Before you thought of spring,
Except as a surmise,
You see, God bless his suddenness,
A fellow in the skies
Of independent hues,
A little weather-worn,
Inspiriting habiliments
Of indigo and brown.

With specimens of song,
As if for you to choose,
Discretion in the interval,
With gay delays he goes
To some superior tree
Without a single leaf,
And shouts for joy to nobody
But his seraphic self!

The Bluebird, by Emily Dickinson

Sam Chisolm

He doesn’t really think about it at the saloon, he has more important matters to focus on while he’s still there, never mind the facade of nonchalance he chooses to put up for situations just like these. And it’s not entirely unusual for men and their daemons to put some distance between each other ‘round these parts; if anything it’s a matter of convenience to send one’s daemon to roam and take a look around, to get ahead of any dangers possibly coming one’s way. Sam himself does it whenever he can get away with it, which is unfortunately not the case today, his Lorna a fairly common shape but too noticeable and recognizable for a town as relatively small as this one.

“Badger, huh?” The last man left in the saloon comments with an approachable enough demeanor for all that Sam can see him robbing his prior tablemates blind, checking their hands absentmindedly. “Bet she must’ve smelled the fire off of Dan while you two were still just coming into town.”

“Halfway through, ‘s a matter of fact, Mister…”

The man looks up at him with a grin then, cigar still hanging precariously from his lips. “Faraday, sir. Joshua Faraday.”

“You give your full name to all warrant officers asking for it, do you, Mister Faraday?”

“Who says that’s my actual birth given name, sir?” Faraday replies, his smile growing into something surprisingly candid. “And it’s not like your missus over there couldn’t find my trail if she so wished, ain’t that right?”

Sam huffs a barely there laugh at that, caught off guard and amused despite himself. The man must be in his early to mid thirties, looks healthy and almost soft-skinned, his height and bulk nothing to scoff at. Sam had noticed him pulling out a pistol to hold his table hostage for the sake of the officer rather than himself, strictly speaking, and while that willingness to lean into violence at the first whiff of it would usually have him enact extreme caution, he can’t help but feel at ease when it’s just the two of them in the room and Faraday looks so amiable.

“Sounds like you’ve got more work to do,” Faraday says, nodding towards the main entrance to the saloon, the noise of a gathering crowd coming in through it. “And I reckon I’ve stretched  past my welcome and should get back on my way.”

“Well, don’t let me hold you back, and let us hope my missy and I are never given your warrant.”

Faraday lets out a short bark of laughter at that, rising to his feet and grabbing for the bottle of liquor left behind at the table with such carefree glee it leaves a smile on Sam’s face even as he walks to the back of the establishment and presumably to a different exit, without so much as putting up a token protest or defense of his own person. Sam can do little more but shake his head with amused exasperation: this had to be one of his most entertaining encounters he’s had in a good couple of months.

“What are you even smiling about,” Lorna quips from her spot next to his left foot, eyeing him well and truly peeved. “That man reeks of trouble as much as he does booze. If he doesn’t brain himself by trying to drunkenly get on his horse, he will undoubtedly be our problem some day, probably sooner than later.”

“Maybe,” Sam admits and downs a second drink to ready himself for the rest of his job left for the day. “But I reckon he’d be a fun problem nonetheless.”

She huffs and puffs like she always does when she thinks he’s being daft and ridiculous, fanciful even, but still follows after him as he makes his way up to the front to deal with the mob, quickly dismissing thoughts of possibly meeting one Joshua Faraday again.

When the name Bart Bogue falls out of  Missus Emma Cullen’s mouth and he makes a perhaps too impulsive, not at all advisable decision, Lorna shaking quietly, almost imperceptibly against his back but keeping quiet for once nonetheless, Sam does think back on Faraday, and his all too quick, all too eager yet sure and steady draw.

And when he finds himself face to face with the man again, there’s a short moment where he thinks he’s solved the mystery of the conspicuously missing daemon in the form of a particularly bad-tempered horse seemingly named Jack. A very personable, every day name for a beast attempting to bite his caretaker’s arm off. It would make some form of sense, not all horse daemons are open to it, that’s for sure, but some do allow their people to use them as mounts for convenience’s sake, and a daemon would absolutely react this poorly to being treated like any regular unthinking animal by someone they don’t even know.

It would also explain Faraday’s way of talking about the creature, one part careless and one part all too intense for a regular animal to warrant.

A few hours into buying the horse for Faraday in exchange for what amounts to his life and half of it out of Amador, he begins doubting. Yes, Faraday talks some to his horse the way anyone would their daemon, but the line between that and just, talking to your mount or your shepherd dog isn’t all that thick or stark. And the fact the horse doesn’t reply to any of it shouldn’t mean much but…

Lorna scratches lightly at his thigh and Sam turns towards Faraday, says: “That’s not your daemon.”

Faraday turns to blink quickly at him, startled at the suddenness of the statement. “I’ve never said he is? He’s just a horse. Smart and mean as all Hell, sure, but a regular old horse nonetheless, sir.”

Unless Faraday’s daemon is an insect, the rarest kind for all that insects seem to be everywhere one looks, Sam Chisolm starts getting the sinking, horrible feeling that the man has no daemon at all.

He tries very hard not to dwell on it when Faraday doesn’t offer more on his own, and instead he simply sends the man along with young Teddy Q away and in search of an old friend.

“You’re being paranoid,”  Lorna accuses him later, after they’ve acquired Vásquez, even if she seems unsettled by the mere notion of it.

Sam shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. But you’ve heard the stories just like I have,”  he whispers to her, the two of them curled up together and ready for sleep in their corner of the small camp they’ve got going, far enough from Emma and Vásquez that neither of them or their daemons should hear them.

“Did you catch any smells that could come from a daemon on him?”

The badger hisses at him. “No, but that doesn’t mean much or anything at all. You know I can’t always catch scents from daemons on their people if they’re very close because they mingle together too much.”

“They become impossible to discern one from the other,” Sam completes the thought, nodding heavily.

“Besides, I don’t have any reference for which scents are strictly Faraday’s and which would be his daemon’s, other than maybe the gunpowder and the whiskey, and even those could rub off on the poor creature.”

“Then what do you think is the best explanation, that he was lying about his horse?”

“Didn’t seem like it to me. I think the best explanation is that you’re just overthinking it.” Lorna makes herself at home, tucking into his side and adding with finality: “Let it go, Sam. It’s none of our business and it likely doesn’t matter either way. His daemon could be a ladybug for all we know.”

Goodnight Robicheaux

He clocks Faraday almost immediately, though he’s loath to admit he doesn’t do it strictly on his own, but thanks to Céline.

Billy sighs when he says as much. “Please, Goody, I’m begging you to work things out with her. This isn’t healthy, or sustainable.”

Goody shoots his dearest companion a dubious glance. “Nothing we do is particularly healthy or sustainable, cher. You’re very much an outlaw and the only reason we didn’t get shot to death ten towns back and every other town since is because people know and respect my name whether I like it or not.”

“You know what I mean,” if Billy were anybody else he’d probably roll his eyes at his partner, but being who he is, he’s well-versed in subtler gestures. “The only reason you realized something was off at all was because you’ve gotten so good at reading Céline’s actions, because you haven’t spoken at all for the better part of a year now.”

“Yes, yes, and while we’re at it, can we go back to the matter at hand? Which is not my speaking or not speaking with my daemon, but rather the man that doesn’t seem to have any daemons at all?”

Billy sighs heavily, narrowing his eyes at the middle distance, and little Haneul peeks out of her sleeping spot in one of his saddle bags to stare at Goody, eloquently. He reckons Céline herself must be eyeing him impassively from the half-dead tree up ahead along the trail they’re following on their way to Junction City and Sam Chisolm.

“Are you sure? Sorry for doubting you, but Céline could be weary about Faraday for other reasons. Less unlikely, less biased reasons, at that.”

