A/N: Well... being back resulted in another year-long delay thanks to no income and a broken computer. But I work now, and the little toddler Hellion that adorably keeps me from writing, is settled into a routine. So, thank you for being paitent with me. I have some of the best readers that I don't deserve really.

Also, I'm renovating this fic. Going back and getting rid of grammar errors and shitty passages that make no sense. So, things might be a little haphazard until I get it all completed. Currently burning my eyes with chapter 11 at the moment.

Once again, thank you for your continued support on this odd little cowboy fic of mine, and hope you enjoy.

Chapter 29
Once Upon a Time in the West
Part 11
Crows

A ringlet of smoke escaped from the gunslinger's revolver as he surveyed the absent morning activity below his balcony, his heavy leather boots tapped methodically against the stone railing of his room he braced them on as he waited with impatience.

Erron leaned back into his wooden chair, a heavy sigh escaping him as blood and feathers fell from the ledge. The headless corpse of the blackbird laid at the base of the balcony, still twitching as the remainder of its blown off feathers fluttered lightly around him; half falling near him and half over the ledge and out of view to decorate the stone like confetti below.

He always hated birds. Nothing but disease-carrying pests, no matter how much Abraham had argued with him that they weren't all that bad.

Everything has to eat.

But, no matter how much the old soldier had constantly reminded him, the Outworld cowboy remained vigilant in his hatred of them 150 years later. He hated almost every form of them. From seagulls to owls, to eagles or pigeons, it didn't matter— a rat with wings was still a rat with wings. However, he had a particular and more abrasive hatred for crows and ravens. He always heard Bill's voice in his head whenever one landed too close to comfort for him.

"They're tellin' you it's your turn to collect some bad luck."

And like prophecies of a wary soothsayer, Bill's words consistently became true.

Practically, he piled it all to coincidence. Nevertheless, every time he did see one, something almost immediately followed; a physical omen before him, and each appearance always got under his skin in the worst way.

The gunslinger dreaded their somber visitations, mainly because he had better things to do than to mull over what disastrous thing he was supposed to be expecting. He'd rather remain ignorant, therefore he could react more organically, than ironically making more mistakes by overthinking. The pistoler preferred to be quick on his feet, just get the issue out of the way and move to the next thing, it was when he had too much time to stew did it often bite him in the ass.

Even with his one exception to the rule, Black was still not notably superstitious, and as he got older, only related to others that he merely thought of them as nuisances. However, even after all these years, it was still an irrational paranoia he tried and failed to shake. So, in retaliation, he just killed the damn buzzards. As if he was proclaiming to the universe that he didn't care for its message and didn't give a shit about whatever ill-fate was to befall him.

The gunslinger didn't need to be a fortune teller to understand why the crow had been sent to him this specific morning. The reason was so evident that it was unnecessary to send any feathery messengers to remind him.

He was in a world of hurt with the Kahn.

The mercenary placed the barrel of his gun atop of his thigh, his ears fixed to his door for any footsteps of approaching servants carrying a summons for him. It would only be a matter of time now. Black hadn't expected him to want to see him immediately upon arrival, but still wished Kotal to get it done and over with; he had already contemplated it over enough on his way back to the palace.

In all honesty, Erron wasn't petrified of what the Emperor would do, perhaps because he already had a good prediction of what would ensue. What did aggravate him, was wondering why Chaeomi still hadn't revealed to him Rain's location as included in their deal; the ace he was supposed to have up his sleeve had yet to be given to him by the card dealer.

The cowboy cursed to himself, his lip in a minuscule curl at the thought of the lying specter.

There was a reason he usually tried to get everything in goddamn writing, particularly for instances like these where there were too many gray areas that could be taken advantage of. Though he was satisfied that Norah was away from her husband for the moment, he still had yet to procure his end.

He started to wonder if the damn ghost was still going to, or if she had lied. He suspected the latter since it had proclaimed to know him more than he knew his self; that it knew he would want Rain's location as soon as he agreed to take the deal. However, he sat alone, fuming inside his room and waiting impatiently for the Kahn.

As the sun warmed his skin, his back burning in dull pain as he reclined in his wooden chair, the mercenary could do nothing but ponder about two singular thoughts. The first was reminiscing about what had happened hours ago in front of the palace walls, the other was simply him paraphrasing to himself how he would explain why he got whipped without getting fired in the process.

