Chapter 20
Once Upon A Time in The West
Part 2
Raindrops

Erron began construction of a temporary shelter after tiresome hours of hiking and after the first crack of thunder rumbled through the jungle. It was fast but efficient, and he was glad he decided to bring the Tarkatan blade instead of his rifle. However, he laid under the A-line tent with a sour disposition crossing over his features as he unclasped his leather mask. Any hope of finding the Edenian's footprints vanished as soon as the heavy rain loudly collided against the emerald palm leaves hanging over his head.

He shuffled his body weight as he felt water start to soak into the back of his pants. It didn't take him long to construct his shelter; there was plenty of young tree growth nearby for rope and plenty of branches to tie them with into the skeleton for his roof to place the foliage on, but he still wished he was able to find drier leaves for his bedding.

Hiding under his angled roof of tree branches and leaves, Erron reached above his head and adjusted the fern above his hat until the keyhole was covered. As soon as the 'patter' of water escaping through the cracks stopped bouncing off his hat, he decided to remove it and smooth back his hair.

Lifting his knees towards his chest, he sighed as began to remove his silver shin guards and unraveled the laces of his boots. He felt the muscles in his arms tighten when he felt a small chill slide down his skin but still he worked his numbed fingers to remove his leather boot.

As soon as he pulled his gray sock off, he let out a grumble of disappointment. Erron prodded a finger at the pruning that was taking place around his cold, pale foot before he went to inspect the other foot. Trekking through mild damp conditions since he got here — serving an omen that the rainy season was near – he had a slight fear he'd be suffering from wet feet sooner or later. Unfortunately, he was right about that bet. The other foot wasn't as bad, but he placed it by the other one on the driest patch of leaves he could find. Goddamn it, he knew this was going to happen, and had hoped he would have escaped with the Edenian demi-god in custody before the rain started. Placing his socks and brown boots near to dry, he leaned back and glanced up at the ceiling of his slippery green shelter.

Adjusting his neck against the rock halfway buried underneath his pile of leaves, he flinched every time a persistent droplet managed to weave through the layers. He moved the large petals above his head until it was just the cold that hit him. Crossing his arms over his chest, trying to horde his body heat, he spent his time counting the veins on the tropical leaves; tracing their irrelevant paths to try and make the seconds fade. Eventually, the leaves and tied checkered branches above him failed to hold his attention so Erron opted for placing his hat against his face to at attempt to get some sleep while he was forced to take refuge.

Sleep evaded no matter how forcefully he reached for it; only managing to graze it with his fingertips and he let out a heated exhale through his nostrils in irritation. He was too damn tired and ironically he couldn't sleep because of it.

The mercenary flexed his overworked feet and thankfully started to feel his spongy skin starting to dry. With nothing interesting coming to mind to ponder on — and ignoring the bitter vexatious subject that wanted to be reflected on — he distracted himself by listening to the raindrops hit the green like the pellets from a shotgun cascading down a tin roof. The sound hypnotized him and slowly he felt his eyes glaze over...

Thunder roared with an unwelcome crash close to where he was and woke him out of his stupor. Black lifted his hat up with a single, tired finger and rolled his eyes as he looked over at the veil of stone colored clouds cemented over the afternoon sun in the distance. By the look of it too, they weren't going to be disappearing anytime soon. Black made an effort for rest again, but he could never get close to it with the ear shattering boom that quaked the trees. Cold and partially wet, there wasn't much for him to do except wait for the storm clouds to pass by so he could look for his cohort.

Black knew Reptile wasn't far; he had passed by a pile of lime green tinted skin to large to belong to any other undressed snake. Knowing the Zaterran, he would most likely call off the hunt in favor for returning when conditions improved; he knew how much he despised hunting in the rain. The scent that clung to the vegetation was washing away now, along with any tracks Rain left behind. On top of it, without the sun providing him warmth, there was the likelihood of growing sickly the longer he was exposed. Unless he was already dragging Rain by his ankles, it was fruitless now to keep looking for him.

He sighed heavily at the thought of leaving without a prize, and in doing so, made him feel he was neglecting himself out of a payday; but it wouldn't do them any good if the weather got to them before they got to Rain. The guards both knew better. They would have to look for Rain another time — preferably when they had a better lead. After the rainfall, he would collect him, and they would make their way back to the palace.

Thoughts of the Emperor's Palace caused his stomach to worm, not because he was expecting a Kotal to withhold his generous bounty until the Edenian was found, but because he knew he would have a chore once he got back that he wasn't looking forward to.

His upper lip curled up with indignation — he had forgotten about the contract with Tama for the girl, and frankly, after an exhausting week, the gunslinger wasn't exactly thrilled when he remembered he still had to deal with her once he returned to Z'unkaharah. At least what slightly comforted him, was knowing how cheerless she would be to see his face as much as Erron would be to see hers.

Tama could spare him the trip and have it wrapped in a red bow outside his door for him, but knew it was not going to happen no matter how many coins he tossed into that wishful thinking well. Erron let out a small 'hmpf' at the unlikely possiblilty of that. Tama wouldn't miss the opportunity to spew venom at him for her burden no matter how much she loathed him.

Black reached up and pulled his hat down over his eyes again. It was funny, he actually hadn't thought back on the contract until now, but soon came to the realization that in order to get rid of the nameless girl forever, he was going to have to make sure the contract's owner legally signed it over to him.

A small smirk crossed his face.

Nothing a bullet can't fix.

His eyebrows knitted together as he let out a disgruntled sigh.

At least, that was what he would make her believe.

Tama was certainly lower than him in terms of status, but the Kahn's employee wasn't willing to lose a percentage of his pay no matter how much of she deserved the bullet. The female Outworlder still had importance in the palace, especially since she was the one who owned who made their dinner. Killing her without a just cause would have repercussions, even if he was a Kahn's guard. He needed his reasons, and he knew a fight over a bread girl— a slave— wasn't going to suffice.

Black had an inkling the older woman knew that as well. He exhaled out his nose. Tama wasn't going to make it easy, and he had a bad feeling that forcefully removing her servant might have provoked her to think of some crafty retaliation.

Erron chuckled softly to himself. Hopefully, she wasn't so resentful and did something stupid to his food. Then not even Kotal Kahn would be against carving her name in a bullet. Black hoped she was that stupid.

