Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John had hit Arthur hard this time. So hard, the black ring around his eye was already beginning to form. The two had been at each other's throats for days with the constant bickering that came from siblings being confined to a small space. Dutch and Hosea were out of ideas of how to get them to behave. It had slowly started to escalate and neither of them could relieve the tension that began when John accidentally tripped Arthur in town. Arthur had then 'accidentally' pushed John off his horse to even the score. Both looked completely innocent when the older pair arrived, but as soon as their backs turned they pounced again, intentions renewed by their narrow escapes. Eventually it got out of control and Dutch dragged the two back to camp.

"Boys!" Dutch barked out. "Resolve this conflict now, or so help me you will sleep out with the chickens tonight."

Hosea smothered a laugh with his hand in an attempt to agree with Ducth, but the boys hardly took notice. Arthur was big and bulky, and that little punk had hit him harder than he would have liked to admit.

John was just excited to feel like the big man around camp for once.

For most of the evening they ignored one another, moving in different orbits; the pull of the other's gravity would be simply too tempting not to collide and cause a catastrophic force to rock through their small world with tents like planets and folks wandering around like the stars. Arthur sulked near the campfire which left John to reside on the outer ring near the horses. Something he had become accustomed too lately.

As Arthur approached twenty five years of age John thought him unbearable. Prone to fits of rage as he outgrew his own skin and changed into a man who was a stranger, John was often cast aside. The little brother hidden in his shadow. When John was first brought to camp Arthur took him under his wing, knowing how hard it was to stick out and be different. But lately no one knew what Arthur was thinking. It felt like the earth had subtly shifted below John’s feet.

“John? You hiding out over here?”

John was, and Arthur knew it. It was a great place to sit if you didn’t want anyone to know you were upset, and it wasn’t like the horses would breathe a word.

Arthur sighed heavily, as if the world rested on his young shoulders. “Sorry I threw you from your horse.”

“Sorry I hit you in the face.” Arthur laughed and shoved John’s small frame in response, easing any tension that had built through the evening.

“If it leaves a mark, then you’ll be sorry.”

“If?” John swung around incredulously. “You seen yourself? That’ll be a big shiner by morning.”

“Ah, Jesus. Well Mary will love that.” Arthur’s voice was muffled as he ran a hand over his face, gingerly avoiding his eye.

“Who’s Mary?”

“No one.” His answer was quick, but didn’t escape John. Silence fell between the two, and Arthur reached over again. This time he grabbed John’s shoulder gently.

“You’ll be alright, kid. Inner ring now. Family.”

“Brothers?” The hope in his small voice was palpable, and secretly made Arthur’s heart swell.

“Brothers forever.”

Chapter Text

Heidi McCourt was never meant to be there. The ferry ride in Blackwater was a spontaneous idea that was driven by the handsome face of a man boarding up ahead and the enticing call of the open water, smooth and colorful in the midday sun. It was a simple pleasure, but it would be her last.

Her son was at home practicing piano, and she knew that once the ferry docked she would be able to walk back and listen to the soft notes float through the air to accompany her up the path. She would push open the metal gate that always squeaked, avoid the third brick on the right as it tended to sink after these days of rain, and climb the four short steps up to the front door. Heidi would be greeted by a loving, happy family with a kiss on the cheek.

But this, of course, did not come to pass.

Instead, Heidi was greeted by a gang of outlaws seeking to rob the bank ferry disguised as a passenger transfer. The only kiss against her skin was that of a cold metal gun shaking in the hands of Dutch Van der Linde, their supposed leader, who had desperation seeping out of every pore. The third step she was forced to take caused the floorboard to sink a bit, and the door to the captain’s quarters squeaked as it opened. All of this was a terrible reminder of what could happen and what she was most likely about to lose.

All of this due to mindless violence.

The dark clad man behind her had grabbed her arm far too tight and to distract herself she focused upwards on the sky. Delicate clouds floated by and reminded her of sending paper boats down the river with her son. He had screamed with absolute joy as they bobbed on the water that day. It was nothing like the screams echoing on the deck around her. Terror watched like a cloaked figure on the ferry and snarled as the thieves managed to find a way into the safe, raising the stakes for all of those unfortunate enough to be onboard. That’s when Dutch’s bandana slipped, and Heidi saw his face for the first time.

It truly was the final nail in her coffin.

Heidi knew escaping her circumstance was unlikely before but now that she had seen Dutch exposed she was doomed. A liability they couldn't afford, the pair reached the conclusion at the same time. She struggled against him but Dutch was stronger. Almost no emotion passed over his face as he shoved her back against the wooden slats of the small office and aimed the barrel straight at her right eye, praying to heaven above that someone, anyone, would forgive him for what he was about to do. His family was in danger and he would do whatever it took to keep them safe.

Even kill an innocent woman.

None of it truly made sense, but Dutch whispered an apology and pulled the trigger, justifying his actions as a means to an end. They were so close to freedom but as he stared at the dead woman in front of him he felt he would never reach it. How had it come to this? What mindless acts had sent him down this path to feel at home holding a smoking gun in front of a dead body? Dutch closed his eyes and silently prayed that Heidi found peace in whatever life she had next.

She never should have been on that damn boat.

Chapter Text

“Dammit, Arthur, you know I hate being the bait.”

Lenny shuffled his feet back and forth in the cold winter snow to keep warm while waiting for the next wagon to arrive. Arthur had been particularly brutal about dressing the younger man for his part and left him in near tatters to draw in wealthy wagons to be robbed. A chuckle from the woods alerted Lenny to where his companion was hiding, and he threw a rock in the general direction of the sound. It hit a tree and the crack echoed out down the trail.

“Hey! Keep it down, Summers, or we’ll have to switch parts and I know you’re no good at robbing folk like this. I’m bigger and meaner than you.”

Lenny muttered a few choice words and rolled his eyes, even though he knew what Arthur said was true. Maybe just about the bigger part. Lenny could act plenty mean if he needed to.

The steady sound of horse hooves approaching quieted the two men, and Lenny hunched over for dramatic effect. The particular stretch of land he and Arthur had decided to rob only catered to wealthy folks traveling from city to city, so they had no guilt in tricking people.

“Help! Oh, God please help. My horse up and bolted and I’m out here alone. Someone tried to attack me and I just got away.”

Every time it started the same. Questions, so many questions. Looks of concern from the women folk and bolstering words from the men. Sometimes a tear or two was shed at his sob story. If he was lucky they gave him a jacket. Or whiskey, he especially liked when that happened. After enough time had passed, Arthur would ride up with his bandana on and threaten the hell out of the kind folks and take just enough to leave them with stories of wild outlaw adventures. Lenny would be scooped up onto the back of his horse, and the two would ride off and hide until the wagon decided to carry on.

It worked like a charm every time.

“Lenny!” Arthur called out after counting their latest haul. The younger man was dressing into thicker clothes but walked over to see what he wanted.

“That was a pretty good run today, kid. We should do this again soon.”

A blush of pride spread across Lenny’s cheeks at the praise. “It’s easy tricking folks into believing what you want, learned that from watching you and Hosea. The two of you make robbing look like a work of art.”

Arthur scoffed as he handed Lenny his cut from the day. “Ain’t too hard, I’ll show you some tricks. I ever tell you about the time we brought John along? Figured not. Didn’t go too well, Dutch just about skinned him alive after.”

“Why? What’d he do?”

