To find a queen without a king

They say she plays guitar and cries and sings

La la la la

Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn,

Tryin' to find a woman who's never, never, never been born

Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams

Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.

Led Zeppelin

Rane watched John until he was out of sight, her hair flying around her face in the snow, wand grasped loosely in her fist. Arthur was behind her, boots skating in the scrabble, scoping out the mountainside.

"We should stick to this spot for the nonce," he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. "Shore up and wait 'em out. We got a good vantage point, this is limestone and them bastards can't shoot around corners, try though they might. We can pick 'em off one by one if they try to flank us."

"Okay," said Rane faintly, still looking after John.

"Can you shield us? From the west, at least? I can't rightly see that way, the snowfall's gettin' too thick. Could be there are more of 'em headed up to get alongside us, fire from cover."

"Sure, yeah."

Arthur straightened, looking over at her. "Hey."

Rane turned to look at him, her eyes troubled and overbright beneath her brows.

"John's gonna be okay, Rane. He ain't dumb."

"You said he was duller than rusted iron."

"Well, I said a lot of things. Don't necessarily make none of 'em so." He approached her, looking strangely vulnerable without his hat, and smoothed her damp hair from her forehead. "Don't you worry about him. I known John since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, he's tougher than he looks. He'd chew up nails and spit out bullets, that boy, believe it or not."

Rane sighed roughly, rubbing at her eyes. "Fuck."

"C'mere."

Arthur pulled her to him, putting his arms around her and drawing her close to his chest. Rane surrendered willingly enough to the warmth and the smell of him, burying her face in his shirt, hearing the grating sound of his raspy breath and the quick thump of his heart.

"Feels like it's all going to pieces, doesn't it?" Rane remarked, low, her arms around Arthur's trim waist. "Just going to bits."

"Well, it is, that's why it feels that way, like as not," said Arthur, his voice low and rumbling in his chest. He pulled back, taking her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes. "Things go unwell and you're gonna go after John, ain't ya?"

Rane scoffed. "You know better than to ask me that."

"I know better and I'm askin' nonetheless." Arthur was fixing her with a grim look. "You know what you gotta do. That conversation doesn't need to be had, because we're both gonna get off this shitty mountain."

Rane scoffed derisively, her eyes filled with tears. "We've got forty-odd men gunning for us, Arthur. Two of them know you better than I do. How do you think this will end?"

"With us laughing our goddamn asses off on a beach someplace, I hope."

Rane laughed herself, the tears falling from her eyes freely now. Arthur wiped them away with his thumb and kissed her mouth gently.

"Girl, don't I love you so damn much. I can't hardly stand it."

"I love you too, Arthur Morgan, Christ knows it."

"I know it, too." Arthur kissed her forehead gently. "We're gonna see it through someplace quiet and peaceable. We surely will. I ain't gonna give up on us until there ain't no other way out, so quit bein' dramatic and help me shore this bastard up. How 'bout it?"

Rane looked at him a moment, biting her lip, then nodded. "Okay."

It was five, maybe six minutes before the Pinkertons were firing on them. Arthur had been right, the gunshots were coming from the West, where the snowfall was obscuring their view. As a result their aim was lacking, which was just as well; Rane's spell sent their bullets flying askance regardless. The two of them hid behind a boulder, Arthur with both guns drawn, Rane with her wand in her hand, reupping her spell every now and then.

"PROTEGO MAXIMA!" Rane glanced sidelong at Arthur. "I can't see them, there's too much -!"

A shot rang out, shockingly loud. Rane reeled, crying out and grasping her stomach. A broad, black hole had opened in her midsection, just above her navel, blowing a massive hole in her shirt and scattering blood onto the snow behind her. She fell back, arms pinwheeling, her wand clattering from her hand, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

"RANE -!"

Micah Bell came from behind, tackling Arthur, bellowing. Rane craned her neck back, still grasping her stomach, looking at them.

"Arthur -!"

"I gotcha now, Black Lung!" Micah was crying, and with the hand that wasn't clutching at Arthur's shirt he punched him hard, sending a spray of blood onto the snow. "Survivors, right? Survivors! Survivors! Your little lady ain't gonna be among 'em, is she?"

"You son of a BITCH -!"

"She's gutshot, Black Lung!" said Micah gleefully, glaring down at him. "Right under the ribs! She'll go real, real slow! Does that help ya out at all?"

