Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

With unsteady steps, Kieran walked away from the camp to get some air. He was feeling pretty happy; they had managed to bring little Jack back. His kidnapping filled him with guilt, because although he realized something was happening, he couldn’t do anything to stop it. He also had to admit that both John and Abigail scared him a little, and he feared they might do something to him for not preventing the kidnapping.

He feared that the rest of the gang might think he did it on purpose, like some kind of silly revenge against the boy for throwing stones at him, and against his parents for being part of the gang that had kidnapped him in the first place.

But that wasn’t the case. No one in the gang tried to blame him, and they even went as far as inviting him to celebrate the boy’s return. He was starting to feel like one of them, a Van Der Linde.

Even so, it was overwhelming to be with them for too long. After all, he wasn’t going to easily forget how they had left him tied to a tree, hungry, thirsty, and tortured. He still shuddered when he thought of Bill’s threat to castrate him. Of everyone in the camp, he was by far the one who scared Kieran the most.

One of his feet got caught on the raised root of one of the twisted trees growing in the swamp, making him fall to the ground, interrupting his thoughts at the same time. Luckily, he had the coordination to put his hands out and avoid smashing his face into the ground, but the fall churned his stomach, making him feel nauseous. So, he decided to sit for a moment, leaning against the treacherous tree that had been the cause of his fall in the first place.

Admiring what he could see in the darkness of the miserable swamp landscape, he realized he didn’t like Shady Belle much. He didn’t want to be ungrateful; the gang had done so much by keeping him safe and letting him live with them, but still…

It was uncomfortably humid; there was always the smell of fish and stagnant water from the nearby swamp. Sometimes, he could hear screams in the distance. Plus, there were crocodiles, and he feared one of them might eat a horse, someone from the gang, or even him.

He didn’t think that was a nice way to die, if any way could be considered nice.

He was a bit too close to the swamp; he didn’t feel safe, especially in the dimness created by the shadows of the trees at night. So, he decided to walk in the opposite direction of the swamp and relieve himself so he could go back and rest.

As he carefully stood up to avoid getting more dizzy, he heard movement in the water. A suffocating pressure settled in his stomach: the only thing that could make that kind of noise was a crocodile, and it sounded like a big one. On his best days, he didn’t think he’d be able to take one down, and especially not now, while drunk.

He ran. The world was spinning, and he had no idea where he was going, but he had to get away. He couldn’t be eaten by a crocodile just when he had started to be accepted. On second thought, he would prefer that never happen to him.

He couldn’t keep thinking about tragic crocodile-related fates, as he tripped on another tree. This time, the impact with the ground stunned him a little, leaving him lying on the wet earth as he tried to regain his bearings.

He heard the sticky sound of footsteps in the mud, so he carefully turned his head back, fearing the crocodile had caught up with him. But there was nothing.

He felt relieved, but not for long.

“That’s the traitor!” someone shouted in front of him.

The warm light from a few lanterns exposed the source of the sound. They were people, but not just any kind of people. They were the worst he could have possibly encountered: the O'Driscolls.

"Oh, God..." he whispered shakily, slowly getting down on his knees, a precaution to try to look as non-threatening as possible. Though he knew he wasn’t particularly terrifying to anyone.

"Kill that fucking traitor!" shouted another one.

They were surrounding him. He couldn’t do anything against them. His throat tightened as he felt something on his back: the barrel of a gun pressing against him, a pretty clear threat to end his life.

He was terrified, struggling to breathe, his eyes wide open as if that could help him escape his situation.

He was so scared, but not just for himself. He was too close to the camp, dangerously close, and he didn’t want them to discover his location. He didn’t think he could avoid it. The gunshots would definitely get the attention of the others in the camp, who were probably even more drunk than he was. They wouldn’t have a chance to defend themselves. They would die, all of them: Arthur, Mary-Beth, little Jack... Everyone.

He heard more footsteps. They were pretty low and uneven, but he didn’t know if they were more O'Driscolls. After glancing at the people in front of him and noticing they weren’t doing anything, he could only assume they were reinforcements, as no one seemed to pay attention to the noise.

One of them grabbed his hair to tilt his head and threw a hard punch that blurred his vision even more. His nose was bleeding, and his face was swollen now.

"Don’t be a dumbass, we need to get all the information out of him."

He pulled his head up, forcing him to look his attacker in the eye, who spat in his face. It was an action Kieran found absolutely disgusting, but he tried not to show it.

“Someone tie this fucking rat up.”

The person who had been pointing the gun at him grabbed his arms and started tying them slowly, making him even more defenseless than he already was—a physical manifestation of how he truly felt.

He couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief in his strange situation. He was grateful there hadn’t been any gunshots. Not because he wasn’t going to die, at least not yet, but because he knew the camp was safe.

The gang would be fine, but he definitely wouldn’t be. There was no way anyone would notice his absence in time. No, they wouldn’t. Not even Mary-Beth. But even if she did, he didn’t think anyone would care enough to listen. They’d probably think he’d left on his own, that he had betrayed them.

His brain froze, and for a moment, it stopped functioning when he discovered the source of the footsteps: it was Branwen. The most precious being in his life, his dear horse, who had accompanied him for a good part of his existence. The only "person" who loved him back.

Everyone turned to look at the horse, a little confused by its sudden appearance. That’s when Kieran started moving, fighting as best as he could against the ropes while screaming, desperate. It was one of the things he wanted to protect, and he would, even knowing the fight was already lost.

"No! Run, Branwen, get out of here!"

Tears fell from his eyes. He didn’t want them to hurt Branwen. There was no way he could bear it if someone hurt him.

For some reason, Branwen didn’t listen. He stayed there, squirming uncomfortably at the movement around him. But the nerves weren’t enough to make him abandon his master.

"Grab that horse too, he’ll help motivate this little bitch," one of his captors mocked.

"No! Don’t do it. I-I won’t tell you anything if…"

His desperate screams were interrupted by a kick to the ribs that took the breath out of him. Gasping for air, he stayed still while they tied him and his horse together.

"Shut up, asshole! You can’t even speak properly and you want to give us orders, you bastard!" one of them yelled in his face, followed by a couple more punches to his side.

A sharp pain clouded his mind. He was dizzy again.

He was stunned, couldn’t think clearly, and he needed to pee. Someone picked him up and put him on a horse, but he couldn’t distinguish anything on the path due to the darkness of the night, though he wasn’t sure if that would really be useful anyway.

The galloping of the horse hit his stomach, pressing on his bladder, but he wasn’t about to piss himself, at least not yet.

. . .

He had been with them for a long time, or at least that’s what he thought. He couldn’t see anything because of the sack they put over his head when he arrived, and the lack of light was disorienting him a lot.

They left him in a damp room, tied to a post to keep him from running, torturing him every now and then to try to get information about the Van Der Lindes. But he was determined to keep everything he knew, though it wasn’t really much, locked away until his grave.

His wrists and ankles hurt from the way the ropes rubbed against his skin, and the dampness in his pants was extremely uncomfortable. The place itself was bad enough, but the smell of his own blood, urine, and rot made everything worse. It was suffocating.

He thought two days had passed already, but he wasn’t sure. He also didn’t know how long it would take for them to kill him once they realized he wasn’t going to tell them the gang’s location, but he already felt exhausted.
He was so tired. He just wanted death to come and grant him some relief so he could finally rest once and for all, to finally find happiness in the heavens and maybe see his family after so long. With some luck, Sean might be there too, though he doubted it. Even if he liked the guy, Sean had done some really bad things in his life.

As for his own life… it had never been good. Not after his parents died. After that, he was always hungry and afraid; love and care had disappeared from his life, leaving him with nothing but anguish and suffering.
Maybe it was better this way. Maybe everything would be better once the pain stopped. That way, he could finally be at peace.

Death had become a comforting thought after just two days. He didn’t even want to imagine what was to come. The countless cuts all over his body still burned, and he couldn’t feel half of his face anymore, numbed by the relentless punches he had taken.

Footsteps echoed near his prison, and he froze. With enough faith, maybe it was just someone passing by, and they wouldn’t continue the torture. It was too soon for another session.

A disgusting creak—the one he had been forced to dread—answered him instead. The door opened. Someone was going to continue the torture.
All he could do was pray that this would finally be the one to end it all.

A couple of steps resonated through the room. He didn’t know how many people there were, and that made him nervous. He wished he could see something—anything. That would probably calm some of his anxiety.

“Well, well,” one of them sneered, “Did you piss yourself again? Fucking pansy, you can’t handle anything.”
They placed their tools on one of the small metal tables in the room, evidenced by the metallic clatter next to him.

“You’re gonna love what we’ve got planned for today,” the other taunted, malice dripping from their voice, their ugly grin practically audible.

They were definitely going to enjoy torturing him.

✦✦✦

Kieran was no longer afraid of dying, but he did fear the way it would happen. And it seemed like they still hadn’t had enough of him.
With a sharp knife, one of them sliced through what was left of his shirt in a fierce motion, cutting into his skin and exposing his chest. The sight was pitiful, and he knew it. He still hadn’t recovered from his first abduction, and his ribs jutted out sickeningly against his skin. He felt ashamed of himself.

Both men began to make long, slow cuts—deep enough to hurt, but not so deep as to bleed him out or make him faint. They repeated this over and over, drawing several lines across his chest, arms, and back. His body hurt so much, every wound throbbing against his skin, and his breathing was ragged from the pain. But he wasn’t going to say anything. He wouldn’t betray them—not them.

They asked him questions as they cut him, but he didn’t answer a single one. He could feel his captors growing frustrated, which only worsened his anxiety. It was obvious that angering them wasn’t a good thing, but there was nothing he could do about it—at least, not without betraying the gang.

One of them grabbed something from the metal table, the sharp clinking sound of movement warning him of what was coming next. His captors began pouring the contents of what must have been a bottle over his mangled skin. And it burned.

It burned so much he almost vomited. He started screaming loudly, his whole body on fire, and he felt every wound throb with irritation.
It was alcohol—whatever was in those bottles, it was alcohol, and that infernal liquid made his whole body burn. The pain was so intense he couldn’t stop screaming, and it felt like no air could enter his lungs anymore.

“Shut up, you faggot!” one of them yelled, hitting him repeatedly in the chest and face. Kieran tried to quiet himself as much as he could. Tears streamed down his face, soaking into the sack over his head.

His sobs made his ribcage move in a way that worsened the pain, which was already unbearable—a horrible ache that turned every breath into pure suffering.

He wet himself again. The humiliation and pain made his face burn, but it didn’t matter much anymore. He didn’t care about soiling himself like a child, not when his real problem was that his days were numbered.

They untied one of his hands, and he had a bad feeling about it. He assumed this was the “special treatment” they’d planned for him that day.
One of the men gripped his hand tightly, while the other brought something close to one of his fingers. The cold metal sent a shiver through him. His eyes went wide with horror, and his breath froze as he realized what they were about to do.

They were pulling his fingernails out.

✦✦✦

It hurt so much, but after a while, he couldn’t feel anything anymore. His captors must have noticed because they saved the other hand for later. Fat tears rolled down his face, and soft sobs filled the silence.

He couldn’t think clearly—maybe he was finally dying. The soft embrace of unconsciousness brought him peace as it slowly took him away.

His bleeding hand throbbed faintly, and he felt an unusual warmth in his fingers, but it didn’t matter.

Not anymore.

He could recall happy moments. Suddenly, he realized he actually had memories worth cherishing. A cheerful melody came to his mind—a song he’d heard not too long ago, the first day he’d been happy after so many filled with anguish.

Javier had played it by the campfire during Jack’s party, strumming his guitar while everyone laughed and sang along.

He could almost feel the warmth of the fire on his skin and the faint scent of tobacco smoke lingering in the air. Javier's fingers danced over the strings, weaving a melody that made the night feel alive, like the world wasn’t such a cruel place after all.

“Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores, porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones.”

He didn’t know what the song said; he had never learned Spanish. But the melody felt comforting. He softly hummed the tune, or at least what he could remember of it, recalling how he had felt that day—like he’d been with family.

And then, a terrible realization struck him.

Tears returned to his eyes, this time tears of rage.

He was starting to understand that they already accepted him, that he had finally been happy. And now, at this moment, he had to die.

It was so unfair. What had he done in his life to deserve this punishment from God?

Was all of this because his parents had him out of wedlock?

Could God really be so spiteful as to punish him for something so petty?

It was all so unfair. Life was too unfair—oh, how unfair it was. But so was death, and he no longer wanted to die. Even if it saved him from pain, he didn’t care anymore.

Now, he wanted to be selfish—he truly deserved that.

For once in his life, he deserved to have something he truly wanted, and now he wished not to die. He decided for himself that he deserved to keep living.

Soon, he found himself cursing God. And so what if that earned him a place in hell? He couldn’t care less. After all, going to heaven would mean seeing Him, and if he did, he’d insult Him to His face for being so cruel.

He didn’t deserve any of the injustices he had been forced to endure.

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid of anything.

But he couldn’t take it anymore. His body was tired, and he knew there was a limit to how long someone could go without food or water.

He felt relieved to die without revealing the gang’s location, but that didn’t soothe his seething anger.

The merciful embrace of unconsciousness took him as his final thoughts were filled with curses toward God.

Chapter Text

Arthur placed a hand on his face, letting out a tired sigh that made it clear he had no intention of paying attention to Mary-Beth’s request.

“So, you think the O’Driscoll is lost or something, and… you want me to go look for him?” Arthur stared at the young woman in front of him, debating whether to light a cigarette or head back to bed once she left him alone.

