Invincible
for MissingMommy
The January One-Shot Exchange - For: MissingMommy - AliceFrank, western, romance, yellow, Three Broomsticks."
Ultimate Writer Challenge - "Write a genre you've never written before." (Western) - 1/1 complete
Criminal Minds Character Category Competition - Competiton: David Rossi - "Write about a character who cannot forgive themselves for something in their past."
The frenzied clattering of hooves across the wide, dusty plains as his horse gallops jolts Frank painfully around in the saddle; he clings to the reins desperately with his left hand, cradling his injured right arm to his chest all the while.
The sun, bright and yellow and ever so hot beats down on him relentlessly, burning through his thin vest and shirt. His trusty belt, which holds all his guns and flashing silver bullets, has never felt like such a burden slung around his waist.
Frank's head spins with dizziness and exhaustion and probably dehydration, too- he's been riding all night, and through the morning, and he had torn a strip of cloth off his shirt to bandage his forearm hours ago.
The cloth is now soaked with the dark redness of his blood.
He snaps the reins once more, and his midnight dark horse, Neville, whinnies, increasing their speed.
Through the haze of shimmering heat and grit swirling through the air, Frank sees something, just there, on the horizon- the faint outline of a clock tower.
His heart flutters hopefully.
A clock tower?
As Neville sprints closer and closer to the tower, the silhouette of a small town emerges, and Frank would leap with joy if he could still hold himself upright.
Neville seems to know what to do. In a matter of minutes, they're at the base of the old, rusty clock tower which marks the town's border.
Frank is vaguely aware of a door to one of the dusty buildings swinging open, a woman rushing towards him.
Blurriness clouds his vision, and he can hold on no longer.
The reins slip from Frank's grasp and he falls off his horse and onto the ground, landing painfully on his back. A flare of agony lances through his spine and bleeding arm.
Neville whinnies and paws the ground insistently as the woman reaches him. She kneels down in front of him, concern flooding her pale face.
Frank stares at her in wonder. With her golden hair and shimmering blue eyes, the sun creating a sort of halo around her features, she looks almost otherworldly.
"Are you an angel?" he mumbles, his voice raspy and disjointed.
Then the world fades to black.
When Frank wakes, he's lying on a rather lumpy, uncomfortable cot. It takes a moment for him to blink the dark spots out of his vision; he's in a room, with yellow paint chipping off of the wooden walls. The room is dark and musty, and the only light comes from a small, carved window that's slanted in the ceiling.
All at once, Frank's aware that he's being watched.
He sits up much too fast, instantly reaching for his gun- which, he realizes, isn't there. Less than a millisecond later, the pain sets in, fire racing through his arm and pounding in his head.
"Hey," a soft, feminine voice muses from his right. "You're gonna hurt yourself. Lie back down."
Frank turns his head only to see the woman from earlier. She's sitting on a wooden stool beside his bed. It's only then he realizes that there's a shining gold badge pinned to her vest- a sheriff's badge.
"If- If you don't mind," Frank begins, but breaks off, coughing. The woman watches him, worried.
He inhales, trying again. "What… happened?"
"When you arrived, you was falling off your horse," the sheriff says. "Bleeding, too."
The brief memory of calling her an angel flashes through Frank's head, and heat flushes his face crimson.
But the pretty sheriff doesn't say anything about it; she just goes on. "You passed out, and I brought you inside here. You've been asleep for 'bout a day. It's around noon right now. Your horse is in the stables. I bandaged up your arm, too."
Frank glances down at his right arm. A thick, white, clean bandage is clad around his forearm, covering the space from his wrist to just above his elbow.
He tries to bend his arm and flinches.
"A bullet wound," the sheriff says quietly, her blue eyes meeting his own. "Who shot you?"
Frank sighs. He doesn't want to explain it to her; if she knows, she'll be in danger, and so will the entire town.
"Look," Frank sighs, "Sheriff…"
He hesitates.
"Alice," the sheriff offers.
"Miss Alice," Frank says. "I've got to go. Where's my belt?"
Alice frowns. "You can't go runnin' off so soon, you're hurt. Who're you trying to get away from?"
"It's not… it's not important," Frank mumbles, avoiding the scrutiny of her intense gaze. "Do you have my belt, Miss Alice?"
If his mother taught him one thing, it's manners.
Alice looks disappointed, and perhaps even a bit hurt… but whatever she's feeling, she hides it quickly. "All right, mister…?"
"Frank," Frank answers. "Frank Longbottom."
Alice nods once. "All right, Frank Longbottom." She reaches down, picking up something from the floor, and tosses it up to him in one fluid movement.
