, unaffected by the turmoil around it. You gave a triumphant little hum as you tucked it away safely in your saddle bag.

Stepping cautiously back into the clearing, you looked around for a sign that anyone was there, squinting into the darkness of the surrounding woods.

Where the hell was everyone?

You made your way slowly towards Dutch’s tent, your heartbeat pounding in your ears as you gazed down into the cave. It was like the mouth of hell itself opening before you, and you looked over your shoulder one last time before descending into the gloom.

Remembering what Abigail had said about Dutch’s stash, you wound your way towards the back of the cavern, your eyes flitting nervously between the shadowy corners and the half-rotted crates around you. You had seen no sign of any of the gang members thus far, and you began to truly fear the worst. The family was parted for good, you knew that much, and nothing could go back to the way it used to be, but you still hoped and prayed that at least some of them made it out without getting tangled with Micah and the Pinkertons. If nothing else, you prayed that Arthur was alright.

When you found the wagon Abigail must have been talking about, you glanced around the cavern walls one more time for any signs of danger, though it only made you more uneasy when you found nothing. Hesitantly, you began moving boxes away from the side of the wagon, trying not to make too much noise as you did so. The chest was something you had only seen on rare occasions, for Dutch always seemed to hide it quickly and well whenever the gang had to move. But now you dragged it unceremoniously into the dim torchlight, taking the hunting knife from your belt and jamming it under the lid, just as you had seen Arthur do on countless occasions. The sound of metal on metal made you wish Abigail had given you the key instead of Arthur, as the scraping echoed around you, making the hairs on your neck stand on end. You prayed no one could hear you.

Finally, the lid popped open, and you rested it back gently against the wagon. Inside was a sizable burlap sack, like the ones Pearson used to store grain. Your heart beat rapidly as you grabbed the open end and peered inside.

Money, and lots of it.

A spark of giddiness caught in your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile. For the first time in weeks, you felt like things were truly going to be alright, despite everything.

Under better circumstances, you would have taken the time to count out what you were loading into your saddlebags, but right now you would be glad to have whatever you could carry. Part of you hoped that by only taking some of the money and leaving the rest where you found it, it would be less obvious that anyone had come for it at all, and you, Arthur, and the others could be long gone by the time anyone noticed. Your plan would have to suffice; there was no time for anything better.

Replacing the sack in the chest and pushing it back under the wagon, you tried to make the scene look as untouched as possible. With that done, you began to make your way back up out of the cavern.

The feeling of excitement that you had felt was quickly overtaken by weariness once more, as a shiver ran down your spine when you neared the mouth of the cave. The fires still roared angrily over the wagons, jumping from one source of fuel to another. Passing by Dutch’s tent, you heard your horse whinny from across the way, her hooves stamping into the dirt in agitation.

Shadows cast from the fires jumped around you ceaselessly, making you whip your head about at every sign of movement as you stepped cautiously into the clearing. The smoke was getting thick now, with the hill shielding it from any wind that would otherwise carry it off through the trees, and your eyes began to water. You pulled the collar of your shirt up over your nose.

Coming up beside your horse, you stroked her neck and hushed her before hefting the bags on your shoulder back up behind your saddle. Another distressed snort sounded from your horse, her ears flicking back and forth as she stamped at the ground. You stepped back a pace, splaying your hands down by your hips as if to show her some kind of surrender.

“Hey now, girl,” you spoke gently, making sure you were in her line of sight. “Easy now, easy. We gotta—”

Something big and heavy slammed into you then, throwing you off your feet and sending you sprawling into the dirt. You sputtered as you tried to regain the air that had been knocked from your lungs, scrambling to get up and grab your gun as you did so. But then that weight was back, pinning you down with hands on your forearms and a knee pressing down into your stomach.

Micah glared down at you with fire catching in his eyes and a wicked smile spreading across is face.

“I knew one of you would come back for it,” he snarled, his grip tightening around your arms as you tired to throw him off. “Robbin’ old Dutch after all he’s done for you.”

“Micah,” you ground out, bringing your knees up as far as you could. With one good kick to the abdomen, you sent him stumbling back, buying yourself enough time to grab your revolver from your belt.

Lunging right as you aimed, Micah caught you around the waist as you fired, your shot cracking over both your heads. Trying to pull you back down onto the ground, Micah knocked your gun from your hand and lurched to one side, tugging you with him and throwing you down hard. You rolled just in time to see the knife he pulled from is belt shining brightly in the firelight. You tried to regain your footing, stumbling away and putting a few feet between you.

