A/N: Here's a cowboy AU I've been wanting to write for over a year now, featuring my fave crack!Marrow ship, Hellhound. Let me know if you enjoy it :)
Ride With Me
The taste of dust is an old companion, but never before has it been so strongly pronounced in Marrow's mouth; he spits and hacks and coughs, attempting to dredge up some saliva to soothe the dryness of the air attacking his weary lungs. Every time he spots a rocky outcropping, all he wants to do is run into its cover, finding some kind of reprieve from the dust, the sun bearing down on his sweat-soaked back, his layers stifling between his own heat and the heat emanating off of Fetch. The horse is too kind to him, he thinks; he pats the creature's neck lovingly, feeling the animal's sweat pool under his hands at the slightest contact.
Despite his discomfort, Marrow does not slow down. He has a mission, after all; looking at the old, downtrodden signposts he's crossed along his path, he is fairly confident that he's managed to stay on the path to the little town of Patch. The tiny little town is merely a few days' ride away, his map promises him. Once he gets there, it'll all be golden.
Patting Fetch's neck again, Marrow murmurs into ears which flick to ward off horseflies, "Good job, Fetch. Don't worry- we'll be in town soon enough. Then, you're getting all the oats you want while I scout out the place. I promise."
As if in agreement, the animal snorts, continued to plod along the trail in this hazy, weary pace.
Marrow's smile turns downwards as he looks down at the sweat slicking the horse's coat. They really do need to find some kind of rest, though; if he keeps pushing onwards like this, Fetch is going to collapse. While he has not been riding with the beast for very long, he's grown fond of this chestnut gelding, the animal's normally-glossy coat matching Marrow's own umber skin to a T. It's a good beast, and Harriet be damned, he is not planning on letting Fetch die just so that he can get to Patch, scout it out, and get back to Atlesian Headquarters before the fortnight is through.
With this thought in mind, Marrow cannot help but holler and cheer in relief when he finds a dilapidated old house right before sundown. It sits at an ungainly slant, shingles falling halfway off and into the burbling creek running south by its side. Marrow doesn't mind one bit; the water is fresh, and when he tries drawing up a pail from the dusty old well at the north end of the lot, the water is musty but clean. He takes a long, happy drink, refilling his canteens before guiding Fetch over to the water, brushing through the horse's sweat-soaked coat. His fingers play in Fetch's mane, working through knots as he whispers praise. In response, Fetch whinnies and huffs, drinking from the creek greedily, allowing Marrow to do what he may.
Marrow does not worry about tying up the gelding to the ramshackle post outside by the old trough at the side of the lopsided building. He knows why Harriet and Vine had given him Fetch of all their horses, after all; the creature's ribs are poking through, his gait slow and unwieldy. No one would think of stealing Fetch unless they were desperate. They'd do better killing him and Marrow and stealing the scant leather and coin off their hides instead.
Once I get back with the town's layout, Marrow tells himself as he enters the building carefully, they'll give me a proper horse. I'll officially be a member of the Aces.
Still, there are many more days in his ride, so once Fetch is fed and he's managed to find no other signs of life in the small house, Marrow lays out his bedroll and turns in for the night. Sleep comes surprisingly quick- perhaps it is simply due to being clean for the first time in three days, or maybe it is due to the beautiful moonlight filtering through the cracked, half-open window, but Marrow's eyelids soon are too weighty to hold open.
Just like that, he is asleep.
And just as quickly, he is awoken, something jagged and deadly pressed against his neck.
He almost bolts upright in shock once the stranger's presence registers in his mind. Thankfully, he holds himself back, pale eyes wide as he stares up at the figure looming over him. The blade pressed against his neck is toothed, a horrifying amalgamation between a saw tooth-covered machete and a dagger; one wrong move, and Marrow's neck will be neatly shredded to pieces.
The tang of blood, the glint of crusted metal- it all drives this fact home even further.
Swallowing thickly, he whispers, "Is this your house, then?"
Even though the stranger's face is hidden in shadow, the moonlight preventing Marrow's gaze from adjusting, he can tell that the figure belongs to a man; his hands are large around the smoothly-carved handle of this blade, a few wooden rings and leather bands adorning his fingers and wrist standing out against skin as pale as the moonlight itself. Marrow squints, trying to get a sense of who this person could be. Is it a bandit? A murderer? The owner of the ranch? Pretty awful upkeep you do if this is your place, he thinks distantly, still halfway tangled in his bedroll.
Finally, the knife moves back a fraction. Marrow instantly seizes the opportunity, his brain screaming at him to move. On instinct, he disentangles himself, leaping back and pulling out the knife tucked into the band on his thigh. The blade hangs in the air a few inches away from the other man's weapon, leaving nothing but a taut wire of tension between them, the air thick in this hollow, broken, empty one-roomed shack.
Then, strangely enough, the blade before him is put away. "You're one of Jimmy's boys?"
Confused, Marrow furrows his brow, squinting through the darkness.
Seeing his confusion, the man steps forward into the light at last. Ringed fingers gesture towards the man's own lapel, forcing Marrow to mirror the gesture; suddenly, it clicks in Marrow's mind, causing him to straighten up, eyes wide. "Do you know the general?" he asks, gripping onto the red kerchief tied around his neck. The colour is shockingly bright, but when paired with the blue and whites of Marrow's shirt and vest, it proves Marrow's affiliation with the Atlas Group.
With a snort, the man rolls strangely-crimson eyes, crossing his arms as he eyes Marrow up and down. "He's still callin' himself 'the general', huh? Pompous old fool."