Arthur started laughing while he spoke, “Something dumb, no surprise. But Hosea took it out on him in a particularly cruel way. Said it would draw more attention and boy was he right. Made him stand out wearing a dress, and near froze off his, well, you know. Sure was funny but I will say, we brought in more cash that day than any other I’ve been out!”

Lenny soon joined in, imagining John scowling in a frilly pink dress. An idea struck him that he tried to relay in between fits of laughter. “Next time, we are bringing him along as the bait!”

Chapter Text

Bessie had always loved her birthday. Hosea made a fuss every year over decorations and baking a cake in her favorite chocolate flavor with bright white vanilla frosting, and forced the whole gang to sing. She adored the attention, although she would never admit it.

Young John and Arthur loved watching Hosea cook. Both of them were terrible so it was good to learn how it was actually done. The camp cook would provide the ingredients but Hosea insisted this was one thing he would do.

The feeling of something as soft and delicate as flour on his hands took away the memories of all the things he had done in the name of protection.

Hosea called the boys over as he rolled up his sleeves, laying out his plan before them. First, in a big bowl, flour, baking powder, and salt were mixed together with the special tool Cook called a whisk. In a smaller ceramic Hosea would let the boys stir the sugar and butter together. They always fought over who would go first, so Hosea made sure they had enough to divide the job evenly. Bessie had a sweet tooth so a special trip was made to whatever town they happened to be near. She loved vanilla especially. Then, once all of the separate ingredients were ready Hosea would pour them into the large bowl to blend and swirl together. After an hour of baking, the three of them had created something beautiful from ingredients that used to be divided.

One year, John knocked the salt off the baking table and never told Hosea he didn’t mix it in causing the whole camp to pretend the cake still tasted as wonderful as it usually did. Bessie winked when a baffled Hosea apologized over and over, destitute that her birthday was not perfect as he had planned. Secretly she watched the younger boy frantically kick the spice around in an attempt to hide the evidence.

While the cake was always a nice touch, the best part of her birthday was being around those she loved.

Hosea was kind and loving, and fiercely protective of those he cared for. He had fallen for Bessie almost immediately, but waited ages until everything was planned out in his head before making a move. She had agreed to his date before he even finished asking and questioned why he had taken so long.

Dutch was a silver tongued charmer who had an idealized way of life in his head, and only wanted the best for those loyal to him. He loved Hosea, and for that Bessie could never fault him.

Arthur was a rowdy and wild thing on the outside, but secretly caring and thoughtful. He had been scribbling away in the journal she had bought him and Bessie watched him calm down and mature into a more careful human.

John was foolish, too, but in the invincible way that young boys were. Nearly indestructible, he was learning fast and was shaping up to be quite the handful for Hosea and Dutch, yet was exactly what they needed.

Bessie loved her boys very, very much and every year pretended to be surprised by the hush that fell over the camp just before a collective breath was taken.

“Happy birthday to you!”

Chapter Text

Charles ran his hand over the wood, feeling the bend and warp of time that had grown to create something just for him. The tree was springy, which was what he needed, and snapped after a few tries of stepping down hard on the base.

This would make an impeccable bow.

First he would need to strip the bark from the wood. This took time, but piece by piece he exposed the lighter, softer surface underneath that could later be carved with designs to inspire him during a hunt. His ancestors had hunted the same way and he felt the power coursing through him as he imitated the same motions that had been repeated for centuries. The act of standing poised with a bow helped him feel close to the Native American side of his family.

Hunting was never something Charles thrilled to do. Sure, it fed those he cared for and was good exercise, but taking an innocent life was not something he relished. Luckily he had been trained not to waste an ounce of what he cut down. It somewhat eased his mind as the string flew by his cheek after being released from his fingers.

The string he used was made of animal sinew. One of the many ways he made sure that all aspects of this life were utilized. Charles carefully braided the string together to be able to withstand his grip, which he knew could be quite strong. Rain or other water would cause it to stretch and warp so he kept it tucked in his coat until he needed to use it.

That was something his grandmother had taught him. Don’t waste, don’t ruin, and only make the best for those you love.

When Charles first learned archery he shot until his fingers bled. Not once during that initial week did he hit the target, but he was so determined that no one told him to stop. He constantly forgot to hold at his anchor point and leaned terribly to the left; ammature mistakes. Looking back it made him laugh at how truly awful he was.

Once his new bow was strong and in his hands, he felt a swell of pride blossom in his chest. Being able to build your own weapon was significant to Charles. Made him feel important and relied upon.

In Mythology the image of the lone hunter was usually a stoic one. Moving in large crowds drew too much noise and caused the game to spook and run off. Charles adopted the same ideology as a young teen, preferring the company of the tall dancing grass and the chirping birds to dancing and gatherings of people. He used to pretend he was hunting alongside Kanati, the guardian of the hunt for the Cherokee people. As the First Man he taught them the ways of the hunt; how to be careful in their movements, responsible with their kills, and that fairness in distribution of the animal would take a people farther than only giving to those who would pay the most.

Charles raised his sights and settled on a deer off towards the horizon. This new bow was heavy in his hands, but with time the weight of his freshly built and carved instrument would become familiar like a second skin. It always did.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, Molly O’Shea would have followed Dutch Van der Linde to the ends of the earth. He had put stars in her eyes and music in her heart and convinced this girl that a life on the run would be full of adventure and excitement, and more wonder than any day stuck in the bustle of a city life could be.

But the problem was that Molly was no longer a girl. She was a woman, and women were harder to fool.

Molly had become extremely critical of Dutch as of late. After years of watching his ways she knew when he was happy or sad, and even when he was lying. Things would get bad, really bad, and she could still read him like a book.

Dutch apologized with gifts. The very first time the gang had to pack up and run for fear the law was chasing them, Dutch brought her a dainty silver pocket mirror covered in etchings of flowers and her name to ease the blow. Everything was quickly forgiven at its sight, and Molly treasured it greatly. She carried it for years as a reminder. At first, it stood for the love Dutch gave her and promised would always last. Later on it only brought her pain and made her heart ache for what her life could have been if she hadn’t left everything behind.

The gifts became more extravagant as time marched forward. Books full of Irish poetry. Dangling pearl earrings. Shiny gold rings. A horse. But instead of showing Molly how much his love had grown, the gifts showed the divide from what he had promised and the reality that was standing before her. A cavern that separated the two lovers farther than any words or acts of charity could try and mend.

Molly and Dutch both refused to acknowledge when things began to take a sour turn. For so long, their love was a binding oath that kept them together and proved to any doubters that this outlaw life was worth fighting for. It inspired, it created, it challenged, and it healed. Love was the greatest invention ever created, after all, and had to be defended at all costs.

Soon the endearing qualities they once found so charming in one another only brought out annoyance or rage.

The soft lilt of Molly’s Dublin accent was no longer the same sweet honey that had first fallen upon his ears. Dutch was reminded of Medusa when finding her curly red hair tucked into the pages of his book and wished Molly would turn to stone and leave him alone to do his work. Whatever it may be that week.

Molly had first been drawn in by Dutch’s way with words and how he very nearly convinced her to part with her mother’s pearl necklace the first time they spoke. She often joked he was a silver tongued devil, but the truth? He was only dipped in a silver plating and time revealed the rust and tarnish that lived just beneath the surface.

No longer was Molly living out her enchanted dream as Prince and Princess ruling over the fair kingdom. In her place was a hollow woman; emptied by years of neglect and lies, and what Dutch often called a monster.

But Dutch had no right to her happily ever after.

