Pain.
That was the first thing Arthur's exhausted mind was able to fully comprehend as the claws of unconsciousness slowly began to release him. It was only slight at first. Like the soft ache when you bruise yourself and it was already half way healed. But as he became more aware, the pain began to get worse. His whole body felt like it had been set alight and left to burn into nothing but ash and cinders. Even breathing was agonising, his breath coming out in short, shallow wheezes. Blood rushing around his ear from being upside down for so long. Like the roar of a fast current river. Everything from the pressure of the chains around his ankles to the strong ache of his stomach and chest, all the way to his heavily wounded shoulder and bruised face. His vision was some what distorted, able to see out of a large slash in what seemed like either a canvas or burlap bag. He was too tired and distracted by the pain to be able to discern the exact type.
He shivered, realising how cold the air was in the room he was in, chilled to his bones. Only wearing his rust red union suit. It was damp in places, whether from his chilled sweat or to the cold blood that occasionally dripped from his shoulder. Arthur couldn't tell whether it was night or day. Couldn't even tell just how long he had been out. Hopefully long enough that someone in camp had realised he was gone. Maybe they were all out looking for him. God he could only hope so. Already in his mind he could hear Dutch's thunderous bellows as he hit the O'Driscolls like a lightning strike before coming to Arthur's rescue. To rescue his boy. His son.
Even if that weren't exactly what Arthur saw Dutch as anymore. He didn't see him as his father. No something more, but he kept that buried, kept the torments of his aching heart away from Dutch. Knowing he would never be receptive to something like that. He would most likely beat the shit out of him for even thinking such a thing.
However with how tight and tense everything was, and with Micah whispering in everyone's ears, maybe no one noticed. Maybe no one was looking for him. He wasn't good enough for that. No. He couldn't think like that, couldn't let Micah get into his head like that. He had to believe in Dutch and Hosea. He had to have faith. Ain't that what Dutch always said. Have faith that they were looking for him, they had to be. And while they were, Arthur needed to figure out where he was.
The pained man opened his blackened eyes, trying to figure out the layout of the room, maybe even see where his escape was and if there was anything he could use to pick the damn lock to these shackles. But it was nothing but a damn stone box with stairs right in front, leading up to a large wooden hatch. He couldn't see much, not with how blurry his eyes were, fuzzy patches all around. The room swaying. Couldn't hear nothing either. His blood pulsating in his ears. Rushing forward and making him dizzy and nauseous.
The heavy wooden hatch at the top of the rickety stairs slowly opened. The almost calming, warm light of a lantern lit up the way down as one unnamed O'Driscoll stepped back as the head bastard himself stalked down with a smug arrogance about him. In one hand the lantern, in the other, what looked like a plate of stew. He was well dressed. Not as nice looking as Dutch but still, got to keep up appearances. Wearing a white pinstriped shirt and a dark coloured vest and trouser, black belt with a gleaming buckle hung off his hips. That hideous green or blue neck tie around his collar. Even in the glow of the lantern, he couldn't quite make out the exact colour of it. Not when his vision wasn't the most reliable right now.
Perhaps it ain't been that long and he just came from the meeting with Dutch and Micah. God, he hoped Dutch was okay. He would never forgive himself if he weren't. He already felt useless, didn't need to strap guilt for Dutch getting injured, or worse killed onto him as well.
"Arthur Morgan... It's good to see ya," The scratchy voice of Colm said in a smug tone. Placing the lantern down so it illuminated the room better so he could get a much better look at his captive. Coming closer so Arthur got a whiff of the foul smelling stew, mixed with cheap cigarette smoke and sweat. It was enough to make Arthur's stomach roll unpleasantly, the very thought of food right now making his nausea worse.
He groaned heavily, his muscles stiff and painful from being kept hanging in such a position for so long, "Hello Colm," cut off by a painful few coughs that made him feel like his insides wanted to come out. He could taste blood on his lips, no doubt having been used as an outlet for his damn gang while he was unconscious. Cowardly way to beat someone. When they were unconscious and wouldn't necessarily be able to feel it or fight back. At least Arthur had the gall to make sure his victims were awake and staring at him when he chose to beat down on them. Whether it be for money borrowed from the camp, or something else. But then again, Arthur wasn't a damn savage like these O'Driscolls. Not in the slightest.
Colm had a sadistic, concerned look on his face, course he was enjoying seeing the great Arthur Morgan, Son of Dutch they called him, strung up in such a precarious position and fully at his mercy. "How's yer wound?" he asked, voice dripping with false concern as he scraped he spoon across the plate. Gathering up some of the stew to offer to his 'guest'.