Bristling, Marrow cries, "Hey, don't go talkin' about-"
But the man is already bored of listening, stepping easily over Marrow's rumpled bedroll to look out of the cracked window. Avoiding the jagged edges of shattered glass, he rests toned, pale forearms against the tilted sill, staring wearily out into the night. Marrow watches his movements carefully, unsure of what to do or say in this strange silence between them. All he can do is look, really; he focuses on dark, grey-streaked hair swept back off a pale forehead, on crow's feet engrained in the corners of handsome, hooded eyes, on stubble lining an angular chin and gaunt cheeks. The stranger who knows Marrow's leader and idol is dressed in no colours of his own, his clothes dark and unassuming- all grey and black, washing out in the moonlight just as his skin does.
The only thing that really holds any colour in him, Marrow realizes, are his eyes.
Before Marrow can formulate a comment, whether it is on the man's identity or his appearance or his problem with the moniker James Ironwood uses within his band of riders, the older man finally straightens up, stretching his arms high above his head. "So, kid," he asks deadpan, "does ol' Jimmy still think he runs these parts? Why's one of his boys out here all alone with a shit horse and barely any coin on ya?"
Marrow cannot respond. What is he supposed to say? That he's scouting out Patch? That the stories of the little city quietly hitting it rich have spread to the Atlas Group? That once he figures out where the sentries are stationed protecting the small ranching community, he's going to report back so that the Aces can ride in and take what they please?
No, Marrow cannot say a word. He gulps; if he is caught, then he knows what'll happen to him. Defying someone with James Ironwood's forces is too difficult for any town, but throwing some poor young man without immediate help in prison to starve after finding his identity as a scout? Far too possible.
The man turns to stare at him darkly, a hint of steel in his voice as he mutters, "So, kid, what's the explanation?"
He doesn't trust me.
With a shaky sigh, Marrow whispers, "I… I'm new to the group," he says clumsily. "I'm not sure if I wanted to stay with them, so I just…"
Surprisingly enough, the man seems to buy this story. Raising a brow, the elder whistles, a crooked, mischievous grin on his lips as he turns, leaning against a wall that seems far too aged to trust with one's weight; still, it does not break through as the man laughs wryly, "Please tell me you didn't steal the crappiest horse in the lot hoping that you wouldn't get hunted down for it?"
Shrugging awkwardly, Marrow has to bite back his sigh of relief as the man throws his head back, incredulous and overjoyed. "Oh, c'mon, you brat! You should've at least stolen a better one- put James behind in some coin?" Chuckling to himself, the stranger walks over to the other side of the cabin. Out of nowhere seemingly, he lights a lantern with a small match; Marrow shivers as the light suddenly illuminates every corner of the hollow building, the flame reminding him of his relative cold.
Once the lantern is lit, the man takes a seat on creaky floorboards. "Alright, kid," he says. "Grab your blanket. You'll freeze out here- didn't you think to pack any proper gear?"
They said this is all I'll need, he says internally, another wave of exhausted bitterness crashing into him. They had told him exactly what he would need on this mission. They had lied.
He should have seen it coming, in all honesty.
It seems that he does not need to speak. Beckoning Marrow over, the man's expression clouds while the younger man takes a seat. Pulling out a bottle from within an inner breast pocket, the other man uncaps it and takes a slow, lengthy gulp; recapping it, he nods towards Marrow.
Marrow shakes his head. He doesn't quite like drinking, after all. "Not good with my spirits," he mumbles, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders. Although the scant shelter they do have does wonders in cutting through the icy desert night, it still pierces through his bones.
The stranger does not protest this statement, merely putting away his flask with a shrug and turning back towards the lamplight, clearly comfortable in silence.
Marrow pauses, his eyes roving over this stranger's figure curiously. Who was he? What was he doing here? He certainly looked more fit for the road than Marrow felt- his clothes, while worn, were all of excellent material, his large, callused hands deft as he whittled a small piece of wood he had retrieved from the splintered floor. Those red eyes look ridiculously warm, almost orange-rouge in the lamplight; the fire within his soul seems to warm Marrow up from the inside out, his fingers relaxing around the blanket wrapped over his shoulders.
Softly, he murmurs, "My name's Marrow." With a gentle, weary sigh, he asks, "And you?"
The other man raises a faintly arched brow, thick lashes lowering in bemusement for a moment before he shakes his head ruefully. "Name's Branwen," he replies, gravelly voice strangely alluring in Marrow's sleep-addled haze. "Qrow Branwen."
Qrow… Immediately, Marrow's mind's eye produces images of wide, powerful wings flying across the blue skies, soaring amongst the clouds. Crows are common enough around these parts, and one look at Qrow's rugged, dark frame is enough to tell the part of Marrow's mind still listening to reason to stay away, just as he does to crows.
After all, crows feast on carrion. Marrow may be gullible, but he is not such a fool to not realize how easy picking himself apart would be.
Marrow opens his mouth to speak, but instantly his words are cut away as his stomach growls long and low, piercing through the relative silence. In response, Qrow snorts, stretching lanky legs out before him. "Got some jerky in my pack," he mumbles, still whittling away. "Go help yourself, kiddo." His voice is different now, however- soft, bemused. Strangely warm, like the glow in his eyes, the hoarse rasp sending tingling shivers down Marrow's spine, his shoulders trembling even under his blanket.
Looking away, Marrow moves to stand. Before he gets one knee off the ground, the blade which had been so preoccupied with the wood comes to his throat, chilling Marrow to the core. "I feed you," Qrow breathes, barely audible over the crackling of the lamp, "and you don't go knifing me in my sleep. Agreed?"
He gulps, nodding slowly. For a moment, he has to pause as amazement rams into him like a ton of bricks. He had genuinely not even thought of such an act. Wow. Harriet was right, maybe, he thinks, stunned a little as he stands, shuffling over to where Qrow points in the shadows. As his fingers fumble with a clasp, he admits silently, Maybe I am too soft to be one of the Aces.