Don't ask so eagerly. Wasn't exactly happy about what you did. A voice cautioned. He scoffed, blowing air across the bottom of his hat brim. She's lucky I didn't make good on my 'promise'.

As furious as Tama was, he didn't have any doubt that she wouldn't hand the contract over to him and sign it over — no doubt with another demonstration of forceful persuasion on his part. That left the other, unpleasant errand afterwards and under his closed lids, he rolled his eyes. He despised the thought of it and would have endured weekly meetings with Tama chewing his ear off as a substitute.

Black would have to deliver the contract in person to the servant girl.

In truth, he didn't really have to. He could have somebody carrier it over to her at the old lantern lighter's house, but he knew that wouldn't get rid of the nagging doubt of being certain if she got it or not. It was for his sake, not hers and he hoped it would quell the thought if they screwed up and she never got it— that would mean she be coming to visit him for it.

Plus, it was also a way to get her to at least get her to express some gratitude and to show that he had been serious. It was obvious that she suspected it to all be a masquerade, and when he passed it over to her, maybe she express some goddamn gratitude.

The acknowledgment that he somewhat wanted thanks jarred him— confused the hell out of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose under his hat and huffed.

Why did he care about the whether she forgave him or not? He had done his good deed. Was it because he was just antsy to get it done and over with so he could get rid of her? Another theory was maybe it was his own ego jabbing him suggestively in the rib, trying to persuade him to get another victory over the irritating bread maker that got on his nerves. He knew that wasn't it though, no matter how much he wanted to believe in that petty reason.

Trying to push it out of his thoughts, he adjusted himself over the bed of brown leaves and crossed his ankles. Erron certainly hoped once he was done his remorse would finally grant him the reprieve he desired. For right now, though, in the middle of a rainstorm, not even the repetitive drowning noise of water cascading heavily around him could distract him from the voice that spoke over it all.

You only feel bad about it because she didn't want to go with you in the first place.

So what? I still got her out, didn't I?

True. Still doesn't mean she asked for it. You did it because that's what you thought she wanted, but you know it was just what you wanted.

Erron crossed his arms and clenched his fists as he shifted; resenting the statement.

Who cares? She wanted to get free, and she got it. I apologized, she threw it back at me. I even pulled her friend out and walked them to the old man's house. All this without a damn thanks.

Why would she have any reason to thank you in the first place?

Black grinded his teeth under his closed mouth, causing a twinge of pain along his jaw when he realized his fault: the argumentative voice in his head that was clearly on her side, was right.

"I want for you to stop pretending as if you are doing me any favors. You are not helping me; you are doing this because you think this will erase your cruelty towards me. You are too late for your rescue or any act of kindness you pitifully show to mean anything. You forsake that opportunity at the tavern. This changes nothing!"

The mercenary sighed heavily. Yes. He did have something to gain. He wanted her gone— removed from his conscious, out of his sight and his debt paid; the one he had grown and unknowingly shackled to himself with every word and action she still held over him. Rightfully so, when he reflected on how he had been somewhat cruel to her when she was assigned to serve him at dinner, but he knew the callous words fired at her would leave in time. Besides, he had worse faults than belittling words.

Collecting her for Tama to enslave, which he had no idea why at the time, for money, was inexcusable when he put himself in her shoes. Black couldn't blame her for holding that against him, even if he had been ignorantly doing his job.

The mercenary inhaled deeply and sighed with sour abashment.

His biggest transgression though, the one that topped them all, was still walking out that day and not choosing to aid her. If he had just spared a bullet, a brief second of his time and shot the bastard that slapped her in the doorway in the back of the head, none of this would have befallen upon him. None of this tedious labor to undo what a few seconds could have spared him if he had chosen to act. He didn't. A million times he had run that through his head, and knew it like the back of his hand as if it was stamped there. Why didn't he just shot him?

Rubbing his temple with his fingers, he grimaced at the headache that had suddenly formed.

Human? Are you anymore?

Erron Black wasn't a stupid man or a mindless attack dog at Kotal Kahn's every instruction, but he was accustomed to being indifferent. That didn't mean he was always unsympathetic— there were times he could be reasonable, but in regards to people, he found that emotion to be obsolete when it came to doing his job.

For the longest time, there hadn't been a single person outside of his own personal interests that had caught his attention. The people of Outworld were ants under his boot heel; all of them were as insignificant as they were untrustworthy and onerous. It had taken him a while to understand that the only thing he needed to do was worry about his needs. Turned out it wasn't people that got him what he needed, but the gold that filled his pocket. So, he ignored everyone else. It had been that way for decades, so why was this particular ant so hard to crush from his sight?

Again, he blamed Bert for that and his accusation, but he didn't need to prove that to a baker and an old, deceased Earthrealmer. So why was it still on his mind?

Maybe it was the cold way Bert had said it. Or how he seemed so confident about his observation of him that it came across more as a truthful insult.

It almost sounded like a challenge; a dare that he couldn't root up his basic human benevolence anymore. That he was incapable of acting like anything else but a cold, obtuse pawn used at Kotal's will. He knew better. Erron was only apathetic because it was easier to get his job done. The marksman nudged at the question more; dissecting to see if there was something else that Bert was trying to tell him— he knew he never meant one just thing with his words. Whatever it was, the answer wasn't coming to him easily.

Black rubbed his eyes under his hat and crossed them back over his chest, trying to block the cold air. Perhaps he was mulling too heavily over the scathing words of one ex-convent and a bread-kneading nobody because he was bored. Regardless if he was or not, he managed to expose why she hadn't given him gratitude for his actions.

You are not helping me; you are doing this because you think this will erase your cruelty towards me.

Erron could deny the statement all he wanted; curse at it, scorn it for its stupidity and its overly maudlin tone, but the truth was that in her perspective, he really had just done it for him/ There was a reason she hadn't thanked him because she knew it too. Maybe that was what she was trying to channel to him with her look of hatred before they went their separate ways.

The look in her jaded green eyes had silently informed him she could see past his helpful façade. Not even with him dragging her friend with them, which had just did as a method to show her he was being serious about helping her, she knew that he was still putting his intentions first. The slave girl knew it was a false show of sympathy towards her and the only reason he figured out how she could know that was because Bert had been right. He wouldn't have been trying to prove he could show her some humanity, if it had just done it from the start. Erron would have to do more than provide one example for anyone to start reconsidering their negative view of him.