“Billy,” Goody stresses with feeling. “What kind of biases do you think are blinding me enough for me to think Faraday has no daemon? I’ve heard some stories, of course, but I’ve hardly ever met anybody in that position to even believe them, not even during the war. I understand you’re worried about me, cher, but you have no reason to be worried about me in this situation, I can assure you.”

Billy glances at him again for a moment from the corner of his eye before aiming his gaze towards the man of the hour himself, riding several paces in front of them and pestering the very will to live out of poor young Teddy Q. Dear Haneul swivels her head between all three of them with curiosity, but Goody simply waits Billy out while he smokes, their own horses going at a softer rhythm.

“I’m not saying I’m believing it, not yet, not until there is more compelling evidence, if you will,” Billy starts again as the sun begins its final descent for the day and Faraday shouts back at them to keep a weather eye on any good resting spots around. “It just sounds too far-fetched when it might just be his daemon’s an insect and he’s very good at taking care of them.”

Goody concedes the point cordially, watching the Irish gambler finally ditching his own conversational partner to pull up ahead, presumably in the search of something better than an endless stretch of bare land with nary a dry husk of a thin tree and some brush likely hiding all sorts of noxious creatures.

“My daddy always told me not to judge a book by its cover nor a man by his liquor. And Faraday over there seems mighty talented with his card tricks: his daemon might just be yet another one of those.”

“It’s not as if folks like him and us don’t have to keep our cards close to our chests.” 

And doubly so when traveling all alone like Faraday says he usually does, Billy doesn’t finish the thought and Goody sees no point in adding it, they’re both well aware of it.

The sun has dropped almost entirely by the time they find something that might pass as a copse of trees if one were to squint at it for long enough and Goody supposes they’re in enough of a pinch not to sneeze at it. They have a light dinner of jerky, cheese and most of the last bread they have left from Volcano Springs, the rest they’ll finish off on the go come morning, and they take a moment to unwind around the fire before turning in for the night.

Céline swoops in from wherever she’d been keeping her distance, so quiet Goody only notices by the alleviating tug of his soul as she drops somewhere nearby. Teddy and his little fox don’t seem to notice at all, the two of them too tired after two days so keyed up they’re already halfway dozing where they’re tucked together, close enough to the fire for the flames to lull them along, much to Faraday’s simple amusement.

He almost thinks Faraday’s missed their latest addition too, distracted by their young associate and all the little noises around them, the only signs of whatever creatures lie waiting under the cover of the darkness just beyond the ring of fire. But then the man walks up to the corner Goody and Billy have claimed for themselves, clearly on his way to tend to his stallion, and stops to stoop just beside Goody, to his surprise and Billy’s suspicion.

“The great horned owl perching on a branch up in the tall tree looking east, that yours by any chance?” The man says low and without a hint of the alcohol he’s been sipping at throughout the day.

Goody blinks minutely at Faraday, even more astonished, and throws a glance where he knows Céline is, for all he can’t actually see her in the dark. At most he thinks he can guess a brief glimpse of her eyes reflecting the light of their small fire when they catch it just so.

“Her name’s Céline, she likes to keep her distance,” is all he can think to say after an uncomfortably long moment and Faraday’s entire demeanor shifts, back to his affable if tricky friendliness.

“Gotcha. She’ll be staying the night though, yes?”

Goody nods, feeling slightly adrift but also comforted enough by Billy’s own melting relaxation beside him.

“Good. Think you could take up watch at the worst of the night? I don’t mind going first in exchange.”

“Not at all, seems like a good plan to me too.”

Faraday nods again, the gesture one half energetic with child-like glee and one half loose-limbed with booze, and goes to stand back up and finally move towards his horse, only to abort his movement halfway and almost tumble down next to Goody while at it. He snaps the fingers of his free hand and points at Billy with those same digits.

“Yours is that little cat-looking critter hiding in the saddle bag, yeah?”

If Billy is surprised about Faraday’s keenness too the man doesn’t show it, at least not in any way that someone other than Goody might notice, and Goody keeps himself in check not to give him away either.

“A small wild cat, brown, orange, yellow and white,” Billy says with the slightest hint of askance.

“The very same,” he grins one last time and finally gets up for good. “You could keep watch with me then, since Teddy’s already out for the count and all.”

Billy and Goody turn to glance at their younger companion and realize that yes, the kid’s most definitely out for good, curled up on his side and around the fire, with his little fox daemon tucked in against his neck and chest. Goody shoots one final glance Céline’s way, but no alarm bells start ringing as they hear Faraday tending to his horse and rearranging his own bags behind them.

He’s still staring up at her when Faraday makes his way back to the side of the fire opposite them with a slow, somewhat uncoordinated drag of his feet, bags hanging off one shoulder and a pair of threadbare blankets strewn over the other. The man drops his bag a few paces away from young Teddy, then backtracks to leave one of the blankets with the early sleeper. He hardly tucks the other man in, but it’s certainly better than having nothing to face the night with.

Céline’s always been a better judge of character than the rest of Goody.

Billy Rocks

“Oh good, we got us a Mexican.”

As far as drunken, white gunslingers go, Billy supposes that Faraday isn’t half bad. At the very least, he’s met them far, far worse, and even Goody’s admitted guilt where his past self is concerned.

It’s already a couple of days into their acquaintanceship, they’ve rejoined the other half of their merry gang and on their way to hopefully one more lost soul to join them, and the most he thinks he can accuse Faraday of is carelessness and intrusiveness, some offensive and unruly vein in him. Except it’s not like he can say Faraday is any more careful, respectful or disciplined when it comes to the other white folks within or without their merry gang, never mind two of them are the ones paying them to begin with, or that Goody has his reputation to speak of.

“I do believe that bear was wearing people’s clothes,” Faraday quips flippantly as they all watch Jack Horne lumbering away from them and the town that can barely be even called as much.

Goody and the man introduced as Vásquez chuckle incredulously, and even Billy has to admit to letting himself smile, faintly amused despite himself and the tight spot the older man’s departure - as much of a dismissal as any clearly spoken no would be - puts them all in. Only Miss Cullen and her companion seem to be in any way disagreeable with the man’s riotous attitude, not that he can blame them, they seem like good folks, the proper settler type, with their Sunday services and who only know the first thing about rifles to scare off lowly bandits, thieves and coyotes off their fields.

It’s probably why it’s so easy for Faraday to trick young Teddy out of his bottle of liquor and into a damned good fright at the end of the following night. None of them care much one way or another - except for Miss Cullen’s worry, of course -, not beyond some tedium or vague amusement, but Billy does have to commend the other man’s days-long patience. He may be a quick tempered gambler and a too friendly idiot, but it’s becoming obvious to Billy that there’s more about the man: Faraday may be hot-headed but he’s hardly overhasty, and while he does talk a good deal more than someone like Billy himself would consider necessary, he doesn’t really overstay his welcome and still listens more than he babbles, unless he’s shit-faced or playing some sort of game unknown to the rest of them.

Faraday’s interactions with them all so far make for good proof: he’s fairly respectful to Miss Cullen, Chisolm, Goody and Billy himself, just generally friendly and open except for the distance he keeps with Cullen. He immediately gets into a rivalry-cum-friendship sort of arrangement with Vásquez, who appears to see right through him in a way nobody else really does, and Teddy unfortunately becomes fair game. The only real question is his reasoning for the differences in treatment, though Billy thinks some assumptions can be made about Faraday’s actual intelligence and skill.

The man does start getting on Goody’s nerves soon after they rejoin the others, and he pokes at Billy a couple of times too, even if he mostly leaves both of them and the rest well enough alone once Vásquez starts giving back and proves to be much more fun. Thank you, Vásquez, for taking one for the team, your sacrifices will be remembered kindly.

They all make their way quietly into town once they’ve made up their minds together; and he does mean together, they all have something to add, however small, even if it is Miss Cullen who lays down the groundwork, and Chisolm and Goody are the ones with the last words in. He walks in with the warrants officer himself, right in through the main - and truly, only - road parting the town in two rows of decently-sized buildings, saloon and allegedly emptied post office included, all of it leading to a turn about halfway through and towards the burned church from there, looking mostly upright and only somewhat charred at a distance. There are also a handful of spread out houses further away from the main street, but they seem to be stables and other larger establishments, and they look mostly empty, likely their owners and helpers are the only ones in them at the moment.