His calloused thumb ran over the handle of his revolver idly, his thoughts towards what the Kahn would expect from him. Black knew that no amount of lying would be able to rectify any consequences he would receive for embarrassing his office; he was still going to obtain a punishment no matter what. The Emperor would only accept, and respect, the truth be told from him. The only thing that made a difference, was just how much of the truth he was willing to divulge.

There was no reason to relate to the Kahn about the deal with Chaeomi, or Bert, nor Norah's marriage to Hulin; the information would be irrelevant in the end. The only thing Black could tell him would be that he owed the woman a debt for inadvertently causing her father's death.

It was blasé enough of an explanation that the Kahn would expect from him, though the only pitfall was Erron's uncharacteristic generosity towards Norah even if he was to blame for her predicament. It would not matter how much he reiterated it to the Osh-tekk, the concept of his unselfishness towards an unimportant servant would never be accepted. Not only because Erron thought Kotal would not think it justifiable enough, but because he knew the Emperor would never believe his change of heart.

The Kahn had always known Erron Black since the beginning of his employment to care for two things: his pay and himself. Unless ordered to do so, say accompanying some liaison or a member of the court to and from a location, seldom did the gunslinger ever consider the well-being of others—and never for free.

It wouldn't matter though; it was the only confession Kotal would pry from him. The only thing that was of consideration was how long it would take the emperor to swallow it and move on.

The cowboy pinched the bridge of his nose with his free fingers, a yawn escaping from his tired and wounded body. He couldn't recall when a night had been as emotionally irritating as the long one trekking back to the palace.

They were so few he could count them on a single hand. That was not to say there were more during his 150 years, just that there were just a stubborn few that refused to be forgotten. He had hope that what had happened over the past several days would be one of many forgettable instances, only recollected when he truly put effort into it. However, those taxing memories were something he had no desire to ever dig up. The semi-immortal man never found it useful to summon the past, nor look to the fickle future for instruction on how to proceed with his decisions in the present. It had been an unspoken rule to himself: live in the now and to hell with the past and future.

It hadn't been till the baker's appearance did he find himself breaking his rule and unwillingly reminiscing. It had been many of several reasons why he found her to be a pain in the ass and had reprimanded her with his hatred for doing something she wasn't aware of.

He couldn't shake the mirror images reflected from his past. Albeit, a loose reflection, as if he was gazing through a water-stained pane of glass; fuzzy, yet discernible enough to make out the image.

The latest echo was by far the most troubling. Partly because of Norah's precarious situation and the gloom outcome of the memory it reminded him of.

Sallie and the Gray Man.

The bounty hunter propped his elbow against the arm of the chair as his blunt fingernails scratched the stubble across his cheek. He placed his chin in his hand and let the weight of his tired head settle into the akimbo limb.

The memory from Atchison called back to him, and upon hearing its voice made Erron immediately despondent. It wasn't a happy tale, and if given no choice but to tell it, would have had to disclaim it wasn't before reiterating the story. From start to finish, the gunslinger failed to find a positive event since he met Sallie and the Gray Man.

Sure, there were instances where he could recall when he had truly been happy. However, just like his lifestyle, those bouts of peace had always been nomadic; staying just long enough in his life for a taste before moving on.

A revelation hit him as he slumped in the chair, his eyelids drooping despite his pained back and turbulent thoughts…

There have been far too few good moments and too many birds in his life.

Funny enough, each of those birds always signaled death nearby.

"Maybe that's why they call it a murder of crows..." mused the gunslinger to himself before his gun slumped in his lap and he fell asleep.

Kansas

1868

The yellow-haired boy woke with a jolt when he heard the piercing caw, snapping his eyes open to witness a black crow had descended upon the camp and was picking for scraps near his bedroll. He could see the bird out of his peripheral, and it hobbled along, emitting another call into the early morning, as it danced near his head; close to his face as he laid on his back with his broken arm upon his chest.

His blue eyes gazed up at the still early hour; nothing but a cloudless indigo sky hanging overhead and dawn hours away. The pine trees that encircled their camp like pillars in a coliseum, swayed tenderly as if merely brushed by unseen fingertips, while he heard the gentle trickle of the river nearby. Picturesque, as if scenery plucked from some fairy tale, but even the young boy knew that all fairy tales were not as tender as their appearances.

The bird squawked again, its sharp beak now beating against the side of his sleeping mat, as the 7-year old turned to look at it.