The girl in front of him frowned, visibly offended by his response. “Come on, Arthur, don’t be like that. It’s been five days, and I don’t think he would’ve just left us like that on his own.”

The concern on her face was evident—she was clearly worried about Kieran. Arthur couldn’t quite understand why. Though, he had to begrudgingly admit the boy wasn’t a bad person, being an O’Driscoll took a lot away from him, at least in Arthur’s eyes.

“Why not? I think he took the opportunity and left. That bastard’s probably already betrayed us,” Arthur replied, annoyance lacing his voice. The thought of that O’Driscoll rat running back to his kind with everything they knew made his blood boil.

“Arthur! I’m telling you, he wouldn’t do that. What if he got eaten by a crocodile?”

Her eyes shimmered, tears threatening to spill. That alone made Arthur bite back the sharp retort on his tongue.

“Please, Arthur. No one’s taking me seriously.”

She looked straight at him, and that was too much for Arthur. He started feeling a little uncomfortable but also knew she was right—five days was far too long for someone to vanish suddenly. If Kieran hadn’t run off, he might’ve been taken.

That bastard had better not have betrayed them, because Arthur himself would deal with him, and it wouldn’t be pretty for the O’Driscoll.

He could already picture it: the bastard crawling back to his gang like a dog to its master, handing over every scrap of information he could. Arthur tried not to grind his teeth at the thought.

“Fine. I’ll go look for Kieran, but I’m not promising anything,” he replied with feigned calm, trying not to let Mary-Beth glimpse his inner thoughts.

It seemed to work because the young woman broke into a smile, pulling him into an awkward hug of gratitude that he returned only with a stiff pat.

Arthur cleared his throat, and Mary-Beth finally realized how uncomfortable he was with the closeness, stepping back a little.

“Thank you, Arthur! I knew you’d understand—you’re a good man.”

Finally letting go, Mary-Beth returned to her daily tasks, while Arthur gathered his weapons and some provisions from his room.

“Not really. I’m nothing good…” he sighed again. He didn’t understand why people had taken to calling him a good man lately. He’d been bad his whole life, and that wasn’t going to change—not in his eyes, anyway.

Arthur walked down the stairs and mounted his horse, a large Shire with a brown coat and a well-kept white mane—his little Princesa. He gently stroked his neck before climbing onto his back and setting out to find Kieran, the rat.

He didn’t hold much hope of finding him, not after five days, but he’d give it a try—at least for Mary-Beth’s sake. As he slowly left camp, he noticed a missing horse from the hitching post where they kept them to care for.

It was with anger that he realized which horse was gone: the nameless one. Not because it didn’t have a name, but because Arthur had never bothered to ask its owner what it was. The missing horse was Kieran’s—a small animal with a white and reddish coat, which the bastard cared for as if it were a prize steed.

That damn rat had run off.

No one else in the gang had left camp since Jack’s party. Somehow, everyone was still celebrating the family being reunited once more. Thanks to that, it was easy to find the only set of horse tracks leading out of camp.

Although Kieran didn’t seem to have taken much care to cover his horse’s tracks, there weren’t any matching human footprints. That was a little strange, but it was the only lead Arthur had for now, so he decided to follow the animal’s trail carefully.

He soon left camp behind. The trail twisted and turned, winding aimlessly, as if the rider had tried to throw off anyone who might attempt to track him. Arthur fumed at the thought.

That bastard had dared to try being clever about his escape, but he wasn’t going to fool him.

Not after Charles had taught him to track prey far craftier than a horse guided by a useless drunk.

At one point, the horse’s tracks were straight. That’s where Arthur noticed something even stranger: human footprints—a single set—coming from the camp, not the result of someone falling or dismounting.

He followed those prints and soon discovered they connected at a point where many other tracks appeared—so many that he couldn’t make out exactly how many there were.

He supposed there were more than five, but he wasn’t really sure. The tracks were strange—definitely not the evidence of an intelligent betrayal attempt from Kieran. Then again, as an O’Driscoll, there wasn’t much else Arthur could expect from him.

But there was something stronger burning inside him.

It was anger—the emotion he recognized most easily, the one that had accompanied him throughout his entire life.

He was furious. His head throbbed from the frustration of knowing the O’Driscolls had been so close to their camp and, worst of all, that none of them had realized it.

He was going to kill Kieran for leaving them so exposed. Maybe that would rid him of the blazing fire flourishing inside him, fed by hatred.

He spurred Princesa forward, galloping quickly toward the last tracks he could find. He knew he was being irrational—he knew it very well. He was letting himself be carried away by his emotions, even though his thoughts didn’t make any sense.

It was obvious those tracks weren’t from someone leaving voluntarily, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t think about that now—not while fury pounded in his mind, partially clouding his judgment.

And what if Kieran hadn’t brought them here? he thought, his jaw so tense he could almost hear his teeth grinding. It only worsened the headache that was already bad enough.

There was still a chance Kieran had done it, and until he could prove otherwise, Arthur would make sure to finish him off along with the rest of the plague that called themselves O’Driscolls.

. . .

Finally, he found their camp—a rat’s nest alarmingly close to his gang’s camp, set on the edge of a swampy river that also ran through their temporary home.

Dusk was falling, so Arthur tried to make the most of the remaining light to study the enemy camp.

Now that he’d calmed down a bit, it was clear Kieran had likely been kidnapped. Even so, he needed proof to back up his innocence. Kieran’s testimony alone wouldn’t be enough.

Arthur needed solid evidence if he wanted both himself and the rest of the gang to trust the boy again—assuming it hadn’t been his fault, of course.

There was a small ruined house in the center, surrounded by seven open tents, most of which were empty. Four O’Driscolls patrolled the perimeter, while two others lounged by a campfire.

At least one person was missing, which led Arthur to assume the rest were inside the house.

He didn’t see Kieran, but his horse was tied to a post near the house, far from the others—a curious detail, to say the least. Arthur didn’t think Kieran was the boss to deserve preferential treatment. That boy’s personality wasn’t even strong enough to dominate a worm, of that he had no doubt.

But then he didn’t understand why Kieran wasn’t visible. This couldn’t be another camp—unless, for some reason, Kieran had traded his horse. But there was no way he would’ve done that.

Arthur didn’t even know Kieran well, but it was obvious enough to him that the boy loved that horse.

And it was his horse. It had Kieran’s well-kept saddle and that unmistakable worn saddlebag with a colorful embroidered fish on it.

Kieran had to be here.

And Arthur was going to find him, to finally uncover what the bastard had done—or what had been done to him. Whatever had happened in the first place.

Arthur decided to start the attack. He was clearly at a disadvantage—six-to-one wasn’t exactly ideal—but he wasn’t going back to camp. Not yet.

He wouldn’t give them the chance to escape.

Hiding Princesa well to keep him safe from the crossfire, Arthur grabbed his favorite weapon for dealing with O’Driscolls: his Volcanic pistol. He also took his Springfield rifle to take out as many of the rats from a distance as possible.

Taking cover behind some ruins, he aimed and fired three shots, killing two O’Driscolls instantly but missing one.

Not that it worried him. Sooner or later, they would all fall into his hands, and it would be more fun if more of them fell to his Volcanic pistol.

The smell of gunpowder had become something satisfying to him. After at least 20 years of killing, he had learned to enjoy it. Though he still found the sound of bullets annoying—that would probably never change, not until he went deaf.

Refocusing on his task, Arthur killed another pair of O’Driscolls from his position before approaching the house.

Using one of its walls for cover, he cautiously moved toward the spot where he’d last seen the other two enemies.

After a couple of attempts from the rats to shoot him, Arthur finally pulled out his Volcanic pistol.

The world stopped around him as he finished them off—slowly and painfully. The devastating impact of his weapon dropped them before they could take him down. They didn’t even come close.

Arthur watched with delight as his enemies bled out, his mood slightly improved after making a few O’Driscolls suffer. His day was definitely turning out well.

Mary-Beth’s comment crossed his mind, making him huff in annoyance. It was too ridiculous, a bad man like him, who enjoyed the agony of certain men, could never be a good person, and he didn’t particularly care.

His stomach churned a bit as he saw one of the O’Driscolls still writhing. He felt some pity for him; he seemed young, not much older than Jack. He decided to show mercy, ending his suffering more quickly with a shot to the head.

He stopped moving.

One more man for the never-ending list of people whose flames he had extinguished, one more ghost to haunt him until the end of his days. Another nameless face that would torment him in his nightmares.

But for him, life went on—he paused for a moment, wondering if he really deserved that—and he had to act. He still had to find Kieran.

He approached the house door, a little surprised to notice it was open. He’d assumed that whoever was inside had most likely already realized they were under attack.

Pulling out his revolver, he sneaked into the house, trying to avoid being heard by anyone who might be inside.

He was a bit nervous, but that was normal in these situations. It was always good to be more alert than usual when facing an unknown number of people in an unfamiliar place.

The interior was quite dark, only one room seemed lit at the moment, with a warm orange glow that felt strange given the dangerous surroundings.

He carefully approached the room, quickly realizing it was empty, so he peeked outside, trying to see if anyone was getting closer.

Suddenly, he heard a low noise followed by a curse. Someone had bumped into a piece of furniture in the darkness.

“Idiot! Be careful, they’re gonna find us, you bastard!” one of them whispered, though the attempt to whisper didn’t really work in preventing Arthur from hearing.

“Shut up! Go check on the damn prisoner, we still need the info he might have on the Van Der Lindes,” another muttered too loudly to really be considered a whisper, followed by heavy footsteps approaching the room where he was hiding.

Slowly, the door to the room in front of him creaked open. The faint light of a small candle was not enough for him to make out anything inside before the O'Driscoll closed the door.
It was his moment to act.

Carefully, he stepped out of the room, scanning the area where he had previously heard voices, a place that appeared to be the living room, judging by the old furniture scattered and destroyed throughout the space.

He quickly noticed that only one person remained, though that would change soon.

He took one of his throwing knives and aimed for the man’s head, hoping that his shot wouldn’t miss, to avoid being discovered.

When he was sure the direction was right, he threw the knife with precision, the blade hitting firmly in the man’s forehead, silently ending the life of one of his enemies.

The door to the room where Kieran was kept creaked open, a sign that the last rat was approaching.

Slowly, he pulled out his lasso; this last one needed to be alive for questioning.

Although each passing moment cleared his mind further, and he knew that blaming Kieran was a foolish idea, he still needed the certainty that only another witness could provide.

Using one of the walls for cover, he waited patiently for the last O'Driscoll to pass by. When he saw him move forward, confused, searching for his dead companion in the darkness, he seized the moment: he swung the rope three times in the air and threw it towards the man, pulling him in as he caught it.

The man screamed, but his cry was abruptly cut short when he hit the ground. Arthur approached with disgust and tied him up.

“Let me go, you bastard!” the man yelled from the ground, but Arthur ignored him, roughly flipping him over to face him, greeting him with a punch.

“Oh no… you’re, you’re…”

The face of his captive turned pale. Arthur simply raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t often that criminals feared him, if they even recognized him in the first place.

Maybe the blood that had splattered on his face when he shot the young man made him look more terrifying?
It didn’t seem to be that, the man had definitely recognized him.

Ignoring the incomplete sentence the man muttered, Arthur began with the questions. The O’Driscoll refused to answer at first, but nothing like a good punch and threats to make people talk.

Finally, the man gave in, and Arthur listened with a mix of rage and horror to his confession.

It turned out Kieran hadn’t escaped as he had originally thought, sure that the young man had betrayed them.

It was just a coincidence that they had found Kieran while searching for their camp.
It could have been anyone.

Arthur received the thought with a hard shiver that ran down his spine, sending a tremor through his entire body.

The guilt of this realization would haunt him forever, even more than the ghosts of his enemies.

It hadn’t been Kieran’s fault, nothing had been, and yet he had been forced to suffer the consequences, terrible consequences for acts he never committed.

He continued with the interrogation while fighting against the weight of the guilt that settled in his stomach. Either he fought until the prisoner spoke about what they had done to Kieran and what they planned to do with him when he fulfilled his purpose – or if he kept refusing to fulfill it.

Listening to the O’Driscolls’ macabre plans, Arthur felt a sharp stab of anger, the guilt almost forgotten as he saw red.
Almost.

He found himself repulsive even, thinking so poorly of someone who had gone through so much just to not betray them. But what disgusted him more was the man in front of him. He’d make sure his end wasn’t pretty; he’d do whatever it took to make him wish he had never done anything to Kieran.

They wanted to destroy his body. Rip out his eyes while he was still alive so that he could have an agonizing end, but that wasn’t all. They also planned to cut off his head and mount it alongside his body on a horse, using it as a guide to their camp.
A plan, undoubtedly, extremely atrocious.

Arthur gritted his teeth, his breathing erratic from anger towards the man, but also shame for his own actions. He had mocked Kieran all this time, treating him like less than others for being an O’Driscoll, except he wasn’t.
He never was.

A man so brave and strong, capable of enduring for the sake of others didn’t deserve the degrading insult that being called an O’Driscoll meant.

Arthur saw red, the world around him passing like an insignificant blot in the great frame of time, so fleeting that he didn’t know how much time he had been beating the now-dead man’s face.

His hands ached from the amount of punches he had given the man, who was now unrecognizable.

He didn’t feel guilty as he looked at the result of his rage; a man torn apart by his own hands.

Wiping the blood off his hands on the clean part of the dead man’s shirt, Arthur suppressed a grimace of disgust as he stood up, heading with regret to the room where Kieran was.