In all fairness, the main street itself looks almost as deserted as those other buildings do, only a couple of townsfolk peeking out through their windows for a moment or caught off guard on their porches before they scurry inside, running for some place within their houses they might deem safe enough in the face of a shootout. They may be mousy little settlers, but even then they must catch wind of the going-ons in their town, more so when they’ve been under the heel of Bogue like Miss Cullen and Teddy have said.

It is, however, disconcerting to make it all the way in and to the center of the small town, just the two of them while the rest slink in from the sides so quietly they manage to slip without a single Blackstone noticing until they want to be noticed, which for Red Harvest it’s only by the time Chisolm gives the sign.

Red Harvest’s stealth doesn’t surprise him in the slightest; Comanche or not, the man is the youngest out of them by several years, quick, nimble and very silent, even when he doesn’t seem to be trying at all. Billy himself is almost envious of his skills. And he’s just as unworried about Goody, because for as notorious and eye catching as his partner may be in the day to day, among relatively nonthreatening company, his sniper reputation would’ve been cut short if he hadn’t learned how to find himself a good, safe spot to take aim from, quick and quiet like Death itself.

But the others…

Horne does have a reputation of his own, however dark and as at odds with the rest of them, so even with his size and age Billy supposes he’s as quiet as a man like him can be, and much the same could be said about his daemon, a very placid, taciturn black bear named Felicia or Felicity, the largest of all their daemons, though not by all that much when compared to Vásquez’ wolf. Goody did tell him the previous night that black bears can be deceivingly stealthy for their large sizes, something about the shape or the pads of their feet.

When it comes to Vásquez, he supposes his daemon might have been enough of a hint: a kind of wolf he doesn’t quite recognize, halfway between the size of a coyote and a common gray wolf, and with a very quiet, swift gait. She can be quite the talker in contrast to her man, having made good friends with the rest of their daemons very quickly thanks to her ability to wade between their horses with little trouble while on the road, speaking just as much as yapping, Vásquez seemingly unconcerned by her behavior. It’s clear she’s used to being in large groups of people, but she’s also very much one of her kind, a stealthy hunter, and Vásquez might be a lot alike her.

Faraday, on the other hand, is an unknown variable for the most part. Even though he’s slightly shorter than Vásquez, and Vásquez himself while lean is hardly stick thin, Faraday’s easily the largest of them all in overall size, second only to the mountain that is Horne, broad in a way Vásquez might still be if they keep feeding him properly or Goody says Chisolm was more like back when they first met. The man’s a gambler, they saw as much back in Volcano Springs, but he must be plenty good to keep himself so well fed to stay in that shape for any amount of time while on the road.

Heavy footsteps, occasionally stumbling with all the alcohol he’s steeped in, expansive hand gestures and full-bodied emotions, sunny smiles and larger than life presence, that’s been Faraday for the past few days since they first met, hard to miss on the road and impossible to ignore in a room. And yet there he is in the middle of town like the rest, sauntering along the porch of one of the larger buildings - a saloon or inn - and surprising the Blackstones just as much as their other companions, grinning mischievously, expectantly.

Billy can’t really glance Goody’s way, the distraction just enough it could put either or both of them in danger if the fight were to break out right then and there, but he definitely takes note of it. It looks a lot like evidence that Faraday has a daemon, in spite of what Goody, Céline and Chisolm may think, just a very inconspicuous one.

“Take the damn shot!” Not that the man can’t be keen and loud like a fucking crow or coyote when he wants to.

“It’s jammed,” Billy intervenes for Goody’s sake, who’s looking up at Faraday’s angry, all too sharp scowl like he’s face to face with some sort of ghost or devil.

Faraday turns back around to shake Vásquez’ chain once they’re all together by the town center again, high-spirited and playful if still strung up, either from the fight in general or their little encounter just at the end. Billy’s not sure which, and he’s not sure he wants to know either.

He also catches a split second, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment as they’re all facing the crowd of townsfolk watching them with wide eyes. That’s when he sees it, as he lets his eyes roam across their group until they reach Faraday, standing a little off to the side on the deck of the building they reconvened at, oddly still and quiet for him, head tilted sideways and down towards his shoulder like he’s carefully listening to something, something other than Chisolm and the locals.

It’s enough to convince him Faraday has a daemon just like the whole rest of them, even if Goody remains skeptical.

Emma Cullen

She knows the man is there well before he announces his presence and without  needing to turn around to see thanks to Amos, yes, but also because he has been there, come here, to watch her, for the past two days already, and since there are no distant gunshots from the townsfolk training, the dynamite won’t be set up until at least tomorrow, and it’s still too early for him to join the rest of his comrades for supper and drinks, there really isn’t anywhere else for him to be, not with the whores out of town and Mister Vásquez still keeping some distance. Whether he’s doing so for propriety’s sake or some other reason, she doesn’t know and doesn’t particularly care beyond the occasional grin at the expense of Faraday’s confusion or frustration, and the somewhat more common sympathy at Vásquez’ …

He’s a hard one to read sometimes, Mister Vásquez, especially in comparison to his all too inviting companion for all that he’s certainly far more open than Red Harvest, an even middle ground. But she does think it’s sadness and loneliness, maybe even fear, what’s in the evasiveness of his eyes and the slant of his shoulders. A very heavy weight, too hard to shake off, might be the reason instead, if she says so herself.

Faraday finally whistles high and sharp when she makes a very good shot. “I can see why Robicheaux let you off the hook.”

The man does have a certain, unknowable knack to annoy the shit out of her without even trying or really saying or doing anything particularly egregious, unlike how he acts with Mister Robicheaux or Mister Vásquez. But at the same time, nothing is entirely casual or innocent with him either, not even with folks he seems to be more respectful towards, like Mister Chisolm or Mister Rocks. Not even Mister Horne or Red Harvest appear to be spared beyond the very occasional jab, or in spite of the language barrier with their youngest member.

Emma doesn’t stop her shooting just to be courteous to the man or listen to whatever he has to say.

“I thought you’d be too preoccupied fantasizing now that you’ve gotten your hands on the dynamite,” she does comment, harshly, when she decides to finish up and Faraday’s still standing a few feet away.

He shrugs carelessly, still staring at her makeshift target contemplatively. His hair, beard and eyes look darker in the orange-golden sunset light, and she thinks she can understand why Vásquez puts up with the man at all, and why Robicheaux and Rocks shoot him the oddest of looks, both fond and disbelieving at a time, why she always catches Horne shaking his head in something like amused dismay whenever he so much as open his mouth, sometimes even before he does. He’s just the kind of man Leni Frankel warns girls about.

“Bit reckless to be hanging up the explosives this soon, even for me, and I don’t wanna get itchy with eagerness about it,” he drawls idly with a half grin.

If he wasn’t such a rascal, and if her pain and anger weren’t freshly spilled blood, she’d probably understand it even better, but as it is, it might be for the best that Teddy’s the only one between the two of them smitten with their new acquaintance. And at least Teddy has his head put on right enough that it’s not much of a problem either, just surprising after Faraday’s behavior on their trip back to Rose Creek.

“Then I’m surprised you haven’t gone off to bother Mister Vásquez yet,” Emma has no compunction with being genuinely mean to the man, just like Horne is preemptively disappointed.

“He’s gone working somewhere or another in town,” Faraday explains, turning to watch over the edge of the town they can just about glance at through the groves. “I know not to overstay too much, and it’s not like I won’t eat dinner with everyone later.”