After all, the sheer shame which had struck Marrow's heart at the mere accusation is too much for him to truly express, only managing to stifle it with swallowed cries of protest and bitter silence.
"Does that mean," he says aloud as he returns with Qrow's aforementioned pack, "that I can stay here tonight?"
Qrow is all crooked smiles and raised brows, his lips already back at the mouth of his bottle. He tilts it back, the amber forming a line with thin lips, a strong jaw, a sharp Adam's apple bobbing once, twice, thrice, the movement continuing until the bottle is halfway emptied and the contents slosh about within. Finally, Qrow pulls away, his lips shining with warm liquid. "Just don't be a brat," the elder laughs gruffly.
Marrow silently chews his jerky. It is actually surprisingly flavourful, warming him up with the action. He barely notices it, though, for his eyes are far too transfixed on pearls of amber upon Qrow's lips for just a moment before pink slips out to wipe them clean. Then, Marrow thanks the man, straightens out his bedroll once more, and tucks himself in, listening to the man chuckle and whittle into the night, the lamplight casting his tall shadow throughout the battered old home. Despite his wariness around this stranger, the food in his belly and the companionship provided by the man's silent, methodical movements and occasional chuckles gives Marrow enough peace of mind to properly sleep.
xxx
Morning comes suddenly to him, awareness splashing him like cold water. Bolting upright, he finds himself exactly the way he had drifted off- tangled up in his bedroll, his coin purse still upon his hip, his knives still in easy reach. All of his belongings seem to be in place after a quick search, so he quickly packs up his bedroll and slings it over his shoulder, stepping out of the creaky old house with an edge in his gait.
What awaits him is nothing to be concerned about, surprisingly enough. The horizon in the distance is naught but a single orange-red line, burning flames threatening to peek higher and higher into the sky, painting the world awash in sunlight; a few lazy stars still twinkle up above, their lights not yet snuffed out.
Glancing over to where he had left his horse, a gasp slips from his lips unintentionally. The brisk, dry air invades his lungs, causing him to cough a little, alerting the other man who is currently brushing Fetch of Marrow's presence. Qrow straightens up, thumb hooking through his belt loop as he looks over at the younger man, a strange fondness in his eyes. "He's a good mount," Qrow calls, patting the skinny gelding affectionately before walking away. Another horse, presumably Qrow's, is but a few feet away; a beautiful mare blinks slowly at him as she chews on whatever Qrow had fed her, intelligent gaze silently judging Marrow's confusion.
He feels his face heat up as he notes the plain difference between Qrow's strong mount and Marrow's own feeble Fetch, an air of defensive protectiveness welling up in his heart. He opens his mouth to protest, to explain himself- then, just as quickly, the young man sighs and shakes his head, letting it go. There is nothing he can say that will not inevitably bring up the Aces, and judging on Qrow's volatile reaction the night before, it would be best for Marrow to not bring up the group as long as the two of them are still cordial.
The older man is striking in this early dawn light, red eyes almost violet in the faint rays. Marrow shivers in the morning cold, readjusting his bedroll on his shoulder and walks over to the man. "You didn't need to do that," he says softly, biting down his flustered embarrassment. "But thanks, Qrow. I know Fetch appreciates it plenty."
Qrow does not respond at first, eyes merely twinkling as he pats Fetch's neck. He seems to ponder something slowly, his gaze flitting between Fetch and his own mare for a minute before he finally sighs. Wryly, he murmurs, "You're a real good kid, ain't ya?"
Blankly, Marrow blinks at him. Then, he snaps out of it, walking past Qrow to strap his bedroll back onto Fetch's saddle. "Whaddya mean?"
"I could've gutted you so easily last night," is the bemused response.
Instantly, Marrow leaps back, his closest knife drawn to defend himself. Fetch snorts and stamps slightly, sensing his rider's wariness, pulling away from Qrow's touch in solidarity.
To this, Qrow only laughs, throwing his head back. Removing his worn cowboy hat from his head, he runs his fingers through grey-streaked dark hair, rueful and warm. "Wasn't a challenge, kid."
"I'd like to see you try," Marrow spits back, his hackles raising, thoughts swirling in confusion. Had Qrow actually robbed him? Was he missing anything? Should Marrow have been more cautious? Should he have actually stayed on the road?
Replacing his hat, Qrow takes a step forward, then another. Marrow moves back, his steps easy and practiced. His entry to the Atlas Group is new, but deserved, after all; he has spent many a year defending himself all on his own, and his confidence in his knife-wielding skills is not born of arrogance. He knows he can defend himself, his eyes darting over Qrow's form and the landscape, analyzing the best way to pin down this opponent. What was the best way to take him down? He doesn't look too strong, even though he's faster than most folks, based on yesterday- I've just gotta-
And before Marrow knows what had hit him, the wind is knocked from his lungs, leaving him dizzy and disoriented as a knee comes to rest upon his sternum. A cold sweat breaks out on his back, seeping into his clothing with frightening speed as he hears a click, feeling the cold, frigid mouth of a pistol pressing against his temple as he suddenly realizes that he has been knocked upon his back. "You'd probably put up a good fight, huh?" Qrow muses, his tone still light.
Marrow looks up at the man's domineering silhouette, dark clothes blotting out the remaining starlight. This is it, he realizes numbly. He's going to-
Then, Qrow stands up. Without a word, he puts the safety back on his pistol, pops it into its holster with a flourish, then grabs Marrow's arm. With surprising ease, he hauls Marrow to his feet, dusting off the younger's shoulders and back with all the friendliness in the world. "You shouldn't be so quick to trust," the elder says, almost scolding despite his grin. They are the same height, leaving a scant few inches between Qrow's pale nose and Marrow's umber skin as he seriously tries to brush off dirt and grime from Marrow's lighter clothing. "You seem like a puppy, y'know that? Too quick to trust. You shouldn't be so welcoming; you're going to get bitten one day for getting too close to strangers in these parts, kid."