The ex-Earthrealmer banged his head slightly against the rock under his skull. This horseshit was never going to end. This entire sappy dilemma would never grant him peace unless he got her to forgive him. His guilt was never going to subside unless she believed his efforts. Then he would stop constantly rebuking himself.

There was no other solution, and he knew there was no way to coerce the notion out of his mind. For the longest time, he had always gone by simplistic ways to deal with what he needed for the quickest results. At this moment, he truthfully couldn't think of a single action he could do that would allocate to a speedy and painless conclusion. Just killing her wouldn't offer reprieve like it did for him in the past when someone crossed him— which ironically, was yet another thing he did to her that he would have to make up for as well. Understandably, she did not seem to have enjoyed his midnight visit to her room.

The only problem was, with her presence not as easy to bump into at the palace, it would be on his own time. Slowly and delicately, and since Erron knew nothing about her, didn't even know where in the hell to start.

It was thin ice in all directions, but he knew it would be worth it if he could make her move on— then he could. There was no other alternative, and Erron Black of all people knew how quickly moods and perceptions could change when an apology was granted.

Atchison, Kansas
1868

For the most part, it had been quiet in the Sheriff's Station. The three men of Buchanan's gang had been swiftly dealt with for their crimes and from what Aaron could overhear was that it didn't take long for the jury to find them guilty; faster than blinking an eye. At least, that was what Aaron thought he had overheard from the discussion taking place outside of his cell bars. In all honesty, he didn't pay much attention to any of it, because even he knew that whether in the hands of the court filled with nothing but educated carpetbaggers or clueless miners, they were already dead before the gavel hit. Besides, it was his own neck was what he was concerned about, even if Zachariah told him not to be.

The boy had been imprisoned in the cell for three days or so, but it was honestly it was hard to judge since most of the time he tried napping to past the time. If he wasn't sleeping, he was eavesdropping on what the Deputy and his Sherriff were discussing. Most of it was useless, but every so often he would catch a sliver of information on what was to become of him. Connecting the puzzle pieces, Aaron was able to figure out why he was still in the cell and hadn't been placed in a courtroom by the time dawn broke out the first day.

Simply, it was because they couldn't find anyone that wanted to send a 7-year-old boy to the noose. Sure, there were people that wanted to watch the trial, just not any that wanted to participate and have his death on their conscious. It was easy to send grown men who were murderers and road agents to the gallows, but a boy with his life still ahead of him and an understandable reason for what he did, people would have rather picked up an angry rattlesnake then be apart of the jury.

It really was as simple as Zachariah had said: 'No jury is gonna send a kid to swing. Just keep your trap shut until after we settle this.'

For once, he decided to trust Zachariah's advice, although he was still hesitant that he would be allowed to walk free so simply.

That had been a couple of days ago and since then, Zachariah had stayed around to keep him company despite neither of them said a word to each other. With nothing but the odor of pine and iron to distract him from his boredom, Aaron couldn't help but feel that Shotgunner's words starting to carry as much weight as a bag of feathers.

Abraham hadn't been by at all, and he was thankful because he wouldn't have been able to look at that cowardly bastard without wanting to gouge his eyes out. Besides the Sheriff, who regarded him like a mouse with a hole in the wall, the deputies glanced his way with abnormal judgment reflected in their eyes. They either pitied him or saw him as a demon using the visage of an innocent child. Aaron didn't want then to think of him in either regard; it was insulting no matter which opinion it was. Still, he didn't care what any of them thought, because, in the end, none of it really mattered.

He had been lied to— tricked; used as a pawn in Abraham's revenge. Perhaps the only reason he even dragged him along all these years was because Aaron was the only one that could identify his father. His mother never went by the name Buchannan and all this time he thought his name was Aaron Bleyer. Now he wasn't even certain if that was a false moniker.

All he knew about himself was that he was a young killer with no last name. Aaron hadn't shed any tears about it; that man was nothing to him and he would have shot him again given the opportunity. Maybe that was why they all looked at him like any other villain awaiting a verdict. He very much felt like one, since he had been given anything close to satisfaction about what he had done. Aaron was unsure if he was supposed to be feeling this hollow. If anyone that killed another person was supposed to feel as empty as he did right now. Was it what happened to everyone? If it was, he wished that somebody would at least tell him, so he didn't have to question if his despondency was normal or not.

The boy huffed hotly into his flat pillow. What was wrong with him? He had never seen any of the soldiers give a damn when they fired at the Indians. He had even seen a man gutted with a knife for having the wrong cards— the man holding the bowie hadn't seemed distressed about what he had done.

Maybe it all had to do with the difference in age how you dealt with seeing someone killed: the older you were, the easier and common it was. If experience was the case, though, why was he still feeling as if he was sitting in a confessional booth with an austere priest that looked upon him with nothing but contempt? Aaron had seen plenty of death already. There had been death all along the trail; he had seen bodies strewn up for bonfires with the natives that strung them up whooping and hollering with a victory. He had seen men's body parts in a breadcrumb trail along the tail grass. The young boy had even watched as a man was scalped on a faraway hill with the Cheyenne making sure that his white brethren saw him kicking and screaming.

There was the possibility that it could have been because he had bloodied his hands for the first time. He remembered a phrase the soiled doves had used when they spotted a man younger than them — he was no longer 'cherry.' It was his first time, and the first time was always messy. He supposed, killing, like anything in repetition, would get easier in time... but there wasn't any desire to even want to do it again.

Laying his head down on the pancaked and soiled mattress resting on top of the metal bedframe chained to the wall, he curled his legs to his chest and turned towards the wood. Every time he slept, he was always rewarded with some convoluted nightmare. The last night had been the worse: he was being dragged by the current as he struggled to keep his head above the bloody waves he was being carried off in. In each dream, there was always a wolf, yellow-haired and menacing and this time, he watched him from ashore. In one dream, he carried a rope between his fanged jaws as Aaron shot at him with Abraham's Griswold.

The Sheriff's attempts to get him to eat anything ended up making him feel sick. There was no appetite, and the food tasted like ash in his mouth when he forced himself to swallow it down. In fact, the only thing he did have the energy to do, but couldn't, was run away as far as his legs would carry him.