She does wonder about that. One thing is Faraday gripping about the whores skipping town and making do with Vásquez - or whatever it is that’s happening between the both of them -, something else is the way he seems to almost hold onto the rest of his group in a way that most of the others don’t really do. Red Harvest and Horne are their own men most of the time, and not only because of the first’s language and the latter's oddities, and Robicheaux and Rocks are similar but together, something a lot of other folks may have noticed but she’s yet to hear any comments about from anyone. Chisolm and Vásquez are both somewhere in the middle, especially thanks to Chisolm playing diplomat between both groups and Vásquez helping around town with all kinds of odds and ends, mostly the church though.

Faraday plays poker at the saloon sometimes, and helps Robicheaux shape the men up, but other than that, he just keeps to himself and the rest of the Seven, like the town folks have taken to calling them. At most he’ll go to Emma or Teddy, maybe Mack, their horse keeper, Ena or Jacob, the Imperial’s owners.

“There’re still plenty of other people you could go and bother for your entertainment besides me,” Emma snaps with a glare before carefully checking over her rifle.

Faraday just grins that unconcerned smile at her. It makes her want to wipe it off with sandpaper, much like Vásquez had first made her feel, looking down on her with a self-assured, thoroughly amused smirk.

“You’re too easy to reel up, but not as easy to con as little Teddy. Makes you more fun to play with.” The man gestures towards Amos, perching on an abandoned post, and adds: “Shrikes tend to be mean in an enjoyable kinda way, for the most part.”

She gives her daemon a look, but the bird watches Faraday stoically, like she never could. Where Emma is more strong-headed and hot-tempered, set in her ways, Amos has always been more inclined to take things slowly and watch them unfold, remaining above it all. But Faraday is right, shrike daemons have a reputation for accompanying some otherwise truly vicious people, especially out here in the West.

Faraday seems just as keen on the small bird, only with very different sentiments showing through on his face than the ones she can sense from her spirit.

“We'll be having another town meeting tomorrow, to talk daemons once more. I figure between this little guy, Goody’s horned owl and Red’s bald eagle we should have the sky mostly covered, at least where scouting’s concerned. Red could help offensively too, but the owl and the shrike likely won’t get to do much more unless they bring in some mouse or small reptile souls.”

“Bogue’s probably already taken that into consideration, and either avoids them like the plague or has his men take care of those weaknesses in some way.”

“Hence our little meeting tomorrow morning,” Faraday replies with an eloquent gesture. “We want to see what the rest of the town has, what we can maybe use and how when the time comes.”

“And what are you bringing to the fight, Mister Faraday?”

The grin hardly falls off his face, she doesn’t think she’s really seen him without some sort of smirk for any important amount of time, but the glint off his eyes takes a meaner, almost wilder quality to it.

“What, other than myself?” He asks back mockingly.

“You may have some of the others fooled,” Emma grits out. “But I’ve actually met daemon-less people before, and you’re not it.”

“Is that so?” Faraday says, voice so soft it’s barely a murmur in the wind as Emma grabs her things and starts the trek back into town for an early dinner at the inn before going to her cold, empty house - she doesn’t think she can call it a home anymore.

Faraday doesn’t make any attempts to follow after her, simply watches from where he stays standing, Amos watching him in turn until the shrike decides to join her.

The following morning she’s up and out helping with whatever she can nice and early as she often is nowadays, ever since Matt died and their home started feeling more like a mausoleum. And when she looks up at Amos’ prompt, she sees what looks like a blue bird soaring through the skies on its way to the groves at the edge of town.

Emma doesn’t really think much about it before getting back to her business, except that maybe it’s a good sign, finally.

Red Harvest

He likes most of their small group. Part of it might be because only half of them are white and neither of those are entirely stupid or insane, or treat him terribly or even bad at all. But another bigger part of it must be the fact that they’re all choosing to face death head on come morning with him. Everyone except for Goodnight, that is, but he was admittedly expecting worse.

However, he can say with some semblance of certainty that Alejandro and Joshua are his favorites.

Alejandro for one, is the only out of their motley crew who catches onto Red understanding English, even if his grasp on the white man’s tongue is not nearly as good as the older man’s and it’s obvious from the start. Alejandro, unlike Red, can both follow the others when they talk as well as answer back without any trouble, even if his accent is thicker than Red’s. Red still struggles and has to ask Chisolm to explain something or another to him sometimes, relies on context and visual cues the rest of the time just to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand what’s being said.

“That’s actually what gives you away,” Alejandro had told him on their second night at Rose Creek, the two of them tending to their horses alone.

Red had given him a despairing glare, but the older man had simply chuckled good-naturedly at him.

“I used to be very self-conscious about it too, very attentive to the way people talked around me, especially when they believed I couldn’t understand them at all, so it’s probably easier for me to figure you out than for the rest, since they grew up learning English as their mother tongues or alongside whatever other language they speak,”  he’d explained, reassuring Red while at it even without noticing, focused as he’d been on his mare as Rocío got under foot with her usual puppy-like glee.

Red’s own Thunderstorm had been perched on a beam above them, watching them keenly and shuffling from foot to foot with clear restlessness. Neither of them are used to - or all that keen on - giving up their measly upper hand, and Thunder at least has the advantage of being mostly out of sight to fidget. Red has wished to have that same ability since he was twelve and she settled.

“Please, don’t tell anybody,” he gives into asking, even if it makes him appear somewhat vulnerable.

Alejandro had smiled, reassured him he wouldn’t, that he understood that too, that he could have his given name before anybody else in turn, so long as he kept it too.

“Not that it’ll make that much of a difference, since we’re getting closer and closer to…” He had made a vague gesture then, either at a loss for words or not wanting to acknowledge what he wanted to express.

Whether he meant they were getting closer to the end of the week and Bogue’s arrival, or to what’s been going on with Faraday, Red hadn’t been certain at first. But he might have meant both, he realizes the night before Bogue’s army is meant to reach the outskirts of Rose Creek by his own calculations.

For a celebration night with liquor and a card game courtesy of none other than Joshua, who has proven himself to be a gracious and friendly host in the past week, it turns out to be quite the somber affair thanks to Goodnight’s departure and Billy insisting in drowning his sorrows with a row of strong drinks that make even Joshua anxious, one after the other. Not even outing himself manages to lighten up the mood for longer than an hour or so, although Sam and Joshua hold onto it and teaching him poker like it’s so much more than it really is, and Alejandro compliments and teases him equally about how well he can hold his own drink.

Still, it’s fairly soon when Sam and Horne call it a night with the pretense of them having a very early morning - as if any of them are going to get much rest when they’re at death’s door - even though Alejandro, Joshua and Red can all see clearly through it. They simply bid them farewell and promise to heed them as soon as they finish talking over their latest drinks. And neither of them look Billy’s way, the manner in which he’s swaying rather than walking away, leaning against Horne without even noticing it. Rocío does watch them from where she’s laid down and half hidden under Alejandro’s chair, morose and cowed, and she has no trouble telling them all about it when they do make their way towards the inn and up towards Joshua’s room. Thunderstorm joins them only once they’re in the room and Joshua opens the window for her…

And for a much, much smaller bluebird that flies right into the room and goes to perch on the back of a rickety chair with an angry huff.

“I’ve been waiting for an hour, you bastard,” comes out of the small animal, about the size of Red’s fist if not smaller. The voice and plumage are both almost surprisingly masculine, though not nearly as surprising as the presence of the daemon itself. “You could’ve left the window open at least.”

“Sorry,” Joshua drawls, not sounding very apologetic at all, rather more like he’s barely listening to the bird glaring daggers at him. “So, Goody?”

The bluebird does the best impression of a shrug he can, managing to somehow look more awkward than when Thunderstorm does it, the few times she’s tried.

“Rode away well past my limit and I didn’t wanna push it, but he argued with himself the whole way there. I’m calling it, he’s going to turn back around at some point, as soon as his consciousness gets to him.”

Joshua scoffs at the bird as he sits down on the edge of his bed and begins pulling his boots  off. “I wouldn’t hold my breath for it.”

Then the bluebird looks around and gives them all a glare too. “What are you looking at? Never seen a bluebird before?”