Sallie stared back at him, the bird nowhere to be seen, as she hovered over his still form on hands and knees. Her once docile blue eyes, glowing like firelight, broke through the shadowed darkness of the pre-dawn light as she stared spitefully at him. Her form was bloody— as bloody as he had seen in Finney's tent. He could only gape his mouth at her, shivering under her venomous stare before she opened her mouth...

CAW!

The boy woke a second time, this time a choked gasp emanated from him as he thrashed awake. His broken arm protested, uncaring of his night terror, and he recoiled from the lightning bolt that shot through his arm inside of the sling.

Upon awaking, even though his dream had turned into a nightmare, he hoped that the location would have at least changed. But to his disappointment, it hadn't. He was still in the same camp that Abraham had set up two days ago— now far from Atchison.

He didn't even know where they were. Still for sure in Kansas, and though close to the border, he doubted their horse had carried them far enough to cross it. He guessed they were south, since all he could do was speculate that Abraham would head as far from the stagecoach trail as he could. The boy stared at the ex-Butterfield stagecoach horse, its obsidian hair moving as its muscle rippled in the early morning cold. He felt a cold sickness nauseate him as he stared at its prone form by the pine it was tied to.

It didn't belong to them... it was part of the team... now unknowingly liberated from its job and used as a means to escape.

Aaron felt a tear run down his face and he sniffled. Quickly, he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. He saw Zachariah and his final look of betrayed countenance as Aaron unwillingly reminisced about how they had acquired the horse. Despite his thoughts towards the shotgun messenger, Aaron couldn't help but recoil at the last moment before they left Atchison. The last damned transgression on their stay in the Kansas town now sealed the boy's animosity towards the city. He'd never return. The town was now an Eden for all of his bad memories, and they still haunted him; all of the ghosts of Atchison, Kansas, still followed him. The young boy knew they always would, they were chain-ganged to him, and he would never find the key he so desperately needed to free himself from the mental shackles.

The child heard rocks faintly scraping, and he turned to see the same crow from his nightmare; still hopping along near the edge of the burned-out fire from the previous night.

The boy sucked in a breath, and as a precaution, scanned the wooded area for any signs of the little girl in the white dress or the gray man—even the visage of his pa who he had long since burned away any guilt about. However, as it had been for the past week since their departure from Atchison, she was nowhere to be seen the second, or third time, he woke up... but she was always there for the first nightmare. It was always Sallie first; the most innocent of them all. She always reminded him his guilt would never be stainless, what he felt would always remain with him.

In conjunction with his visitations from Sallie, Abraham was always nowhere to be found; either away hunting, taking a piss, whatever. Truth be told, Aaron welcomed that he was never there because it allowed him to spill his tears onto the sleeve of his uninjured arm each time he woke up. His unhappiness never receded from him, no matter how many buckets he cried in his wooded isolation; the crow and the horse his indifferent audience.

No matter the company he kept, he was alone. Abraham was nowhere even when he was present.

Now, the ex-confederate and the boy hardly exchanged glances and only gave each other necessary words about what was needed to be done. They couldn't discuss anything else, because no matter the topic, however mundane, it always came back to Atchison, and even if it went unspoken, soured the conversation. So, they kept it as civil as their mutual awkward regard would allow.

"Where are we going?"

Aaron had asked that question two days ago, when his need to voice it brimmed over so much it spilled without his permission; it was the first time he spoke since they left Zachariah behind. The older man never did supply him with an answer, and the blonde-haired kid figured it was simply because he didn't know.

Their departure had been sporadic – as much as Aaron had hoped Abraham's irredeemable actions were before they found the Gray Man. However, the 7-year-old knew it was foolish to ponder - to wish with every fiber within him— that what the coachman had done had not been of his own formulated desires, but that he had simply been under the possession of some otherworldly demon.

The wary child eyed Abraham's dried clothes, hanging off a rope he had secured between two trees, and shivered. The boy had been surprised that the soldier had been able to get most of the blood off, but despite its cleanliness, all Aaron saw was the color red. Red. So much red... no other color existed. He could even feel it. Sticky, wet and hot on his face. Also, on his hands even though he had never touched it. He may as well have, it was as if the color itself knew he was to blame as much as Abraham, who had been coated head to toe.

"For the girl..."

The boy collected another tear on his sleeve, and he choked on a sob. It wasn't that he felt remorseful about Bachau's fate; he'd deserved it a hundred times over, and a hundred times worse than what Abraham had given him. It was merely guilt over telling Abraham the truth— everything. What the old man had tried to do to him, why Sallie was afraid of him, what he looked like, how he talked... every detail the boy had obtained—he told. His openness had been the key in the lock and spilled out what Aaron had been trying to keep shut-in for Abraham. He had no choice! His hand had been forced. Manipulated by a ghost who wore a ribbon in her hair and her best white dress...