White-hot rages flushes Marrow's veins for a moment, the man pulling himself away from Qrow without hesitation. "What- what in the world do you think you're doing?" he spits. "Is this a joke?"
"No," Qrow deadpans. "I'm just trying to make a point."
Marrow's mouth opens, closes, opens again. Amidst this silence, Qrow shrugs and stretches, long, lanky limbs reaching endlessly into the slowly-warming sky. "Well. You're off to Patch, I'm guessing?"
Marrow doesn't respond right away, turning instead to look over Fetch's saddle, readjusting his bags and running his fingers through the gelding's mane. He had already filled up his canteens and washed up the night before, so he need not worry about anything else for now. When Qrow repeats the question, he merely grumbles, "You said I shouldn't trust strangers."
Snorting, Qrow chuckles, "Well, that I did, boy. If I really meant you harm, though, you'd already be dead."
The nonchalance of it all strikes terror and shame and painful, sour self-loathing into Marrow's heart. "Comforting."
"Hey now," Qrow calls, collecting his own mare's reins, "it's alright. I'm on my way to Patch myself. If you want to head over there, then I don't mind showing you the way. Assuming you haven't been before?"
To this, Marrow's gaze finally flips up once more. "You're… you'd be willing to take me there?"
Qrow's grin is no longer teasing, instead kind, welcoming. "I've been there a million times, so I know the way. It can get a little hard to find the road into the valley, though, so I'm happy to take an earnest kid like you. But, if you want a guide, you better get that butt in your saddle- we need to make some ground before the sun rises, otherwise we won't get to another shelter by nightfall."
There are a million thoughts swirling in Qrow's brain, but all that comes out of his mouth is, "I'm not a kid."
Violet-red eyes widen, then crease into thin gemstones, crow's feet and laugh lines softening the man's rugged, gaunt features. "What are you, barely twenty?"
"Twenty-six!" Marrow cries, looking down at himself. Did he look like a child? He knows his face looks relatively young despite all of the hardship he has been through- James Ironwood had commented on that aspect of Marrow before anything else upon meeting him a few months earlier- but he cannot look like a mere teenager, right?
Whistling, Qrow swings himself onto his horse's back with elegant ease. "I'm impressed. Wouldn't have expected that one bit- would've thought someone as naïve as you would've been at least twenty years younger than me."
"What, are you saying you're some old man?" Marrow retorts, bringing himself atop Fetch's back.
Beckoning to Marrow, Qrow gently guides his mare away from the ramshackle building which had sheltered them the night before. "Almost forty, although my bones want to tell me I'm older," Qrow replies with a wink. Focusing back on his horse, he says warmly, "C'mon, Harb. Let's go."
Realizing that the other man is setting off, Marrow goads Fetch to catch up to him. They move at an easy pace, their horses walking in time soon enough side-by-side; once they are in-step, Marrow asks softly, "So… why are you going to Patch?"
Qrow does not respond, a trace of a smile on his lips as his eyes rest upon the horizon. Marrow pouts, furrowing his brow and gripping the reins tighter by a hair, but he does not press further. It is not as if he can press the enigmatic man- Qrow has proven that no matter what Marrow does or says, Qrow will treat it like a joke and best him anyways, after all.
It's humiliating, in a way. Marrow has spent the last few months proving to the Aces that he's worth his salt, fighting off anyone who had anything to say against him. He had thought that he was strong enough to hold his own; he had had no doubts about taking on this scouting mission, even though he knows that that confidence has waned over the past days on the road.
But to be so cleanly defeated by this man who doesn't even seem to strain to best him…
Marrow swallows down his bitterness and keeps his eyes on the road, patting Fetch's neck every once in a while. It doesn't matter, he thinks- if he can get a local guide to town, then it'll be just that much easier to scout out the best route for the Aces to come through. He knows better than to speak up and ruin this chance, even though irritated frustration still bubbles up in his gut.
Around midday, however, the horses have had enough. Qrow does not hesitate to walk towards a rocky outcropping in the distance, Marrow following close behind. To his relief, this structure provides more than enough shade for the horses to rest, the midday sun blocked out graciously. Marrow imitates the elder as he guides his mare to rest by the rocks, setting to work to build up a small pool for the two horses to drink. Once that task is done, Qrow finally speaks for the first time in hours. "So, why are you going to Patch?"
Marrow narrows his eyes, swallowing down his mouthful of food. "It's… it's none of your business, is it?" he says tightly.
Qrow doesn't prod further. It unsettles Marrow, in all honesty- the way Qrow's eyes crinkle in the corners, the side of his mouth so easily quirked up with an air of confidence and kindness that cannot have been easy to maintain in the harshness of the desert.
Finally, it strikes Marrow- just what rattles him so about Qrow's ease. It has been a long, long time since he has met someone who looked suited to desert life, rather than being ragged and worn-down. Qrow looks comfortable and confident, poised and at ease no matter how long they are on the road, no matter how close the two strangers sit. He does not fear Marrow, nor does he need to. Marrow is not a threat- he had proved that so effortlessly, time and time again.
Groaning, Marrow takes off his hat and places it down on dusty soil by his side, running his fingers through his own dark hair. "I'll talk when you do, how's that?"
Rolling his eyes, Qrow shrugs. "Completely up to you, kid," he teases. "I didn't realize I'd gotten under your skin like that."