Alejandro huffs and murmurs something unintelligible in Spanish, staring at the spirit in open, amused disbelief while Rocío starts approaching and sniffing at the small bird with wide-eyed caution, her tail rustling from side to side in quiet eagerness. Thunderstorm simply stays perched on the windowsill and watches the other daemons intensely, always so keen on any new developments. Red’s been feeling somewhat guilty about all the grief and anxiety he’s been giving her since joining this suicidal crusade for Rose Creek - even if it’s about more than just Rose Creek for Thunder and him.

Joshua rolls his eyes. “You could stand to be a little nicer, y’know? This is why I never introduce you to anyone…”

“No, it’s not,” the bird complains with something not unlike a growl, catching Red truly by surprise then.

Bluebird daemons aren’t as common for his people for some unknown reason, especially in comparison to other Nations, but they’re common enough among some of their neighbors that he knows their reputation for being mostly carefree, cheerful, hopeful souls. Hopeless romantics, he’s heard some white folks describe them as. And he has seen some hints of those qualities in Joshua during the past week or so; it’s just the clear animosity and harshness in the daemon that he doesn’t expect, not even with the sort of lifestyle the man has.

Joshua snorts derisively. “Sorry, fellas. He’s usually much nicer, but he’s been pressed since I decided to join our merry gang.”

“More like since you decided to get us stupidly involved in this because you drunkenly gambled Wild Jack away. Y’know, like a reckless idiot.”

Joshua winces at that, seemingly admonished, and Alejandro laughs sweetly, unlike how Red has seen either of them until now. He likes it - sure, he’d rather Joshua didn’t do anything that would put him in the spot like owing Chisolm for his horse, but he is liking these opportunities he’s found to get to know them even more each day. He likes these men, with all their beauty and flaws, with their souls in full display or kept hidden.

“You guys didn’t really believe I had no daemon like Robicheaux and Sam do, right?”

Alejandro shrugs half-heartedly and takes a few steps towards the bed, dropping heavily next to the older man. “Not really, Red even speculated it might be an avian daemon.”

“Oh?”

Red finally lets himself refocus on Joshua at the questioning tone clearly aimed at him, and finds the man already watching him with a sloppy sideways smile, loosening his clothes where he hasn’t straight up lost them by now.

He gestures towards the window at his right with his head. “Some of the comments you made when we were scouting the town reminded me of Thunder’s own explanations when she checks a place for me from the air.”

“I see. And here I thought I was being so mysterious.”

“You did give Goody a crisis, güerito, that’s not nothing,” Alejandro chuckles, tosses his shirt off and leans back onto the bed with a relieved groan, exposing miles of tanned, taut skin for their eyes to roam over. “I wouldn’t really be surprised if it made things worse for him, whatever it is he’s going through that made him feel like he had to leave.”

“You mean, other than sheer cowardice?” Joshua snaps, his mood changing lightning quick, startling their daemons while at it, the spirits still taken by the breezy-looking bluebird. Speaking of…

Red can perfectly hear the other men arguing about their runaway team mate, but he turns back towards the bird with intent.

“What is your name?” He asks when the daemon looks back at him in askance after a moment.

The rest of the room falls silent, and even the entire town seems to hold its breath in the minute it takes for the small spirit to finally reply.

“Lorcan. My name is Lorcan.”

“It means fierce, or at least that’s what my ma said back when I was a little kid,” Joshua drawls, letting himself be drawn back and in by Alejandro’s arm around his abdomen.

“Seems fitting,” Red smiles at the daemon - at Lorcan - before joining their two scamps for the rest of the all too short night.

Jack Horne

They were a band of misfits. His dedication to the Lord above didn’t change that fact, or that he had decided to join them even knowing as much from the moment he’d seen them and Felicity had reeled back with suspicion.

“They smell like death, all five of them,” she’d commented placidly when they had stopped by the side of a creek a couple of hours after departing from the gang and the town.

“But not the woman and the boy?”

Felicity had shot him a telling glance but had otherwise refrained from answering, which was enough of a reply in his books where his daemon was concerned. And Rose Creek had sounded like a just enough cause, more so if half of what he’s heard about Bartholomew Bogue and his men is true. People would be hard pressed to call Jack Horne a righteous or virtuous man anymore, and while the only real reason he’d wish to visit the Kingdom of the Good Lord would be to see his family one last time, he’s not been particularly worried about the fate of his soul in years.

So, he had turned back and tracked the group out of town and towards the edges of the desert, Felicity trailing behind him and growling lowly, vaguely upset, all the while.

Everyone’s already in varied states of wakefulness when he finally makes it to their camp in a huff the following day, and he’s not at all surprised to see Sam Chisolm fully alert and on the move.

“We have company,” Jack says simply and finds himself a good spot to make a stand from.

Faraday being just as awake and in tune as Sam despite having clearly been soundly asleep a moment prior, does surprise him but Red Harvest is twice as surprising, and soon enough they’re all sharing fresh venison for a hearty breakfast, before they set aside the remaining meat for later, break camp and start the last leg towards Rose Creek. Most of their daemons are small enough to ride on the horses with their people, while Red’s bald eagle and Goodnight’s horned owl take to the skies and tall trees to watch over their surroundings, and Vásquez’ wolf, a friendly little thing that immediately introduces herself to them as Rocío, spends most of the way skipping circles around them with a smile or keeping a slower pace next to his Felicity, the two of them talking softly or keeping quiet by turns. She’s definitely a softer, sweeter spirit in comparison to the rest of them all, and Vásquez is just as open a man, only with a lot of sharp edges whereas the only thing really sharp about the wolf are her teeth and little more.

Joshua is a lot more complicated. While there’s a notorious divide between Red Harvest and most of them because of the languages they speak, or don’t, and it takes a few days for Billy to warm up to them, Joshua is as friendly as they come, as friendly as little Rocío even if with a notoriously meaner streak to him than the daemon, and less candid than Vásquez. People take to him easily, that’s a given, but they do so the way they take to a particularly charming or skillful showman, at a certain distance and with some falsehood inherently known by all involved.

Jack and Felicity immediately notice the matter of the missing daemon, before Sam even approaches them to talk about it.

“Billy thinks it might be that he has an insect spirit instead, but Goody and I are mostly convinced he has none at all,” the warrants officer comments idly when they bring up the rear as their last day on the road falls into night.

Jack thinks he can catch a hint of unease even under the layers of nonchalance and matter of fact attitude, but he doesn’t point it out, he has no reason to. Especially since he thinks he can see right through and doesn’t believe it to begin with, not in the way Sam or Goodnight do. But he can understand why they - as well as young Teddy - would come to that conclusion.

Sam sees daemons with a very practical, straightforward lens, doesn’t find any reason to keep them hidden or stay separated unless a specific situation calls for it, which makes sense with such a conspicuous and, dare he say, useful daemon as his. For Goodnight it seems to be something more emotional: he’s clearly at odds with his own soul at the moment, the few times Felicity or Jack even see the great horned owl interact with people it’s always with Billy rather than Goodnight himself, and Jack can’t be the only one who notices the shakes, even if Joshua himself reacts rather poorly to the man’s struggles. Also understandable, even if it likely makes things even worse by the end of the week.

But neither of them must have the same experience as Jack, who has been around daemon-less people before rather than only heard stories about them or met them in passing. Joshua Faraday has a soul just like the rest of them, otherwise he wouldn’t go to such lengths to hide it and he sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting in Jack’s camp the morning of the final battle with Bogue and Company.

“Right mess we got ourselves into, huh?” Joshua says carelessly as the sun rises over the horizon, tinging everything orange for a moment before the sky turns its usual light blue as the day advances.

For all that Felicity and Jack are the only ones around for a mile or so, it doesn’t appear at all like Joshua’s talking to them or even paying attention to them all that much, except for the occasional glance the younger man shoots his way. He might look worried, haggard even, like he’s expecting Jack to say something, and not something particularly nice. About Red and Vásquez, about Goody, or about his daemon situation?

“Have you eaten already?” Jack ignores the looks and asks instead, finishing cooking his meal over the small campfire.