As soon as he told the truth, Finney present in his tent watching with reluctance, Abraham had vanished; gone as sudden as a lightning strike.

The soldier had appeared before him, both unyielding and terrifying. There had been no mistaking the entity itself, the dormant side of Abraham finally let out of its cage and ready to help conduct whatever taboo acts that went against the coachman's adamantly abided by moral code. However, as much as Aaron wanted to believe Abraham still had the reigns, the asphyxiating malignant aura had been enough for Aaron to forget there was even a benevolent side at all. Abraham? Abraham who?

It hadn't taken long for the soldier to find Bachau, but Aaron was still surprised that the soldier had discovered him in one night. They weren't allowed to rest— not until the Gray Man was found.

The boy recanted horrifyingly each step in the direction towards the Gray Man, every footfall of his feeling like he was trekking through thick mud. It was strange, it had all felt too dreamlike and too real at the same time.

His memory played back like a listless nightmare, but the boy sitting alone in the camp could feel his feet hitting the ground with each progression as they made to where Abraham had found where he lived.

Aaron couldn't even remember how he figured it out, as soon as they had gotten the information, time moved too fast for him to store it for himself as if it was for only Abraham to retain. Maybe it was because the boy didn't want to know. If he didn't know, he wouldn't be involved. He wouldn't be involved with what came next...

"Please no!"

Aaron's blue eyes shot around the camp, Sallie's voice echoing like stones thrown against a wall. It had been faint, but he had heard her. He always heard her first. Her broken body in Finney's tent was branded in his mind...

They tracked the crooked man to his crooked house— an old cabin he reminded himself—one run-down and covered in moss and dust; like it had been plucked out of some macabre tale. It was a good place to hide, the shack looking as if it had been abandoned and only a welcome sight to the desperate and homeless. Then the boy, who had been outside of the crooked house, heard the sound of fists colliding into flesh, breaking bones, screams of pain, and blood squelching as Abraham drove his punches into the old man.

"For the girl…"

Aaron saw Sallie again, the only image of her that he could pull up was in Finney's tent...

Her face was broken— including her nose, mouth, cheeks— but with a serene expression as if her body were thankful for the reprieve; happy to be dead. Aaron imagined her pained whimpers, heartbreaking screams, and the sound of crunching bones over a volume of wet blood soaking the fists of her attacker. Then the crescendo of the gun pointed at her and firing...

The boy had stayed outside, only moonlight and the fireplace from inside the house casting any glow in the secluded area. He had his back to the outside of the cabin wall as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the sounds happening inside the cabin. He didn't see, but he could picture it clearly, each grunt and scream painted before him. Abraham slammed him into a table or wooden piece of furniture, and Aaron heard wood clatter around on the hard floor. Bauchau's body hit the ground, and with Abraham towering over him, was sledgehammered with punches, each one breaking bones, loosening teeth, and coating the floor with blood.

The Gray Man spat something, something the boy hadn't been able to catch, but he heard Abraham respond, seething his reply with the most vehemence he had ever uttered. It was raspy and low— as if he didn't even harbor such an abnormally baritone frequency. "Why wait? You can fucking burn before you even get to Hell!"

Then, Aaron who dared a peek inside, watched as the battered body of the old man was dragged by the back of his collar by Abraham. Bauchau choked, his shirt strangling him, as Abraham, covered in the man's blood from head to toe, carried him over to the fireplace. Setting him down but not removing his hand from the back of his shirt, picked him up and shoved his head into the fire. Before he did, he heard Bachau utter a pitiful 'please no' before Abraham let go, replacing his hand with his boot to the back of the man's head as he stuck it into the inferno. The elderly man's reaction was instantaneous, and he screamed as his face melted into the burning logs and smoldering embers inside. Flames consumed him, and Aaron watched as they entered his mouth like greedy orange leeches, cooking not only the outside of the man's flesh but the inside as well. Aaron could smell the searing flesh from outside the cabin, and he couldn't take his eyes away as he watched the Gray Man burn alive, the odor just as bad as witnessing it.