The heat rises to Marrow's face in an instant, ears and nose burning in embarrassment as he tries to find a way to protest. He cannot, however, nor can he escape Qrow's inquisitive gaze, the man's eyes widening before clean brows rise up under salt-and-pepper hair. "Yer the one who said to not trust any ol' strangers," he mumbles at last.
His words seem to be ignored with ease. "Huh," the elder comments. "I've never seen someone as dark as you blush before."
"You got a problem, old man?" Marrow hisses. His words lack malice, the younger more humiliated than anything. Why, he cannot pinpoint.
To this, Qrow merely chuckles, leaning his head back on the rock. His gaze lifts to the burning blue sky, the vibrancy of it painful to take in with the midday sun beating overhead. "Don't take no offense to it. It's a cute look." With a wink, he climbs to his feet, heading to his horse again as he calls, "For a kid, at least."
Deadpan, Marrow sighs. According to his vague maps and Qrow's own explanations, it would take at least five more days to end up in Patch. It's gonna be a long trip.
Although he had wanted to remain mum as long as possible, there are only so many hours of silence the normally-chatty young man can handle. So, as the sun finally begins to relent for the day, giving the men and their steeds some modicum of relief from the heat, Marrow mumbles, "Do you know where we can rest for the night?"
"I do," is the easy, confident reply. "Been around these parts quite a bit."
It is not a lie, it seems. Within the hour, the two men end up on a small outpost. The grizzled man living inside merely nods at Qrow and lets Qrow invade the small station as he pleases; a long, amicable history is clear, only deepened as Qrow hands the gruff man a few coin for his troubles, then beckons Marrow to follow him with the horses. Behind the station is a ragged stable, but there is also a drinking trough, a nearby well, and grain for the horses to feed.
A pang of guilt strikes Marrow's heart. "There ain't no need to pay for me, too," he murmurs as he realizes what the elder has done.
Qrow waves off his concerns instantly. "Don't worry about it. If it'd been just you, you'd be cheated till yer without an arm and a leg, so trust me- it's better if I cover you."
Biting his lip, Marrow is about to hesitate when he feels his energy slipping away. It has been a long day, and he knows that his own coin purse is meager enough as-is. It would be smartest to accept this kindness rather than-
"Are we sleeping in the stable?" Marrow deadpans.
The elder flashes him a wink before tossing his bag into a pile of hay. "What a kingdom we shall rule tonight," he says with a sly grin.
No wonder it's cheap, Marrow says silently with a sigh.
Yet, as the sun goes down and Fetch lays down, allowing Marrow to curl up against his torso, Marrow does not mind laying here in the hay; it is soft, his horse's heartbeat and heat keeping him safe and warm, the worst of the winds blocked out by the stable walls. In the next stall, Qrow is positioned similarly, the only sounds from his stall coming from the squeaking and sloshing of the bottle which is nursed periodically.
After a few hours of the bottle moving about, however, Marrow finds that he simply cannot sleep. It is comfortable, yet, but his mind refuses to rest. After a day of riding alongside Qrow, what had he learned about the other man? Qrow knew who the Aces were, didn't like them, and was familiar with the road to Patch. That is all the context which Marrow could possibly have gleaned from all of their interactions on the road that day.
A long, weary exhale causes him to deflate against Fetch, only for him to bolt upright a moment later as Qrow calls through the stalls, "Penny for your thoughts, kid?"
Marrow frowns, drawing his knees up to his chest. What is there to say? "I… I'm just confused," he replies. At the sound of his voice, Fetch's ears begin to flick back and forth, so Marrow lays a soothing hand down upon the beast's neck. At his touch, Fetch's movements still, breathing settling inside a gaunt ribcage.
"About?" Qrow prompts.
"Why don't you like the Aces? Really, I mean?"
The silence is deafening. Choking. Over time, Marrow finds himself growing more and more uneasy, his heart feeling heavier and heavier in his chest, his throat tightening with each breath little by little. Eventually, he cannot handle this silence anymore, the words spilling forth before he can restrain himself. "I joined only a few months back," he murmurs in the darkness. "My family was stuck in Mantle-"
"Godforsaken cesspool," a low, weary grumble back cuts through his words.
Marrow's smile both grows and falters, his heart stinging at the insult. "You ain't wrong there, partner," he murmurs, laying his cheek against Fetch's thin stomach. "You sure ain't wrong…"
"So ya left," Qrow says softly. There is an understanding in his words that strangely reassures Marrow to the core. "What, some good ol' mining wasn't for you?"
"I've no intention to live and die by the coal mines," is the younger's solemn response. "When I was young, my Ma and my old man didn't think there was anything wrong with it, but I knew."
"No one lives too long down there, huh?"
"Not even the canaries can protect anyone down there," Marrow agrees softly. "I can't stomach it, so when the Atlesians came into town, I joined up."
For a moment, Qrow is silent. Then, he says simply, "They… don't like folk like you."
The soot colour won't ever come off, Marrow thinks bitterly, holding his hands out. The colour of his umber skin, normally so warm in the golden desert sun, is dark and empty and callous in the shadows. He knows what people view him as in these parts, the colour of his skin absorbing the sun, basking in it, compared to those who tan and burn- those who control these parts. It's all so backwards. It doesn't make any sense.
A long sigh slips from parted lips. "It's… more than that," he admits after a moment. In his mind's eye, Marrow imagines the leading members of General James Ironwood's band; Harriet Bree and Elm Ederne are almost as dark as he is, and even though they're women, they earn just as much respect as any of the men. Colour isn't the issue.
Or maybe it is. He doesn't know. Whatever the problem is, it just seems to go back to Marrow himself, and he does not know what else to do.