He knew well what he would find, but the reality was worse than anything his imagination could have come up with, no matter how grotesque it could be.

That poor boy was tied up, a puddle of his own urine and other fluids around him. His head was covered with a wet bag, and the upper part of his body was full of cuts that glowed with an angry red.

His skin looked clearly dry, his ribs slightly protruding from his chest, a clear sign of the starvation he was going through, but there was also a pretty bad bruise, a dark red covering his left side. Probably some of his ribs were broken.

One of his hands was untied, but as soon as the thought crossed Arthur’s mind that maybe the boy was trying to escape, he discarded it.

He could see the blood dripping from his fingers, bright red dripping from the tips of his fingers, and bloody edges outlining the parts where his nails should have been, the tissue clearly inflamed.
Those wounds had been recent.

His entire body trembled violently, and his breath was very shallow.
The scene froze him. Cold sweat ran down his face as he saw the state of the young man. He was so sorry for having doubted him, for having treated him so poorly before…

He was angry with himself for not going sooner, for being part of those who ignored Mary-Beth thinking that Kieran didn’t matter enough to bother going after him.

He was disappointed in himself, he wasn’t a good man despite what others said, but this? This was too much. They would have killed the boy for his stubbornness and distrust when he had done nothing but help them.

God, the boy had even saved his life once, and how had he rewarded him? Letting him almost die at the hands of his old gang.

He’d make sure to take care of the boy until he died to try to make up for his mistake because there was no way that when Kieran had saved his life he simply forgot about it and doubted him so much.

That wouldn’t be enough, life would never be the same for the boy after that attack, if he even managed to survive in the first place.

He felt as bad as the O’Driscolls.

With a grimace on his face, he recognized he hadn’t been doing things right, had he always been this cruel?

He no longer felt like himself, it seemed as if someone had poisoned the well that was his thoughts, filling it with malice.

But he couldn’t blame anyone for his actions, no one but himself.

He didn’t remember when he started to enjoy the act of ending people’s lives, but he was going to change that.

He couldn’t allow himself to be the same as that trash.

To be the same as an O’Driscoll.

Carefully approaching so as not to scare Kieran, he swore to improve as a person, trying to be just, but not a good person, because it was far too late for that.

Chapter Text

Kieran had heard a lot of noise, but he didn’t have the energy to process it.

To him, it was just another nuisance, another thing that made him feel miserable, another thing besides the dampness in his pants. Besides the pain.

Besides the pain.

Besides the pain.

Besides the...

Besides?

He couldn’t understand his own thoughts, everything started to lose its meaning. His ideas tangled with one another, quickly escaping his grasp.

What was pain? Was it... was it just another nuisance, or not?

His heart skipped a beat as he realized something, remembering the disgusting screech of the door where he had been confined.

His brain finally clicked, that was the meaning of pain.

In terror, he began shaking even harder, his body convulsing slightly from the pain when he moved his chest too much. He was running out of air.

It didn’t matter how much he breathed, nothing came in. He couldn’t breathe.

The darkness tormented him, scaring him even more. His eyes moved in all directions, desperately trying to see something, even through the wet, stinky sack that covered his entire head.

He wanted to see what was coming for him.

It was going to hurt, it had to hurt because the door had creaked. It had to hurt because the sound was pain.

It was hurting, but nothing had come near him yet.

Through the sack on his head, he saw a faint light, and that was good. The light was good.

But something wasn’t right. In one eye, he still saw darkness. Was it good to see different things in each of his eyes?

He didn’t know.

But then, what did the darkness mean?

He quickly remembered. It was also sound, so it must be pain. The darkness wouldn’t let him breathe.

The darkness was bad, it was one of his captors, bringing him pain every time it forced him into its presence.

He had to escape it. He had to follow the light because only its warmth would take away the pain.

No. The light would take away the darkness.

And without the darkness, there was no sound, no nuisances, no pain. There was no darkness.

There was no...

No what?

His thoughts grew more confused as he fell victim to unconsciousness once again.

The darkness finally swallowed him, but he didn’t have enough time to feel fear.

. . .

“Kieran!” Arthur said softly as he approached the young man. He didn’t want to startle him, especially not in the state his body was in. If he moved too much, it would only worsen his wounds.

Moreover, he feared that if he scared him, he would just die, like a small rabbit.

Arthur wasn’t sure if Kieran had heard him. The boy simply didn’t react. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the pain or the lack of consciousness. “Uh… I’m Arthur. Um… I’m going to come closer, don’t be afraid” Arthur warned the boy, hoping for some movement, some response, but nothing happened.

He was still unmoving.

The stillness of the boy quickly made Arthur uneasy. The silence reminded him of a corpse, a stark contrast to the strong tremors shaking his entire body, along with the occasional spasms that made Kieran accidentally hit his head against the wall now and then.

If he was shaking, that meant he was still alive. That was obvious, some common sense, but Kieran didn’t look like someone alive, and that thought whipped at Arthur’s heart—a well-deserved punishment for his past indifference.

Though he didn’t particularly like the boy and was always tense out of fear whenever he was around, Kieran used to be unusually cheerful, always happy when he’d go fishing with him. Hell, Kieran even got happy when Arthur didn’t speak harshly to him, or when he spoke to him at all, as long as he didn’t call him "O'Driscoll."

This couldn’t be Kieran.

A silent shell was the complete opposite of him.

Except it was. It was Kieran, and he had to help him.

He had to get the boy out of there as soon as possible so they could treat his wounds, or he would die, die and never be able to make up for his mistreatment, never even be able to repay him for saving his life.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Arthur gently touched his shoulder.

A bony hand gripped his wrist tightly, the bloodied fingers leaving a trail where they applied pressure. A gut-wrenching scream stunned Arthur, cutting off his breath and freezing him in place.

Arthur stared at Kieran, dumbfounded. This was not what he expected when he hoped the young man would return to his old self. His scream of terror had nothing to do with his usual incessant chatter.

Arthur wasn’t sure which one unsettled him more: the silent Kieran or the one now screaming in fear.

Maybe neither. This wasn’t an improvement.

“NO!” Kieran screamed. “Get away, get away...” His raspy screams began forming words, until they were stopped by a violent coughing fit that made Kieran double over, howling in pain.

Some of his wounds reopened, the thick blood slowly oozing from his injuries.

Arthur held him, placing his hands on the young man's shoulders. His bones pressed painfully into his palms, his skin burning under his touch.

“Calm down, Kieran. I’m going to take the sack off your head.” The boy stopped, or at least tried to. He kept shaking like a wet dog, but at least he had loosened the tight grip he had on his injured hand.

His hand was the part of his body shaking the most, probably from the pain of having exerted so much strength despite the damage to his fingers.

Slowly, he removed the bag, taking care not to tear off the scabs from the wounds that had begun to close, sticking to the fabric in the process.

As soon as Kieran was free from that prison, he began to gulp in large breaths of air, like a fish out of water. His eyes, unfocused, couldn’t settle on anything.

Arthur winced; his face... looked bad, really bad.

There were a few small cuts scattered across his face, but the worst part was the left side— it was terribly swollen, ugly bruises deforming Kieran’s features. His lips were split, and his nose was twisted at an unnatural angle, the bridge clearly out of place.

Arthur shivered as he recalled the O’Driscolls’ intentions, almost expecting to see empty eye sockets. Yet, beyond his face being so swollen that he probably couldn’t see out of his left eye, there didn’t seem to be anything worse than that.

He still had his eyes, and that was, at least, something good.

Arthur sighed; he was already tired, and the return home would be no easy task with a dying, frightened young man.

But he didn’t complain.

It was better to wrestle with Kieran than to bring back a cold corpse to bury.

“I’m gonna cut the ropes,” Arthur warned gently. Kieran seemed indifferent to his actions, focused on a window that, despite the curtains being closed, allowed a sliver of cold moonlight to slip through.

Kieran didn’t move as he untied him.

Once Arthur finished freeing the young man, he draped his jacket over him to shield him from the cold and give him a bit of privacy. Distractedly, he noticed how the sleeves were too short, though worryingly loose.

“Come on, walk a little. The horses are outside,” Arthur began to walk, supporting Kieran as he moved. His unstable legs could barely handle the effort.

He hadn’t reached the door when Kieran tried to escape. “No! There’s darkness, Arthur, please…” Kieran exclaimed, attempting to stumble back into the room, almost smashing his face against the floor.

Arthur didn’t understand what Kieran was talking about. He figured he must be delirious from some infection, judging by the nonsense coming out of his mouth.

Fortunately, Kieran didn’t hit the ground, but even as Arthur caught him, the young man let out a horrible noise, collapsing in his arms.

His limbs went limp at his sides as he shook violently, seemingly struggling to breathe.

Arthur quickly realized his mistake; he must’ve touched the grotesque bruise he had seen earlier on his chest, probably moving something that shouldn’t have been moved in the first place.

He carefully lifted him into his arms, trying not to hurt him further as he hurried out of the house. Kieran’s head rested against his shoulder, soon dampening the area with salty tears… and a little blood.

In that position, the gasps for air subsided. Supporting his back seemed to make breathing easier, so Arthur figured he should keep him like that to prevent him from suffocating.

As they exited, Kieran shivered again. “Arthur, no... n-no, I want light,” the boy murmured incoherently in his arms, seemingly terrified of being surrounded by darkness once again. It was becoming a problem.

Kieran was hurting himself because of his fear; his violent trembling made breathing more painful, and his movements worsened the condition of his ribs. “It’ll be quick, Kieran. There’s no darkness outside here, there’s the moon and... uh…” Arthur didn’t know what else to say; it was nighttime, so the lack of light was inevitable.

It wasn’t as if the moon or stars shone bright enough to offer comfort in the face of Kieran’s terror, but at least Arthur’s voice seemed to calm him.

Maybe it was more comfortable for him to hear him, perhaps it distracted him a little from his fear.

Soon, they were outside the house. Kieran’s shaking had diminished significantly, and Arthur hoped that would also ease some of the pain in his battered body, at least a little.

Kieran stared at the moon; its light was a caress to his broken soul, a very gentle caress. There wasn’t enough light to take the pain away, but at least it was comforting.

“Here’s your horse. I’ll bring him with us, but you can’t ride on your own.” Arthur spoke just for the sake of speaking, wanting to keep Kieran distracted. It wouldn’t be good if he passed out along the way.

He carefully lifted Kieran onto Princesa. Once the boy was seated, Arthur climbed up himself, keeping his hand firmly on Kieran’s back so he could breathe. “There we are; the camp isn’t far,” he mentioned casually, trying to maintain a steady conversation that Kieran could focus on and forget the pain.

As he had said before, Arthur tied Kieran’s horse’s reins so it would follow them, only then noticing just how bad the poor animal looked, now that he was close enough to see. That poor horse looked as hungry as its owner.

Once at camp, he would take care of both of them.

But first, he had to make sure Kieran got there alive.

With one arm, he held Kieran in front of him, a firm embrace that served as support. He knew it was working when he noticed Kieran’s breathing was calm, though still slightly uneven at times.

With his other arm, he held up his lantern to light the way. Not that he needed it— but Kieran visibly relaxed when surrounded by light, so much so that he nearly fell asleep.

He took a deep breath before looking down at the broken young man in his arms with deep compassion. He wished so badly that he had arrived sooner, that he had realized faster that something was wrong with his disappearance.

But he hadn’t.

No matter how much he wished, he couldn’t change the past.

Now Kieran’s life was in his hands; the boy’s ragged breaths reminded him of it every minute. It was now his responsibility to care for him.

Arthur kept talking to Kieran, keeping him awake with his rambling as he pressed the boy’s chest gently against his own body, sharing his warmth to regulate Kieran’s temperature and help him breathe.

 . . . 

The journey was slow and torturous, although Arthur found Kieran’s presence comforting in an odd way. Yet the boy’s deep silence was far too disturbing. Arthur spent the entire ride terrified that one of those slow, halting breaths might be his last.

But Kieran made it to camp alive. The boy was finally safe. He could recover from his wounds and keep on living.

The thought of seeing Kieran’s life move forward soothed Arthur’s heart, filling it with hopes for the future. Maybe the world wasn’t such a cruel place after all. It couldn’t be, not if that boy lived to see the sun rise in the east—if he lived to see it so many times that it would stop feeling special.

As they approached the camp, Arthur noticed how quiet it was. It was late, and most of the others had already gone to bed, their day ending peacefully. Seeing the few flickering lights, he felt relieved that little Jack wasn’t awake—this sight would’ve been far too disturbing for the boy.

He carefully extinguished his lantern and stowed it away. The few people who were still awake began to gather around, while others, roused by the noise, emerged to see what was happening.

Horrified expressions spread across the faces of those who saw Kieran. Arthur caught sight of Mary-Beth, who began to cry silently, one hand covering her mouth and the other pressed to her chest. Her anguish was heartbreaking, and Arthur understood why. The poor boy looked terrible.

Soon Mrs. Grimshaw arrived, shooing away the curious onlookers and calling for the Reverend to help.
“Arthur! Get the boy to the medical tent, now!” she ordered before hurrying off with the Reverend to prepare the place.

Arthur obeyed without question. Carefully, he dismounted, pulling Kieran from the saddle and carrying him toward the tent. He didn’t bother worrying about the two loose horses he’d left behind.

There were more important things to deal with than horse shit scattered across camp.