The orphan felt a tear run down his red, blistered face; scratched raw by the tears that came before the lonely drop. Even if he did run, where was he supposed to go? Aaron didn't know anyone in Kansas, he would never get through Indian territory alive, and what did he have waiting for him in the East? He had no family. Abraham was no kin of his, nor would he even consider him a friend at this point anymore. The truth was, he was alone, and he would always be.

Maybe it was better that way. Aaron could abide by his own rules, do whatever he wanted and wouldn't need to answer to anyone. The loneliness could be the freedom he had longed for. He wouldn't be lugged around like luggage from way station to another. No longer would he be viewed as a burden and he didn't have to explain himself to anyone, or step lightly to avoid angering somebody that held fraudulent authority over him.

That was how he had felt most of the time with Abraham. He only listened to him because he was stronger, older and thought he had Aaron's best interests in mind. It turned out, he was as big of a son of a bitch as the man who sired him was. It was almost ironic, almost as if someone was pulling his strings along in a cruel puppet show, but he actually felt more bitter about Abraham lying to him than killing his own father.

Aaron had trusted, let him take care of him and allowed him to drag him all over God's dangerous fucking earth because of his job. The stagecoach driver took the time to teach him how to shoot, hunt, read and treated him with patience. His father had quickly manifested his lack of composure the moment he backhanded him. Abraham had never even threatened to raise a hand even when he provoked him with more than words.

Aaron felt a smile involuntarily twitch on his face when he remembered Abraham holding his hand, helping him control the backfire of the Derringer so it wouldn't leap out of his hand a second time. It didn't, and it had helped him feel more confident. The more he thought about it, he had always been stern, authoritative, but never dominating or used his strength the get Aaron to do anything or think a certain way. The older man never talked back to him unless he needed to say something he strongly opposed regarding their never-ending colliding opinions on matters.

Besides their differences, Abraham in the grand scheme of things approached him as if he was his flesh and blood, even if Aaron never saw him as nothing more than a guardian he was forced to be attached to.

However, that didn't expunge what he had done. Abraham had withheld the plot he had designed without any input or consideration about how it would make him feel. Aaron had thought they had the same agreement at heart: to shot the cocksucker the moment they crossed paths with him. Instead, he never revealed it to him. It was deceitful and made him feel as if his help wasn't even worth asking for.

The other matter was, Abraham knew how much he wanted to kill his father, but refused to let him aid him. It made him feel worthless, unneeded and nothing but a stooge. Also, he was uncertain if Abraham had used him as bait or not; a distraction in order for them to skulk inside of the building's alleys. Why didn't Abraham just put his trust in him?

"Because Abraham didn't want'cha in the mess and still ye found a way to get shit on your hands."

Zachariah's words just made him angrier and resentful. He would have listened! If he had just told him what his idea was, he would have gone along with it! All he had to do was sit him down and explain what he wanted to do. It was a good plan; it left them out of the clutter that the law would have tried to bury them under. Why didn't he just tell him, goddamn it — he wouldn't have shot the sonovabitch if he had known what was going on!

Aaron scowled. This was all of Abraham's fault — not his. The driver was the one that had secured the noose around his neck. He was going to die because of Abraham.

He heard the hinges on the door swing open before the heavy footfalls across the floorboards. Aaron didn't turn around, but knew it had to Abraham by the way he stalked in with reluctance in his pace. Zachariah, who was already inside of the station playing solitaire with his worn set of cards across the table with the young, asleep Deputy.

"Did you persuade him at short notice?" by the trace of humor in his tone, Aaron knew it was a rhetorical question.

Aaron heard Abraham let out a glum sigh. "Couldn't spare time on the clock to see me."

The orphan heard Zachariah click his tongue. "Why would he? He's the governor and yer nothin' but a sentimental idiot with nothin' but 100 dollars and a silver timepiece to offer as a bribe. I told you to pass it up and leave it to the delicate sensibilities of the jury."

"I don't wanna risk—"

"You ain't— and you don't need to aim for thoroughness for victory," he sternly countered.

Abraham had no response, and with that, he heard the older Confederate remove himself from his chair. "They should be sortin' it out soon. I'll go buy some onions, then. Would you like some? Make it harder on them with you weeping like a fresh widow."

The driver didn't answer and instead patted him on the shoulder with a friendly slap. The boy felt his stomach clench, like someone punched him, when he realized he was left alone with him — well besides the snoring man with a star on his lapel.

Aaron glued his eyes to the wall, narrowing his them as he tightened his fingers harshly around the bedding. A hot puff of hair escaped out his nose when he heard the stagecoach driver nudge awake the Deputy with a kick of his boot.

"I'd like to talk to him," he told him as the younger man jumped awake mid-snore. The boy heard him suck in his drool with a sharp, haggard inhale of breath before he tiredly tried to refuse with mumbled, sleepy words.

"Lock it behind," Abraham told him. "I'll stay in till you feel up to lettin' me loose."

Aaron felt his blood boil, and he silently hoped that the Deputy would listen to his own laziness and decline. However, his heart sank when he heard their feet saunter towards the cell door, open it after a quick jingle of the keys, and close it.

Abraham and Aaron remained as mute and still as rocks, both of them waiting it seemed for the lawman to fall back asleep in his chair— which didn't take long.

He felt his nails dig harder into his palms with enough pressure to draw pain across his flesh. The boy closed his eyes and tried to feign sleeping, hoping to avoid the talk he obviously wanted to engage with him in. Aaron could feel his presence in the jail with him like an unwanted ghost haunting him. He could feel his eyes at the back of his head and as furious as he was, couldn't will himself to remove himself from the mattress and pummel Abraham as hard as he could.

"I know you're awake, Aaron," he announced, causing Aaron to grind his teeth in irritation. "We have a discussion we need to get done and over with."

"I don't wanna talk about anything with you, you gutless bastard!" he seethed through clamped teeth. "You're the reason why I'm here!"

The angry child heard the older man's dirty nails scratch against the back of his neck before he admitted: "That's the truth and no doubting it."

He swore his ears were playing tricks on him and instead of the enraged expression that had been on his face previous to Abraham's admission, it relaxed into a flabbergasted look that the wall was the only one privileged to see.