"I hardly feel it," Arthur murmured quietly, staring up at him with uneasy, unfocused eyes. It took too much energy to focus on him, especially when his head hurt like this.
Colm clicked his tongue against his cheek, smirking. Revealing disgusting yellow teeth, "Oh you will," he said as he moved to give the mouthful to Arthur, "Septic, ain't nice. Nasty business, lost alotta my men to septic wounds," he said as Arthur pulled away, groaning and pushing the hand that was trying to feed him, or poison him. You never know with Colm. Arthur desperately tried to keep his calm and breathe. His body swaying and twisting a little from pushing Colm away from him, even if it had only been a weak shove. It was very easy to see that Arthur, normally a big strong man, wasn't doing too good.
"Now tell me, fine gun like you, why ya still runnin' around with Old Dutch? Could come ride with me and make real money," he smirked. As if he would offer such a thing. Colm paced around, pulling up a stool as he set the stew down, watching as the binds that held Arthur gently spun and swayed gently from side to side.
Arthur glared at him with a hateful stare, yet he wouldn't say anything to antagonise him further or anger him. Colm was a nasty piece of shit and he didn't exactly like the idea of pissing him off and earning worse treatment than he had already and bound to be dealt. "Ain't about the money Colm..."
Colm smirked, a nasty glint in his eye as he leant close to Arthur, "Oh it's Dutch's favourite charisma," he hissed, sharply kicking Arthur hard in his wounded arm, the metal toe of his boot colliding with the top of Arthur's chest. Arthur merely groaned out loudly as he began to sway more violently, "You killed a bunch of my boys, up at Six Point Cabin," Colm accused as he began to pace around Arthur.
It took all the strength he had not to let the sheer amount of pain he felt creep into his voice as he looked up at Colm, "I ain't got no clue what you talkin' about." His voice heavily strained as Arthur tried to take a deep breath. It was like his lungs wouldn't inflate, his ribcage wouldn't expand to let him take a decent gulp of air.
This amused Colm, he could see Arthur would remain loyal to Dutch, even if they boiled him alive and peeled off his skin like a ripe grape, chopped off his limbs or fed him to the wolves, he would be loyal. Dutch would be so proud of his boy. An admirable quality. Not something that was very common nowadays, not with indecent folk anyway. "Oh you lie, my friend," he snorted as he took out his revolver, pulling the hammer back and aiming it at Arthur's head. His finger twitching on the trigger, "An' I thought Dutch preached truth." Tilting his head to the side as he studied Arthur's pained expression, noting how his face was turning crimson with the blood flooding back to his head. Can't fight gravity.
"Let me go Colm, and end all this crap between you two. We all got real problems now," Arthur pleaded. Hoping Colm would show some mercy. No doubt the Pinkertons were after him as well. No doubt they were. Might not be as heavily concerned to find him as Dutch but still, enough that it was a constant thought in the back of one's mind. Colm stood back up, straightening his back as he stared down at Arthur, gesturing his hands widely as he spoke, "Way I see it, they get him, they forget 'bout me."
Why would this bastard not see reason. Damn fool. Almost as stubborn as Dutch, "They ain't the forgetting sort," Arthur groaned as he heard Colm's wheezing laugh escaping his lips. The man putting away his gun, holstering it back on his belt, "If I were you, I'd run as soon as I had the money."
Colm smirked more, a chuckle escaping his cracked lips as his weathered face slowly lowered to Arthur's, his evil sneer slowly spreading across his face as he watched Arthur's body twist more, "Oh I know ya would. But see, we lure an angry Dutch in to rescue ya. Grab all of ya and hand ya in then disappear," he explained, seeing Arthur's expression slowly sour.
"So... you only met with them to grab me?" Arthur asked, the sickening realisation hitting him like a hoof to the chest. He was the bait. To lure Dutch to his demise. Oh never had he wished so much that Dutch didn't give a shit about him. Never had he wanted him to be so wrong about Dutch's loyalty to his own protégés. Colm and his gang, he was sure Dutch could handle that with the guns they had in their own camp, but Colm, his gang and the Pinkertons. No. Not a chance. He would die. And as much as he had faith in Dutch, believed in Dutch and his skills, he would die. Whether it be a bullet to the brain, or the noose that waited to break his neck.