He sat Kieran on the cot in the tent, though the upright position seemed to make it harder for the boy to breathe, leaving Arthur worried. For a moment, he thought he’d hurt him when moving him, but before he could say anything, Mrs. Grimshaw was shoving him out of the tent.
“We can’t have so many people in here—especially not with the state you’re in! Go clean yourself up, Arthur. For God’s sake, you’ll give the boy an infection!” she scolded, slamming the canvas door shut in his face.

Arthur felt a flash of irritation, but she was right. He was filthy—gunpowder, blood, and grime clung to him, and Kieran didn’t need any more risks.

With a resigned sigh, he left the tent, his mind exhausted. Maybe he was just getting too old for this life. He couldn’t understand how Hosea managed to keep going without a single complaint.

He didn’t dare risk Grimshaw’s wrath by lingering, but he also feared leaving Kieran alone too long. Deciding to wash up and change clothes, he planned to return soon to watch over him.

Maybe he could pick some plants for Kieran on the way. They’d help him heal faster.

Arthur remembered the time Kieran had asked him for burdock root, saying it was good for horses. He could still picture the joy on Kieran’s face when he’d agreed to fetch the plants. Surely that same root would come in handy now.

He’d check his journal for other medicinal plants later. Maybe he’d even run into William, that plant guy, and ask him for a remedy to help Kieran.

. . .

Mrs. Grimshaw opened the front of the boy’s jacket to assess his condition. She hadn’t thought it would be this bad—until she saw it all.

It was bad. Really bad.

Kieran had a fever, his burning skin evidence enough, though she couldn’t tell which of his many injuries was causing it. It was impossible to identify the worst wound in the gruesome tapestry of cuts that decorated Kieran’s pale, battered skin.

And that wasn’t the worst of it.

The large bruise on his side was a serious concern—two ribs were broken, at least. Maybe more, though it was impossible to say for sure.

“Swanson, get the boy something for the pain. We need to keep him still” Grimshaw ordered as she propped Kieran into a semi-sitting position to help him breathe more easily.

While Swanson fetched the morphine, Grimshaw gathered bandages and clean rags to clean the boy’s wounds. She hurried to the medical supply wagon, the urgency of the situation pressing on her.

On the way, she ran into Mary-Beth, who was wandering aimlessly, clearly distressed. It took her a moment to register that Grimshaw was speaking to her.

“Miss, get me some clean water—quickly now, go on!” Grimshaw urged.

Mary-Beth nodded rapidly and ran off with a bucket, grateful to have something to do to distract herself from her racing thoughts—and maybe help Kieran, even just a little.

She returned moments later with the water, relieved to be of use.

Once everything was ready, Grimshaw began carefully cleaning the wounds, ensuring they were properly dried so they wouldn’t worsen.

Reverend Swanson shakily administered a dose of morphine, then began helping the woman clean the cuts scattered across Kieran’s chest.

The wounds in the bruised area were the hardest to treat since the pressure needed to clean them caused the young man terrible pain.

Grimshaw winced as she heard Kieran’s cries of agony; the morphine hadn’t yet brought him the calm of its numbing effects.

She thought those injuries would be the worst—she was very wrong.

Her expression turned to horror when she saw the full extent of the young man’s condition after finally removing his jacket. She froze for a moment, glancing at Swanson to gauge his reaction. The man had already begun praying for Kieran.

She would do the same later. God have mercy on the poor boy.

She only wanted to make sure there weren’t any more cuts—and of course, there were. Far too many. Among them stood out a particularly long and deep gash running from the top of his shoulder blade all the way down to his tailbone.

It was now obvious why the boy was in such a state, why he hadn’t uttered a single word, only letting out soft groans and sudden sobs in his near-catatonic state as he stared blankly at the light filtering in from outside.

Kieran had been through so much during those five days.

She felt sorry for the boy, though she’d never admit it aloud—that just wasn’t her way. She would patch him up until he was better, until he stopped looking so pitiful. He was like a sad little puppy, nothing more.

She’d help him, and they’d carry on as before.

Though that long cut wasn’t even the worst.

“Oh, God…” she muttered, placing a hand over her eyes for a moment as she let out an exhausted sigh. Only now did she notice the absence of fingernails on Kieran’s left hand. She couldn’t understand how it had taken her so long to see it: the hand caked in dried blood, the swollen, reddened nail beds where his nails should’ve been.

It was awful. The boy must’ve been in a hell of pain before the morphine. It was almost incredible he had held on for so long without dying.

Honestly, it would take a miracle for him to survive the night.

After what felt like an eternity of tending to him, Kieran was finally clean and bandaged. They had replaced all of his clothes with new ones. His entire upper body, except for his right hand, was wrapped in bandages, giving him an almost ghostly appearance.

She hoped little Jack wouldn’t get too scared when he saw him. They couldn’t afford to have him throwing rocks at Kieran right now, no matter how funny that might be.

“I’m going to clean these rags, Swanson. Watch over the boy, please.”

Mrs. Grimshaw left the tent, leaving the two men alone.

Kieran felt a little uncomfortable. Something deep inside him whispered that being with so few people wasn’t safe, but he told himself he shouldn’t be afraid, right? He was a man of God, wasn’t he?

His mind was muddled, though far less so than it had been before the medicine took effect, and much less than before Arthur had brought him back.

Ah…

Arthur… he hadn’t thanked him. He had completely forgotten.

Slowly, fragmented memories of the last few days drifted into his mind, though he deliberately ignored the memories of his torture. Those were no good.

His face turned pale with fear and shame.

He remembered the curses he had shouted at God. Awful things… truly awful things.

“D-do you feel sick?” the reverend asked, his voice trembling and slurred. He was clearly drunk, as was usual. Kieran wasn’t surprised.

He stared at Swanson. For far too long—so long that the reverend began shifting uncomfortably, averting his gaze from the mummy-like boy he had to care for.

“Uh… I-I insulted God, and… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Kieran suddenly blurted out, his words jumbled, either from his physical state, the medication, or maybe a combination of both. The reverend thought silently, momentarily distracted by the comforting haze of alcohol dulling his mind.

“I thought I was going to die, and th-that it wasn’t… it wasn’t fair,” he continued. Swanson fixed his gaze back on the boy in front of him.
He didn’t judge him—he couldn’t, not after witnessing the terrible state Kieran had been left in.

“Don’t worry, son. God knows your words weren’t spoken with malice,” the reverend said softly, his troubled mind struggling to formulate comforting words for the boy.

“He, more than anyone, knows what you’ve been through. He knows we can all fall low, but it’s up to us to rise again, to prove that isn’t who we really are.” Swanson paused, feeling guilty for preaching words he hadn’t followed himself.

He had been down for so long, stuck at rock bottom. And even knowing where he stood, he wasn’t doing anything to get out of it.

Worse still, he was digging himself deeper every day, giving in to his vices and letting himself sink further into the pit he had carved for himself, while time carried on around him.

“It doesn’t matter what you’ve said or done. What matters is what you choose to do now, son.” He finished his sermon, hoping his words had brought Kieran some comfort. Deciding on his own that the conversation was over, he began tidying up the tent, seeking distraction from the suffocating silence that filled the air.

Kieran wasn’t sure what to think about what he’d said. Even if he was a reverend, Kieran felt his offenses were too grave to be forgiven so easily.

But still… he would try to be better. He would try to follow the word of the Lord. Maybe then his sins could be forgiven.

Once again, Kieran succumbed to exhaustion. The moon was hidden behind the canvas flap of the tent, yet even so, as he slipped into unconsciousness, he knew it was there, watching.

He felt comforted. Someone was looking out for him up there.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Thanks

Dutch was staring at him coldly; his harsh expression made it clear he didn’t enjoy having to hear about the O’Driscolls.

“Well, I saw how bad poor Kieran looked when he came back, but son, are you sure he didn’t say anything?” Dutch asked. His eyes seemed to scrutinize Arthur entirely, as if any slight reaction might give him a reason to doubt him.

“Real sure, Dutch. The kid didn’t say a word. After everything they did to him, he still kept quiet. Hell, I’d say he’s more trustworthy than Micah,” Arthur joked, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere. Personally, he meant it, but he wasn’t about to tell Dutch that; Dutch actually seemed to like Micah.

His joke didn’t land. Dutch simply ignored the last part, indifferent.

“And how do you know that, Arthur? You think he told you the truth? We can’t risk putting all our people in danger,” Dutch said, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, his gaze filled with disappointment. It was an ugly look, one that only made Arthur’s nervousness worse.

“Well, I questioned one of those bastards before I killed him. Haven’t had the chance to talk to Kieran about it yet,” Arthur replied. The look of disappointment faded from Dutch’s face, but he still didn’t seem to trust the information Arthur was giving him.

Dutch lit a cigar, smoking slowly, his gaze fixed on Arthur the entire time. Arthur cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one leg to the other out of discomfort. He didn’t understand what was going on with Dutch; he normally wasn’t this… intense.

“Alright, son, you know I trust you. You’re one of my best men,” Dutch finally said after a long drag from his cigar. Arthur left without saying a word, feeling even more tense than before.

He wished he could’ve gone to bed before having that talk with Dutch.

He was exhausted, but he knew there was no way he could sleep now.

He walked slowly out of the building, descending the stairs with his head down. Passing by a window, he seriously considered going to check on Kieran, but quickly dismissed the idea. 

The boy was probably already asleep, and he definitely needed the rest.

Arthur left the building and headed toward his horse, returning to his initial plan before Dutch had interrupted him: gathering some medicinal plants. Maybe Pearson could throw them into the stew tomorrow; a broth that nutritious would be good for everyone.

When he reached Princesa, someone had kindly tied him to a post next to Kieran’s horse. He stroked his forehead gently, his gaze drifting to the other horse. The sight of it reminded him of how he’d found it: sad and starving, just like its owner. Feeling a pang of guilt, Arthur pulled an apple from his bag and offered it to Kieran’s horse.

Princesa wasn’t too pleased about not sharing the treats. With a snort, he lowered his head to Arthur’s hand, trying to steal the apple from the other horse. Arthur stopped him with his other hand, letting out a small laugh.

“Easy, boy. I’ve got one for you too,” he said, patting Princesa on the head. He reached into his saddlebag with his free hand and pulled out another apple, letting his horse eat it.

Once both horses had finished their apples, Arthur wiped his hands on his pants and stood up slowly. He stroked Kieran’s horse’s head, the animal seeming quite happy with the affection. It was likely he missed his owner.

Arthur mounted Princesa, giving Kieran’s horse one last sorrowful glance before riding out of camp, heading toward wherever he could hunt a deer to clear his mind.

That interaction with the horses had been nice, but he still needed to work himself to exhaustion if he wanted any chance of sleeping well tonight.

His thoughts began to wander as the warm light of the camp faded behind him. Under the night sky’s cold brilliance, he wondered if these same stars had been witnesses to Kieran’s abduction.

He couldn’t stand being in this damned swamp—it was a horrible place. He was pretty sure it was part of why everyone in camp had been so tense lately, especially Dutch. But that wasn’t something he could confirm, not really.

Still, he couldn’t remember the last night he’d slept well without being incredibly drunk. Those eerie screams from the woods were far too disturbing. It wasn’t unusual for him to wake up to one of them, or even fail to sleep at all.

It was a disgusting place in every sense he could imagine.

But now, Kieran… That boy had most likely developed an intense fear of swamps, and of the area in general. He wouldn’t be surprised if Kieran was now afraid of people too.

And Arthur didn’t know what to do about that—what to do to help him. He felt a strong urge to help that boy get back on his feet.

He’d seen similar cases before: people who, after going through something, became terrified of even the most ridiculous things you could think of. But to them, it made sense.

To them, it was something to truly be afraid of, whether it reminded them of what had been done to them or of something they’d seen while enduring something terrible.

Those people—those who, despite surviving something awful, couldn’t move on because of the fear. He’d seen so many lock themselves inside their minds to stop being afraid, shutting themselves off from everything and everyone, only to die: die of loneliness, or maybe of fear. Maybe, at some point, they’d even grown afraid of their own shadow and died of fright.

He didn’t understand what went through those people’s minds, and honestly, he didn’t think he wanted to. It seemed like something terrible, a strange disease that even brought the strongest to ruin through paranoia.

But most of all, he didn’t want Kieran to go through the same thing. He didn’t want to see him shut down and stop being himself, to die slowly, surrounded by nothing but fear.

That thought lodged itself in Arthur’s mind as the cold night breeze brushed against his face. No matter how much he tried to distract himself, he couldn’t stop recalling the boy’s broken figure, not far from becoming a corpse.

The mental image was abhorrent.

Or so he thought until he saw an interesting trail that caught his attention.

Some pretty tracks on the ground that definitely belonged to a white-tailed deer.

Absentmindedly, he noted that this meant he had strayed quite far from camp, but he didn’t care too much.

He hadn’t realized how long he’d been riding until that moment, so immersed in his grotesque thoughts that he failed to notice his horse growing tired.

Princesa was exhausted, his coat glistening with sweat, and some foam dripping from where the saddle pressed against his skin.

“Sorry, boy, I’ll let you rest,” he apologized, stopping beside a tree to tether his horse. Before leaving him, he gave him a sugar cube for his efforts.

Princesa eagerly ate it, moving one of his front legs with excitement despite his fatigue.

Arthur took his Springfield rifle from his horse’s saddlebag and finally began the hunt.

A smile of satisfaction spread across his face as he followed the deer’s trail. In just a few steps, he realized he was close, so close he could almost smell it. His heart pounded in his chest, driven by the thrill of the hunt.

The feel of his rifle in his hands was comforting; the engraved metal reminded him of all the good moments when his shots had hit their mark.