Abraham didn't even care that his boot was on fire, as well as the ankle of his wool pants –all he cared about was making sure that the man stayed inside the fireplace as long as the coachman could bear the heat. Fresh blood—Bauchau's blood— smeared down Abraham's face like red hands tracing lines across his skin and soaked into the dark overcoat and vest, the material growing darker as it stained into the material. The frightened boy couldn't tell which was brighter, the glow of the flames or the malignant gleam in the coachman's eyes. The same man that had been haunted by the deeds he did in the war, the lives he took, and countless sins against him that seemed to always weigh down his spirit, took elation in what he was doing now.

Enmity shrouded the older Black's conscience, erasing any trace of having even the slightest bit of remorse for the Gray Man. Aaron didn't think that he would ever release him from the fireplace until Abraham couldn't bear the heat anymore and pulled him out. The elderly man, too much in agonizing pain to move, could only moan into the rotted floorboards of the cabin as the ex-confederate went to extinguish the flame on his pant leg by merely patting his leg with the palms of his hands. The coachman hissed, hurt, but not nearly as much as Bauchau was.

The elder man's face was unrecognizable; almost all of his hair had been burned away while his face was speckled with bright red spots and black charred skin that looked more like black brittle leaves. The old man did nothing but sob feebly, crying also rendering him in excruciating pain. There was no sympathy from either the boy and his surrogate father, but the child did cringe at the sight before him and fear the monster that masqueraded in the coachman's clothes.

Abraham didn't stop, his face didn't even flicker to indicate any other emotion other than malevolence. The man pulled out his knife, the one strapped inside the sheathe hanging off his belt and hiding behind his overcoat.

Aaron hadn't registered anything leading up to what he did next, not him pulling the man's pants off, not the older man's cries for mercy. He didn't remember any of it; he just saw the seconds jumped ahead to the next memory as if they hadn't even existed at all.

The next thing Aaron witnessed was Abraham sawing the man's cock off with his knife and listening to Bauchau screaming into the night like a banshee. The boy didn't even know a man's scream could be so loud, but it had been harsh enough for Aaron to cover his ears. The child saw nothing, but red. Red gushed from his severed appendage as Abraham cut it was cruel brutality, never flinching in his determined grisly idea for revenge for the little girl he murdered. Bauchau's blood stained the floor, forming a puddle beneath him, and it wasn't until the coachman pried the man's burnt mouth open to shove his severed organ into it, did the elderly man stop screaming. Instead, he choked, gurgling on the forced obstruction in his throat, his blood, and the combined amount of pain he was in.

The ex-soldier clamped a hand over his mouth and nose, pushing down with all of his angered strength to ensure that the older man couldn't breathe. "Choke on it— die on it— cocksucker."

The older man whimpered under the coachman's bruising pressure, gagging noisily before Abraham's fist raised over his head and he began to bash the man's charred head into the floor. Even from where the child stood in the doorway, blood hit Aaron's face while the man's face turned into shredded meat onto the floor. It was only until he heard the ex-soldier's fist hitting the wood floor of the cabin, combined with the chorus of squashed flesh, did Aaron have to turn away and throw up what was in his stomach outside the cabin door.

The boy stumbled away from the cabin as soon as he emptied his gut, vomit soaking into the dirt, as he continued to hear the constant macabre melody of Abraham's hands hammer away on what was now a disfigured corpse.

Darkness blurred into his vision, as the boy continued to scramble away from the silhouette of the crooked little cabin. The frightened child bumped into trees as sharp branches hit his broken arm, and earned a hiss of pain from him as he navigated the dark woods with nothing more than instinct to guide him. However, his mind was a puddle with too many stones being thrown into it for him to gather a coherent picture.

He heard heavy footsteps behind him— very heavy— but the boy didn't look. Instead, he continued to fight his way through the woods.

It's not Abraham.

It wasn't. It wasn't!

Aaron felt a tear run down his face as he heard someone call his name.

Please don't let it be Abraham.

A hand snatched him by the back of his collar and yanked him back. At the same time, the boy hollered, letting out a startled scream until he was turned, and found himself staring up at a familiar shotgun messenger. The boy didn't know if he felt elation or despondence seeing Zachariah, but the feelings only combated for a moment before the Missourian fired a question at him that the boy didn't hear the first time.

"Where's Abraham?" he repeated irritably. The man tugged on the reins of the horse, stilling it has he focused on the child; waiting for his answer.

Aaron babbled, his lips feeling as they had been shut closed by glue, as he pointed towards where he ran from. However, it wasn't the cabin he had been pointing at...

In the dark, unsure of who it was holding the man's frightened child, and with too much adrenaline flowing through his veins, Aaron watched as Black lifted his gun and shot Zachariah in the back.