Aaron still held on to his bitterness— the older man was right that it was his fault— but it was the first time Abraham had ever admitted to being wrong to him. Never once had he heard him confess anything that sounded like an apology. Even though he was patient, he was also proud and always restrained himself; choosing only to allow it show it silently in his eyes.

Walking over to the bed he felt his body roll towards Abraham's back as he sat by his feet. Aaron glanced over his shoulder with a skeptical stare and saw the man leaning his hat towards the ground with heavy remorse. He looked grief-stricken, as if he was staring down at a funeral casket with every mistake he had ever committed was written on the lid.

"I thought I could offer a better man to you," he began in a downtrodden whisper, his voice heavy. "I failed to deliver."

The boy turned his back from the wall, instead, he kept his attention on the weathered black wool coat he wore; staring between his shoulder blades as he continued with is disclosure: "I spent a lot of nights thinking about doing what you did to your Pa, that the happy, easy promise of it granted me sleep once I shut my eyes. That was before I started thinking more about the impression I would leave if I had done so."

The boy's ears perked with interest even though a frown grew on his face. Abraham lifted his hat off his head and held it in his lap with a heavy sigh.

"I've cut men in half with a sword and watched them crawl away with their insides dragging behind," Abraham told him, his blue eyes dimming as if a dark cloud hovered over him. "One I followed on foot, and he cried out for his momma every inch across the grass. I don't really remember feelin' nothing about it I just kept on with the next one in blue. My horse went lame, and I had to go on foot with the others for a while. The men I shot and killed, I used to carve on my rifle the number I killed before that lost my attention — turned out I just ended up running outta room."

Abraham shook his head as he smoothed his hair back and placed his hat on his head. "The war wasn't the first time I killed. My first was when I was close to your age. I had a friend at the home. I can't even recollect what he looked like, but his name was Charlie. He was the only one I got along with. The women at the orphanage laid hands on him more than me and most of the time he deserved getting the cane more than he did the hand, but I fear there was more going on as well. Unnatural... I was the only friend he had. Eventually, we were promised to folks we had never met. We didn't even reach them. Charlie always convinced me that we didn't need anybody — we could figure out the world ourselves. He was older than I was and I was too young and foolish to disagree."

Aaron kept quiet, wondering what the point of telling him all this was.

"We were on our own, without the eyes of older folks bearing down on us. There was a farm with enough food for us to steal without them noticing. I was cold, but I was alive and in the woods — couldn't be happier. Charlie was the one that got more bored than I and ran off looking for ways to pass the time. His favorite was to take it out on the farm animals a few miles beyond the pines we were squatting at. At least, that was what he told me. I thought that all he was doing was lighting the horses tails on fire— just to watch 'em buck and run. I never did any of that, but understood that was his type of child's play even if it wasn't mine."

The shade of blue in the older man's eyes darkened, looking as cold and gray as a tombstone maker. "He ran out of horses. There was this youngster; a boy I never saw, in the house he was jealous of, and he would jaw about it so many times to me before that I started thinking I was listening to some bird belt out its morning tune. I knew he hated that him and I always knew it was because he was sour that he knew his family."

Abraham let out a heavy sigh. "I knew he killed that boy, long before I heard his folks hollering out his name. Charlie never said, but I always knew. What scared me was that he smile every time he heard them call out his name. Not even the war do I remember being around such frightening company than when I was around him. There was something in his eyes. I got cold lookin' at them. and each time I did, I kept wonderin' if I was gonna find out what he did to that little one by Charlie doing the same to me."

Aaron sat up, his blue colored eyes wide with macabre interest. Abraham turned his body to him, a heavy aberrant seriousness enveloping his indifferent demeanor.

"We made it to Charleston, starving and tired. We managed to find some bread; it was dotted with green and white, but neither of us gave a damn - it was the only scrap we've seen in days. I gave him the bread because I knew he wasn't gonna give me a choice. I waited till his back was turned then smashed his head with a brick I had been eyeballin' nearby."

Aaron held his breath and stared wide-eyed as Abraham shook his head. "I shoved that blood-soaked half eaten loaf down my throat while he quivered at my feet and felt nothing but relief."

Aaron let out a shaky breath; there wasn't anything that he could say. He did feel slight sympathy for his story, but mostly he was just bewildered why he was telling him all this. Was it to tell him he knew what he was feeling? That he knew what it was like to kill at a young age? If that was the case, then he felt uneasy in his presence. Unlike Abraham apparently, Aaron felt worse about what he had done even though he felt his actions were justified. Abraham had felt nothing and that dragged fear down his spine.

Aaron watched as his eyes turned towards him; sensing his fearful aversion to him and clarified: "I did because I knew sooner or later, it would be me with my back turned."

Aaron studied him and swallowed; although he understood his point it still didn't sway him and Abraham could see that as well.

The driver sighed:" You see the difference between killin' someone that deserves it and somebody that doesn't, is you get chained to the ones that didn't. I don't remember what Charlie looks like anymore because I don't think he deserves to be remembered. The blues, though, the ones on that field that I didn't know. Young boys and men, cradling pictures and letters in their hands and crying out the names of their loved ones? I remember them alright, but I don't even know their names. Some even ask if I delivered the letters. Caterwauling for me to do it."

Aaron connected his brows in confusion. "Did you?"

Abraham lifted an eyebrow, surprised at the sincere, childlike curiosity of the question before he shook his head with shame. "No, Aaron."

The stagecoach driver let out a heavy sigh, nodded his head minutely and continued with a frown. "I don't reckon your momma ever told you, but after the war, when I had time to reflect on what kind of man I grew to be. Well, let's just say it was hard to work myself up to find a purpose for myself I could agree with. I don't have trouble killin' somebody who needs it, but every night I kept seeing the faces of the ones that didn't. Then I found out my purpose. I had become one of the folks that did deserve killing. I couldn't see the line— it was a blur. I became what Charlie was in the end, and I spent my days waitin' and wishing for somebody with an excuse to bash my head in. Perhaps over something as simple as a bread."

The boy's features softened as his eyes hunted all over every inch of the man's face. He was still guarded, especially when he professed to him the type of man he truly was but there was hopelessness etched on his face as if he was wearing them as scars. There was also disgust - he was not proud of what he used to be.