If he wished her to be a monster, so be it. Molly would devour and conquer everything that she had grown to despise. Her eyes would glow, her hair would turn to snakes, and anyone who dared to stand in her way would be turned into stone. For she was a woman and a force to be reckoned with, the woman who had enchanted them all.

Chapter Text

Your storm is rolling in, my son,
Your time is drawing near.
There's nothing left to prep or hide,
Stand tall despite your fear.

Face down the ones who dare defy,
Hold fast, my love, be strong.
They missed that dark look in your eyes,
Go now and prove them wrong.

Hold tight to what you love, my dear,
See all your promises through.
For when the midday sun appears,
Your sweet blood will run true.

Your memories will fade away,
Of all you left behind.
But do not fret or worry, love,
They all will join you in time.

The distant cousin of your clan,
Will be the next to go.
Beware the fake call of his past,
The siren's sight is low.

One with grey hair, bold and proud,
Will be shot in the back.
His family will leave him there,
Not able to attack.

Another one will fall that day,
Young and sweet and pure.
He too is shot by poor revenge,
Uncertain and unsure.

The red head beauty, tall and brave,
Will crumble, fall, and crack.
When fear pressed on her all around,
She had no love to track.

Traitor's blood will swing and stop,
His deeds all tumbling down.
For Brother's sake you best watch out,
The winner takes his crown.

When this one falls, unlike the rest,
Her fate is sealed by foes.
The ones who sit and scheme at night,
Red rat eyes who all glow.

Your brother joins you at the gate,
The pain gone from his face.
A smile now greets you, broad and wide,
No doubt that can be traced.

So when this storm comes rolling through,
Don’t hide or look away.
Face your fears or leaving those
Who have been led astray.

The lightning clashes, bold and bright,
But only lights the way.
Rain falls down in waves and sheets,
To cleanse their sins away.

Your family will prosper on, my son,
Their fates sealed on that day.
For life is often clean and pure,
Once the storm rolls on its way.

Chapter Text

"John, close that curtains, it's too damn bright."

Abigail stirred from her side of the bed to wave her arm lazilly in her husband's direction. He had not awoken yet and was still dead to the world, chest rising and falling with each snore passing through his lips.

The blanket was tossed back dramatically at his lack of a reaction, and her bare feet padded across the floor of their bedroom at Beacher's Hope.

John snored louder for a moment as Abigail playfully poked his ribs but he still refused to wake.

“G’d off, woman. Sleep.”

Abigail giggled, “Yes, I know John. But also awake. Come say hello to the day.”

John gave up with a final groan and stared over at Abigail. His annoyance quickly melted away at the sight of her staring out the window with a dreamy look about her. The hair that was usually pulled up into a bun was loose and wavy around her shoulders, and her features were soft in the morning sun. She was a reflection of everything he found good and perfect in the world, even if it took him awhile to notice.

“We should build Jack a swing out there. Tie it up in the tree.”

She pointed out away from the ranch and towards the gazebo. “That big ol’ branch should hold it. We could go into town, or send Uncle since he ain’t helping out too much this week, get some rope, and tie up a swing. I’m sure he’d love it!”

Her excitement was palpable and John rose to meet her. He rested his hands on her shoulders and followed her gaze.

“Abigail. That’s an awful idea.”

Her shoulders dropped and she spun around, clearly upset. “John Marston! Why would that be a terrible idea? A swing in the yard? It’s what every kid wants!”

He chuckled at her reaction. “No, no you’re right. What I meant was that branch is an awful idea. Found a hive of bees out there just last week and nearly died from the stinging. We gotta find a better tree, lord knows there’s plenty out there. How about that? Right up the hill, but we can watch him from the porch or holler if we need him for something. I think he’d like that…”

John was momentarily lost in the thrill of how his life had become. Here he was, an ex outlaw and a fool, with a beautiful woman, a good kid, and two friends who he truly relied upon. John would never admit how happy it all made him but damn if he didn’t appreciate it.

“Why you want a swing, anyhow?”

Abigail mused, chin resting in her hand.

“Guess I always saw swings and knew someone had put the time and effort in, so they must love their kid. It means they have a home, a real home, and that’s what we got here, John. I want Jack to always look back and remember that swing, how you put it up for him and made something only he could enjoy. It’s about love.”

John adored when Abigail spoke like this softly to him. Sometimes they would scream and shout, and he was always afraid he had finally gone too far to make her leave and he would never hear her soft voice again. But he could feel the dream in her heart, and wanted to make that come true.

“Well, my dear. Then I’ll build him a swing.” With a kiss on the cheek he left their room, whistling as he set off to work.

Chapter Text

The ivory keys felt just as she had remembered them. Soft and sticky from years of players gathered around to share a song and a drink. More like spill the drink everywhere, but it gave the piano character.

It all made Tilly smile at the memory.

One year, way back before she was a wife or a mother, Hosea Matthews had taught Tilly how to play the piano. Nothing too complicated, but the hours they spent huddled in the corner of the Valentine saloon were some of her most cherished back from running with the Van der Linde boys. Hosea had picked up on the fact her mind was methodical and she liked puzzles after watcher her whoop half the gang in poker and dominoes round after round. It wasn’t that she loved to gamble, but it was easy for her to watch patterns and repeat them as her own.

Tilly was always very logical. Good with numbers and with people which made her invaluable. While Dutch had his boys, Hosea took Tilly under his wing to bounce ideas off of or see if anyone in camp was acting strange. She was a great judge of character, too.

At first she didn’t want to learn music. Tilly saw no reason why she should sit down to play and instrument that had no place for those on the run, but was quickly persuaded otherwise.

Pick pocketing and playing piano. All in an outlaw days work.

The feeling of running her fingers over the keys struck a chord in her heart, and she memorized the patterns of songs to play and hold the attention of those listening. She couldn’t sing worth a dime but someone always stood to join her in a harmony created by her fingers. The whole process was wonderful to her. The way the rhythm moved through her heart, how she couldn’t help but dance along and close her eyes once she knew the song well enough and she no longer needed to visually confirm the next step.

Her husband found out somehow that she used to play and begged her to, but she never could. The confidence had left her and she hated the attention. But something about bringing her family out to the now big city of Valentine dusted off her nicely placed memories, and brought out the desire to play after all these years.

Tilly’s daughter hopped up on the bench and patted the seat next to her gently, bringing Tilly back to the present.

“Let’s play, Mama. Teach me a song.”

Tilly tried to recall all those songs that had lodged themselves into her brain, all those chords and notes swirling together. Mary Beth and her long skirts dancing around and Karen singing off key. The bottles they drank and the lives they lived so long, long ago.

The first few notes were easy, and cleared out the cobwebs as the rest followed in their places.

Tilly let a giggle pass her lips before starting to sing and play an old favorite of hers. “I’ve got a girl in Valentine…”

Chapter Text

The first snowfall of every year always drove Dutch back up to those mountains. It stirred memories that he no longer shied away from but instead stared directly into, using the pain as a way to prove they were real. Once he acknowledged and came to terms with what he had done it made it easier to relive the days he so desperately missed.

The days when it was just him and Hosea leading an unlikely and unruly pack of folks off to the Promise Land.

Damn if he didn’t miss that man.

Hosea had been quite the match for Dutch back in their younger days. The two had learned many things from each other and constantly pushed the limits to be the best in their field. Some had popped up along the way as challengers, but what use is going head to head with a God if you only have mortal blood flowing through your veins?

Dutch trudged forward in the snow, his knees pushing and clearing a path. He didn’t remember it coming down so heavy last year, or being so damn cold. Maybe he was just getting older.