“You bastard, you damned us all,” you spat, grabbing your own knife and glancing around for your gun, which lay a few feet away. Micah came barreling towards you once more, causing you to jump to one side, catching him across the arm with your blade as you did so. He swung back at you quicker than you would have figured, garbling like some kind of feral animal as he did. In trying to dodge, you teetered backwards, which Micah took advantage of by tackling you down, his knife finding its mark in your side.

You grunted at the sudden, sharp pain, panting as your hands went to yank it out on instinct, but Micah’s hold stopped you. With one hand holding the knife in place, he moved his other to your throat. He leaned in as his grip tightened around your neck.

“Shoulda known it’d be you,” he sneered, grinning down at you. You tried to thrash, but the man above you held firm, the knife plunging a bit further into your side. Your hands went to his wrist, clawing uselessly. “No one’s comin’ to save you, sweetheart. Morgan ran. John too. Ain’t no one comin’ back for you.”

“Rot in hell, Micah,” you wheezed, your voice cracking as the hand closed ever tighter around your throat. Something caught your attention out of the corner of your eye then; a glint of metal just by Micah’s boot.

The edges of your vision were beginning to get hazy now, and you were aware that Micah was saying something, but he sounded distorted, like you were under water. You let your hands fall from around his wrist, your left falling limply between you.

Your eyes slid slowly back to Micah’s face, tipping your chin up as you did so. His lips moved and spittle sprayed from between his teeth, but you weren’t listening anymore. You felt a cold, familiar weight in your hand. Lifting it with whatever strength you had left, you saw something akin to absolute terror cross Micah’s face before he was suddenly thrown from you, his head snapping back with a crack as a gunshot echoed through the clearing.

All was quiet.

You laid there for what could have been minutes or hours, you weren’t really sure. The ringing in your ears slowly melted back into the crackling of the fires around you. A dull pain emanated from your side, and your hand moved sluggishly to grip the knife. Carefully, and ever so slowly, you sat yourself up. Just the thought of looking at the blade buried in your abdomen made you dizzy, but you knew better than to try and pull it out now and risk bleeding out. With one agonizing push, you got yourself to your feet, wheezing painfully. You didn’t even spare Micah a final glance as you dragged yourself past his body and towards your horse, sliding your gun back into its holster.

Pulling yourself up into the saddle was its own form of torture. Reaching around with one hand to check that the saddlebags were secure, you took up the reins and patted the base of your horse’s neck. You grit your teeth as you spurred her into a gallop, holding one hand by the knife as you rode on south through the moonlit night.