All this time, Aaron would have never have guessed him to be the type of man that was truly apologetic about who he killed. Zachariah was in the war, fighting on the same side as Abraham, and not once did the gruff older man moan about the men he sent to fill coffins. The boy reconsidered; maybe there was a reason for their muteness. It wasn't a pleasant tale to tell, and perhaps keeping it hidden unless for dire times, to teach others lessons, was the only reason it needed to ever be presented.

Aaron could see it despite how Abraham tried to hide it with a sober mask. His blue eyes glinted down at him with heavy penance as he reflected back on every aspect of what tormented him. He was abhorrent about his past self and ashamed that he was uttering his woes out loud. It shattered the strong, steady visage of a mighty oak who didn't sway to any hard wind trying to strip his resolve. He was showing him that he was human underneath all that indomitable bark he used to guard himself with. Underneath, he was flesh and was carved with more afflictions than Aaron even thought he had.

"I thought I wasn't worthy of anybody," Abraham whispered, meeting Aaron's baffled expression. A calm, almost mournful smile flickered to his lips. "Until I stumbled upon your Ma and you."

Aaron eyes shot down to his hands in his lap and roped them together, trying to hide the angry barrage of tears that threatened to flow over the dam of his dwindling reserve. Abraham continued looking down at him, and even though the child refused to acknowledge him, he could feel the man staring down at him bereavement; looking at him as if he was standing at her grave. Even though the look pressed down on him, sinking him lower into the bed by the weight of it, he could still see a small flicker of serenity in his eyes, as if the mere memory of his mother was enough to bring him the sliver of happiness he required.

"Your Ma put me before her. She spell bounded me, made me feel as if I was worth walking on this dirt after hard years of getting me outta of lying in it face first. I loved her, and I still don't know why and how she could love me in return, but there was always one fellow that she loved more."

Abraham cupped his cheek, taking heed of the blue bruise on the side of the boy's face and brought it up to face him. "You, son."

The kid tried to pull his face away from his calloused hands but felt his tears spill out before could even make the effort. He touched his chin to his chest and sobbed, all the while letting Abraham hold his bruised face with tenderness and without restraint. Aaron quaked in his hand, trying with every bit of his will power to hold back his sorrow. He couldn't, and it cascaded over his lids and dampened the back of the man's hand. He shook and withered like the last stubborn autumn leaf on a tree.

The boy knew that his mother loved him and was blind, dumb and deaf to how much she truly did until Abraham's confirmation. He had always thought that Abraham was the one she loved more, and it stung him like a snakebite for the longest time; especially since everybody told him he was just a nuisance at the bawdy house and the stagecoach. His mother was the only one that gave a damn about him and to see her bestow affection on another man had been a kick in the gut. He had been wrong though: Abraham may have had some of her heart, but not all of it. Aaron knew it to be truth, no matter how stubborn he wanted to be about it.

"Your Ma would have taken a thousand bullets to keep you safe, and not a single one for me and I don't cast blame towards her for it in the slightest."

Aaron sniffled and dipped his head away from him even though his hand remained cradled to his face.

"I should have killed him for you," Abraham lamented heavily, his voice hollow. Aaron looked back up to meet his eyes as anger stared at him from under the rippled pond of tears still glistening over his blue eyes.

Abraham gave a nod. "You're tough Aaron, and I knew that you could do the task, but I didn't want you walking down the same trail I did. We don't live a lavish life for the privilege of keeping our hands clean, but I thought I still could protect you from doing any of that. So I thought I could cheat for the both of us and keep you outta of it."

Aaron's lip trembled as he stewed in his turmoil. There were so many contradictions; too many enigmas to comprehend digused as an apology. Why couldn't he just simply tell that he was a yellow bastard? It would have been easier no matter how much that explanation would have infuriated him. He didn't know what to believe.

In a way, though, Abraham had been selfish. While he didn't want him to get involved, Abraham still had put himself first with Aaron a step behind him. Aaron scowled in his hand and lifted his hand up to shove his wrist to the side. Abraham let him beat his wrist away and he dropped it to his lap, but his repentant gaze never faltered.

"Why didn't you just tell me what you were tryin' to do!" Aaron bellowed, his tears stinging down his face like fingernail scratches. "I wanted you trust you goddamit! Instead you made me feel as me and Ma didn't fucking matter to you!"

Abraham looked at him as if he had just slapped him across the face, and his eyes wrinkled with disgraceful guilt. All he could do was nod in sorrowful agreement.

"After all the mistakes I've made, the decision to not trust you with the truth was my biggest one," Abraham confessed with immense regret. "I was a coward. Afraid I couldn't be anything but be a disappointment. I'm not a good man, but I wanted to at least try with you. I don't reckon I'll ever get the chance to now. Hell, maybe this all just proves I never deserved to get the chance. I knew you could pull the trigger, never doubted it, but I was afraid gettin' you involved might make you turn out like me in some way. I was wrong. Your different boy— stronger than either of us. You'll remember his face and his name, alright and that'll be my heaviest fault of all— not yours."

That selfishness that Aaron had believed him to put on a pedestal above himself fell off as soon as he heard his remorseful admittance. There it all was, bare and in pieces on the floor. What Abraham had done so hard to build, was destroyed by his desperate ambitiousness to prove himself to Aaron. Abraham knew this was all his doing, that it was his fault that Aaron had killed his father, which was why he didn't reprimand Aaron for his actions. He conceded it all, choosing to let him know that in the end, it was Abraham that had pulled the trigger by even though it had been Aaron that held the Derringer.

Abraham picked himself up from the bed and stuffed both of his hands into his coat pockets with his back to him. Aaron remained on the bed, only shifting to hang his legs over the side. They remained trapped in time with nothing but silence.

Abraham knew he was allowing his words to sink in him as Aaron did his very best to organize it all. Still, his previous skepticism, buried deep from years of not truly knowing the driver except what he exhibited on the outside, was all Aaron had to trust. Before, he had known nothing about Abraham except the assumptions he was forced to make: coward, cocksucker, loved his mother, drove a stagecoach and was a decent, rugged man who never showed any indication of holding a single emotion within him.

This new Abraham, consulting with him in the cell, apologizing to him his every transgression and owning up to the boy he knew he had done wrong, was the opposite to everything he had assumed.