The cold metal grew warm in his grip, and with the pleasant sensation of his reliable weapon in hand, he didn’t think about his conversation with Dutch.

He didn’t think about his worry for Kieran, nor about the guilt that tormented him.

He didn’t think about anything except hunting his new prey.

He wouldn’t lie to himself—there was no need to hide how unpleasant he was as a human being, at least not in his own mind. He didn’t hunt for food—not only for food, anyway. He did it for the delight each accurate shot brought him, the calm it brought to his mind to see life end so easily with a single move.

The deer he was tracking would just be another victim, and he didn’t care at all about using it for his own enjoyment.

He just needed to shoot.

It was such a simple thing, something he could truly control. There was no need to think about anything but his prey.

Though he knew perfectly well that after the shot, nothing would remain but the echo resounding in his mind—a chilling sound that reminded him it was exactly the same as what he had done countless times to innocent people, situations where he should have been able to take control.

But he hadn’t.

Because it was easier to pretend he was doing things right, that he was doing things for Dutch and for the gang, that he wasn’t responsible for his actions.

Because it was easier to shoot than to think carefully about the things he did.

Following Dutch had always been easier than questioning him. Easier to shoot, easier to kill. And now, Dutch’s voice in his head was just a whisper, drowned out by the echo of every life he’d taken without asking if it was worth it.

The battered face of Thomas Downes surfaced in his mind, overlapping with Kieran’s face.

Silently, he wondered if he could really consider himself different from the O’Driscolls, when it seemed he might be even crueler than them.

Had it been worth it to kill that poor man, a man who was already two steps away from the grave?

But now wasn’t the time to think about that. Not now. Not while he could still pull the trigger and quiet his thoughts, even if only for a little while.
. . .

With a sigh of satisfaction, he finished skinning his last animal—a raccoon.

Something in his mind wouldn’t let him enjoy his successful hunt; the bright red of the skinned flesh reminded him of the disturbing sight of Kieran’s fingernails—or lack thereof.

But it was different. At least the raccoon was dead. It hadn’t felt anything, but Kieran had been forced to endure everything.

With a shudder at the thought of how it must have felt, Arthur shook off his thoughts, not wanting to disturb his mind just when he’d managed to relax.

He hadn’t killed too much—he couldn’t carry that much, and it would be wasteful. As much as he liked killing anything that moved, senseless slaughter had lately left him with a bad taste in his mouth.

It was strange—he had never cared about remorse or guilt. They weren’t topics that usually haunted him, apart from the occasional nightmare about the people he’d killed. That was fine—the usual guilt that set him apart from scum like Micah or the O’Driscolls.

But for some reason, he was changing—changing for the better.

He didn’t like it too much; it felt strange. But it was even worse to try to force himself to do the things he used to do.

He could no longer calmly rob poor people who crossed his path or kill someone just for looking at him funny.

Now, he couldn’t do anything wrong on his own without a logical reason because he felt guilty.

And that was fine. It was a good change, really, though he had to admit he felt a bit foolish for changing at his age.

But maybe that was it. Maybe he was softening with time.

He let out a huff at how absurd his own thoughts seemed to him. Him? Change to be better?

HIM? The one who had just killed animals for the enjoyment of seeing red spill from their bodies as he took their lives away.

How foolish he was. On top of being old, he was also growing dumb. Rescuing Kieran wouldn't magically turn him into a good person. Though, thinking about that boy again reminded him of another reason he wanted to leave in the first place.

He quickly tied the raccoon by its legs to Princesa’s saddle before pulling his journal out of his satchel. Carelessly, he wiped the blood off his hands onto his pants; dark stains marked his clothes, just as every kill marked his soul.

He carefully searched through the pages of his journal, specifically those with plants. After accidentally coming across some poisonous ones, he quickly found the plants he needed.

There weren’t many options in Lemoyne, not in the area he was in, but at least there were some that would work as antiseptics. That boy would surely need them.

Yarrow, hummingbird sage, some evergreen huckleberries would also help. Perhaps a few chanterelle mushrooms could make Pearson’s terrible soup into a better broth for Kieran and the rest of the camp.

He smiled a little. That boy Kieran was definitely softening him.

…

He finally woke up, though, to be honest, he would have preferred to keep sleeping because being awake was suffering.

His whole body ached from head to toe, and he couldn’t move. He’d already been scolded recently—Mrs. Grimshaw had been very harsh and explicit about what would happen to his lungs if he moved too much.

And although living hurt, he would definitely not waste the chance God had given him. Besides, it wasn’t as if he wanted to die from a punctured lung.

He didn’t allow himself to shudder at the thought of such an atrocious death; doing so would hurt too much—his body wasn’t ready for it.

But with each passing minute, he began to regain full awareness of his body. He could move both hands, but he wouldn’t move the left one, not yet. Having no nails on his fingers made moving them excruciating; the bandages pressed against the raw skin on his hands, irritating the sensitive area with every breath.

With his right hand, he moved aside one of the bandages covering his face, growing frustrated at being unable to see fully because half of his face was wrapped.

Once the bandages were away from his face, he couldn’t see the warm sunlight filtering through the canvas door.

He couldn’t see anything with that eye—not completely nothing, but there were strange lights and silhouettes. Trying to distinguish anything with it was useless.

He didn’t know what he was going to do about that.

Of course, he was happy that he hadn’t been left completely blind. He was truly grateful for that, but even so, he felt overwhelmingly scared.

The darkness in that eye eerily resembled how he’d seen the world through the sack over his head, bringing back horrible memories of his torture.

He couldn’t breathe properly; it was as if he were back in that place, with the sack blocking his vision, just waiting for the next blow his captors would deliver. His fingers throbbed with the memory of his nails being cruelly torn off.

Except he knew he wasn’t there—he was in the camp. He was safe now.

So then, why did the tent feel smaller?

He was sure it had been larger and brighter. What was happening? He couldn’t understand anything. He was finally lucid, he knew that much, so why couldn’t he breathe?

Harsh gasps escaped him, his eyes darting in all directions as his heart ached from agonizing nerves. Its heavy beats pounded painfully in his chest, but he couldn’t do anything.

Tears welled up in his wide-open eyes, his breaths growing so short that he already felt the lack of oxygen, along with a sharp pain in his chest. It was his ribs.

The darkness began to close in on him; his good eye was failing him now too, his vision blurry from the thick tears streaming down his face.

Nausea overtook him; his body’s agitation was making him dizzy, but so was the barrage of memories flashing through his mind. Horrific sensations of pain assaulted him as if each of his wounds was being inflicted on his battered body all over again.

He had to stop if he didn’t want to die, but he couldn’t. Just thinking about it made him feel even worse.

Why was he so scared?

He didn’t understand anything; he was too terrified as his senses failed him. They were deceiving him, creating an illusion that he was back with his captors. But it wasn’t true—he was safe.

He was safe; he was at camp. No one was hurting him, and there were people taking care of him.

Then why did he feel like he was going to die?

He was going to die. His heart told him so.

But it wasn’t just his heart with its erratic beats—it was his brain, the pain in his skin, the rancid smell of his dried blood, the sound of that damned creaking door, the repulsive sensation of the sack over his head again.

All these sensations overwhelmed him; he couldn’t process them all, not without air in his lungs. Hot tears streamed down his face desperately. He couldn’t even control his own body. What kind of useless person couldn’t even calm themselves down a little?

Suddenly, hands settled on his shoulders, exerting firm pressure and keeping him in place. He couldn’t see who it was, and that terrified him.

A scream of terror escaped him at the unknown hands on his body, his trembling grew even more intense. He tried to cover his chest and face with his hands, but the person restrained both of his arms with one hand, leaving him completely defenseless.

“Kieran! Calm down, you're fine, we're in camp," said the person restraining him. Their voice was soft, like a whisper, but it did little to ease his terror.

That voice. He recognized it. It was Arthur. He had saved him the day before; he wasn’t one of his captors. Then why didn’t Arthur's presence feel comforting?

His throat hurt too much; a massive lump of anguish had formed there. He tried to speak, but every word was interrupted by the disgusting sound of choking. He doubted Arthur could understand anything he tried to say.

The awful feeling that he was about to die persisted, and there was no one who could save him.

His breathing was erratic; his chest rose, but no matter how much it expanded, no air came in. He was suffocating on his own sobs, drowning in his saliva with each one, making it even harder to breathe.

The black spots in his vision overtook him entirely. He could hear Arthur speaking more, but it didn’t matter—the pull of unconsciousness was too strong, and he didn’t mind.

It was better not to feel, not to think about the consequences of acting like a maniac.

. . .

Arthur sat in a chair beside Kieran’s bed, letting out a heavy sigh as he rested his head in one hand. The plants he had gathered for Kieran lay scattered on the ground.

What a waste, he thought in frustration. He’d tried to calm him down, but it had all ended with Kieran fainting—because of him.

The creak of the canvas door moving caught his attention, though he didn’t bother to look up.

“Arthur! What happened? I heard Kieran screaming and thought he might’ve hurt himself.” Mary-Beth’s voice was clearly laced with concern. It was obvious she cared about Kieran deeply. That didn’t surprise him. Even he had been unsettled by the sounds Kieran had made. They were pure terror.

He hadn’t done anything to help Kieran—nothing useful, at least.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, still staring at the ground. “He was scared, so I held him down to stop him from moving, but he wouldn’t calm down. Then he…” He gestured awkwardly with his hands. His hat obscured his eyes, as though trying to shield himself from the disappointment he knew Mary-Beth would direct at him. “He fainted. I think I scared him.”

The confession came out with a heavy sigh, as if adding to the burden weighing on his already tired shoulders. He pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly aware of how exhausted he felt. It was almost noon, and he hadn’t slept at all.

“You’re a brute, Arthur,” Mary-Beth said firmly. Her tone wasn’t loud, but each word hit him like a blow to the soul. “You can’t restrain someone who’s terrified! You made him feel trapped.”

Guilt twisted painfully in his chest, constricting his heart. She was right, and he knew it. He’d done everything wrong. It was his fault Kieran had passed out.

Summoning enough courage to look up, he admitted, “I’m no good at this, Mary-Beth. Next time, I’ll call you to help.” His voice carried the weight of exhaustion.

Mary-Beth didn’t seem convinced.

“No one’s born knowing, Arthur, but you can learn. I won’t always be around to help Kieran, and he needs more people he can trust,” she said, stepping closer.

She gently placed a hand on his shoulder, a soft smile appearing on her face. “If it happens again, treat him like you would a scared horse. Lower your voice and remind him he’s safe.”

Arthur fiddled with his hat, clearly uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure he could do it right, but he had to try. Mary-Beth was right. Kieran needed others to rely on if he was going to get better.

“Alright, Mary-Beth. I’ll try if it happens again,” he murmured, closing his eyes with a sigh. Knowing what to do next time offered some small comfort. Calming horses wasn’t so complicated, after all.

Mary-Beth removed her hand from his shoulder, her expression softening. “Thank you, Arthur. And remember, it’s okay if it doesn’t go perfectly the first time. It’s normal to make mistakes.”

Arthur didn’t respond, but her words unexpectedly comforted him. He felt an invisible weight lift, allowing him to relax as sleep began to creep in.

Mary-Beth smoothed the wrinkles in her dress and hurried toward the exit. “I have some tasks to do, Arthur. Please watch over Kieran for me.”

Arthur smirked slightly at her audacity, though he didn’t mind staying behind to look after him.

Without turning his head, he glanced sideways at Kieran as he tilted his hat down over his face. Settling into the chair, he shifted into a more comfortable position to rest for a while. He’d wait until Kieran woke up.

Arthur sat still for a moment, the sounds of the camp’s activity filling the silence. As he closed his eyes, a shiver ran through him, and his mind began to wander. He recalled his own abduction at the hands of the same group.

It had been horrible.

He was alone, bound, surrounded by men who tortured him for the sheer satisfaction of breaking the man who had killed so many of them—the one they sometimes called Dutch’s shadow, or his dog.

The feeling of helplessness, the sense of being utterly powerless, had left a mark on him that would never fade. And now, he saw that same shadow in Kieran.

How do you help someone escape that? How could he be useful when even his own memories still haunted him?

Perhaps that was why he cared so much about Kieran. Without realizing it before, he understood what Kieran had endured.

He still remembered the deep betrayal he felt when he realized no one was coming to rescue him, when he understood he was completely alone.

That Dutch didn’t care enough to go and save him, even though he seemed fine, right? Because it had all been a trap. He should feel grateful for that coincidence, shouldn’t he?

But… would Kieran have felt the same? Betrayed, abandoned, believing no one would come for him? Would he have felt relief at the thought of death finally taking him?

With a sigh, Arthur leaned back deeper into the chair, trying to drown out those thoughts, but knowing that, for a moment, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about Kieran.
He closed his eyes. 

The thoughts of defeat faded as sleep overtook him.

No one picked up the plants from the ground. The white yarrow petals lay forgotten, wilting without fulfilling their purpose.

. . .

Kieran woke up hours later. Although he still hadn’t fully recovered, he felt a bit better than before.

He didn’t have to turn his head to realize Arthur was still there. He was deeply asleep, a soft snore revealing how comfortable he was. But Kieran didn’t feel comfortable in the slightest.

His face burned with shame at the thought of someone seeing him so vulnerable—worse yet, seeing him like that twice in a row.

Timidly, he reached for the bandages loosely wrapped around his face. He tried to adjust them over his left eye but couldn’t keep his arm raised for long. He felt so useless, more than ever, and that made him even more uncomfortable. He curled up tighter than usual, as if that could help him disappear and avoid confronting the shame of being there.