The two boys Hosea and Dutch raised together were still too painful for Dutch to think about. That was one memory he tended to leave tucked in the back of the drawer; knowing it was there but refusing to bring it to light. A memory for a rainy day.

Each year Dutch brought something with him. Last year had been a harmonica he found, and played some tunes they used to sing around the campfire late at night. Back before Blackwater and that whole mess Hosea used to sing a lot, getting everyone up off their feet to dance and enjoy the evening.

Most nights were now spent huddled from the law, the only light coming from their lanterns as they searched through the dark for the outlaw.

No more lavish meals by the campfire, no more music filling the lonely nights, and no more quiet afternoons spent reading together as the sun moved across the horizon.

Dutch hated nearly every moment of it.

He finally reached his usual spot, and sat down with a heavy sigh. The warped tree stump was still there year after year and signaled the end of his pilgrimage. His trials had been completed, and the warrior could now rest. It was more of a cathartic journey now, not just a physical one. He knew were things went wrong, what choices lead where. Why good people had to die in the name of loyalty and its many faces.

“I’m so sorry, old friend.”

Dutch usually began with an apology, then a toast. He rubbed his eyes to fight back tears that still, after all these years, managed to fight against him and prove him wrong.

Part of Dutch needed to know he still felt sorry for everything that happened.

“Well! Dear Hosea, this year I’m reading from an old book you gave me. No, not that philosophy you hated so much,” he chuckled at the memory, “I...never actually read this book before you passed, and for that I am sorry. But today we shall start together.”

Dutch cleared his throat and glanced out upon the valley of snow. What a scene this was. How he wished Hosea were still here.

“‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…’ Oh Hosea, you sly fox.”

Chapter Text

“I just don’t think my writing is very good…”

Mary Beth sighed as she tore another page out of her journal. It was her fourth draft of the same story and nothing seemed to be working. With each line her writing took another turn that she didn’t see the first time, and her characters did something new to surprise her that she didn't know if she liked.

No one told her writing would be so hard.

Tilly usually read all of her work and edited things for her which helped. But this time she didn’t have anything to give her. Mary Beth nearly snapped when Tilly asked her about it, worried that she wasn’t good enough.

Mary Beth loved to write, which was the hard part. If it was something she didn’t care for it would be so much easier to brush off and play as if she didn’t want people to enjoy it. But that was the difference for her; if you loved something well enough to want to share it, it had to be good. Not just good, but great. Like all those classic authors who had held the mantel before her.

She admired many writers in the way people regarded saints. People who had taken something ordinary and breathed a life so strong and fertile into it that generations of folks passed it down to be regarded as holy.

Maybe she wasn’t as good as she thought. Maybe she should just quit.

Around the campfire was usually where her inspiration struck. After years with the gang no one bothered her when her journal was out, knowing that they would be verbally berated for interrupting her process.

Mary Beth sighed and ripped out another page, tossing it into the flames and watching her words turn into ashes. She refused to be another no name writer who never got anywhere. Her dream of a tall, warm chair to sit in and an office of her own was such a clear image in her mind that nothing would ever hold her back. The curtains would be blue and every morning she would push them back and look out into the city for inspiration. Breakfast would be served something delicious and fresh, and a new fountain ink pen would be sitting on her desk perfectly perpendicular to the crisp blank pages that she would soon fill. Mary Beth wanted this to come true so desperately, she couldn’t accept anything less.

Her last option was to start over. She was so far into this draft that it seemed more daunting to begin again than continuing on through her doubts and worries. A jolt of inspiration was all she needed, what around camp could spark that fire to get her working again…

The flames in front of her cracked and hissed while she stared and tried to force an idea. What would happen next? Something soft and pure? Something dramatic? A death maybe? Or a betrothal? Mary Beth always drifted towards the romantic.

Or maybe she would rise from the ashes like a phoenix, fresh and new with invigoration to write an entire chapter, nay, an entire novel with the creativity that would pump through her veins.

“Oh! I should write that down.” Mary Beth quickly started to scribble down the thought, thinking it made for an excellent transition into her next piece.

Chapter Text

The older man’s journal had been filled with thousands of words echoing thoughts and emotions, most of which John had never been aware. He kept it like a hazy daydream; one that he would take out and admire from time to time when the lines blurred and he felt he was losing his way. Arthur had always been more steadfast than him, and sometimes encouragement was needed.

The pictures always drew John in. He knew that Arthur had been gifted with his pencils in more than one way, but the attention to details in some of these pictures were incredible.

One in particular always struck John, for he was with him when they came across the site.

It was a crumbling old building from before the Civil War era. Tucked back into a patch of trees that could easily be missed, vines had begun to swallow the thing back into the earth and it was completely overgrown. On a whim they searched the grounds to discover it was a makeshift church. Rotting wooden benches were now shoved to the sides of what used to be an isle. Leaves, rusted cans, and scattered pages were the last remnants of a time of congregation. The altar stood erect however, as if the building itself knew that such a holy aspect should be left untouched, no matter what the laws of time dictated.

Neither man was religious, the only Father they had ever known was Dutch. But there were respectful in their search and removed their hats upon discovering the church. Arthur even paused to wipe the mud off of his boots.

John traced his hand over the journal pages, unafraid of smudging the pencil after all of these years. Like the church, the inscriptions had become a permanent fixture and were unable to be altered even though the creator no longer walked this earth.

Something about that day made John believe in eternity. There they were, two brothers not in blood, wandering the halls of an overgrown church in search of answers neither could really provide. He didn’t even remember why they had been riding there that day. Something about Dutch needing the sheriff to be unaware of a con they were operating south of Rhodes, or something like that. Dutch always liked to play both sides, lurking in the shadows until the victor was obvious so he could reveal his true colors.

Losing Arthur obviously hit John hard, but he disguised his pain well. Believing that Arthur was somewhere still around, even if not with him, made the pain a little more dull and softened the edges of his grief that formed as hard and jagged blades.

The building had reminded John of being out of its time, much like himself. Everything around him was changing, and the symbolic vines were reaching out to drag him back to the ways he used to know. He too was becoming overgrown in an era that no longer needed a protector when that was all he knew how to do. John thanked whoever was up above that Arthur hadn’t known what it was like to be lost in a cycle that perpetuated normalcy and civilization. It pulled John under, and sometimes he wished nothing more than to join his brother and let go of the need to stand tall and strong, much like that church hidden deep within the woods.

Chapter Text

Kieran had always felt like he was just a little bit out of place. Jumping to the left when the rest of the group moved right, ducking instead of dodging, or wanting to spend more time with horses than other people. He was an outsider, a misfit. But it was a name he had self made and decided to embrace it rather than fight it like most others would.

His favorite horse he ever cared for was called Crazy Eyes, and belonged to one of the O’Driscoll boys who were so cruel and vicious to him. They hooted and cackled when he slowly approached the first time, waiting for the moment the temperamental horse would kick and buck, frightening the young hand and putting him back in his place. But after a tense moment of Kieran reaching a shaky hand out to pet Crazy Eye’s coat, a connection was made and he was never harmed from that point forward. The gang grew bored of watching and left him alone with the beast, certain they would have gotten a bloody show.

Kieran whispered sweet words to the horse who whinnied in response. Sometimes when no one was looking he would sneak him extra sugar cubes or apple slices. Like himself, that horse had a secret sweet tooth.

Once he tried to ride Crazy Eyes. The black stallion was wary and nearly didn’t let him, but in the end, persistence and kindness won. Kieran trotted around in a circle with the biggest grin spread across his face, the only person besides his owner to tame the wild beast.