In truth, he preferred this man even if he came across as a cadaverous wanderer trapped in Purgatory. Despite what he had unearthed, there was still more secrets he was hiding, but at the same time, Aaron wasn't sure if that was true or it was something he believed because of his time with the previous Abraham. The fact was, he didn't know the man he was looking at, and couldn't decide what to think of him. The man had apologized to him, supplicated for understanding by conjuring his demons to be brought before him for judgment and fearing about what Aaron would think of him once he did.

"I care about you, son. Not just because of your mother, either. You've grown on me no matter how much you hate me."

Aaron didn't reply; he didn't know what to say. He was angry at his declaration, though. If Abraham truly cared, why didn't he have just told him in the beginning? The boy blinked, considering his words for a moment. Even though it was true he never liked him, his efforts to get closer to him didn't go unnoticed: the shooting lesson, the attempts to talk to him, teaching him how to read and being patient to him.

Still, he lied to him— chose not to trust him with the truth. How could he trust a man that kept things from him, no matter how good he thought his intentions were.

Outside of the cell door, the young brown-haired lawman began to stir in his chair. Abraham whistled out to him, corralling him out of his uncomfortable catnap in the chair. The driver's hands came out of his pockets and pulled out green bill notes after he signaled the Deputy that he wanted to be let out.

With a handful of green, he cautiously walked over to him and handed the money out to Aaron. Abraham looked down at the bills in his hand, running his thumb tentatively over them before meeting the boy in the eye.

"You'll be gettin' out, I have no doubt about that," Abraham sighed. "What you do after that I'll leave up to you. I know what you think of me, and want to leave and I'll give you the choice if you want it. They're fixin' up the coach, then I'll be back on the trail. I was saving this up for us, move you to a decent place where I could find better work. Raise you proper. I'm givin' this to you. It's enough for a ticket on the train and then wherever you wanna go. I know you don't want to stay with me, but if you change your mind, I leave at dawn at the end of the week. I won't hold it against you if you go on the train. I'll be seeing you in the morning and you don't have to give me an answer if you don't want to. I'll figure it out for myself."

As soon as the cell door opened, exited and turned his eyes over his shoulder at him. Aaron held the money numbly in his hands, feeling as if Abraham had just handed him a gold bar. It felt heavy and alien in his hand and he what he was supposed to do with it: should he pocket it immediately, hold on to it for dear life or try and give it back even if it was a gift?

Above all else, though, he felt as if he was dirtying the money by touching it — he felt unworthy of being able to hold this much. Even though it was given to him without request, he still felt as if he had just robbed it from Abraham's pocket. The money wasn't the only reason he felt guilty though. The man who had took care of him for three years was saying goodbye to him, knowing fully well that Aaron had always wanted to get away from him all this time. He wasn't fighting it anymore, but accepting that Aaron never wanted anything to do with him, and honoring his choice.

True, it was truly what he wanted, but why did he feel so rotten now that he had gotten his wish - with money to help him get started. His largesse made him feel as if he had been convicted— that he was the one that should truly feel guilty about how he had treated Abraham, and how wrong he was thinking that nobody had ever cared about him. The man who had taken him in truly had. He had confided a secret to him, apologized to him and tried to protect him from committing a crime he knew he was capable of doing, not because he didn't think he could have done it, but because of what stigmata would have been marked on Aaron for the rest of his life if he had done it. He had tried to spare him of what Abraham had lived with, tried to save him from dipping his hands into bloody affairs.

"I hope you grow to be a better man than me, whatever you decide," was his despondent farewell before he shut the door behind him.

Aaron stared down at the sizeable fold of bills in his small hands, trying to better understand the Abraham that he never saw before with more open eyes.

Erron shot a glance over at Reptile who looked just as miserable in the downpour. The cowboy didn't choose to comment as both of the guards walked along the dirt road in silence as the rain drenched them relentlessly. His boots slipped on the muddy road, his heels fumbling over rocks that were exposed by the constant shower.

The Zaterran shivered noticeably, and Erron could already see the paleness that tinted against his usually grass colored scales. He wasn't the only one chilled to the bone. Black could already feel his feet beginning to numb as they dragged their wet carcasses towards the city gates.

They had exited perilous cradle of the jungle but had continued to be pursued by the gunmetal colored clouds as they stalked like wet rats towards Z'unkaharah.

The drops pelted them heavily as if they were more than adamant about making sure the mercenary and the Outworlder proceeded out of the jungle as quickly as it could make them. For a moment, Erron thought it might be Rain's doing; perhaps he was on a cliff face somewhere behind them laughing at their misfortune as he swirled the hurricane directly over their heads. The marksman rolled his kohl covered eyes. He bet his weekly wage that was probably what was happening and next time they came looking for him in the jungle; he give him a shower of bullets as a comeuppance for their grief.

Perhaps they would have better luck next had managed to find tracks, but after that nothing, except him sleeping in his A-frame tent to kick him awake probably taking it out on him since he appeared just as frustrated about the sudden precipitation and his own terrible luck.

Erron casted a glance towards the Zaterran, who stewed in his own incompetence with his arms across his chest as they marched towards the capitol. He was pissed, but at least he had found something. Kotal Kahn would at be happy about that, granted he was in a curisouly good mood when they got there. Erron doubted that.

The jungle's exit, signaled by the shore of sand that merged with the dirt terrain of the trade road, came into view and beyond the dunes, the tall city gates housed the capitol within its walls.

They trekked along towards the city in silence, both of them too tired and annoyed to attempt small talk. His thoughts were elsewhere anyway to pay attention to anything Reptile wanted to chat about. For instance, how much he was truly not looking forward to returning back to the city. When Reptile found him, he actually tried to dismay him in abandoning their search too soon. The only reason was how much he was dreading getting back to dealing with the baker and her contract holder. He had hoped delaying it, would have put him in better spirits. However, Reptile disagreed about staying in the jungle, and Erron bit his tongue, convinced himself that postponing it would only make it more aggravating than it needed to be, and agreed to leave.