Joshua smiles ruefully and leans further back against the barely covered ground.

“Just barely, for your standards,” he says with an amused nod to the supper-sized breakfast Jack has laid down and steaming hot in front of him.

It’s not bad for a last meal, if he says so himself, he’s almost proud of it, especially the fish he luckily caught at the nearby river. Joshua must be thinking something similar with the way he glances at one of the skewered pieces.

“Had breakfast with most of the others,” he adds. “Left before Red finished his plate and Vas his second portion, though. Didn’t wanna get roped into some other last minute work around town, Vas has got enough of a bleeding heart for the lot of us, and I reckon Red will end up helping him too if he’s around.”

Jack chuckles, shaking his head with fond bemusement. “I can see where Red’s coming from, at least, but there’s something special in the face he makes when he gets served his meals, isn’t there?”

“That’s what I said!” Joshua agrees with a bark of laughter. “He didn’t appreciate being called out for it though. I’m almost more worried about how he’ll retaliate than, y’know,” he finishes with a loose gesture of his hand.

Jack doubts that’s the whole truth, much like with half of what comes out of Joshua’s mouth at any given moment, doubly so when it’s about himself. It must be a hard thing too, to always keep such a close eye on every little lie and shadow until it becomes second nature and probably not even you know who you are anymore. It might be an unavoidable necessity to some people like them, even now that they’re working as a relatively close knit unit, but it’s clear it’s become something else for Joshua, something like a second skin he slips into to brave the rest of the world, and Sam, Billy and Goody had agreed with him. Only Billy had seen eye to eye about the daemon matter and how it played into the larger picture, however, since Sam and Goody were still convinced about the lack of one the last time they’d spoken about it.

“He’s like an animal always protecting its soft, vulnerable underbelly,” Billy had commented as he’d carefully brushed his feline little soul a couple of nights prior, when he’d dropped by to talk about it more, since Sam was very sad and sympathetic about it, and Goody was starting to grow far too weary and anxious.

Everybody, even the townsfolk, had already noticed Goody’s troubles with his own daemon by  then too, though the only one who’d ever been willing to talk about it or even just point it out at all had been none other than Joshua himself. Maybe Red would have said something sooner, but he had been doing his own thing, and neither Jack or Sam really had the chance to ask him about it the previous night, what with Billy and later Red leaving with the other members of their team for the night. Not that it matters anymore.

“They are good, yes? Red and Vásquez…”

“As good as anyone can be in the face of imminent death, I reckon. They’re not turning tail now, that much I believe in,” Joshua replies with uncharacteristic honesty. “How ‘bout you?”

Jack snorts. “I made my peace a long time ago, son.”

The younger man shoots him a withering look, though there’s something like genuine fondness lurking right beneath it. “I’ll let this one slide only because if we both end up dying today I’ll feel guilty for being a little bitch about it, but if we do make it through, don’t ever call me that, will ya?”

“You already have a lot of things to feel guilty about, is that it?”

Joshua’s glare is far more honest and intense this time around, but he doesn’t protest, shoot him or leave, and Jack bears it with a patient smile. Even in present day, his son would have been considerably younger than Joshua, younger than Red and Teddy even, but between all of their youngsters it’s Joshua - with his open postures, welcoming attitudes, mischievous smiles and quick tempers - the one that reminds him the most of Abe, even if the physique is all kinds of wrong and their gambler’s far more jaded and mean spirited than any of his children ever managed to become in their brief lives.

He can only hope that however this day turns out, Joshua will fare better than Jack’s family did, that whichever soul and survival instincts he has and have kept him alive for this long will not fail him in his most dire hour. Even if everybody else falls, if Sam, Billy and Jack die and Goody never turns back around for them - for Billy -, he hopes at least Joshua, Red Harvest and Vásquez, Teddy and Emma, the teacher with his young son, all the children are left still standing at the end of the fight, and lead long, happy lives.

Jack knows the cruel twists of fate all too well, but even it cannot possibly have the kind of sadistic humor to allow Joshua, Red and Alejandro to meet barely a week before their deaths.

Jack says none of it, and instead offers his unexpected companion a piece of his meal. “Shall we say a little prayer in thanks?”

Joshua looks very thankful as he accepts the food, but Jack is sure it’s more so over the unspoken offer to pray in solidarity. He wonders when was the last time the young man spoke to God, but it must have been a long time ago to reach this point.

Vásquez

The battle for Rose Creek is a barely contained chaos from the very beginning courtesy of Joshua’s dynamite show and the pits filled with angry miners and slave-workers.

Goody was supposed to help those with his rifle from somewhere up high and safe but also relatively close - a nearby house, he thinks they had settled on midway through the week - to cover for them before folding back along with the bulk of the men, however many of them remained by then, and Joshua, leading Bogue’s men back into town with them, where everybody could narrow their efforts from four different points overlooking the main street. That was the idea, and for the most part they decide to stick to it even after Goody leaves them in the dust and Billy and Horne have to split his work between them, if only because it would probably be harder to switch things around with the townsfolk at the last minute. They, The Seven, have more experience with shootouts and fights, and are generally better at improvising because of it, especially Billy, Joshua, Red and Ale himself.

At least like this Felicity the Black Bear turns out to be a great help out on the fields, even if Joshua and a few of the men make it back to town looking haunted and a little pale or green around the face. Ale gets it, after growing up the way they did in a loving, very normal family before he’d gone out into the world, it had taken a long time for him and even more so for Rocío to face this far more violent side of themselves and get used to it, even if it’s always been in defense of themselves and others. Horne, Red and Sam probably feel similarly about their own carnivorous daemons and with their pragmatic attitudes.

But Joshua, having a small, comparatively delicate sprite known for eating mostly insects and berries such as a bluebird which he also keeps away for safety to begin with, probably hasn’t had to deal with the mere idea of daemons attacking people and extinguishing each other all that much, let alone witnessed or experienced it. The man’s clearly skillful or lucky enough for the both of them, and knows to avoid situations like those.

The gunfight has started in earnest and they’re too far away from each other for them to hear one another even if they shouted and Joshua had let them know the previous night that Lorcan was going to remain hidden through the bulk of the fight unless he was needed urgently, either because he’d caught sight of something, Joshua was in trouble, or to deliver any messages.

“How far can you stretch your bond?” Red had asked once they’d laid down on the decently sized bed, eyeing the little bird with open interest as the daemon had settled on a pile of clothes left on the chair by the desk.

Alejandro had let some of his own curiosity show without too much worry, though he had also been secretly grateful to Red for asking so he wouldn’t have to, whether the younger man realized it or not.

Joshua, feeling very warm and as soft as he supposed he could ever get, half draped over Alejandro and pinning him to the mattress with his weight alone, had hummed in contemplation, eyes closed and breathing slow though still clearly awake, if only just so.

“We’ve never really measured it up properly, but definitely further away than I’ve seen you and Thunder go, or even Goody and his horned owl, and for much longer too.”

“How long?” Ale had decided to take that one, instead of making Red do all the work himself.

Joshua had shrugged, the motion awkward and loose, his right arm sneaking around Red’s torso and reeling him in against Ale’s other side, as if they didn’t have a perfectly good bed to use up, even if they couldn’t really sprawl as far as they could go on it.

“A little o’er three full days ‘s our best time,” he had replied and promptly fallen asleep.

In the here and now, Joshua catches sight of Alejandro watching him as he ducks into an empty building to trap one of Bogue’s men and shoots him a quick, half-shaken nod, a wince that might or might not be a smile. It’ll have to do for now, whether Ale likes it or not.

Everything starts going sideways when the second wave of Blackstones marches in from another side of the town entirely, by the thicker groves nearby, too sudden and too many of them together for the men posted in that area to really manage all that much, intensive week-long training or not. Even Goody would have had trouble landing any good shots in these circumstances, and Sam, Red and Ale themselves struggle in spite of the further distance and time they have to brace themselves for the onslaught. The best they can do is try and shoot at the larger targets, the horses, and someone even gets lucky and ends up shooting a daemon dead, its rider falling limp like a doll to the ground and startling a couple other horses into disarray while at it.