You didn’t look back as Beaver Hollow burned behind you.

~~~

It was well past midnight by the time Arthur and John made it to the dilapidated shack at Copperhead Landing. Before he could even come to a complete stop, John slid from his saddle and called for Abigail, running up to meet her as she peeked out from the cabin with Tilly and Jack behind her. She stood frozen on the spot, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing before her. She broke down in sobs when John swept her up in a hug and spun her around.

Sadie was last out of the cabin, smiling as she patted John on the shoulder before going to help Arthur with the horses. But something was off, she noticed, and a knot of worry began to form in the pit of her stomach.

“Arthur, where’s Y/n?” she asked, taking one set of reins from his hands.

Arthur stopped dead, his brows furrowing as he met Sadie’s eyes. “She’s not with you?”

Sadie felt her stomach drop at that. You hadn’t found Arthur. A thousand worst possible scenarios began playing out in her mind like a moving picture show.

“She went back to for you,” she said, frustration evident in her voice. “She said she had to go back.”

“‘Course she did,” Arthur ground out under his breath. He shook his head, like he was at a loss for words. He threw his reins back over his horse’s head and made to get back up in the saddle, with Sadie jogging over to her horse to do the same. Arthur had one foot in the stirrup when he heard John call out suddenly.

“Someone’s comin’ up this way!”

Looking over his shoulder, Arthur could make out the shape of a horse and rider coming in through the mist at a slow pace. His hand going to the gun at his side, Arthur stepped out onto the trail, with John coming up beside him.

“Who goes there?”

They received no reply, but the horse continued towards them, coming to a stop just a few yards ahead. Arthur stepped forward cautiously, putting a hand up for John to wait behind him. He had been fully expecting some kind of a trap to spring as he approached. He nearly choked when he realized who it was in the saddle.

“Y/n?”

You said nothing. Instead, you began to dismount, turning and throwing one leg sluggishly over the back of your horse to step down. Arthur watched in confusion, which swiftly morphed into panic as your knees buckled as soon as both your feet hit the ground.

Reaching out to catch you, Arthur carefully lowered you to the ground just as Sadie and John came running up, with Abigail close behind. They all seemed to notice the hunting knife buried in your side at the same time. Abigail knelt down by your head as Arthur looked from your face to your side and back again.

“Shit.”

“Good t’ see you, too,” you wheezed, your voice barely beyond a hoarse whisper.

“We gotta get that knife out,” Abigail said worriedly, brushing some sweat-dampened hair from your face.

Arthur gave a frustrated sigh. “John, help me get ‘er up, take ‘er inside,” he said as he moved to your head. “It ain’t much nicer, but we won’t be operatin’ in the mud.” You gave him a lazy smile, which quickly turned into a grimace as he hefted you up.

Once you were settled down on one of the bed rolls, Abigail went to work. Grabbing a rag from one of the bags, she held it to your mouth.

“You’re gonna want to bite down on this, honey” she said, the sympathetic look she was giving you telling you exactly what was about to come. You didn’t have the energy to protest.

Having grabbed an opened bottle of whiskey from his bag, Arthur settled on the ground beside you, opposite of Abigail.

“When I pull, you pour,” you heard Abigail say. Without much else in the way of warning, the knife was pulled from your flesh in one quick motion. A new wave of sharp pain cut through the fogginess in your mind and you let out a muffled sob into the rag. You watched through tears as Arthur poured out the whiskey and Abigail dabbed at your side with a cloth. You didn’t even realize your hands had balled into fists until you felt Arthur take hold of one. Spitting out the rag, you closed your eyes and let your head fall back as Abigail grabbed a needle from her pack and poured the last of the whiskey over it.

You heard someone shifting, opening your eyes when you felt Arthur lifting your head carefully into his lap.

“Need you t’ stay awake, sweetheart,” he said, his hand falling to your cheek to wipe away a stray tear. You watched with half-lidded eyes as Abigail threaded the needle.

“You wanna tell us what happened?” It was Sadie now, coming to sit next to Arthur as Abigail worked.

Your eyes widened a little as you looked up at Arthur, making him cock an eyebrow at you. You lifted a hand and pointed to the door. “Mm—My saddlebags,” your voice cracked. Arthur’s hand rested on your shoulder to stop you from moving too much. He looked to Sadie inquisitively.

“John? Would you…?” John nodded, throwing you his own confused look as he went outside. Ducking back into the old cabin a moment later, John stood in the middle of the small room with the bags clutched in his hands, gazing at you in wonderment.

“Y/n Y/l/n.”

“Give it here, John,” Arthur urged, holding out his hand impatiently. Sadie scooted closer to see what you had gotten, with Tilly and Jack coming over to look as well. Arthur lifted the leather flap of the first bag, nearly dropping the thing as he did so.

“What in the—”

“I couldn’t let him have it,” you croaked, gazing up fondly at Arthur’s astonished expression. “Mi-cah… I couldn’t let ‘im…” Arthur hushed you, dropping the saddlebags and taking your face between his hands, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead. You heard Sadie laugh is disbelief as she took the bags into her lap and started to count out the money, with John and Tilly sitting down next to her.

You barely noticed as Abigail finished stitching you up. She grabbed the little roll of bandages she had packed, gently calling for Arthur’s attention long enough to assist her in wrapping them around your waist. He helped you sit up a bit then, letting you rest comfortably against his chest as you listened to Sadie count out the bills under her breath.

You began to nod off after a while, with Sadie’s murmuring and Arthur’s heartbeat mingling into a pleasant low hum that lulled your already exhausted body to sleep. The last thing you felt before dropping off entirely was Arthur’s hand enveloping your own and his stubbly cheek pressing against your temple as he held you close.

~~~

uhhhhghghhghhhhgh there it is. It feels a little rushed at the end if I’m honest, so there’s a chance I’ll come back edit it at a later time, but I really wanted to go ahead and get it out.

Part 2 soon, we can hope.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #my stuff #uuhhhhhhhh probably needs some more editing too tbh i no doubt missed some things #but #ya girl is Tired

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