He grabs it out of the air with his left hand and shifts out of the bed, throwing the thin blanket off him. Standing, Frank awkwardly re-fastens the belt around his waist one-handedly. He grimaces when he sees that his pants are caked with dirt and dried blood.
Adjusting the belt so that his gun is secured at his hip, Frank follows Alice out of the room and through a narrow wooden doorway.
They walk down a dark hallway that leads to a set of stairs. Alice patters down the stairs quickly, her boots clicking on the floorboards. Frank descends the steps after her, stepping off the last one and into a wide, open saloon.
There's a long bar in the corner. The rest of the saloon is filled with circular tables and short wooden chairs.
"Welcome to the Three Broomsticks Saloon," Alice says, noticing him scanning the room.
The saloon is empty, and they weave through the tables easily, reaching the swinging door. Alice pushes it open and they step through, out into a clear, sandy road.
Alice gestures for him to walk after her, and they make their way down the road and to a small red barn. Alice heads through the barn's open doorway and Frank wordlessly follows her, watching the way her blonde locks sway around her shoulders.
Inside the barn are the stables, and Frank rushes up to Neville immediately.
"Hey, boy," he murmurs, reaching past the waist-high gate that blocks Neville into the stable. Neville whinnies softly as Frank pets his mane.
"What's his name?" Alice asks.
Frank smiles fondly as he looks at his horse. "Neville."
Alice grins at that, her smile brightening the room. She tries the name out on her tongue, and her grin widens. "Neville. I like it."
Alice reaches over and unlatches the gate, allowing Neville to trot out of the stables and into the sunlight.
In a comfortable silence, Frank walks alongside Neville, holding him by the reins, as Alice guides them back to the clock tower.
The sand there is still spattered with droplets of Frank's blood.
"Well," Alice says finally, coming to a halt. "Goodbye, then."
For some reason, dread settles in the pit of Frank's stomach, cold and aching. He's not sure why, but the prospect of leaving makes him want to cry.
But he knows he can't stay; if he stayed, that would be just selfish- he would be endangering Alice and her entire town if he did.
Frank swallows past the lump in his throat. But before he can bid her farewell, the sound of horse hooves reaches his ears.
Squinting against the sun, Frank spots three horses silhouetted against the horizon, large and dark and nightmarishly huge.
He curses under his breath, and immediately regrets it; his mother always said not to curse in the presence of a lady.
"I'm assumin' they're who you're runnin' from," Alice drawls, her eyes fixed on the three horses that are steadily growing nearer.
"You're assumin' right," Frank whispers, fear seizing his chest. "I put your home at risk. I should've never come here."
Alice scoffs. "That's ridiculous," she says matter-of-factly. "Who are they?"
"They call themselves the Death Eaters," Frank says, clenching his teeth. "They killed my mother and father."
Alice blinks. "I'm… sorry."
Frank just shakes his head. "It was sixteen years ago. They raided our farm for no reason at all. Shot her, and the horses, too. Only Neville lived- he was a baby foal at the time. I was only twelve. I hid in the stables and I watched as they destroyed everything I loved."
A lump forms in his throat, and he swallows past it. When was the last time he's actually said any of this aloud? And to a complete stranger, no less… though it's something about Alice that makes him want to trust her, to confide in her.
"I was a coward," Frank says bitterly. "I didn't do anything to stop 'em."
"You were just a kid," Alice reminds him gently. "If you had tried anything, they would've surely shot you down, too."
Frank barks a laugh. "I spent my entire life training to be a gunslinger, Sheriff, for this very purpose. I sought 'em out last night. There were two of them, sitting in a shady bar about eight towns over. I was ready to shoot when the third one crept up behind me and got me right in the arm. I took Neville and I ran. I was bleedin'; I couldn't face them like that."
Frank heaves a sigh full of pent-up anger and frustration. "Was that cowardly of me? To run away again?"
"Not at all," Alice assures him quietly. "You were hurt. They didn't face you honorably, they came up behind you. True gunslingers know better than that."
Frank nods slightly. "Well. It's time, I suppose. They'll be here any moment now. It's time for me to finally face 'em, once and for all."
"You don't have to do this alone," Alice says, not meeting his eyes and slipping her right hand into his left. With her other hand, she pulls her gun out of her belt and aims it towards the steadily approaching riders.
An unexpected smile flits over Frank's features.
Then he realizes another thing.
"'Scuse me," he mutters, awkwardly. "I… er, I need my good hand to shoot."
Laughing softly, Alice releases his good arm and he readies his gun.
With Alice by his side, Frank feels invincible.