Then in comes Goody, galloping back into town like a soul being chased by the Devil himself and frantically shouting about a Gatling gun, and all Hell breaks loose, as Joshua would say. One moment he’s covering for Billy and Goody until they make it into the church and go on their way upstairs towards the steeple. The next McCann shoots Joshua in the back like the fucking coward he is and Ale sees nothing but red.

He savors every fraction of a second he spends - maybe wastes, he supposes - shooting McCann dead and into an ironically but delightfully situated coffin. It’s one of those very satisfying coincidences orchestrated by the universe, but that same satisfaction nauseates when it’s echoed and amplified back to him by his connection to his daemon and mixed with the consuming worry for Joshua that floods him as he regains some of his composure… Only to lose it again as he frantically makes his way back to the church to try and check up on Joshua, distantly registering the wide-eyed expression on the man half-slumped against the frame.

The Gatling gun beats him to it, and the most he can do while the bullets and the debris rain on them, and the sounds of the impacts and the men being injured around them deafen them, is hunker down along with everyone else fast enough and reach out with a frantic hand to the shape of his man. He feels like he can breathe again when Joshua not only reaches back but shows him he’s still strong and hale enough to attempt to squeeze the life out of Ale with his grip alone, muscles taut and hot, short nails digging into Ale’s skin. Alejandro, worried out of his mind and already in too deep, thoughts split between Joshua’s state and the knowledge that Red is not there with them, gives as much as he takes, and is immediately on his hands and knees making his way to the other man the moment the gun stops.

“I’m fine, I’m okay,” Joshua tells him breathlessly, sitting up jerkily but denying Ale’s help as if to prove it to the two of them. “I promise.”

It’s a quiet, almost intimate moment between them while everyone else is also getting their wits about them in the wake of the attack. Ale just wishes it could’ve lasted a little longer before Joshua’s screaming something about the children he doesn’t quite catch and goes running off into the building where they’ve sequestered the little ones and most of the women. Alejandro wants to go after him, desperately, but he’s cut off by some of the remaining Blackstones catching onto what’s going on and pinning them inside the church with their own fire, clearly wanting to keep them there so that the men with the Gatling gun can focus on one single place.

The reinforcements and the sandbags thankfully did their thing with the first round, but they just don’t know how much ammo Bogue’s men have at their disposal, how many rounds they can go and how much damage they can make before they finally run out, and all the while all of them hunkering down in the church will be rendered useless for the remainder of the fight. Even if they all make it through, they won’t be able to help anyone else left outside until they’ll be the last ones standing, and even if the Gatling gun stops by them, all the Blackstones would need to finish them off would be either enough numbers surrounding the building or a couple of dynamite sticks. Maybe Joshua is rubbing off on him, because all he can think about is how bad those odds are, like it’s a poker game, instead of trying to come up with solutions, however implausible or impossible, qué estúpido.

A second round of fire from the Gatling gun makes a sweep through most of the town before taking its sweet time with the church, pieces of wood and plaster falling on them, and a handful of men - either confused, panicked or simply unprepared - get shot down. Mostly it’s only a few minor to mild wounds, grazes like the one on Ale’s arm, before they’re dragged down wailing by someone near them, but two or three get hit somewhere fatal or are genuinely mowed down. Ale thinks he can hear the young man tucked down next to him cry, but he’s not entirely sure with the chaos all around them and the tensed shaking could just be quiet terror instead.

Ale hugs Rocío with a hard grip, that or the gunfire making her yelp and whine, and desperately hopes Joshua, Red and the rest have found somewhere safe to weather the onslaught, but even if they haven’t, he wishes he was with Joshua and Red nonetheless. If they’re all going to die either way, he’d rather it was together rather than scattered all around the town, not knowing the first thing about each other, if they’re still standing or have already fallen. He can’t even really see much of the great blue sky from where he’s laying down, so even if Thunder or Lorcan are flying around nearby his chances of catching sight of either are minimal at best.

While Red was an elusive cabrón even at the best of times and is probably making his way through town quietly and out of sight, Joshua must have some sort of preternatural ability to make an appearance whenever somebody mentions him or even just thinks about him. It’s only a few short seconds after the Gatling gun stops again when he hears about Joshua again, courtesy of Goody up in the steeple egging him on - on whatever the insane, reckless lunático is doing now - and shooting like a madman along with Billy.

It’s a brief struggle to make his way to the entrance of the church at first, both Rocío and he have to fight for it, but by the time they reach it the nearby Blackstones are back on the move and after a different target or in a confused disarray. It doesn’t take him long to realize why: Joshua’s found himself a horse and is making a mad run towards the Gatling gun, Goody and Billy covering for him from the steeple, and Sam doing much the same from the ground.

Alejandro doesn’t even have to think about it and also starts going for the nearby Blackstones, Rocío sprinting out of the church with her teeth exposed in anger and exultation.

He shouts a warcry as loud as he can, even convinced as he is that it won’t reach the other man at all: “Corre, güerito!”

Ale follows the man’s silhouette, golden under the softening light between noon and sunset, with his eyes for a moment before a sharp spike of alarm from Rocío gets him on the move again, right on time to not get shot in the head by a somewhat bright Blackstone too. It’s the kind of image that leaves an impression on one’s retinas, he thinks even at that moment, the sort of view hazy with emotion and dream-like surrealism. It’s almost reassuring to have that as a final, lasting memory of Joshua Faraday, he thinks vaguely, when he hears the explosion go off in the direction of the Gatling gun, and he can only hope that Red has something similar too, some last memento of their man.

There’s men already scattering out from the church by then like mice running out in a panic, some of them frantically looking for somewhere to take cover in, going after the stunned Blackstones remaining, or heading up to the steeple, figuring out how to get onto the ceiling along the nave, to get to Billy and Goody. And for a moment in the wake of the explosion, all Alejandro and Rocío can really do is stand there, dejected, and let everything happen around them…

Until something moving swiftly above the charred remains in the distance catches his eye, kicks his heart and the rest of him back into action.

“Who was that?” Jack Horne asks breathlessly as he approaches him at a half-run, looking worried sick and tucking his bloodied right hand close to his chest, clearly injured though the rest of him looks alright at a first, cursory glance. “Alejandro, who was that?”

But Ale’s already moving as soon as he makes sure the other man is not in any immediate danger, and that even if he is injured further, he can see Teddy making his way to them too and surely the younger man could help him if anything else happens in the meantime. He thinks he can hear Jack and Teddy calling out to him again as he takes off in a run and gets on a poor horse roaming nearby and looking half-confused and half-scared. All that really matters is that the animal doesn’t try to throw him off or bite him or anything else, and it isn’t even that hard to lead it towards the field at a fast pace, although keeping the damned thing at arm’s length and steady after he dismounts is more trouble than he can put up with and he has to let the poor beast go whether he likes it or not. He’ll figure out how to bring Joshua back to town when the time comes, but he first needs to find the man and make sure he can even be moved.

“Lorcan? Lorcan, por favor, calm down, I can’t understand you,” Ale tries to tell the frantic bird wildly snapping his bill and rapidly flying in an uneven circle at around eye level while the man is also trying to figure out where exactly Joshua is in all the mess of singed grass, debris from the Gatlin, body parts and all manner of things he can’t quite identify, is likely better off not knowing.

He starts in the general area right under the bird, but the poor soul is so erratic it still takes Ale a moment to lift up the right piece of debris to uncover a thankfully, mostly intact-looking pair of legs, only some of the pant’s fabric singed or torn and a few specks of blood littered around. He quickly uncovers the rest of the man too, but doesn’t know whether to feel relief or even more concern at the final sight.

Lorcan is still flying in circles and making incoherent noises above them, driving himself into a frenzy, and Ale reckons that that can’t bode well either.

“He’s still alive!” Ale shouts to the half a dozen or so people making their way to them more so vaguely curious than urgent, spurring them into action.