The ride didn’t last too long, however, as Crazy Eyes got anxious and Kieran quickly scrambled off. But he had done it. He was no longer the odd one out. For the rest of the day he walked around with his chest puffed out, beaming from his victory. No one knew why, of course, but by God he was a winner that day.

Most of Kieran’s life had been a struggle, but the one consistency had been his love of horses. There was no doubt he would much rather spend his time training and caring for the large animals than enjoy the company of other people. It was normal to him. Something he would look for in any change of situation.

Both of his parents left him, not of their own will, but he turned to horses then as a way of healing. When Kieran got stuck on his way out to California, he knew his skills would take him further than any train would. The O’Driscolls of course only let him touch their horses, and the Van der Linde’s were along the same lines if somewhat kinder.

Kieran knew his place in life wouldn't change, but he was okay with that. As long as was a misfit, he might as well be happy and feel that he had earned his spot in the world. That, he felt, was something every person could relate to.

Chapter Text

Karen watched Arthur scratch the nose of his horse and whisper sweet nothings to her, eyes filled with pride and affection. At the end of each ride he made sure to care gently for his stead and see that she got everything she needed before looking after himself. He sure did love that animal.

If only Sean treated her like that.

Sighing, Karen turned back to the stew she had laddled into her metal bowl. Being cooped up in camp was her least favorite past time and often led to bad decisions. Sometimes she wished she was more calm, like Tilly or Mary Beth. Neither of them had any trouble finding things to do like reading or sewing, Those activities bored Karen to death. She didn’t mind helping out and pulling her weight, but more often than not she was running away from Ms. Grimshaw instead of towards her, and straight into the arms of her ever faithful lover, drinking.

Not that she was an alcoholic by any means, but the sweet release Karen found in the comfort of a bottle was unrivaled to anything else. It loosened her joints, lightened her attitude, and put a blanket of warmth all around her body. It was much too early, but she stared at the unopened bottle of Husky whiskey and longed to pop open her favorite brand.

It was a beautiful label with lace and green vines spelling the title out, then decorating the edges with delicate designs. It felt fancy, like one of them Saint Denis people would drink it and give a sparkling laugh while throwing their heads back. Karen may be no writer like Mary Beth, but she could daydream with the best of them.

Usually it was about what her life could have been. Karen always dreamed of being a singer, but never had the training. Her voice was light and a little raspy. It made for a good show and Karen was quite the extrovert, always able to hold a crowd or get the attention of their latest target.

That was part of the reason she had joined the gang in the first place, was to live a life of excitement and be the center of attention. Which she was for awhile. Then other women joined and she sort of blurred together with them, like one of those oil paintings that never set correctly. Not that Karen resented being around other females, but in a camp full of men there is a certain attention that blossoms overtime and is hard to give away. She felt drunk on the power that came along with it.

Sean sauntered over later holding a bottle suggestively, and enticed Karen towards him with a wink. She giggled and took his hand, following the man through camp and up into the woods, knowing exactly what was on his mind. He produced a bottle of her favorite whiskey which they made quick work of, passing it back and forth until it ran dry. Sean leaned over, admiring the label.

“Ay, I’ll be husky for you if you want, girl. You just tell me when and where.”

Karen laughed and pushed him to the ground, answering huskily, “You’ll be exactly what I say you will. Now hand me that bottle before you get hurt.”

Chapter Text

Arthur had been slipping in and out of consciousness for days. The fever wracking his body was merciless and Grimshaw was beginning to worry, but Dutch and Hosea knew he was a strong man and would pull through just fine.

Hosea had taken to reading to Arthur, more to calm his own nerves but it served as a good way to pass the time. He had already blown through his few crime novels, so he picked up one that he was saving for Jack once he got older.

“Ah, here we are. The Legend of King Arthur,” Hosea chuckled at the irony before continuing on. “You’ll like this one, Arthur. Lots of twists and turns to keep you hooked.”

And the story began.

Although resting, Arthur soon found himself waking to the sound of distant trumpets. Dutch didn’t usually start playing his music this early so he cracked an eye to see what was going on, and gave a startled yell at the room he found himself in.

Everything around his was ornately decorated in vibrant shades of purples and reds. The many pillows on his bed were soft to the touch, and that was nothing to say of the nightgown he was wearing. A single ‘A’ was embroidered over his heart and he stared, hoping it would unravel the mystery he had awoken to.

“What in the damn hell..” Arthur slowly climbed out of the lavish bed and his feet hit the cold stone floor. He found a pair of house slippers, but no boots. Groaning, he put them on anyways and left the chamber.

What he found in the hall took his breath away.

Lining the towering walls were hundreds and hundreds of paintings. Some of important historical or political figures, some landscapes, some simply an everyday object brought to eternal life with the stroke of a paintbrush. It was surreal, and Arthur couldn’t believe his eyes.

No one seemed to be around so he roamed around until he came to a great hall. Many long wooden tables stretched out, empty, all leading to a large stone formation with something protruding from the side. Atrhur weaved through the seating areas and approached the steps, taking them gently one by one. At last he arrived at the ornate rock that towered above him, and saw that a sword handle was lodged into a long crack. Steadying himself, he placed both hands on the hilt and pulled as hard as he could. At first nothing happened. Then, inch by inch, the sword slid out of the rock as if stuck only in butter.

Arthur broke into a smile as he held the metal up high and examined it. An inscription was etched into the side but he couldn't quite make it out. He peered closer until a voice called out from behind him.

“It reads; ‘All hail the mighty who wields this sword! For only they of a true heart and a sound mind may dare to behold its wonder. All hail the legendary Sword in the Stone! All hail newest ruler of this land! All hail, King Arthur!’”

Arthur jumped as the echoes swirled around him and his vision became hazy. For a moment he thought the man behind him looked like Hosea, but that would be outrageous. The movement got so bad he gripped his head, dropping the sword in the process. A scream ripped from his chest and he felt hands pulling him upwards.

“Arthur. Arthur, wake up! It’s okay, son. Just a dream.”

His eyes flew open to a more familiar scene, and a breath of relief passed Arthur’s lips as he gazed up at Dutch and Hosea who were huddled over him.

“Must have been some dream there. You okay?”

Arthur rubbed his eyes and responded, a bit confused himself.

“Think I dreamed I was King Arthur.”

Chapter Text

Sadie was in quite the mood.

Jake had accidentally knocked his paint set all over her new clothes. The red had soaked her white blouse through and it was now permanently stained a dark shade of pink, even after three washes. He desperately wanted to help, but everything he seemed to do lately set his wife off.

“Stop Jake. Just stop!” Sadie held her face in her hands and muttered some choice words she was glad he couldn't hear. He was once again holding up her brand new stockings that had splotches of blue and green and trying to determine the best way to fix them. So far nothing had worked.

“Sadie, I will fix this for you. Just give me some time!”

Exasperated, she threw her hands up and walked out of the room. Nothing seemed to be going right lately. Their little home was wonderful on the edge of town, but both of them were growing restless at living so embedded in civilization. The monotonous routines of going into town for your every need was too much. It was beginning to strain the relationship they had with each other on top of everyone around them.

Jake followed quickly, not sure how to remedy the situation. “Sadie, please. I have an idea of what to do -”

“Oh, Jake. I think you’ve done enough,” Sadie was quick to cut him off. She sat down on their bed and looked wistfully around the room. There were two pictures of them, one from their wedding day and one they had managed to take themselves, both of which she adored. Jake was the best man she had ever known, but sometimes he drove her to drink.