"FUCKING ASSHOLE!" Rane shrieked, and with a terrific effort rolled herself towards Arthur and Micah. The blow of her weight made all three of them fall off the ridge, and they fell through the snow, landing in a spot of greenery below, both Arthur and Micah rolling away and groaning. Rane fell into a patch of rocks with her full weight, awkward and graceless, and felt one of her ribs snap - the same one she'd broken years ago after Albus Dumbledore had died, as a matter of fact - and gasped, clutching at her chest, moaning. Micah was already getting up, snow clinging to his jeans, his mouth now bleeding.

"BASTARD!" Arthur bellowed, staggering to his feet.

They went after one another again, throwing fists through the snow. Rane rolled over, grasping at her midsection. Her wand was a little ways away, lying in the snow, glimmering in the low light. Blood from her wound was staining the snow around her.

"You've lost!"

Arthur kicked Micah away, making him stagger in the snow. He laughed, clutching his bleeding nose.

"Still got a little fight in ya, have ya, boy?" Micah crowed.

"More than a little, you rat son of a bitch, can't even kill a dyin' man -"

"Your pretty girlfriend don't look so good," Micah remarked, laughing roughly as Arthur grasped at his throat. "She ain't gonna make it outta this -!"

"I'll open up your goddamned chest, you keep after her -!"

"You don't need to! I already did it for ya! Take a look at 'er!"

Micah shoved Arthur roughly away. Arthur staggered, falling back, his palms skating across the rock and drawing blood. Micah drew closer to Rane, looking down at her from beneath his hat, smirking. She was lying on the rock, clutching her belly, blood pouring from the wound in her midsection, her face pale and her brows drawn, gasping.

"You wanna fix it, little girl? Because I think your fixer might be busted."

He toed her wand nearer to him with his boot, and then with one swift motion brought his heel down on it. Her wand snapped with a sharp sound, splinters of the ebony wood flying against the snow in contrast.

"There." Micah lifted his boot, leering. "You ain't so tough without your stick, are ya, little girl?"

Rane groaned through her teeth, blood seeping through her lips. Arthur was crawling towards her, but Micah yanked him up and punched him hard in the mouth, sending him reeling. Rane gasped weakly, reaching out.

"Hope you're ready for hell!" Micah said sharply.

"Get the - fuck - off !"

Arthur threw Micah from him with an effort. Micah rolled off to one side, his mouth bleeding, gasping. Arthur rolled over and began to crawl for the summit, his hands grasping at the soil, his breath shearing. Micah was getting to his feet behind him, his nose running with blood, laughing.

"C'mere, Black Lung!" Micah was out of breath, laughing, striding for him. "All there is is winning or losing, boy -!"

Micah punched him, and then punched him again. And then again. Rane rolled over onto her stomach, screaming his name.

"STOP! STOP! STOP!"

"Your girlfriend ain't long for this world but she surely is worried about you." Micah punctuated this with a punch that dislodged one of Arthur's molars, sending it skittering onto the rock. "Maybe you oughta shut her up, 'less she wants to come along."

"You LET HER ALONE!"

Micah responded to this by aiming a kick at Rane which took her squarely in the chin. She gasped, flung over onto her back, clutching her face, blood rolling from her mouth. Micah turned back to Arthur, smirking.

"You son of a -!"

Arthur pulled one of his revolvers from his belt. Micah kicked it away, sending it skittering across the rock.

"You ain't got it in ya, Black Lung. You're halfway dead as is, and so is she."

Arthur kicked Micah in the knee, hard. Micah staggered back, his leg buckling, grasping at his leg in the snow, his face shining with sweat, sucking his teeth. Arthur rolled onto his belly, trying for the gun that had been flung away from him, his breath shearing between his teeth.

Micah was getting to his feet, laughing grimly and gasping for breath. "You ain't never gonna reach that gun!"

"Arthur," Rane gasped, watching this helplessly, clutching her stomach, covered in her own blood from wrist to elbow. "Arthur -"

Arthur reached the gun that had skittered from his grasp, but as his hand strayed near to it, a shining black boot fell over it, pressing it against the rock. Arthur looked up, his brow furrowed, gasping.

Dutch Van Der Linde stood there. His face was without sympathy, his dark hair damp against his skull, his face unshaven. Arthur turned his face up to Dutch, rasping. Dutch kicked Arthur's pistol a little further away, still watching him.

"Oh, Dutch." He shook his head, his voice rough. "He's a rat. You know it and I know it. Look what he did to the girl. Look what he did to her."

Dutch glanced up, still quite expressionless. Rane was still lying on the rock some ways back, belly-down, grasping at the rocks, her dark hair in her eyes, glaring ahead. Micah shook his head.