Suddenly, Arthur took the hat off his face, startling Kieran with the unexpected movement.

Arthur placed the hat back on his head, letting out a big yawn, and then stared at Kieran.

“Ah, hey there, Kieran,” he greeted casually, stretching lazily as if shaking off the tension from sleeping in a chair.

“Uh… hi, Arthur,” he replied shyly. He didn’t want to be around anyone at the moment, but it seemed Arthur had no intention of leaving anytime soon. “What are you doing here?” he asked, immediately regretting his words. He had sounded so rude.

“It’s alright, kid, don’t worry,” Arthur tried to reassure him. Even so, he seemed to seriously consider the question. He stared at Kieran, frowning, while his face reflected how tired he was. He couldn’t quite remember what had brought him there, and his mind was sluggish from just waking up.

Kieran held back a laugh at Arthur’s expression. It contrasted so much with the tough demeanor he usually had. In a way, it was a little nice. Though he wouldn’t dare say it, it made him feel a bit more comfortable. If Arthur was acting so carefree after seeing him in this state, it meant he didn’t really care, that he wasn’t going to judge him for feeling useless or for now being, in his eyes, some kind of invalid.

It felt good to have someone who didn’t judge him, but he wasn’t going to let Arthur get too close. He didn’t want to be a burden to him; he didn’t deserve that compassion. He also didn’t want to repeat what had happened with the people he had lost, like his parents.

He didn’t want to lose Arthur like he lost them. He didn’t want to see him succumb to some deadly illness or anything else. If he stayed in his place, watching Arthur from afar, everything would be fine. 

He didn’t have to ruin things with his need for friends, no matter how much he liked Arthur.
Arthur, as if sensing the change in atmosphere, stopped moving so nonchalantly. Kieran began to feel the tension grow in the room. 

He didn’t like it and went back to adjusting the bandage over his eye, looking away.

“Uh… I brought some plants that help keep wounds from getting infected,” Arthur said, as if hoping the conversation could return to more comfortable ground. He rummaged through his saddlebag, pulling out the plants he had gathered in the forests of Scarlett Meadows.

But then he realized he had dropped them when he saw Kieran so distressed. He looked down, slightly embarrassed.

“Oh…” he said, as if a new thought had just occurred to him. He couldn’t find the plants, so he quickly continued, “Well, I don’t have those plants anymore, but they say a blueberry tea is good for, well… these situations.” He spoke hurriedly, pulling some perennial blueberries from his bag, though several fell to the ground due to his clumsy movements.

“No, thank you, Arthur. I’m fine, really,” Kieran rasped, his voice hoarse from the effort of speaking too much, but he tried to sound firm. “You don’t have to do anything for me; it’s already enough with what you did before.” He tried to sound confident but was clearly uncomfortable.

“You saved me once too, so we’re even, Kieran. Don’t worry about it, really,” Arthur said, sounding more relaxed. “I just want to help,” he finished, as if making a final attempt to do the right thing.

Kieran didn’t like those words at all.

“You don’t have to pity me, Arthur. I’m not that useless,” he said, directing his one free eye toward Arthur, frowning.

Arthur didn’t understand why Kieran had gotten upset. He was only trying to be kind; he didn’t mean it out of pity. Or at least, not just out of pity.

“It’s not that, Kieran, really, I…” Arthur hesitated, trying to explain, but he didn’t know how.

He didn’t want to offend Kieran. He could see he seemed more sensitive about his physical state, and even though he hadn’t intended to upset him, he didn’t know how to proceed.

“You can go, Arthur. I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m fine. What happened before… it wasn’t anything serious,” Kieran said quickly, interrupting the conversation. He was essentially asking him to leave.

Kieran couldn’t bear the discomfort. He felt as if Arthur’s gaze was judging him, even though he knew it wasn’t. He hid his left hand behind his body, keeping his fist clenched despite the pain, so the red stains on the bandages wouldn’t show.

Arthur looked at the blueberries in his hands, feeling as though the situation was his fault, as if those tiny fruits were somehow to blame.

“Come on, Kieran, it’s not pity—I just want you to get better. I’d do this for anyone else in camp,” he said, now with more frustration. He only wanted to help.

Kieran turned his gaze toward the wall, silently begging Arthur to understand that he wanted to be alone. But Arthur, as usual, didn’t seem to pick up on those subtle signals.

“Look, I’m not going to push it,” Arthur said after an awkward silence. He placed the blueberries on a nearby table and took a step toward the exit, adjusting his hat. “But… you don’t have to handle everything on your own, you know? Nobody does.”

Kieran pressed his lips together. Something about those words irritated him, but there was also something in them he couldn’t entirely ignore. He didn’t respond, keeping his eyes fixed on the sheets of his bed.

Arthur, seeming to realize he wasn’t going to get much more out of the interaction, sighed. “Alright, well, if you need anything, I’ll be nearby. And don’t worry about the tea; I’ll try again tomorrow,” he said, trying to sound casual, though his tone betrayed him.

Before leaving, Arthur glanced at Kieran one last time. He found it hard to understand what was going through Kieran’s mind, but at least he knew he was awake and a little better. That, for now, would have to be enough.

The sound of Arthur’s footsteps slowly faded as he crossed the camp, leaving Kieran in silence. He lay back slowly, feeling the weight of Arthur’s words. He didn’t regret standing his ground, but he couldn’t entirely ignore the fact that, for a moment, he had wanted to accept Arthur’s gesture.

With a sigh, he closed his eye and let exhaustion take over. Maybe tomorrow would be easier.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Alone.

Grumbling, Arthur made his way to where he had left Princesa, alongside Kieran's horse, in the same spot as the previous night.

He was upset, but not just about that. Kieran had rejected his help, and Arthur couldn’t understand why. He had been as kind as he could, trying to do the right thing, but the boy had pushed him away as if he were a burden. What had he done wrong?

Was he the problem? Or was it Kieran?

Maybe he had been too blunt. The boy seemed to have taken it badly. Couldn’t Kieran see that Arthur just wanted to help? Maybe he should’ve been softer, more considerate. Maybe next time he should think before speaking, find the right words. Or maybe, he just didn’t like him as much as Arthur thought.

He stopped for a moment, feeling a tightness in his chest. He remembered the fishing trip they had shared, that brief moment when everything felt right. Although he never admitted it to himself, it had been a good time. A moment he’d like to repeat.

But, with the state Kieran was in, he didn’t think that would be possible for a long time.

Thinking about it only made his mood worse. There was no easy solution to this, no clear path. And the discomfort kept growing in his chest, like a stone he couldn’t throw.

The path to helping Kieran seemed endless, full of rocks and falls. But that didn’t matter. He would walk it. Because Kieran deserved it. And because, deep down, he liked the boy. Maybe too much for his own good.

He didn’t walk much further before reaching Princesa. As he approached, he began brushing his coat, letting the calming motion of the brush ease, even if just a little, the storm within him.

He wasn’t really angry. He was sad. And for some reason, that was much harder to accept. Why did it hurt so much that Kieran rejected him?

“Arthur Morgan, the big outlaw, whining because a skinny kid didn’t want your help... What’s next? Making a patchwork quilt to get over your feelings?” He laughed bitterly, alone. Maybe he had spent too much time with Mary-Beth and her romantic dramas.

He was a fool. A big, old fool. Why couldn’t he stop feeling sad?

He sighed, burying his face in Princesa’s side. The horse turned its head, sniffing his hair as if it sensed his sadness. Arthur gave a slight smile, feeling the warm breath of the animal on his skin. But that feeling quickly faded as he remembered Kieran’s rejection.

He felt bad. But he couldn’t blame the boy. He couldn’t, because he knew exactly how Kieran felt. He knew what it was like when everything seemed lost, when you think there’s no one in the world who cares for you. Although the things that were done to them were different, the feeling was the same.

He remembered how he himself had reacted when he came back, furious, full of rage, thinking no one had cared for him. What he really felt was sadness and fear. Fear of being alone, of having been abandoned. During his captivity, he’d lost all hope. He couldn’t let Kieran feel the same.

But, even though he understood, there was nothing he could do.

Kieran didn’t want him close. He’d noticed it in every evasive glance, every uncomfortable gesture. And that hurt more than he wanted to admit.

He hunched over slightly, overwhelmed by his thoughts. Guilt washed over him again, like a wave he couldn’t avoid. Kieran’s reaction reminded him of the times when a widow had found him, crying, demanding money to feed her children after he’d coldly killed her husband. Maybe Kieran saw him the same way. Maybe he saw him as someone who only brought pain and pity.

He looked at Kieran’s horse, dirty and disheveled from the time it had gone without its owner’s care. He stopped brushing Princesa and, with a sigh, gently stroked the other horse’s forehead. The animal responded with a slight movement of its head, enjoying the attention, a small gesture that reminded him of what he had lost.

Once both horses were well cared for, Arthur felt a little calmer. He sat on the ground, watching as they rested on the grass. The sight of the animals, completely relaxed and carefree, gave him a comforting feeling. He wished talking to Kieran was as simple as it was with those horses.

He pulled out his journal and started drawing, trying to capture the image of the horses as a reminder of the moment. As he traced the lines, the smell of the stable mixed with the fresh air. Something about that smell made him think of Kieran. That boy always surrounded by horses, always carrying that scent. Somehow, it seemed endearing. Ridiculous, but endearing.

“This boy, Kieran, rejected my help. Fine, he has the right to do that. But… for some reason, it doesn’t feel right. There’s something behind all this, I know it. I’m going to try talking to him. I don’t think it’s right to leave him alone. No one should be alone in their pain.”

He closed his journal and stood up with a grunt. It was late, but exhaustion was starting to overtake him. He felt that comforting sleepiness that only comes after exhausting days.

He lay down in his bed, not bothering to change clothes. As soon as he closed his eyes, sleep embraced him, taking all the thoughts still spinning in his mind.

That night, for once, he didn’t dream of anything.

. . .

Kieran woke up a bit late, or at least that's what he thought. He didn’t know the exact time, but he could see the sun a little higher on the horizon.

He had come to really like mornings now, because the sunlight illuminated everything around, so much so that he could even see movement with his bad eye. He could see something even through the bandages at this hour.

He breathed shakily for a moment. Waking up was always so hard, as if his body took a moment to remember it was injured, bombarding him with pain in every wound as he woke.

Once he got used to the pain, which was now a regular part of his body, he noticed something interesting.

There was a pleasant smell in the room, soft and fruity.

It didn’t take him long to figure out where it was coming from.

He turned his head a little to the right, seeing Arthur sitting in the chair again. He was holding a book in front of him, looking pretty focused.

He didn’t bother trying to read the title of the book. It would be useless, almost all the symbols on the cover were unfamiliar to him. Although he could distinguish a couple of letters.

Kieran didn’t understand why Arthur had come back after what happened the day before, but something in his chest relaxed when he saw him. It wasn’t what he had expected, but Arthur’s gaze didn’t have disdain, as if he really wanted to be there. Although confused, Kieran didn’t feel the need to push him away. It wasn’t so bad, not this time. There was something about Arthur that, despite making him nervous, made him feel a little less alone.

Seeing him in his room gave him a small sense of relief. He didn’t want to make Arthur feel bad for kicking him out, but he feared his rude attitude had made him angry. However, Arthur seemed calm, without the anger Kieran had anticipated.

A smile slipped from his lips when he noticed a cup of blueberry tea resting on the nightstand beside his bed.

Arthur could be quite stubborn, apparently.

His heart warmed at the kind gesture, feeling his face flush a little. No one had ever done something so nice for him before. He was starting to feel a little shy, unsure if he fully liked it.

He must have been staring at the cup for quite some time, because Arthur soon realized he was awake, setting the book aside.

“Do you want me to hand it to you?” he asked, breaking the soft silence in the room. Kieran considered it for a moment, very tempted to refuse the care from Arthur, but decided not to.

Arthur had gone through the trouble of collecting the plants for him, so he wasn’t going to be ungrateful.

Although it embarrassed him, he would accept it. It wasn’t anything bad, just tea.

“Uh... yeah, please,” he answered awkwardly, still embarrassed that Arthur had witnessed his outburst the day before.

The man carefully took the cup and brought it close enough for Kieran to take it easily. The liquid inside was still steaming, and it had been strained, there were no fruit or herb pieces in it.

“Thanks, Arthur,” Kieran said before taking a sip of the drink. It tasted good, though a little bitter, the warmth was welcome inside his body. He could almost feel his muscles relax with every sip.

Arthur stared at him intently while he drank, scrutinizing him in silence. “Is it good?” he asked suddenly. Kieran pulled the cup away from his lips, resting it on his lap and letting out a sigh of satisfaction at the light feeling in his stomach.

His face heated at the kindness Arthur was showing him, but it wasn’t from embarrassment. There was something uncomfortable in the way Arthur was treating him; he didn’t feel entirely good about it. It seemed like the man thought he was weak, fragile, even useless. Like he thought Kieran was a burden.

His body felt better from the infusion, but his anxiety only worsened from the suspicion that Arthur saw him as someone less than him.

But that didn’t make sense, it went completely against how Arthur was. Yes, he could be a bad person, well, he was a bad person, but not like that.

He didn’t despise people for who they were—black, immigrants, whatever. It seemed like Arthur hated people equally, regardless of who they were, but there was something in that hate Kieran couldn’t fully understand. He wasn’t the type of person to go out of his way for someone... but maybe, just maybe, not everything about him was despicable.