“No, Sadie. I have a plan for us.” He crouched down in front of her and held her hands tightly. “I...I want us to get out of this town, I know it’s making us crazy. There’s a small farm up north in the mountains, near that old mining town, Colter. If you wanted to I was thinking we could move up there, be alone, fend for ourselves…?”

Sadie beamed down at her husband. “Jakie! I’d love that. When can we leave? Should I start packing?” Suddenly she was renewed and looking around at her belongings, wondering what she would be able to chuck and what would travel with them.

Jake just chuckled. “Slow down, tiger. I’ll head into town and finalize it all today, and then we can get a move on.”

“Tiger?” Her nose wrinkled at the comparison. “I’m more ferocious than that, and you know it, sir.”

“‘Sir!’ What kind of a world is this. Could be dangerous up there, Sadie. Might have to fight off wolves, or something meaner and nastier.”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “You think I’m worried about shooting a deer or a bear? You know me better than that!”

“Alright then, Mrs. Adler. It is settled. You and me, we’re moving to our own land.”

She pulled him close to embrace, ecstatic for their new life. “I’ll guard that place like a castle, nothing is ever going to happen to us up there.

Jake chuckled and she could feel the reverberations through her chest. “My own little dragon. Love you, Sadie Adler.”

“And I love you, Jake Adler.”

Chapter Text

Abigail watched Jack carefully to make sure he didn’t get too close to the open flames of the campfire. The music of the night had grabbed a hold of him tightly and refused to let go as he danced and twirled in the evening light, giggling and full of life. It wasn’t often his mother let him stay up this late but Javier had been playing his guitar so nicely she lost track of time.

Jack held tightly to his stuffed rabbit. Uncle Arthur had given it to him and he treasured it more than his other toys, much to John’s annoyance. But Jack was young and didn’t know the tensions that came along with the gift.

“That boy is sure something tonight, eh Abigail?”

Hosea watched with the mother as Jack spun and hollered out. He smiled and waved back to his family but never stopped dancing to the music coming from the guitar.

“Must be that guitar, ain’t never seen him dance about like that before. He’s wild!”

The two chuckled lightly. “John used to be wild like that, too. Long before we met you, Abigail. He and Arthur were the rowdiest boys I’ve ever seen. Constantly competing and ready to be the best. Not that much has changed since then…”

Abigail shook her head. She loved hearing stories about when John was young. Lord knows he would never tell them to her himself. His time spent being raised by Dutch and Hosea were some of the most influential years of his life. And despite John’s flaws, Abigail loved him. She just wished she knew him a bit better.

Jack slowed down his dancing to watch the flames for a bit. Out of breath, his small chest rose and fell rapidly while he rested and admired the feral nature of how the flames danced. Sometimes he wished he could move like they did, swaying in the breeze and stronger than almost any force it encountered.

Jack wished he could be wild like the fire was.

Abigail soon called Jack to bed, smoothing his hair down and fetching him some water. His heart slowed to a normal pace and as he lay in bed. Moving flames were etched into the back of his eyelids and he made up a show to help him rest and fall asleep. His mother read him a bedtime story, one of his favorites, and finally let the dark blanket of night snuggle up close to his chest.

Dreams of little boys running wild and free overtook Jack, and he imagined a home that was big enough for the whole gang. They all had their own rooms, no one got hurt, and everyone wanted to play games with him all day long. Cain had plenty of room to run, and Javier would play guitar every night and they would all sing together. Food was plenty and Pearson would sneak him sweet treats every time he asked, the kitchen always smelling of something good.

Cuddling in as tight as he could, Jack’s mind created what he wished most in the world. The sweet boy loved his family and just wanted them safe and happy in one place.

That didn’t seem like too much to ask, did it?

Chapter Text

The glittering of the ornaments on the Christmas tree brightened up the whole living room and spread cheer anytime someone passed by. Happiness lingered in the corners of smiles, and the clinking of glasses at dinner, and every creak of a chair that sounded when someone laughed so hard they rocked back and forth.

Beecher’s Hope was more than wooden walls and furniture. To Uncle, it was home.

Living with John and Abigail and Charles had changed the man. His time with Dutch was rough and he drank too much, but now he felt better. Cleaner, somehow, as if the love of a true family was all he really needed. They still mocked him now and again but it was somehow easier to take. Sourcing from a place of togetherness rather than survival.

No matter where the gang had settled Uncle always made sure everyone had a gift for Christmas, no matter how small. Most never figured out he was the one delivering like a secret Saint Nicholas and assumed Dutch or Hosea were behind it. Like they would take the time to eavesdrop over conversations to see what folks wanted. Who got Arthur his first leather bound journal? Uncle. When Abigail needed a pacifier for baby Jack after John left and no one could figure out why he wouldn’t stop crying? Uncle. And who found Dutch that rare record that people in camp actually liked when he played? I think you can guess who.

Sitting in front of the fire, Uncle stretched and felt that familiar ache settle into his bones. Damn this lower back, always giving him trouble.

He remembered the heists he used to pull with the boys and how they would give him a hard time about his lumbago, calling it a crutch. It was real though! Hurt just to think about climbing up on a horse most days, let alone actually riding one and trying to nimbly pull off some crazy plan. Arthur and John were particularity cruel, but he forgave them because they provided what he could not for those he cared about.

Charles was always kind. Well, silent when the others mocked, which basically made it the same thing. He even occasionally gave Uncle some herbs to help with his back pain when he was feeling extra compassionate.

This year, Uncle handmade something for his new family. He fiddled with it in his hands nervously, not sure anyone would react or notice. The ornament was simple but full of meaning, something he had traced with the bottom of a tin can; a drawing of John, Abigail, Jack, Charles, and Uncle standing in front of Beecher’s Hope. He poured his whole heart into the sketch as a way to thank those who had let him reside with them.

Placing it gently on the evergreen Uncle hung his gift at Jack’s eye level, hoping the sharp eyes of the young man would observe the new addition to the decorations. He truly loved this season of giving and hoped he had many good years ahead of him living with the Marston's.

Chapter Text

"Make it work, make it easy. Make it clever and craft it into pieces.”

Abigail loved to sing while she baked. The conforming rhythm of slapping the dough back into the flower found a way to dance with the soft melodies she created in a way that made the time pass quickly. Working with her hands made her feel useful, like she was made for more than just being a mother.

John never cared much for her food. She tried pies, cakes, pot roasts, steamed vegetables, and nothing. The man was pickier than a spoiled child when it came to eating. Arthur and Jack never complained one bit about it though and usually ended up licking their plates clean.

“Make it sweet and crimp the edges. Or make it sour and serve with lemon wedges.”

Her mother had taught her how to cook. Abigail used to spend hours watching the magical craft in the kitchen, sneaking bites here and there to hold her over until dinner. When she was old enough, her mother gave her an apron for her birthday and led her to the beginning of a lifelong passion they could share together.

"Even doubt can be delicious. And it washes off of all the dirty dishes.”

The singing came from her father, however. A proud, tall man he loved music and being a part of whatever Abigail and her mother got up to. They would spend hours in the kitchen and watching them both share the activity made his heart sing, and caused him to add his own flavoring to it. Abigail and her mother both took to singing along with the gramophone immediately and joining her father in a happy harmony.

Dutch’s own music player was a warm reminder of what she had left back at home.

"When it's done, I can smile. It's on someone else’s plate for awhile!”