To his surprise, Qrow hums in agreement. "You weren't born with your ass in the saddle, boy. They're never going to accept you as one of their own, even if you prove yourself again and again."
"I can try!" Marrow cries, sitting up straight. Fetch stirs and snorts in irritation, shifting against the hay. Immediately, the young man strokes Fetch's side in silent apology, moving to sit against the wall separating the two stables- to hear Qrow's voice clearer amidst the shadows. Softer, he murmurs, "Look, I just… the general is really capable, okay? He's strong." A swell of pride blossoms in his chest, clear and true as he thinks of the leader of the band of riders and soldiers that had surged through the heart of Mantle that fateful morn nearly six months earlier; their leader had struck a chord in Marrow's heart irrevocably, the tall, built man exuding nothing but the purest of confidence and strength as he had lead his group into the distance. The man's firm, unyielding gaze had captured Marrow's confidence in an instant, and with every action further which Marrow had seen from the former general of a far-off army, Marrow had found his loyalties growing stronger and stronger.
But his followers do not view Marrow with the same curious bemusement which marks James Ironwood's stern expression each time Marrow speaks to him.
"They can shove it, kiddo," Qrow grunts after a moment. "I've told you. Jimmy's got a strong crew, but that doesn't mean they're worth a damn." The next words are softer, more sensitive. "You could do better. I mean it."
For some reason, the immediate anger at the insult towards General Ironwood bubbles away nearly instantly. In its place is pure, unequivocal happiness. "You… don't think I'm less?"
"Nah," Qrow replies. "You're good enough, and we've all got our things. The only thing that could bother me is if you were utter scum, but… you're a good kid."
The smile which pulls Marrow's lips pales in comparison to the warmth spreading from his gut all the way to his fingertips. "Don't call me a kid," he mutters, but he cannot deny the joyous lilt in his tone as he speaks.
"Doesn't matter how old you are, it's a mentality, kid," Qrow replies, the sound of cloth rustling and the bottle uncorking coming to mind once more.
The sound of swallowing is faint, but as Marrow closes his eyes, it is easy to sink back against Fetch's warmth, his fingers reaching up to trace the ragged wooden stable separation between himself and the older man. Although his touch is callused, he can still feel the grains of the wood, coarse and rough against his hands, the same way Qrow's voice lingers in Marrow's ears.
Marrow swallows thickly. "I'm not-"
"Yeah, yeah, you're 26," Qrow interjects, waving off his words with a lazy hand. "I know, what a big strong man you are." To Marrow's flushed protests, the elder notes, "I saw you today. Your eyes still sparkle like my nieces' do, so I doubt you're as jaded as you think you are."
Marrow is about to protest when Qrow's words strike him. He… he finally said something about himself! "Wait, nieces?"
There is a long moment of silence between them before Qrow finally sighs, voice rasping and weary as it fizzles out into the brisk night air. "Go to bed, Marrow. We ride before dawn." Just like that, the sound of the bottle capping rings through the air, and Qrow's voice never rings out again.
With a sigh, Marrow curls up against his horse and draws his blanket over himself. It is a cold night, yes, but the brisk chill does not strike him as harshly with that little nugget of knowledge in his brain. He has nieces. He has a family.
But, most importantly of all, he is speaking of himself to Marrow. He is no longer impenetrable, solid. He is just a man.
Marrow sleeps well with that knowledge, contented.
xxx
The next day arrives just as had the first of their voyage together, the rhythmic paces of their horses marching along packed dirt roads and kicking up dust in the harsh, dry air echoing through Marrow's ears. Marrow does not mind the ringing monotony, however; there is something kinder in the air than the day before, something intangible, yet permanent. He can sense it in the way that Qrow never pulls too far ahead, the man keeping an easy pace. Although he constantly ensures that he is ahead of Marrow, the younger finds that the elder glances over his shoulder more and more. What his eyes capture in that split-second glance, Marrow can only begin to guess; whatever it is, however, seems to be enough to dictate exactly what Qrow needs to do, what Marrow needs to respond to.
At first, Marrow thinks that it is just the older man ensuring that he is not losing the stray he had managed to pick up in the shack two nights earlier. As time goes on, however, he comes to learn more about Qrow than he could have ever guessed; there is an incredible kindness in the elder, the man always ready to offer his canteen, a spare kerchief to mop up the sweat, a bite to eat when the younger rider begins to look fatigued. The way he is able to assess Marrow is stunning, the speed and accuracy always robbing the younger of anything he could possibly say in retort.
So, Marrow says nothing other than a soft thank-you. The manner with which he takes the food, water, and care is awkward, but he accepts it nonetheless. It has been a long, long time since anyone has extended this kind of warmth to him. Not since Mantle- and even then…
It is whilst the duo waits out the midday sun that Qrow finally begins to speak. "I guess," he murmurs suddenly as he leans back against the rock sheltering them from midday heatstroke, "that I can talk a little."
And talk, he does. He has nieces, just as he had mentioned the night before. Marrow has to bite back the smile which longs to form upon his lips as the elder recounts tales of his two nieces, just teenagers themselves now, and all of the misadventures they have gotten up to together. "I go to see them every year," he says, the fondness upon his tongue achingly sweet. "They're an excitable pair. You can meet them when we get to town."
Marrow's heart swells at the offer. More oft than not, people tend to keep away from him. Even in Mantle, his family had stuck to their own small quarter, never going beyond their neighbourhood's familiar streets. "Why don't you stay with them?" Marrow asks innocently, blinking sweat out of his eyes as he adjusts his hat. "You seem like you mostly travel, but I can't even tell what you normally do. Why only visit them a few days every year?"
"I can't be tied down to one place. It gets stuffy, kiddo," Qrow replies easily. His answer is strange, however- almost rehearsed.
