He didn't know up from down.
The whole world was spinning. Bumping. Up and down. Side to side.
He was leaning against someone. On a horse, or in a wagon. Something moving.
But the hold was gentle. Soft. Caring. Safe. He was safe.
He could feel a hand on the back of his head, carding through his hair. A gentle voice. Words too far away to discern but comforting nonetheless.
His head rested on their shoulder. Familiar. They were familiar.
One hand comes up, slow and shaky. The arm not throbbing in pain. It snakes around the figure, clutches the fabric at its back. His head turns into their neck, inhales.
Smells of comfort. Of home. The smell of cigars and cologne. Dutch. It's Dutch. He found him. His father found him.
But it was a trap.
He had to warn them.
A struggle to speak but a word forced past a parched tongue and cracked lips. Barely a whisper.
"Dad."
The hand on his head stops. The head next to his turns. He uses all his strength to focus on the reply.
"Yes, son?"
Dutch's voice is unmistakable, yet quiet. A rare occurrence for him. He takes a few shaky breaths.
"T-trap."
The hand cards through his hair again. "I know, son."
He knows? Then why did he come? He could've been captured! Killed! His heart rate spikes. Panicked breaths. The soothing voice is back, a second arm coming around him, rubbing his back. "Shhh, it's okay. You escaped. No one else was hurt or captured."
They're all safe. He slumps bonelessly against the man, hot tears falling from his eyes. He's too tired and relieved to be ashamed. He didn't get anyone hurt. Colm didn't win. He was safe. They were safe.
He buries his head in Dutch's neck again, trying to breathe through the rush of emotions. The scent of the man he calls his father soothing him. He remembers another one. Not too long ago. This one of pine and aftershave. His other father. Where was he?
"Pa?"
He feels rather than hears the slight chuckle from Dutch. "Don't you worry son, he's right behind us. We're almost home."
He can feel the darkness creeping back up to pull him under. He's scared this time. Scared it's all a dream. That he'll wake up back in that cellar, strung up like a piece of meat.
He whimpers, clutching the fabric in his hand impossibly tighter.
"Arthur?" Dutch sounds worried. He wants to tell him it's okay. He's okay. He'll be fine. But when he speaks that's not the words that come out.
"Don't leave me."
He feels a kiss placed on the side of his head. Dutch's promise carrying him into oblivion.
"Never."