It wasn’t for nothing that he had saved Kieran. He could have easily not gone, leaving him to die alone.

But he did. He did, and that only confused his mind. He couldn’t be that bad if he cared enough to go look for him.

He forced himself not to overthink so much, but he still couldn’t understand what was happening. His thoughts kept spinning, but he tried to focus on the moment, on the warmth of the tea, on the company. That was the only thing that kept him from getting trapped in his own fears.

“Yeah, it’s good, thanks, Arthur.” He smiled a little, feeling happy for the company, even though the intense gaze Arthur had on him was starting to make him uncomfortable.

Arthur seemed lost in thought for a moment. Kieran kept drinking the tea while watching the man, curious, wondering what was going through his head that kept him silent for so long.

“Uh... what’s your horse’s name?” Arthur asked after a long silence. Kieran raised an eyebrow at the unusual behavior of the man, but figured he was just tired.

“His name is Branwen, and yours?” He continued the conversation, talking about horses was always pleasant to him. The rhythm of the conversation was odd, but he wasn’t going to complain, he’d rather have a strange chat than talk about what had happened before.

“Mine is called Princesa, but... Branwen? It’s a good name, but I thought you had a stallion.” Arthur seemed genuinely curious.

For his part, Princesa seemed like an interesting name, he had never heard a name like that before. “Really? To me, it’s a nice name,” Kieran replied, having no idea what Arthur meant. Why would he think Branwen was a mare’s name?

“I’m not sure where I heard that name, but I’ve always liked it. Maybe mom mentioned it once…” His voice trailed off at the end, as if those words were too delicate to say.

Arthur understood Kieran’s silence—losing family was hard.
“So it’s a special name, fits your horse well,” he said softly, wanting to avoid a topic that seemed serious.

“He gets along with my horse, you know? Yesterday, I brushed them both, and when I was done, they lay down together.” Arthur said, smiling at the memory of the animals resting side by side.

Kieran watched the kind expression on the man’s face.
“Really? Thanks for taking care of my horse, Arthur. I wish I could see him.” The young man sighed. That wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

Grimshaw had made it very clear that he wouldn’t be able to move for a while to let his ribs heal, and it bothered him to stay still.

He needed to do something, anything, to feel useful, to avoid thinking that he was a burden—and, most of all, to stop remembering what they did to him while he was captive.

Kieran coughed a little, feeling a sting in his ribs from talking so much, almost as if his body was warning him not to do anything foolish.

He decided to listen.

He curled up in his place. He had just woken up but was beginning to feel drowsy.

The silence stretched, awkward this time. Neither of them knew how to continue the conversation. Kieran glanced at Arthur shifting in his seat, visibly uncomfortable.

Finally, Arthur broke the silence, but Kieran didn’t feel relieved this time.
“You wouldn’t want me to bring you a book, would you? I’m sure you’re bored out of your mind here,” Arthur offered with a small smile.

Kieran felt his face heat up again, embarrassment flooding him. It wasn’t Arthur’s fault, but... it was harder than he thought.
“Oh, Arthur…” His voice trembled, and he swallowed, looking for something to say to ease the awkwardness of the situation. His fingers curled around the empty cup. “I don’t know how to read,” he murmured, barely audible.

Arthur went silent for a moment, confused. He awkwardly raised the book, as if afraid it might hurt him.
“Oh... uh, that’s fine,” he said, trying to ease the situation. “It’s nothing bad, I... learned because Dutch taught us.”

Kieran stayed quiet, the heat of shame still heavy on him. He tried to calm himself. He shouldn’t be so tense, it wasn’t that big of a deal. He lifted his gaze, seeing Arthur lost in his thoughts.

“How old were you when you learned to read?” Kieran asked, determined to change the subject.

Arthur thought for a moment.
“Uh... about 12. I’m not a genius, but... you know, Dutch taught us.”

Kieran nodded, feeling the discomfort begin to fade. But something made him stop.
“Arthur…” he began, his voice trembling as he spoke, almost not believing it, “I’m already 26.”

Arthur stopped rubbing the book and looked at him, slightly taken aback.
“What?”

“26,” Kieran repeated, half-smiling. “I’m not a kid.” He chuckled a little at the end.

Arthur, confused, didn’t know what to say. He felt guilty, as if he’d made a mistake.
“Ah... I didn’t mean it like that... It’s, it’s different.”

Kieran raised his hand gently.
“It’s okay, Arthur. Don’t worry. Not everyone... not everyone has the same luck.”

Arthur sighed, scratching his head, and tried to lighten the mood.
“Well, if you get really bored... I can read to you or bring whatever you need.”

Kieran nodded, a little more relaxed.
“Don’t worry, Arthur. It’s fine.”

Arthur quickly stood up, as if relieved that the situation had improved, even if only slightly.
“Yeah, sure... I’ll bring more plants tomorrow. I promise.”

Before he left, he gave one last glance, and Kieran, with a small gesture, nodded in thanks. Though the air was still a bit tense, it felt a little lighter.

. . .

He fled straight to his room and fell onto the bed, bringing his hands to his head as he thought about what had just happened.

Why had he acted like that? He felt strange, like he’d made a huge mistake. He was sure he had made Kieran uncomfortable. Why the hell had he kept staring at him so much? He sighed loudly and tossed the journal aside, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Also, he basically called him ignorant. It was an honest mistake, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. He could still see the mortified look on Kieran’s face when he mentioned the books, as if he’d hurt him more than he intended.

But there was something else that bothered him. Something he couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried.

His heart had skipped a beat when Kieran smiled. That image... It wasn’t just the smile, it was the way his eyes softened, the way it seemed like all the weight in the world disappeared for a moment. It felt good, warm and strange, like he had been caught off guard. His mind froze in that moment, unable to do anything but admire him.

Maybe he was just happy to see Kieran feeling good enough to smile. Yeah, that had to be it.

But he couldn’t ignore the heat that rose in his face when he saw it. Something in that smile made him feel vulnerable, as if it exposed him to something he wasn’t ready to face. Every time he closed his eyes, the image returned, clear and persistent, etched somewhere in his mind.

He had already tried drawing it, hoping that would help release the feeling. But even putting it on paper, Kieran’s face was still there, as clear as before. As if mocking him was its new mission.

He frowned, almost annoyed with himself. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about this? It was frustrating, irritating... and somehow, inevitable.

He finally gave in. It didn’t make sense to keep fighting something that clearly wasn’t going to disappear. He got out of bed, shaking the tension from his shoulders. There were plants to gather, and this time, he planned to leave Lemoyne. A bit of fresh air would do him good, or at least, that’s what he hoped.

. . .

It had been a whole month since Arthur saved him, and although it was awkward at first, little by little, he began to feel more comfortable with the man’s presence.

He could hardly believe how different Arthur was now. Arthur was kind, attentive, and careful—nothing like the cruelty, even malice, he had perceived from him when they first met.

Maybe he was changing, and although he’d never admit it, Kieran liked seeing him that way.

Was it really possible for someone to change so much? Sometimes, he wanted to believe Arthur acted like this because he was trying to be a good person. But he couldn’t help thinking that maybe he was only this way with people he liked. The thought unsettled him, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

He couldn’t decide which of the two possibilities seemed more likely. Perhaps it was a combination of both.

His body didn’t hurt as much anymore; most of the cuts had healed, though some still bothered him. According to Mrs. Grimshaw, his ribs were better but still fragile. Supposedly, he could move around a little to start regaining strength, but when he tried, he barely managed a few shaky steps before feeling utterly exhausted. The effort of carrying his own weight after so much time resting left him gasping for air.

And his nails… Better not to talk about his left hand; he wouldn’t be able to use it for several more months.

At least his face was no longer bruised, and his nose had healed well. But he couldn’t bring himself to remove the bandage over his left eye. Accepting the reality of living with a useless eye was something he wasn’t ready to face. Every time he thought about taking off the bandage, an overwhelming emptiness paralyzed him. It was easier to pretend it could still heal.

Some days, he felt like he was making progress—managing a few steps, dressing without help. But other days… Other days, he felt so useless that he couldn’t do anything but lie silently in bed, crying.

Today, luckily, seemed like a good day.

He got up on his own to take care of his needs, making sure to do it early to avoid running into anyone who might see him struggling miserably on his way to the designated area. But the important thing was that he’d done it. He also changed his clothes, patiently waiting for his favorite part of the day.

The moment Arthur arrived.

Lately, it was what he looked forward to the most. Each day, Arthur would show up with a plant from who knows where and read him a book while Kieran enjoyed some tea. Sometimes, they talked instead of reading, and the conversations were surprisingly pleasant. He never thought he’d have so much in common with Arthur—the man he once saw as merciless.

It was unbelievable. Arthur… he was changing.

So why did he feel so anxious today? His heart was beating uncomfortably fast, causing a slight nausea. Maybe he had pushed himself too hard. He looked at his right hand, noticing it was trembling. He was still so weak, and he hated it.

He was lost in his thoughts when Arthur arrived, but for the first time, he didn’t feel happy to see him.

Arthur came in, a plant in one hand and a cup in the other, but for some reason, Kieran didn’t feel the usual joy that filled him at his presence. Arthur looked at him with those soft eyes, and something in his gaze made Kieran feel small—more vulnerable than ever. It wasn’t pity that he saw, but there was something in Arthur’s expression that made him feel fragile, as if he could break with a single gesture.

But why was he looking at him like that? Like he was a dying dog, like he was about to disappear.

The pain started creeping in, slowly, like an annoying tingling in his arms, then building into a constant ache burning through his chest.

I don’t want him to see me like this. Damn it, I don’t want anyone to see me like this.

His body wasn’t helping; he felt even worse than before. Weakness surrounded him like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

“Hey, Kieran,” Arthur said in his usual calm voice, placing the plant on the table beside him. “Look what I found today. Thought you might like it.”

Kieran barely glanced at the plant. His irritation was growing. Why did he have to be so kind all the time?

“How are you feeling today?” Arthur continued, taking off his hat before sitting down.

“Fine,” Kieran replied, his tone sharper than he intended.

Arthur looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. But something in his gaze made Kieran feel like he was about to shatter.

Every word weighed on him. Each one seemed like a reminder of how much he depended on Arthur—of how useless he still was. Anxiety tightened around him, his mind foggy, barely registering what Arthur was reading.

Before he realized it, the words escaped his lips.

“Damn it, Arthur! Just leave me alone for a bit, will you? Thanks for coming, but I don’t feel like seeing anyone, okay?”

His voice wavered at the end, but he tried to sound firm. He couldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes—not when the regret was already rising like scorching heat up his neck.

Arthur remained silent, looking at him with a raised brow, surprised but unmoving. Kieran clenched his fists, hating himself for lashing out at the one person who seemed to care about him.

“I’m not in the mood,” he muttered, trying to sound less harsh, though his words came out shaky.

Arthur stayed quiet, not moving, just observing him. Kieran’s fists tightened, wishing he hadn’t reacted like that. When Arthur nodded slowly and left the plant and cup on the table before walking out, Kieran felt like he was sinking into the ground.

When the door closed, Kieran collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. He felt stupid, ashamed. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he had done. And the worst part was that it was too late to fix it now.

He looked at the plant left on the table—a small bouquet of lavender. Its soft scent reached his nose, and, unable to hold it in, the tears began to fall. They came all at once, as if nothing else could keep them back. The pain tore through him, as though everything he’d been trying to hide had surfaced at once.

He covered his face, feeling like everything Arthur had done for him didn’t deserve that reaction. Why had he ruined it all? Why couldn’t he just accept it? Every sob made him feel more vulnerable, but he couldn’t stop.

Now he was alone. But that was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

Chapter Text

With heavy steps, he walked straight toward the house.

He clenched his teeth slightly, feeling anger start to bubble within him. He was mad at Kieran.

It was the second time the boy had sent him away, and both times it had been rather rude and... desperate.

Arthur let out a slow sigh, dragging a rough hand over his face as the memories replayed in his mind. The way Kieran had looked at him—like a cornered animal trying to act tough despite knowing he couldn’t fight back—lingered stubbornly.

He adjusted his hat, his steps steady, though his anger was slow to fade. Not entirely, though.

Even so, the sting remained. Why couldn’t Kieran just tell him he wasn’t comfortable around him? Why push him away like that? He’d treated him as if he were one of the ones who had hurt him, and that feeling—that distrust—was a strange sensation, but, above all, a heartbreaking one.

Kieran hadn’t meant it in a bad way—Arthur could see that now. And yet, that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. It didn’t take away the irritation curling in his gut, the disappointment lingering in his chest.

His fingers twitched at his sides. Maybe it would be best to leave Kieran alone for a while. Give him time to breathe, to see that Arthur wasn’t a threat. Maybe, once he’d recovered a bit more, he’d stop looking at him like that.

And if Arthur was being honest with himself... he didn’t feel like seeing Kieran right now either.

He’d thought things were getting better. That Kieran had started to trust him. But maybe that had just been wishful thinking. Maybe Kieran had never stopped wondering if, deep down, Arthur wasn’t so different from the ones who’d hurt him.

And that thought… left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Arthur!"

Dutch’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

He looked up and saw him approaching with a firm stride, carrying that air of authority that never seemed to leave his posture. Behind him, like a sticky shadow, Micah followed with a barely concealed smirk.

He really wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, especially not someone who brought Micah along.

"I’ve been looking for you for a while, you know?" Dutch stopped in front of him, his gaze hard and fixed on Arthur’s face. "We’ve got no time to waste, son. We need to go to Saint Denis. Gather your things; Lenny’s coming with us."