Marrow's brows knit together on instinct. He peeks out of the corners of his eyes at the elder; although Qrow remains just as calm as ever, the curve of his smile trembles, the lean of his brows more bitter, more frustrated, than anything positive or idyllic.
Still, Qrow is surprisingly content to continue speaking as they hit the road once more. His brother-in-law raises the two girls on his own- their mother got killed by bandits years back. "None of James' folk," Qrow assures the moment Marrow's eyes fill with alarm. "If it had been him, I'd have gutted him and left him to be eaten by crows years ago."
There is no hint of a lie in his voice. Marrow shivers despite the burning heat boring into him from up on high.
A few moments later, Qrow sighs, patted Harbinger's neck lovingly. "Why'd ya leave Mantle, hm? Longed for some adventure? Don't you have folks of your own waiting for you?"
Bile rises up into Marrow's throat. "They're dead," Marrow replies evenly.
"Ain't they all," the elder says, not missing a beat.
By the time night falls, their once-rich conversation has dried out to scant murmurs in the darkness of day's end. Qrow insists on knowing a good camping spot 'just a few miles ahead' so they continue to trudge along, encouraging the exhausted horses and mustering up their focus to stay alert amidst the shadows. Just as Marrow's doubts begin to set in, however, Qrow's audible sigh of relief rings out, a hilly section just a few hundred feet north providing the perfect valley in which they can rest for the night. "Told ya we'd get there," the elder chuckles, leading his horse to the other side of the hill where they find a small burbling stream running along.
As Marrow refills their canteens, the horses drinking gratefully and Qrow hell-bent on scrubbing the day's dust and grime off of his pale skin, Qrow asks the younger without warning, "So, we're a few days' ride out of town. What're ya gonna do when we get there?"
For a moment, the world is still in Marrow's ears. Then, he is in motion, scrabbling to grab the cap of his canteen which he had dropped into the stream before it is dragged away. He gulps down one mouthful of water, then two, his body shivering and sweating, Qrow's question finally penetrating into his skull. "What am I… gonna do?" he repeats numbly.
What am I supposed to say? Frantically, his eyes dart between his horse and the distant horizon; Fetch is in no shape to carry him off into the distance as his heart desires, but that means he must stay with Qrow. There is no point drawing his weapon upon the other man, and knowing how skilled Qrow has proven to be, there is no question as to who would survive their bout. He cannot pretend that he has family in Patch, too, so-
He shudders, draining his canteen briskly before kneeling, setting about filling it up once more. Think, dang it, think!
He cannot say the truth, after all. He cannot look Qrow Branwen in the eyes and tell this man who has so carefully led Marrow this far that Marrow is on his way to scout out the town of Qrow's nieces- that his duty is to find the guard stations, to check the patrols, to figure out the best ways in and out of the bank's treasury-
He cannot tell Qrow that he is only going to Patch to find out how the general may destroy it, to rob it, to leave it dry amidst the arid desert heat.
Finally, his canteen is full and he no longer has an excuse to avoid answering. Teetering to his feet, he sucks in a deep breath, fully prepared to stammer his way to sunrise when he lifts his eyes at last. Qrow's gaze is fixated on him, a kind of warmth and compassion emanating from the worry so clearly engrained in his face that Marrow's heart cannot help but twist in pain, in guilt, in regret.
Then, Marrow's eyes shift left. He pauses, squints, gasps; then, his hand is upon his pistol, the man's stance dropping low. "Shit," he curses under his breath. "Coyotes. Three of them."
Instantly, Qrow's expression grows focused and firm, the man straightening up. Without hesitation, he flips his pistol into his hands, drawing his arm into a smooth line aimed into the distance. Marrow's breath hitches as he watches, utterly stunned at the fluidity and grace of the moonlit motions before him; Qrow's fingers dance elegantly, cocking the arm, a slight lean backwards to aim, and-
A ringing shot draws out some whinnies from Fetch, although Harbinger does not react. In the distance, one of the skulking desert predators collapses, the other two lithe figures bolting with snarls and yips into the darkness of the night.
A moment of silence passes. Qrow sighs, slipping his pistol back into its holster, completely unfazed by the accurate shot which had hit their mark a good two hundred yards away. Instead, the man walks over to Marrow, clapping the younger on the shoulder. "Good eyes you've got," he teases softly, grabbing Marrow's chin. With a gentle tug, Marrow finds himself staring up at crimson irises, the red so obscured by shadow that it seems more brown, more muddy violet, than anything as they search Marrow's gaze.
"W-what is it?" Marrow mumbles clumsily, face burning wherever Qrow's hands and eyes touch.
Qrow snorts, a wicked grin pulling his lips. "You can take first watch if you're awake enough to spot those," he says smoothly, strutting over to where the duo had left their saddlebags and bedrolls. "Wake me up in three hours. I'll take over from there."
There is no more conversation. Marrow takes that first watch, oppressed by the weight of too many things at once- Qrow's frightening aim, his gentleness, the warmth in his eyes as he speaks of the nieces waiting for him- the increased shadows of Fetch's ribs showing through a dull coat, the scant amount of feed they have for their steeds nowhere near enough to nurse the sickly creature back to health- the fear of being caught, the scouting mission which he cannot ignore looming ahead, promising him no respite in the idyllic town of Patch-
There are no more animals which pass them that night. Or, perhaps there are; Marrow does not know, his gaze too firmly fixated upon an immobile lump in the distance, his gut twisting in disgust as he realizes how white the bones shall be by the time he returns this way.