The shotgun messenger catapulted forward, the bullet hitting him in the right shoulder blade and exiting out. Zachariah cried out in pain, the same time the horse bucked and reared when the shot went out. The other coachman, somehow still managed to hold on to both the reins and Aaron. The man's hand clamped down hard on the back of the boy's shirt, ringing pain along the top of his shoulders and traveling down both arms. Aaron cried out, his small hand grappling over the older man's as yet another bullet from Abraham's gun hit him again and involuntarily made him clutch the boy's shirt harder as the man fell to his knees.

Zachariah huffed out and turned over his shoulder at his assailant— the very one that was supposed to be his friend.

Abraham stared vacantly at them, and it was more terrifying than any of the other acrimonious looks he had seen on the man's face that night. Aaron saw recognition enter— settle him for the briefest of moments— before crushing remorse overshadowed him. There was still a semblance of the Abraham he knew, the one he considered to be his father figure. However, the boy soon realized that it wasn't. It was a mixture; both of the coachman and the soldier, together in a fickle cocktail. The Abraham he knew was present, but it was still the demon of the cold confederate whispering something indiscernible into the man's ear that was in control. And it spoke to him now, telling him of a bad epiphany that needed to be done with the unplanned entrance of Zachariah.

Abraham's eyes slid over to Aaron and then back to Zachariah while the boy slowly started to click the pieces together. Recalling Zachariah's hatred for the boy, how the man had constantly reminded Aaron that he was a sour apple poising Abraham. Now the 7-year-old finally could see his point of view. The shotgun messenger came to stop Abraham from doing something he would regret. As evil as Bauchau was, he knew what Abraham was going to do, and despite that the man had deserved it, was adamant in stopping him. It had been the same unspoken bargain Abraham had tried with Aaron and shooting his father, and just like with Aaron, it ended bloody and corrupted them.

However, there was one difference. Aaron's ordeal had many witnesses... now it was just them and between the three of them, it seemed that Abraham knew there was one person that might turn him in.

Black pulled back the hammer on his gun at the same time Aaron watched Zachariah coil in fear underneath Abraham's silent and rueful countenance. The coachman was regretful, but his eyes were hard with knowledge of what needed to be carried out. The ex-soldier raised his gun as the shotgun messenger gave him one last look of bitterness.

"I'm all he has."

The boy shook his head, cold realization hitting him like a stab to the heart when he heard Abraham's explanation. Aaron blinked back tears as Zachariah turned towards him as hateful as a rattlesnake.

"This — every god damned piece of it— is all your fucking fault, you evil bastard son of a whore-"

The child let out a wail, a choked 'no' that had been wrenched from him, as soon as the gun went off the third time that night—

CAW!

Erron jumped awake, the gun that had settled in his lap when he fell asleep in his chair, now pointed towards the balcony. The gunslinger had expected to see another damn bird, but instead, he found nothing but the previously dead one still baking in the desert sun by his feet. Still, his breath held, he waited for another call, as if waiting for the catalyst for waking him up to present itself.

Then he heard it, a light staccato of knocks coming from his door...

...Signaling that his reprieve from the Kahn had run out.

"He was there."

The moment Ermac had confirmed it to the Kahn, having been sent there to report back to him, Kotal had found himself frozen in the same turbulent mood.

Out of all his enforcers, he had always found Erron Black to be the most apathetic towards what it meant to be a Kahn's guard. But the Osh-tekk knew his loyalty could be manipulated for his gain, and it was favorable; such an easy vice to exploit that the gunfighter coveted to with all his energy. The mercenary only cared about his name and money and only dutiful as long as the source was good for it. And Kotal had been good for it, even with money towards eliminating Mileena's failed rebellion. The compromise was rudimentary but yielded results just fine when the Kahn needed it. In fact, without a reminder of what Erron Black cared for, the Kahn could have easily mistaken his hard work ethic for loyalty. However, he knew his loyalty was nothing more than a façade. Still, Black was just as useful as the other guards that were indeed truly loyal.

So when he heard word from the Coliseum about him, the bothersome gossip traveling like hurricane wind through Z'unkahrah, at first he doubted the validity. He knew the man well enough he thought, knowing his simple and unapologetic greedy character, but evidently, he had been mistaken.

Black had been whipped before a small crowd gathered, and even if there were only five people to witness it, there had been enough to spread the word. It didn't matter if the citizens of the Outworld city thought of them as falsehood, there were still enough that believed to sour the mercenary's name— and more importantly, the image of the other Kahn's guards.