Abigail pushed the flour out in front of her and watched it float in the sunlight. She felt the same sense of wonder when she pulled a pie out of the fire and saw that the separate ingredients had somehow combined into something completely new. Sometimes that’s what she wished for; a fresh start.

“Momma! What did you make this time?”

Jack ran to his mother at the cooking wagon as she crouched down to meet him. His eyes were full of wonder and excitement at the thought of a treat, and they roved around the tables to see where it hid.

“Apple pie, Jack. The one you thought was so tasty last time.” Apples were Jack’s favorite food and he couldn’t wait to try the pie, feeling his mouth water at the thought alone.

“C’mon, if you help me clean I’ll sneak you a bite.” Jack hummed along with Abigail as they put the cutlery away and wiped down the tables. She playfully threw flour at his face laughed as some stuck to his nose. Jack tried to lick it off to no avail.

Later as they sat around the fire sharing a piece, Jack said, “Momma you make the best pies. You must put magic in them. Or something.”

Abigail giggled and shook Jack’s hair with her fingers. It reminded her of many memories with her parents and the same soft accusations she would tell her mother, absolutely convinced that more than science had occurred in the kitchen.

“It’s easy, someday I’ll teach you. It’s just a little bit of sugar, butter, and flour.”

Chapter Text

“Ms. Grimshaw! Tilly needs your help with mending that coat again, something about the needle ain’t working or threads being too big. Didn’t quite catch it all.”

Susan sighed, but stood from where she sat enjoying her morning coffee. “Thank you, Lenny. I’ll head on over then.”

Lately the women in this camp had been driving her up a wall. The need for help and attention was constant, never giving her a moment of rest, not even to drink one damn cup of coffee. Not that Susan minded helping out her girls, she truly loved them. By nature she was protective and strong, but they seemed to want to test this and push her to her limits.

“Tilly Jackson! What do you think your doing? You pull that stitch any harder and the whole jacket will unravel."

Susan had a specific walk when something was going wrong that she knew she could fix. Her boots stomped and her hands were steady at her side, ready to correct whatever wrongs had taken place.

Seeing it approach was enough to scare the living daylights out of you, however.

Tilly jumped and dropped the coat from her hands, scrambling to pick it up and have everything ready for Ms. Grimshaw. Thankfully the mud formed from the past week of rain left it alone and she was able to play it off, brushing the dust that stuck.

“Here, child, give me that.”

Susan held it up to the sun to see how the stitching was done, a proud smile creeping onto her face. Tilly hadn’t messed up a thing. The other girls must have wanted to give her some credit because the last few days had been hard on her.

Gently, she handed the article back to the younger woman and took a seat next to her. Tilly eyed her nervously, not sure what to expect. But Susan simply picked up a needle and took over the work Tilly hadn’t had a chance to complete.

“You know, when I was your age, I used to have the most beautiful boots. Brown, shiny, with flowers etched all the way up the laces. I wore them everywhere, nearly tread a hole in my damn room from strutting up and down all day long,” she pulled the thread up high and made sure everything was even before continuing on.

“One day, I found Hosea’s old dog had chewed them up and left the pieces. I was heartbroken. I rode in those boots, kicked ass in those boots. Wearing them made me feel like everything I had ever wanted to be. Hosea was mortified, rightly so, but offered to fix them up as we couldn’t afford new things like that.”

Reaching for the scissors, Susan cut the thread and flipped the garment right side out. “Took me awhile to realize it ain’t our things that make us important. It’s that we got love around us. And girl,” She leaned over and gave Tilly a rare quick squeeze. “You are one of the lucky ones to be surrounded by love.”

Chapter Text

Mary stared down at the letter resting in her lap, wondering how she would muster the strength to make the walk to the post office. Could one piece of paper and a ring really be so heavy?

She and Arthur were never meant to be, she could see that now. They weren’t the star crossed lovers separated by time and space. They were simply a man a woman who once had loved so strongly they thought to bond themselves together, but the foundation they chose was rocky and always meant to fall.

Oftentimes Mary would sift through the memories of her and Arthur, and the palaces and castles they had built together. Everything was dusty and empty now but if she thought hard enough, the ghost of the man she knew was still there in the deep recesses of her mind. The only version of him she did, and would ever, own. He was young and handsome and full of charm; the perfect rebel any girl would dream of. The gang’s life on the run was so romantic Mary could have cried when they met.

Now when they met, Arthur was guarded and had weights on his shoulders, nothing like the version she loved in her mind. Mary felt out of place and awkward asking for his help, but there was no one else she could turn to. Her husband had died, her father was barely coherent enough to string a few words together, Jamie was young and innocent and her friends had all but deserted her once she got married and left town. At the end of her rope, she knew she could still rely on Arthur Morgan.

Even if she felt like what she asked took advantage of that good heart.

Shaking her head she stood up and left for the post office, determined to shake the dust off her ancient memories once and for all. Going to that place wasn’t healthy for her, she needed to move on. Even if it was going to be the hardest thing she’s ever done, Mary had to leave the places she and Arthur had built for good. The rooms were no longer full of laughter and love and the lights had been off for years. The last thing she needed to do was turn the key, listen for the tumblers locking in place, and leave it for some poor soul to find and wonder what went wrong.

Sometimes Mary wondered what went wrong. She spiraled down a path of what if’s and why nots. Why couldn’t Arthur leave behind his life of roaming for a warm and happy home? Wouldn’t he be happy raising children and sharing a life with Mary? Was she not good enough for an outlaw wanted for murder and a dozen other things to wake up and see that life was meant for more? It took a long time to get over that rejection. Mary knew she never truly would.

The palace she mourned for the most was having a family. It never happened with her late husband, but if Arthur had left with her in Saint Denis she would have married him right then and there to begin building their legacy. She always wanted lots of children. He would be content with a few. But if they were together it didn’t matter.

The clang of the bell above the door woke her up, and Mary approached the teller with shaky hands.

“Just the one letter today, miss?”

Taking a deep breath, she handed over the better portion of her life. “Yes sir. Time to move on from ancient things and look towards the future.”

Chapter Text

Something all great writers know is that to use your own life experience enhances a piece tenfold. Basing emotions and dialogue and action in real memories helps the ebb and flow, and created a better and stronger story. Some even go so far as to base the characters off of real people they know and interact with on a daily basis.

If only Mary Beth could write about her old family without wanting to burst into tears.

Her writing career had blossomed and she finally had the big wooden desk and the tall back chair she always dreamed of. Saint Denis turned out to be a wonderful place full of music and life and color, but sometimes it all drained away and left Mary Beth with only her memories to fill in the blank spaces of the city. She would walk for hours looking for that burst of inspiration but only find sadness and horror as memories echoed through her mind. Damn these persistent ghosts.

Sometimes around town she would catch sight of Tilly and her new family. They loved to walk through the parks and push the baby carriage, showing the young one the sights and sounds of their city. After everything went down it was hard to be around each other without discussing the past, so they agreed to only meet once a year to honor those living in their minds. It hurt Mary Beth a bit knowing they would never be as close as they once were.

She never wanted to put boring characters out into the world. One of her latest books was based on Sadie Adler, although she would never admit it Even if the two were not close during their time in the Van der Linde gang, Mary Beth admired her strength and tenacity in every situation. Sadie started as a meek woman, stolen from her home and robbed of her life. But by the time she led them out of Shady Belle safely it was like a new woman stood before them all.

The latest chapter in her novel was giving her hell. Mary Beth couldn't decide if she wanted the heroine to join the robbery and solidify her place as a tough go getter, or hang back and help the others escape. Both would be interesting, but she flipped from one to the other every time she picked up her pen.