It is not the last time Qrow's pistol rings out during their travels. The next day, as they march along a field of tallgrass and brush whilst the sun begins to dip over the horizon once more, the elder signals them to halt. With a few precise words from Qrow, Marrow glances off into the distance, and before he is able to think twice, he describes exactly where the gamebird had hidden itself amidst the shrubbery thirty yards away.
Qrow fires once, startling the creature into flight- then, the second shot finds its mark perfectly. The pheasant's large, muscled body and beautiful plumage plummets from the sky with but that one shot from Qrow's pistol. Whooping in glee, Qrow rides out to where the body fell, straying off the scant path which they had been following. "C'mere, boy!" Qrow hollers back to Marrow, victory and cheer in his gloating voice. With a few days left in their journey and their provisions running a little low, anything to add to their meager stock should be a welcome addition.
Marrow's smile is far less pleased, and for good reason- at least, he thinks so. Although he does not mind shooting to protect himself, he has never been able to stomach the butchering of animals; in Mantle, he remembers being mocked for that fact time and time again. Always too squeamish to survive out here, people would say. Even amongst the Aces, he has been harassed about the fact that he was useless in hunts. Harriet had relished in watching him attempt to clean game with a straight face, something which she had forced him to do too many times to count.
It still makes him tremble. He is appreciative of animals giving their lives to nourish him in the desert heat. He does not want to see it, though.
With this pheasant in hand, however, he has little choice but to bear witness to the act. The day is almost done, and they had already reached their campground for the evening, leaving them the perfect opportunity and just enough daylight to set up a drying rack for an overnight smoke. As Qrow begins to pluck and gut the bird without hesitation, all Marrow can do is swallow down his bile, squirming as he sets the horses up for the night, swallowing small mouthfuls of water with the ever-pressing awareness that he cannot waste a drop- according to Qrow, there are no more water sources until they reach town, apparently. He cannot afford to lose his stomach here.
And yet, as Qrow grins a cocky, brazen grin and his hands move in a deft blur, all Marrow is able to see is pink flesh and entrails and feathers, his mind spinning. Strips of meat are laid out to smoke, but the fire only amplifies Marrow's dizziness. The gamey scent of sage and lemongrass mingles with the cloying scent of blood in his nostrils, causing his knees to tremble and his heart to palpitate; choking down more water, the young man staggers to sit down, holding his face in his hands with equal shame and fear. Nausea drives acid and bile into his throat, burning him, his whole body wracked with the motion.
Goddammit, Marrow thinks distantly through the fog, he's going to lose all respect for me-
To Marrow's surprise, the taunting he had expected from the elder never arrives. In but a few moments, he hears the elder finish with the bird, wash his hands, and come to kneel by Marrow. Large, rough hands touch his forehead and cheek, brushing back sweat-soaked, matted hair off of his pale face. "You okay, kid?" his low, rasping voice murmurs gently in Marrow's ear.
Flushing from the sudden contact and the embarrassment, Marrow clumsily jerks his face away. "I- I'm fine," he lies, attempting to stand. His knees are still jelly, however, and soon he tumbles back onto the hard dirt, shivering.
The laughter which spills forth from Qrow's lips is not taunting in the slightest. It is merely wry, a hint of surprise and warmth within. "What kind of cowboy are you? Can't even smoke your own game," the man teases softly.
Marrow tries to retort through his discomfort, but his words die away as he feels Qrow shift, those rough, hardened hands moving with surprising gentleness onto Marrow's back. With soothing motions, he rubs Marrow's back, easing some of the tension between his shoulder blades, the repetitive motions aiding in calming down his urge to retch.
Slowly but surely, Marrow finds his head clearing. Gratefully gulping down the water offered to him, he whispers, "I… it's just too violent."
"And yet, you joined the Aces," Qrow deadpans in response.
Flushing, Marrow looks away. The scent of smoking meat has become more tantalizing than nauseating. A pang of shame strikes his heart at the thought- the moment the blood dries, it is like the jagged pieces stabbing into his gut all shift, settling as if there had never been anything wrong. He almost wishes it continued to make him feel sick. As it is, he finds himself more of a hypocrite than anything.
"I used to know someone who couldn't hurt animals, either," Qrow says, finally pulling away from Marrow. In a few swift movements, the elder has seated himself near the fire, adjusting the makeshift smoking rack and ensuring the smoke rises properly in the waning sunlight. "They always refused to clean the animals, even though they were the best shot amongst all of us."
Marrow's heart chills for a moment as he clambers to his feet, stretching carefully. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the giblets of the pheasant in a pile, ready to be left behind for the animals; it causes his stomach to squirm slightly, so he tears his gaze away, looking back at the soft expression upon Qrow's face. The firelight illuminates his face, wiping years off his haggard visage. He looks young amidst this warm glow, although his eyes still flicker crimson and gold, tainted with something indelible, too deeply engrained to touch. "What happened to them?" Marrow finally asks, voice wavering slightly.
"Sickness. They're dead," is Qrow's soft reply.
"…ain't they all," Marrow intones.
Sometime during the night, Qrow disposes of the pheasant's carcass and innards, and come the fresh morn, their saddlebags are replenished with simple, yet fragrant jerky. Marrow is spared witnessing any of it, the silent action so sincere that it makes him weak. Marrow is lucky to have been found by someone who does not look down upon his weakness. "You're responsible for keepin' a lookout in case more coyotes come our way, or worse," Qrow instructs, his crooked smile painfully accepting when Marrow initially tries to protest the gift. "You'd make a good scout. You've got good eyes on ya."
Marrow smiles and eats his portion as their horses trot wearily upon the dusty trail, although his discomfort lingers; this food shall keep him going until they reach town, and he knows better than to reject Qrow's ill-placed kindness. I hope you're wrong, he begs silently, his conflicted heart aching. For your sake.