The guards were not subject to the same punishments that the common people of Z'unkahrah were. There was an unspoken hierarchy, despite that all united citizens were equal. If there was an issue, the crime and discipline were carefully measured and as carefully executed. There was a projection that needed to be displayed of the Emperor's control, that things did not go without his say-so—especially when it came to those that were entrusted to protect him and uphold the laws of Outworld.

Propaganda— but necessary.

How could the Emperor enforce order if he couldn't even control his bodyguard, and how could said bodyguard expect to control the public that was abashing him throughout the capital streets?

Sitting on his throne, watching the early sunrise lift over the parapet beyond the balcony that viewed the city, the Emperor glowered as he still battled over the appropriate remedy.

There was still use for Erron Black, if not, he would not have thought twice about removing him from his station. With the near rise of Shinnok and the even deeper troubling prospect of invasion from Earthrealm, the Kahn still needed any available hand he could get. After the Tarkatan/Edenian alliance that lasted for a night, his army was slightly more depleted than they already were. Plus, there were still other rebels to round up.

All of the pressing issues the Kahn had was beneficial for the gunslinger. If they didn't exist, he would have sent the wretch back to the dungeons. Unfortunately, he needed him at the moment, though it did not mean the man would go unpunished.

The form of punishment had been easy to conjure up for the Osh-tekk. It was a simplified resolution that was borderline mundane. The only way to hurt Erron, was too take away his beloved vices. Although the Kahn still had a use for his name, his money could be stripped easily from him. The Kahn still needed his skills, but he also needed to reinstate his name; to clean the filth the mercenary had done to himself. Which is why he would do the beheading. He knew despite how much the man loved to put bullets in people's heads, knew he had no fondness for decapitating someone. The Kahn had always found it ironic for Black to have such reservations since he had no qualms about killing whoever got in his path. Perhaps it was a remnant of his former Earthrealm customs, a thing that was not done and taboo. Perhaps that was why the mercenary preferred his firearms as much as he did. It was quicker than blooding his hands, less personal than grabbing someone by the hair and sawing their skull from their shoulders. The ex-Mayan god found it to be exhilarating; his culture respecting brutality upon their enemies and installing fear when they rolled their severed heads in their directions.

Regardless of why, the Kahn would have him carry them out himself with the dullest weapon they could provide. And if the ex-Earthrelamer wanted to keep his occupation, he would do every last one he ordered. No matter how brutal, no matter how taxing, no matter how much Black hated it. He would do it in front of a gathered crowd as what was custom, displaying the man's cruelty while at the same time punishing Black.

Propaganda. Not the best, but adequate on short notice.

There was another punishment that the Emperor had planned, one that could only be discussed behind closed doors between them. And it was something that would hurt him far more than causing him discomfort. It would cripple him until he succeeded, and when he did finally accomplish it, would he be respected by not only the Kahn, earning his forgiveness for his stupid folly in the Coliseum, but respected by the citizens of Outworld as an accomplished bounty hunter.

Propaganda.

A knock came at the door and without looking away from the sun beyond the balcony, he called out with a stony baritone: "Enter."

The heavy stone door groaned as it was pushed open by the guards stationed outside, allowing Erron inside. The Kahn could see him out of the corner of his eye, walking with an air of feigned indifference. Even with his mask and hat on, Kotal could sense his hesitation with each measured footfall towards the throne. They both knew he was aware he was in trouble, and perhaps Erron had even come to the same conclusion on how he was to be punished.

The Osh-tekk, his arm akimbo on this throne, ran his thumbnail back and forth lazily across the top of his jaw as his markings glowed; his eyes still on the sun. Black was the first to speak, understanding that the Emperor was waiting on him.

"I take it you heard."

The Kahn turned to him finally, a glower upon his face as he regarded the mercenary with discontent at his blasé but still sarcastic choice of words. Kotal's eyes narrowed, casting a vehement shine directly on the gunman.

"Then you are aware of my intolerance for you at this very moment."

Black nodded in acknowledgment, choosing to remain silent, but Kotal could still sense the man's impatience. Erron was never one for ceremony, and at the present moment, Kotal had no qualms about forgoing decorum; to present himself as the levelheaded Kahn Outworld saw him as. If the mercenary wanted to be blunt, then he would be as well.

"Tell me why I should not have you whipped again for staining the reputation of my court," the Kahn flared, his tone low with indignation.