Colm laughed more, snorting a little. His boots clicking a little as he continued to pace in front of Arthur, "O'Course, an' he gonna be so mad. He gonna come raging over here an' a whole lotta ya, and the law'll be waitin' for him," he explained, almost excited to watch the Great Dutch Van Der Linde get captured by the law, dragged through the streets by his neck and maybe, just maybe, he would get to watch him swing before he had to disappear.
Arthur's face fell more, regret and pain twisting his features as Colm explained his plan. His excitement sickening him. He truly was a cold heartless bastard. Arthur's heart squeezed, his lungs unable to even take in enough air. He felt dizzy, sick... he didn't want to be the reason Dutch hanged. Hot, angry tears lining his waterline, blinding him further as his breath whistled painfully past his teeth in a seething rage. Had he the energy, he would have grabbed Colm and snapped his damn neck, that or antagonised him so he would kill him. Dead bait was useless. Dutch wouldn't come and his plan would fail.
Colm looked to him with a sadistically sympathetic expression. His eyebrows pulling together and his mouth tightened as he saw the tears in Arthur's eyes. Threatening to break loose and fall on the dusty ground below. Bending down more to meet Arthur's eye as he pulled his gun back out, tossing it up and catching it by the barrel, "Oh Arthur..." He smiled. That sick smile would stay etched in Arthur's subconscious for a very long time, his aged, milky eyes glinting dangerously in the dim glow of the lantern, "Arthur I missed you."
Arthur wasn't prepared for the onslaught of heavy punches, the handle of the revolver plunging deep below his ribs. Over and over again. Colm's wheezing laughter barely heard over the loud, pained yells of Arthur as he tried to take a breath. His lungs weren't responding. His chest barely moving. He couldn't breathe. Dark spots flashed suddenly in his vision as he cried out, the tears being shaken loose and falling to the floor. He barely even noticed that Colm had backed off, still wheezing as he headed up the rickety stairs. Each step creaking as he looked to two of the boys up the stairs, "Do what ya like. Just keep him alive. Bait ain't no good dead," he smirked before heading out of the cellar. His heavy footsteps eventually dying away.
Arthur gasped out for breath, looking as two mean looking degenerates descended the stairs. One cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders while the other had a meaner, nastier glint in his eye as he held his belt, hands shaking in what seemed like excitement for what he was about to do. Both would give Arthur much more than Colm. Added pain but also mental and physical torment to boot.
Arthur was drifting in and out of consciousness again. His head echoing with the pained cries that had left him as he had been tortured, his throat raw and the taste of his own blood made his stomach twist violently as he tried to swallow. His whole body radiated in agony, like an hot iron had been shoved through every limb, making him painfully aware of everything. He had never felt such pain like this. Sure he had been in some real bad scrapes before, but this was so damn different because most of those previous wounds had only been physical.
The pain Arthur was feeling right this moment was physical, emotional and mental. Not just from knowing that he had been captured to lure Dutch to his demise, but the torment Colm let his boys inflict on him. Colm wasn't necessarily one to give out the worst punishments himself, that was most often left to the meanest degenerate scum that were present in his gang. Generally the boys that were of a higher standing. There was a deep gnawing pain within his back and hips, that made Arthur tear up even more. He wasn't one to cry, hell he was one of the toughest bastards in the Van Der Linde gang. But this was too much for him.
He knew he wouldn't be able to take much more of this without dying. He managed to crack his weary eyes open long enough to look around the room. One the table to his right, was a file. Maybe there was some God smiling down on him. Seeing the pain he had been through, deciding maybe he should give Arthur a break. A sigh of relief whistled past Arthur's lips as he used his body to sway from side to side, gathering enough momentum for his calloused fingers to graze the smooth wooden surface and grasp the file.
He took a deep breath, hoping he had the strength as he threw himself up and managed to pick the lock on the shackles around his ankles. Trying with all his might not to cry out from the deep seated pain within his chest. No doubt his ribs were broken, lungs probably bruised and battered.
He heard a satisfying click before the shackles opened and left him to plummet to the floor. Landing hard on his shoulders, knocking the air out of him as he bit his tongue hard to contain his scream. Only a distressed, wheezing whimper leaving his lips as his nostrils flared at the sheer agony that radiated through his upper body. His lower almost forgotten as he lay there for a moment in the hope that he had not been heard by those upstairs.