If she was being honest, this chapter was based on the bank robbery in Saint Denis and her villain sounded an awful lot like Dutch. That was one ghost Mary Beth wished she could meet again so she could give him a piece of her mind, going over everything that led to the downfall of her family. Most things she could forgive in this life, but that was not one of them.

Mary Beth shook her head to clear the cobwebs, worried again she was getting too caught up in the past. Writing was her passion and her dream but there were days she was jealous of TIlly, who moved on to a whole new life and never had to look back. Having children would do that, as everyone told her, but that wasn’t something for Mary Beth. Instead, she chose to write and immortalize her words, showing the world she wasn’t just a ghost after all.

Chapter Text

Arthur walked up and down the floorboards so many times he felt he nearly tread a hole in the ground. His boots pounded the ground roughly and he reckoned he memorized the warps in the floor from how many laps he had made. He was an impatient young man, but this waiting in particular was agony.

For today was the day his son was being born.

Eliza had somehow gotten him a message in time and he raced with hell on his heels the whole way into town, slamming the door of the small home open to find a startled doctor and a screaming woman. Seems she had already gone into labor.

Feeling too big for his skin, Arthur made sure to hold her hand the whole time, no matter how hard she crushed his fingers from the strain of pushing her body. The doctor urged him to keep telling her encouraging words so he did his best while huddled over her shoulder. He wasn’t even sure she heard him over the straining and yelling that was going on, but he made sure to mutter whatever he thought could help her through this.

After awhile they kicked him from the room, saying the new mother needed a moment to rest before the final push.

Arthur hadn’t spent much time in Eliza’s home. He made sure to visit when he could since they found out she was pregnant, but she knew his life and what that meant for things like being a father. Conventional didn’t work out too well when you were always on the run.

Pacing around the kitchen and into the dining room he scanned her books and wished he knew she liked reading as much as he did. A mental note was tucked into the back of his mind to bring a few of his old ones the next time he visited so they could discuss his favorite parts. Hopefully she would like them, too.

The screaming stopped suddenly, and he heard a beautiful new cry from the lungs of a baby. It was the most wonderful sound he had ever heard. Eliza laughed and cooed softly as Arthur pushed open the door hesitantly.

Her beautiful face smiled up at him, sweaty and red from the pain. The doctor gave him a slight push forward to go meet his child and Arthur felt like his legs were made of lead. He blinked rapidly, overcome by a wave of emotion he didn't quite understand.

"Would you like to hold your son, Arthur?" Eliza asked softly. He nodded and held out his arms like Hosea had taught him, strong and gently all at the same time. Staring into those eyes he realized that the felt a changed man, and giving life to something was much more beautiful than taking it away.

“What are you gonna call him?”

Eliza pondered for only a moment before speaking. “Isaac. After my grandfather.”

Arthur loved her lack of hesitation and hoped it passed on to their son. His son. How strange and exquisite that sounded when he said it in his head.

“Hi, Isaac. I’m your daddy.”

Chapter Text

Lenny didn’t want to die like this; alone lying in the heat, just days before his twentieth birthday. He knew why the others had left him and he would have been angry if they stayed. But still, it would have been nice to have a hand to hold as he bled out on the roof of a bank.

He wasn’t afraid to die. Knowing it meant seeing his mom and his sister and Sean again comforted Lenny a little bit more, and judging from that wound Hosea would be there, too. Wherever he was going. Maybe heaven was real and he had spent all these years spurning the wrong kind of afterlife, but someone like himself was destined for a much different place than that.

At almost twenty years old Lenny felt like there was so much left for him to do. He had never had his heart broken in love, just from others dying. He never got a chance to make his mark or break out on his own for always running with the gang. He never had the chance to build his own family or create a legacy that would last longer than it would take the rain to wash away his blood stains from this old roof.

In a few moments, that’s all that would be left of Lenny Summers. Man did he feel dizzy.

The colors in the sky and the hair of the man standing over him began to fade into hues of grey. Lenny missed blue as soon as he could no longer see it. Why did he not appreciate it more when he could see?

Movement to his left caught his eye but it was almost too much to swing his head in that direction to see. Pity reflected in one of the policeman’s eyes, watching and waiting, but not offering assistance. He must have seen enough lost causes to know what Lenny looked like.

“Hang in there, kid. It’ll all be over soon.”

Lenny couldn’t even tell what direction the voice came from as everything was beginning to swirl together. He noticed his hands and legs growing cold. He was shaking. Or was that just his mind playing games?

He was reminded of that drunken night with Arthur back in Valentine. The two of them had so many drinks he couldn't see straight and launched himself off a balcony. Or a roof? Maybe just a bed. Lenny couldn’t remember anymore, but the pounding of his head was the same.

After Jenny died, Lenny shied away from thoughts of death, but Hosea helped him to see it could be more of a beginning rather than just an end.

Lenny smiled thinking of Hosea. He would be glad to see him soon. There were a few folk he was excited to see.

Maybe he could meet his father after all this time. That bastard was as elusive as you could be.

A cough. Shuffling feet. A gasping, shuddering breath. Oh, that last one was him.

Had he not died yet?

Lenny let his eyes drift closed and felt the world slip away, looking forward to those waiting for him on the other side.

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Arthur grumbled as he pulled his bandanna up over his mouth. If this damn train didn’t stop and he got blown up with all this oil, he would come back and personally haunt the ever loving shit out of Uncle for dreaming up this robbery.

Maybe John, too. But that would just be for fun.

It was pitch black out and Arthur had yet to see the lights of the train illuminate the tracks. He hoped the spot they had chosen would give the engineers enough time to throw the brakes, otherwise he was done for. Nothing like jumping away from a moving train to get the heart pumping.

Adjusting his hat Arthur glanced around in the dark to see the others hiding in position. All tensed and ready to pounce, he saw John, Charles, and Sean crouching and waiting for his signal. His steadfast crew ready to follow him into any trouble without a second thought. Lately things at camp had been tense, what with that Blackwater job going so badly and Dutch taking it like a personal hit. The older man stomped around, doubting everyone who tried to help and knowing he could only push their luck so far before their backs were against the wall. It drove Arthur insane to feel like he had to prove himself over and over to someone he considered family. Someone who was always supposed to be there for him, through thick and thin.

Maybe this job would help Dutch finally see the light.

A whistle off in the distance brought Arthur back to the present, sharp and clear on the warm summer night. The oil wagon started to vibrate ever so gently underneath his feet that he could barely sense it, but it grew with each passing moment for the incoming train was heavy and gaining speed.

John whistled to his left and Arthur turned to see the three men pull their bandannas up over their mouths, concealing their identities from those they were about to rob. Arthur met his gaze, and the two nodded together to silently signal they were ready to go.

His shotgun was cold in his hands. Arthur loved the power in this gun and used it frequently, even though he didn’t favor close range encounters. Being up on a horse or at least a building gave some sort of advantage as long as you were a good shot. He loaded two new shells as the rumbling in his legs reached an all time high and cocked it, ready for this to begin.

The lights from the train cut through the dark and illuminated him like a spot light upon a leading actor on a stage. His lines were memorized and the choreography known, Arthur was ready for the play to begin. This song and dance had been run through so many times by now from running with this gang that it was second nature to step into a character and let them take over for him.

The blast from the horn was deafening but Arthur never wavered. His gaze cut through the dark, ready to face whatever came down the track trying to stop him.