"He's sick. He's tired, Dutch."

"Dutch!" Rane gasped, clutching at the rock scrabble on the ground. Her voice was high and rough, desperate. "Help him! Help him, Dutch, take him away from -!"

"He's talkin' crazy, they both are," said Micah, shaking his head mournfully.

"There! Up on the ridge!"

The voices were coming from behind them. Micah and Dutch turned, eyeing the mountains, eclipsed by snow.

"I gave you all I had."

Dutch looked down. Arthur was grasping at his boot, looking up at him, blood running now from the corner of his mouth freely. His thin chest was heaving. "I gave it all. I did."

Dutch looked at him a long moment, his mouth working. His eyes seemed far away.

"I . . . "

"Come on, Dutch," said Micah roughly. He aimed a kick at Rane which took her in the shoulder, making her groan loudly. "These two ain't long for this world. We need to go. We made it, buddy."

Dutch looked at Micah silently, his mouth thin.

"We won!" said Micah. "Come on!"

"John made it," said Arthur softly, his voice coarse. "He's the only one. I tried, in the end. I did."

His breath was tight and rasping, and Dutch was staring at him. Rane watched him, gasping in the snow, clutching her bleeding stomach. After a moment, Dutch turned from all three of them, striding away in the snow and the dirt, washing his hands of it all. Micah made a sound of frustration in his throat and jerked away, stowing his pistols in his belt and running off down the mountain, boots skidding in the snow. Then they were alone with the howling wind.

Rane crawled laboriously toward Arthur, who was lying face-up in the snow, staring at the sky. She grasped at his shirt, dragging herself closer to him.

"You're okay," she muttered, her mouth near his ear.

"Sweetheart, I'm about as far from okay as they get," Arthur replied, sounding clear and droll. "Are you -?"

"I'm fine," said Rane. She wasn't - she could feel the warm blood rushing through her fingers as she clutched her wound, but Arthur didn't need to know about that right now. "Are you hurting? Are you in pain?"

"Oh, honey, I been in pain since the second I met you." Arthur took her cheek in his hand, meeting her eyes. "Since the very second. I can't imagine livin' without you. So I go on to the next place happy enough because I know you'll join me."

"You're okay. You're gonna be okay."

"No I ain't."

Rane looked down at him a moment longer, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks, shaking her head. Arthur reached a hand up and touched her cheek gently.

"Don't you cry, sweetheart."

"I'm shot up, Arthur."

"Yeah, I know you are, but I think you're gonna be okay."

"My wand is broken."

"Still."

"You're awfully optimistic."

"Well. That's your fault too." Arthur reached up and took her cheek in one hand. "Honey, you make me so damn happy. I can't imagine a world without you. Girl powerful enough to make a man like me feel that way will probably be okay."

Rane pressed her mouth against his, feeling the coolness of his lips beneath hers, the weakness of his response. "Arthur . . ."

"I gotta head out, sweetheart." Arthur's voice was growing faint now, his eyes unfocused. "I gotta head on out. I hope you'll remember me."

"No," Rane moaned, low, grasping his lapels. "No, no, Arthur, don't leave me here alone . . . please don't leave me here, don't leave me alone again -"

"I gotta."

"You promised. You promised." Rane sobbed roughly, her face screwed up, looking between his bloodshot blue eyes. "You promised me!"

"I know I did," said Arthur, and with one hand reached up and touched her cheek gently. "I'm sorry. I'll miss you, honey. I love you, Rane. I love . . ."

The light went out of his eyes slowly, and the hand he'd reached up to touch her cheek with fell back onto the the snow. Rane's face fell into something like a panic, her mouth turning down and her eyes cramping.

"No, no no, no, Arthur -"

But he did not respond to the frantic shaking, to the palms on his cheek. He could have been sleeping. Rane pulled away from him, settling back on her ass, her legs stretched out around Arthur. She remained there a moment, her thin chest heaving, bleeding from the wound in her stomach, so hopped up on adrenaline that she could scarcely feel it at all. Arthur lay there before her, motionless. She gagged, grasping her throat, sure she was going to vomit, but nothing came up. Her body felt on the cusp of something tremendous and awful.

Then, with a sharp motion, she turned and wept, holding her face in her hands over his body, her shoulders heaving. She bent over her knees, her face hidden in her arms. She had never cried this way on the cusp of a loss, but she did now, her stomach clenching. The mountain around her was silent as she cried, the snow remorseless, falling on the dead and the living alike, and it lit on the fine hairs around Arthur's temple as she wept against his chest.