Now back on the trail, making his way towards Z'unkaharah, he was once again contemplating going back to his uncomfortable leaf tent to avoid it again. Erron's eye began to twitch when he realized how ridiculously indecisive he was being— so much in fact that if somebody had squawked to him about how much they didn't want to do a simple task, he would have flat called them out on it. That wasn't him— he was no coward no matter how much he hated the chore assigned to him.

Cowboy up and get it over with, Black.

He rubbed his palm across the back of his neck; dipping it underneath his soaked poncho Still, it didn't change the fact that he was looking forward to getting reprimanded by the Emperor than dealing with the goddamn women. Kotal Kahn he could deal with; he knew what to expect. The girls though, well, he was better off lowering his hand into a barrel full of copperheads and foolishly hoping his hand didn't come out swollen with venom; he was going to get bit no matter how much he tried to avoid it.

You're overthinking it. Just get the goddamn paper.

They entered through the city gates and noticed that the rain wasn't as heavy as it was in the Kuatan Jungle but still sprinkled heavily. Looking behind them towards the green landscape, he could already see the clouds flattening and bleaching out the gray color. Not usually one for superstition, but he felt a slight shred of confidence at seeing the sun start to poke its way through the bulbous curtains. Maybe the rational, crude voice in his head was right, and he needed to stop acting as if he was about to go walking barefoot on coals.

Tama knew what he was capable of, and he wasn't going to take no as an answer. His reputation would silence any retort she would try and throw at him. The older woman was going to hand it over to him without fuss, or she would get another barrel aimed at her head. If she still fought, he'd pull the hammer back to make sure she got the message that he wasn't playing around. What they hell was he worried about before?

Perhaps being back in the city, and noticing the wary stares of the people they passed by helped reaffirm his status. Tama was nothing, and he would make damn sure she remembered that fact if she tried to protest. Yes, it was about making amends as well, settling his debt and guilt with the girl, but also to make sure that reaffirmed with himself that he didn't have to tip-toe around anyone.

By the time they reached the curtain wall of the palace, and entered the gate he narrowed his eyes at who was already waiting for him. Reptile walked to the palace, oblivious to the fact that Erron had stopped dead in his tracks and left him behind without a word.

He didn't know if maybe she had been camping outside waiting for him, or somebody at the gate had informed her that he was on his way back. Or maybe because she possessed a crystal ball or had a lucky guess, regardless of what it was, Tama was not the person he wanted to be greeted by first thing walking through the gate.

Her smug disposition smiled at him from underneath her stiff, vertical black umbrella and immediately Erron's hands went to his hips, hovering over the handles of his guns. He straightened his spine and walked towards her an authoritative strut, mirroring her conceited and confident expression as the rain clattered and rolled off the front of his hat.

The corner of Tama's lip curved up in response, relaying to him she was unimpressed by his attempt at trying to intimidate her. Neither of them backed down on their demeanor, and for a moment, it was hard to tell which one was on the defense.

There was a gloating, calculating glint in her eyes, as if she had won before he had even walked through the palace. Erron could tell she had something behind her back in her free hand, and he knew exactly what it was.

The contract.

He would be happy about getting it resolved so quickly, if not for the air of preeminence she portrayed to him. The fact that she was so goddamn happy made him suspicious about what exactly was inked on the paper.

Black titled his masked chin up as his blue eyes narrowed with an imperious glare. "You get what I asked you?" he questioned bluntly, his tone bordering on belligerent.

"No," Tama answered. Her teeth glinted like a jackal that saw an easy meal before she pressed her lips back into a thin line. "But I do have something for you."

He scoffed. "If it ain't what I asked, then don't bother."

She sneered lightly at him, unaffected by his bellicose statement. Instead, she brought her hands in front of her and held up the parchment to him. "I don't think it would be wise to reject accepting this, after all, it has your name on it."

Black's eyes widened minutely before they narrowed with hostile bafflement at her comment. With a sharp snap, he ripped the paper carelessly from her hand and unrolled it.

Behind his face mask, his upper lip flickered with violent distemper — especially when he noticed her grinning at how outraged he was when he read what was on the paper.

His hand crushed the paper in his hands and thrust the smashed parchment between his white-knuckled fist in her direction. "This doesn't look like a goddamn contract to me," he growled.

Tama shrugged, silently crowing her victory at him. "That is because it is not her contract. I will inform them that you have an appointment with the Emperor and that you will be delayed but will be arriving by shortly. He will understand that the Kahn is more of a precedence to you."

The woman twirled the wooden stick of her umbrella, purposely flickering water at him as she passed by him with an arrogant smile. She raised her chin up at him as he hovered his empty hand dangerously over his revolver. Erron watched her go and balled the paper even tighter in his hand.

Tama looked back at him and titled her eyes toward him like a hawk observing ornery mouse. "I do hope you do not keep us waiting long. Norah— you know, one of the two possessions of mine that you tried to rob from me—has been in that waiting patiently for a few days now, and I'm sure she wants to get this underway."

When the older Outworlder turned her back, Erron felt his palm grasp the handle of his gun and lift it an inch out of his holster before he paused.

Oh, was tempting. Just one shot in the back of the head, just one bullet to blow her head apart like a smashed melon.

However, it wouldn't change the fact that he would still have to appear at the tribunal he had been summoned to. It wasn't going to change the fact that she had found a loophole. She was clever, he would give her that, and in truth he should have expected something like this as her rejoinder. Still, that didn't change the fact how much he wanted to shoot her in the back of the goddamn head right now.

"Black!"

Erron looked over his shoulder to see Reptile making his way towards the gunslinger with annoyance. "We must inform Ko'atal about our findings."

The last thing Black was in the mood for, was dealing with another person that wanted his head.

"You go"— Erron raised the parchment crushed in his hands— "I got business."

Reptile narrowed his slit eyes and glanced from him to the paper in his hands. His lip curled up into a glower. "The Kahn does not care about your business. Move!"

Erron flapped his mouth open to argue, but closed it when knew he was right. The Emperor would always come first. It didn't help cool him off though. Now he was even more anxious to get done with Tama than he was before. Storming behind Reptile, he squeezed his hand tighter, turning the wet parchment into paper mache and felt the wet strips sliver through the cracks of his closed fist.

Brushing the melted paper off his palm with his other hand, and discarding it to the sand, Erron and Reptile headed towards the Emperor's throne room…

Even though his mind was already thinking about what was waiting for him in the opposite direction.