Then he turns around, eyes following the movements as Red rides up and stops his horse only a few feet from them, swinging down it with a single fluid, hasty motion. Unlike Ale’s scared, borrowed mount, Red’s mare stays put where the man leaves her, only looking mildly restless.

“We need to do something about Lorcan or he’ll drop before we can do anything about Josh,” Ale points out with an eloquent glare at the small bird and his increasingly erratic flight, already taking his belt off to use it as tourniquet on Joshua’s left arm, where a bullet wound is still open and bleeding, as you please.

Red whistles sharp and loud, waits half a beat and makes a gesture towards Lorcan before dropping down and kneeling on Joshua’s other side, checking him with nimble, very careful fingers.

“He doesn’t look too bad, all things considered,” Red comments levelly though the worry is as clear on his often impassive face as it must be on Ale’s. “He must have been far enough from the explosion that mostly he was hit by the debris and some of the heat, but the bullet wounds don’t look good.”

Ale almost snaps that nothing looks good at the moment, but manages to swallow it down along with all of his fear and frustrations, focusing on what he can do to help Joshua instead. Not only will picking up fights with people just to make him feel slightly better in the moment not help at all, but going for Red in particular will cause only pain and guilt, especially if Joshua…

“I think we can move him without much risk,” Red thankfully if unknowingly interrupts that line of thought, ripping Joshua’s shirt and undershirt apart, first to take it off and expose the man’s injured torso, then to cut it into stripes and large squares with his knife. “Let’s just try and blot more of the bleeding first, until the others make it here and help us get him up and onto the horse.”

They work quietly and diligently, turning Joshua’s motionless, almost corpse-like body around to check his back once the first couple of people reach them and immediately drop down to help them. In total, they can count four bullet wounds on him that they can find at a glance, which might be better than Ale had feared, but it’s hardly any good. None at all would have been the ideal amount, in his opinion, never mind how much of a hypocrite that would make him with the graze on his shoulder and the shell stuck in the meat of his left thigh. Ale - and Red, for that matter - didn’t almost blow himself up with dynamite, at least.

Red and Ale deem the man well enough to endure the ride back into town once the worst of his injuries have been blotted and covered up, and enough people have made their way to them that they feel safe moving him onto Red’s horse at all. It’s only then, when he steps up and back to begin the logistics of moving the man, that he remembers about Lorcan, realizing he doesn't hear him or see him flying around, assuming the worst immediately until he sees Thunder a little way aways, staring at him intently.

The larger bird makes a gesture with her head once she’s seemingly sure she has his attention and it takes Ale a moment to understand what she’s trying to say.

It doesn’t matter how drop dead exhausted he feels, or the sharp pain on his arm when he puts any force on it, Ale has the impossible to ignore need to help the rest with Joshua, even if it’s only to at least touch him, solid and warm and alive, one last time before Red sneaks an arm around his too still chest and takes off for the town. Ale watches them go for a short moment, two, three beats long, and gets back on the move, approaching Thunder carefully while the townsfolk either begin the trek back on their own two feet too or make to check the site of the explosion and the surrounding area, guns in hand just in case.

He nods courteously at the eagle when he’s close enough, and the bird of prey nods back, though it looks more like a bow with the way her torso moves with it, unfurling enough for him to see beneath her properly. Ale crouches and eyes Thunder’s talons anxiously.

“Lorcan?”

The much smaller daemon watches him with both trepidation and something akin to hope from where he’s being held - or rather pinned - down by one of his counterpart’s large, strong feet, still breathing too fast to Ale’s liking and saying nothing in return. Ale feels an immense amount of sympathy and love for the frightened soul and offers his hands, unafraid of the eagle’s claws.

“What do you say if I carry you back to town? You must be exhausted and in a lot of pain, and I’m worried about you, mi amor.”

Lorcan watches him with wide, glassy eyes for a long moment, but Ale simply waits him out with open hands and a kind expression, until eventually the daemon chirps some kind of reply. It’s nothing he can understand - yet - but for Thunder it must come clear as day and she carefully removes her foot and half-waddles away, nodding at him yet still keeping an eye on the proceedings. Lorcan too walks awkwardly towards Ale’s hands and nearly drags himself up with beak, wings and feet before the man readjusts his hands flat against the ground. He briefly considers to simply pick him up, but he’s too aware of just how much the daemon, this particular one, is already trusting him with being carried away like he’s some unintelligent, wild bird with a broken wing, so Ale holds his tongue and his hands in place and only brings Lorcan up and against his chest delicately when he’s stumbled his way up and laid down.

It’s an odd sensation, to have the small bird tucked against him, still breathing fast but at least strong and steady. Ale thinks it feels a lot like what he imagines keeping a still beating heart against his chest, holding it between his hands, would feel like, and he supposes that’s not too far from the truth.

Ale walks back to the small town at a mild, steady pace, mindful of the precious cargo he carries and hoping, praying, begging to not feel it fade away and vanish against his skin.

Joshua Faraday

He wakes up slowly, bits and pieces at a time: first his stinging eyes and dry mouth, a hand here and a foot there, his side where he can feel stabbing pain, his nose as he picks up the sharp scents of sweat and alcohol. It takes a long while - he thinks - but eventually he can feel something other than pain and discomfort, and it’s a warmth along his left side and more of it next to his right arm, making the needling wound there just that much easier to bear. It takes even longer, but at some undefined point he takes note of a gentle weight on his chest made up of both soft fluff and sharp angles, and he simply has to open his eyes to see what in the Hell it is laying on top of him.

Josh is greeted by a glare of Lorcan’s own, the kind that makes it difficult to believe that there are any bird daemons in this green, good Earth that aren’t also inherent sons of bitches to some degree.

“Keep it quiet,” the bluebird whispers. “It’s been two and a half days and it took too much effort from too many of us to finally convince them to go to sleep for you to ruin it all when you’re just going to go back under in no time. You can make a ruckus when you wake up later.”

Joshua blinks dumbly at his soul before making some effort and taking in his surroundings: he’s in a room not unlike the one he has at the Inn, although more spacious, enough to have a second bed next to his as well as a counter with a basin, towels, some bottles and all kinds of other stuff he doesn’t immediately recognize, a lot of early morning sunlight streaming in through the large windows, some of them open to let in the fresh breeze.

That’s where the warmth on his left side is coming from, sunlight, whereas the source on his right side…

That warmth is all Red Harvest, propped up onto the edge of the bed with his head resting on his crossed arms, face half-tucked into the inner crook of his left elbow and more or less pointed at him. His expression is mellow and his breathing is slow with sleep, the same sleep that also has Vásquez, no, Alejandro in its grasp, only the vaquero is laid down as long as he is on the other bed, limbs akimbo like he lost consciousness the moment he hit the mattress, a tattered blanket valiantly trying to cover his torso and not fall to the ground by the wayside while at it.

Joshua watches them for far longer than he would normally let himself, especially if they were awake or someone else was in the room and conscious with them, someone other than Rocío watching him from where she’s resting but otherwise aware, tangled between Ale’s feet, and Lorcan on his chest.

“You sound awfully confident about my waking up again anytime today,” he accuses the still unmoving, still glaring bluebird with a barely audible croak.

“I’ll wake you up myself even if I have to screech at your ear,” Lorcan replies, somewhat gently.

“Promise?” He asks, already feeling the empty void of unconsciousness pulling him down.

Lorcan simply watches him, though he supposes that’s well enough.

“Did we at least win?”

The daemon snorts lightly, so much so Joshua wouldn’t even notice it if the bird weren’t where he is and resting all of his meager weight on the man’s chest.

“We won.” And the bird adds before he even has the chance to ask, Joshua feels the fondness wafting from the annoying little thing: “And not one of us had to die for it, isn’t that nice too?”

Joshua goes back to sleep washed away by a wave of relief so intense it’s almost painful.

 

Can I be free as a bluebird?
In the open sky I'll fly high
To be free from my fears is the only wish I have
Free as a bluebird
In the open sky I'll fly high
To be free is the only wish that I have