After a few moments, when his limbs had come back to life, was he able to stand himself up and clumsily stumble to the chair in front of the table. The lantern had long since been moved onto the table. The light still rather dim as he removed the glass from around it and held the metal file over the open flame long enough to heat it up a decent bit. Taking several deep breaths, he thrust the file deep into his wound, scrunching up his face as he again bit down on his tongue to keep his cries contained. He needed to cauterize the wound. Stop it from bleeding anymore. When he got to camp, he could treat it properly, but right now, he was more focused in getting it done than making it look pretty. The file twisted in his wound, sickening squelching noises coming from the wound as he seared the inside of it before yanking it back out. Thick, deep red blood coated the metal as he dropped it onto the wood, his blood slowly collecting into a droplet, threatening to fall and stain the wood.
There was some shotgun ammunition on the table to the left. Arthur leant forward. The motion sending his head spinning and he could feel the pain returning to his hips. No doubt more ugly bruising and probably tearing. Who knew. They weren't exactly kind enough to do anything for his comfort. He grabbed the ammo and tore the cap off with his teeth and deposited the black gun powder into and around the wound. Only when it was sufficiently covered did he use the open flame to finish the job. Hearing the sickening noise of his flesh sizzling as it burned, breathing through the pain. Even through his bloodied nostrils he could smell burning flesh. Smelt like death. Absolutely disgusting and made him want to gag. Once again, almost forgetting the aching pains in his lower back and hips. Every breath felt like effort, his chest constricted and tight.
Arthur didn't really have the time to sit there and wait for the waves of nausea to subside. No time at all when he heard voices edging closer and closer to the hatch. The heavy wood slowly pulled open, probably another bastard wanting to torment him and break him further.
He swiftly got to his feet and hid just by the frame where the stairs connected to the room, file held in hand, ready to strike. He could hear the other two that were above quipping the man for wanting to torture him about tails of the motherland, snorts and laughter echoing around Arthur's head. God his head was pounding.
The O'Driscoll descended the stairs, holding a lantern. Walking far enough into the room to notice that Arthur was gone. With the speed of a rattler, he struck, stabbing the man in the neck and holding his mouth shut as he choked on his own blood as it flooded his lungs. Blood thickly coating along Arthur's pale hand before he dropped him once confirming he was dead, or at least too far gone to even make a noise. Arthur bent down, checking his pockets, taking his cattleman and some throwing knives from his belt before slowly and unsteadily heading up the stairs. One hand bracing himself on the wall so he didn't tumble back down to the dust caked floor below.
Being quiet but careful, he noticed no one standing up there so he silently stepped out into the cold of the night. The light breeze tasselled his hair, stroking along his cheeks. Keeping him alert as he crept his way over to the O'Driscoll who veered off to the left. He was the bastard who shot him. Easily managing to overpower him from behind and snapped his neck before lightly, resting him against the ground. Arthur may be heavily wounded, but he still packed a hell of a punch. Something these bastards had heavily underestimated about him. He never gave up and never stopped fighting.
Spotting a small shed, he waited patiently for the O'Driscoll in front to move along, crouching down and scurrying over to search the boxes. Finding his gun belt which he quickly wrapped around his waist and his satchel, along with his weapons. Slinging his bolt action over his shoulder as he peered around to take another look. He could make out Athena's strong form over by the other horses. Easily distinguished by her dark head and almost ghostly silver body. Unguarded, which was a relief, he crept on over, casting a glance behind him before throwing himself up over her body and into the saddle. Everything screamed in pain as he sat down in his soft saddle, looking to his horse with pained, yet kind eyes as he steered her through the brush silently. Pushing her into a trot as they avoided the roads. Keeping his eyes forward, ears straining to hear if he had been founded out. If he was going to be chased and gunned down once more. Dragged back into that pit to face even more torture.
Luckily as of yet, he hadn't been founded missing, so he squeezed his mare's sides. Flying into her gallop as fast as her strong, powerful legs could carry her. She may not have been the fastest horse. But she was the most trust worthy, no words or commands needed and she knew what her master needed from her. Her ears twitching back, listening to her rider as he slowly began to falter. Water spraying up her sides, wetting his feet and the legs of his union suit as they made their getaway.
Once he had fully passed Bard's Crossing, heading along the main road toward Lemoyne, he knew he could relax. His eyes drooping dangerously as his grip on the reigns faltered. He slumped forward against her neck. Her soft black mane caressing his face as she walked with urgency.
"Take me home girl," he whispered as he let his exhaustion take him. He was on the home stretch. They were on the road to safety. The road to camp. Back to Dutch.