"Now?" Arthur asked dumbly, still somewhat confused by Dutch’s urgency.

Dutch frowned, his voice growing graver.

"Yes, now. The situation’s changed. I’ve got crucial information, and we need to act fast," he said, casting a glance at Micah, who remained silent, watching the exchange with his eternal smug grin.

Arthur furrowed his brow, feeling that something about this didn’t sit right. But Dutch’s gaze, his confident tone, made it hard to resist.

"And Micah? What’s he got to do with this?" Arthur asked, still skeptical.

Dutch let out a small laugh, as if the question were unnecessary.

"We were just talking, son. Come on, stop interrogating me. We’ve got to leave if we want to make it in time."

Arthur gritted his teeth, but before he could respond, Dutch leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a more persuasive tone.

"You’ve got to focus on what matters, Arthur." His tone sounded almost paternal. "I know you’ve got a good heart, but this isn’t the time to play nursemaid. Kieran’s fine; he doesn’t need you looking after him anymore. But the gang does need you."

Arthur felt a knot form in his stomach.

Dutch’s words stuck in his mind like a needle, with that unsettling ease he had for getting under his skin.

Was he getting distracted?

Arthur swallowed hard.

Dutch was the only one who truly saw the big picture.

He was always right.

Maybe Arthur had lost sight of what mattered. Maybe all of this—his confused feelings—were just signs that he was straying from the gang.

"You’re right," he murmured, not entirely sure if he was saying it to Dutch or to himself.

And yet, the discomfort lingered, persistent, like a pebble in his boot.

"I trust you, Arthur. I don’t want any more distractions. I need the men I can count on."

Arthur stared at an empty spot on the ground, his jaw tight.

Over the past few days, he’d spent too much time thinking about Kieran. First, worrying about finding him, then watching over him, making sure he was all right. And in the end...

In the end, what had he achieved? The boy rejected him. Pushed him away as if he were just another threat.

And meanwhile, the gang was teetering on the brink of ruin.

Dutch was right about that.

Dutch trusted him. The gang needed him.

"You’re right," he said at last, more to close the conversation than because he truly believed it.

"Of course I am, son." Dutch patted him on the shoulder, smiling with that unshakable confidence.

"Exactly, boss, as always," Micah chimed in with his usual sycophantic tone, watching as Arthur made his way to his horse.

Arthur didn’t respond. He wasn’t in the mood to waste any more time. He turned away from the conversation, but he couldn’t help hearing Micah’s mocking laughter, floating in the air like venom.

"An O’Driscoll, Arthur? Didn’t think you could sink that low..."

Micah’s voice reached him as he walked away, the comment dripping with that blend of disdain and amusement.

The damn chill wouldn’t leave him.

He knew Dutch was right, but his body refused to respond.

Something inside him still resisted—a whisper of doubt that kept him frozen, as if the very air had grown heavier. An unpleasant pressure settled in his chest, and his steps faltered. He was trapped between the weight of Dutch’s words and the uncomfortable murmur of his own conscience, as though something—a truth he didn’t want to admit—was holding him back.

Finally, his feet began to move, but the heaviness remained, dragging each step toward the horse as if he were crawling.

. . .

The sun woke him once more, its warm light gently touching his face, but this time, it wasn’t comforting.

He opened his uncovered eye, wanting to get up, to do anything to distract himself.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

Because, besides being ungrateful, he was injured—unable to be useful to anyone, not even himself. His body felt heavy, and although his mind wanted to act, his body refused. The sheets clung to his sweaty skin, and the weight of being a burden suffocated him. What kind of man was he, unable to even get up on his own?

He couldn’t rely on Arthur—not anymore. If he had no help, he would have to face it alone. But deep down, he didn’t want to be alone. And the thought of Arthur not coming back, though he had once wished for it, now left him with a painful emptiness in his chest.

Kieran knew Arthur wouldn’t return. He knew all too well that this time, he’d gone too far. He had wished to be alone, and now he was. But this solitude wasn’t what he had imagined. It was like the swamp he feared so much: thick, dark, and suffocating.

He remembered his conversation with the Reverend from so many days ago. Though blurry, his words rang true. It didn’t matter—not entirely, at least—what he had said to Arthur. The only thing that mattered was what he would do in the future.

And he would make sure to make things right. He was going to get better, and when he could walk without worry, he’d apologize to Arthur, and maybe—just maybe—they could become friends.

The thought made him smile a little. He hoped it could really happen.

But he had to start somewhere, even if it was small.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he touched the bandage over his bad eye with trembling fingers, untying the knot. The pain from the wound was one thing, but the deeper pain was the one piercing his heart—the discomfort of his own vulnerability.

“It’s just an eye,” he murmured to himself, as if that could make him feel better. But when the fabric fell to the floor, he didn’t dare look.

He kept his eyes tightly shut, frozen for a long moment until he felt brave enough to open them.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, one at a time, and his heart sank when he realized that, indeed, his eye hadn’t healed at all.

He had hoped it would get better, even if just a little.

But it hadn’t. And now the blurry vision in his bad eye disoriented him.

Even so, he knew he had to be strong, once and for all. He wanted to be able to stand on his own.

He was going to make it. He wouldn’t stop until nothing could stop him from being free.

He would make himself strong and escape.

He’d leave the gang behind—all of his past—and finally live the way he’d always wanted.

In peace, honestly.

. . .

The days passed slowly after Arthur stopped visiting.

The swamp was as revolting as ever, but now that he could move around more, he had begun to hate a certain hour of the day.

That hour when twilight began to settle over the sky, when, despite the beautiful gradient of warm colors that painted the endless heavens, the encroaching darkness filled him with dread.

At that terrible hour, he completely lost vision in his bad eye. But it wasn’t just that.

Nature seemed to conspire against him, with strange noises coming from the depths of the swamp.

And above all, the twisted shadows of the trees began to stalk the camp like monsters, waiting for any sign of weakness to drag him into the heart of the damp forest and finish him off without anyone noticing.

But at least enough time had passed for him to feel confident that he could walk around a bit without hurting himself... or getting tired.

He was going to make the most of it before he had to go back to work.

He left the medical tent carefully, heading straight to the last place he had seen Branwen, his steps slow but determined.

Before he could get there, someone interrupted him.

At first, he felt a slight jolt of fear, but relief washed over him when he recognized the person standing before him.

“Oh, Kieran, you’re up.” Mary-Beth’s voice was as light and sweet as always.

He tried to smile a little. It didn’t quite work, but at least with Mary-Beth, he didn’t have to pretend so much.

“Uh... yeah, you too.” As soon as he spoke, he wanted to smack his forehead. Of course, she was standing—she was healthy.

For a second, Kieran thought he saw surprise flash across her face, as if she hadn’t expected to see him out of the tent so soon. But it quickly vanished, replaced by something much warmer.

The girl let out a soft laugh, covering her mouth with one hand as she took a few steps closer to him. Kieran looked away as soon as she got too close, unsure of what to do with his hands.

“It looks like you’ve healed up quite well. Oh, Kieran, I’m so glad you’re okay...”

His tone was so honest that Kieran felt a slight lump form in his throat. He didn’t have much time to think about it, because before he could react, Mary-Beth wrapped him in a firm hug.

His body went rigid instinctively. His breath caught for a moment.

He hadn’t expected it. His brain took a couple of seconds to process that there was no danger, that he didn’t need to pull away. When he did, the impact of the physical contact still left a slight tingling on his skin.

Mary-Beth sobbed softly before pulling back a little. However, her face didn’t reflect sadness. She was smiling with a tenderness that made Kieran feel an uncomfortable warmth rise to his cheeks.

“I thought… I thought you wouldn’t make it.”

Kieran looked away again, embarrassed. After all, Mary-Beth had always been such a beautiful girl, but what truly puzzled him was how easily she was kind to him. He’d never met anyone like that—someone who treated everyone with kindness without expecting anything in return. And especially not now, after he had been an O'Driscoll. Most people barely spoke to him before joining in the mocking or the suspicious stares, but she... she always seemed willing to treat him with sweetness, as if he had never been bad.

Mary-Beth hurriedly wiped her tears away as she glanced in the direction Kieran had been heading until she had interrupted him.

“Oh… you want to see Branwen, right?” she asked with a gentle smile.

He hesitated for a moment, surprised at how quickly she had guessed his intention. Was it that obvious? He shifted uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “Uh, yes, miss.”

She tilted her head with amusement, but then her gaze dropped to his hand, wrapped in bandages.

“Are you sure you can clean it?” she asked with a hint of concern.

Kieran followed her gaze and instinctively flexed the fingers of his injured hand, only to be reminded of how useless it still was. But he lifted the other one with a small smile.

“I still have this one.”

Mary-Beth didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she didn’t insist. Instead, she walked with him to where Branwen was.

With every step, the weight in his chest grew heavier.

The swamp was near. Not so close as to truly worry, but close enough to make his skin feel too tight. He couldn’t help it. His eyes kept darting from side to side, alert to any movement between the trees. His steps became more tense, as though he expected something to jump out at him. Without realizing it, his injured fist clenched tightly, causing a slight pulse of pain that forced him to relax it.

You’re not in the swamp. You’re not alone.

When he reached Branwen, his breathing had become a little more erratic.

“Kieran…” Mary-Beth watched him closely, as if she knew exactly what was going on. She didn’t say anything, but after a moment of hesitation, she slid her hand into her pocket and pulled something out.

“I wanted to give you this.” She said, extending a book with a shiny black cover to him.

“A book?”

“Yes. It’s called Black Beauty .”

Kieran blinked. He still hadn’t fully learned how to read, and to be honest, much of what Mary-Beth had taught him before that happened, he’d already forgotten.

He took the book into his hands, admiring the symbols on the cover.

“Uh… looks nice, what’s it about?” he asked, hoping Mary-Beth wouldn’t ask him to read it. He didn’t want to expose his ignorance just yet.

“Yes. I kept it because I thought you might like it…” Her voice was calm, but he noticed a slight hesitation in her gaze. As if she doubted whether to give it to him. Until she stopped doubting.

“Oh, yeah, it’s about horses,” she added with confidence, as though it were a fact that would make him love the book.

And she wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Horses?” he asked, now intrigued.

Kieran couldn’t help it. The idea of a book all about horses seemed strangely fun, but also… good. He looked at it with curiosity, feeling for the first time since he had come close to the swamp that it wasn’t pressing down on him with its mere presence.

“You can, uh… read it while I brush Branwen? You know, I can’t really read books with one hand,” he explained awkwardly, handing the book back to the young woman, who didn’t seem convinced at all by his silly excuse.

Mary-Beth smiled knowingly and took the book into her hands, then settled onto a nearby log.

He, with his still-trembling hand from the proximity to the swamp, took the brush from his saddlebags, smiling a little as he saw the fish patch sewn onto his horse's bag.

Branwen snorted loudly before pushing his head against him, eager for attention. Kieran almost stumbled from the force, but he laughed a little and lifted his bad hand to stroke him clumsily.

He had missed him. More than he thought possible. Branwen was still as warm, as reliable as ever. He felt a lump in his throat, but he swallowed it quickly. He wasn’t going to cry in front of Mary-Beth.

“I missed you too, Branwen.” He gently brushed his horse, who kept stamping the ground happily, thrilled to be reunited with his owner. Kieran gave him a sad smile, hoping he’d never have to leave him again.

Mary-Beth waited until he settled, then opened the book and began reading.

Kieran immediately looked up, intrigued. Her voice was calm, measured, but there was something in the way she read that made the words flow naturally.

It was different from the books Arthur had read to him before. It didn’t have that heavy seriousness. Instead, it felt light, though somewhat melancholic.

He realized he was listening more attentively than he had planned. His hand slowly passed over Branwen’s back, relaxing more with each word.

Maybe the swamp wasn’t so bad.

As long as he wasn’t alone.

“Eh… what does that mean?” He interrupted the reading, turning a bit to look at the girl.

Mary-Beth lowered the book and smiled at him. “Which one?” 

Kieran repeated the word with curiosity.

Mary-Beth explained it to him patiently, and he nodded, thinking about how strangely good it felt. With his horse, the sound of the pages turning, and Mary-Beth's voice filling the air. As if, for a moment, just for a moment, he didn’t have to think about anything else.

. . .

She saw him step out of the tent, and her heart cracked just a little. He looked so… different. His face… it had been a long time since she had last seen it without bandages, but she could tell it wasn’t the same.

His right eye looked slightly smaller than the other, and his hair was longer, but that wasn’t all. He walked with extreme slowness, taking small, hesitant steps, and he looked nervous. His eyes darted swiftly over the trees, as if he feared a monster lurked among them.

The sight was disheartening. Kieran had never been the bravest, but seeing him reduced to such a paranoid state made a grimace settle on her face.

So, she decided to follow him. She rummaged through her things until she found a book, its black cover gleaming from how new it was—a recent gift for someone dear.

A smile formed on her lips, and her thoughts brightened. Her mind conjured the most exquisite illusions: countless scenarios where Kieran, joyful and at ease, enjoyed reading in her company.

Imagining him laughing made her heart race. Oh, what a wonderful person she had come to know! And under such strange circumstances, too—after all, he had once been their prisoner.

She, who had never believed in love, now found herself maddened by it in cruel retaliation. She couldn’t stop dreaming; sweet daydreams emboldened her. She had to do something about this overwhelming feeling.

She hugged the book close, as if it held the key to her love, then tucked it into the pocket of her dress. With determined steps, she approached the thief who had stolen her breath.