The gunman shook his head, "I didn't muddy it that bad."

"You paraded an indiscreet display of weakness— one that is no longer still gossip— and you still claim subtlety in your actions?" the Emperor interjected, his voice as bass-like as a jaguar's growl.

Black's eyes met the Kahn's dead-on, the small act of rebellion against his employer's statement causing Kotal to bristle in annoyance.

"They'll forget about it..."

The Kahn scoffed at the marksman's weak declaration. "There is little doubt that they will. Especially since the motivation of your imbecilic actions is veiled."

Black's shoulders slumped at the same time his fingers rubbed against the palms of his hands. Only then did the Kahn notice that the marksman was missing a vital piece of his attire— one that was always worn.

His holsters were empty; his guns most likely still in his room.

The Emperor snorted at the man's feeble attempt to offer a balm. The gunslinger never went anywhere without his firearms in all the years that he knew him—Black always had them present. They were an extension of the man, a part of his makeup, so to be present without them meant he left them behind on purpose to relay to the Kahn that he knew what he had done was wrong. Not that Kotal ever thought the man would be reckless enough to shoot him, but he knew the significance of such a simple act on the mercenary's part. However, it instead only aggravated him more—producing the opposite effect the gunslinger might have wished for.

The Kahn stood from his chair, approaching his employee with hardened discontent, as each footfall descended the steps like hammering nails into a coffin. Black squared his shoulders, his chin lifting, and his blue eyes set on the Emperor's in one last attempt of professionalism. The taller Osh-tekk glared down at him, a fist curled and ready to lash out like a viper, as he addressed him again.

"You will tell me your explanation of why my court is now viewed so degradingly," scowled the Emperor.

The gunslinger exhaled through his nose, his eyes impassive. "What? Ermac didn't dig it up for you already? Why else would you send him?"

Restraint left the Emperor faster than his fist impacting the man's stomach, and Erron keeled over from the brutal impact of it; air wheezing out of his lungs as he sunk to his knees. The gunslinger wrapped an arm around his middle, trying his best to collect air as pain filled his lungs with each attempt.

"Yes. I know of your appointment with the Barristers," Kotal spat heatedly at him. "But what information is shielded to me is why you would take another's place."

The Kahn watched as Black lowered his head towards the floor before he lifted it, an excuse he had dying as soon as he realized Kotal knew about the cup-bearer. The Kahn's guard faltered, acknowledgment that Kotal knew of the origin of his guarded sin revealed as strong as a second fist had collided into him. His silence made him more acrimonious and Kotal felt another fist tighten again in response to his silence.

Ermac had interviewed the barristers that had charged Black with the whipping— knowing that he had unjustly stolen slave property. But what the Kahn had failed to understand, and Ermac hadn't been able to interrogate out, was why Black would take a slave girl's place.

The gunslinger never portrayed any benevolence to any of the palace women, seeing them as nothing more than something to fuck, and only showing them any saccharine attention when he needed to chase a release. So what significance was the woman in question to him? The cup-bearer was nothing more than a negligible entity— one easily forgettable as soon as another came to take its place. There was nothing remarkable about her that Kotal saw, and could only come to one conclusion that was weak at best.

"Is it because you are Earthrealmers, yet not at all?" The Kahn castigated. "But we know you are not so ardent—you care nothing of your former realm enough to save her flesh on just that reason alone."

Black said nothing, the ex-Earthrealmer struggling to use his tongue as if the explanation left him too numb to utter the words. Kotal shook his head at him, disappointment flooding over his temper before it receded and anger at the man's reticence lingered.

"Shall I bring her before me to harvest the truth, since you are so keen to keep it reaped only for yourself?" The Emperor glared at the silent marksman, leaning forward towards him and crinkling his nose in disgust. "Perhaps I should give the order to execute her to ensure that my paid guard does not commit another act of aberration."

Black let out a humorless and breathy chuckle. "Don't think Ferra'd be too keen on that."

"Do not deride me as if my words were made of air!" seethed Kotal. "Tell me your reason, or I shall give the order now."

The man stayed silent, his arm still wrapped around his side, before he sighed in defeat and stared with staunch honesty. "…I owed her a debt."

The Emperor narrowed his eyes in skepticism at the gunslinger's admission. "Since when do you ever covet for peace with your transgressions?"

The marksman lowered his arm, but never faltered in his resoluteness. "What I did was shitty enough and I took her place to make up for it, and I can sit with that."

Kotal Kahn exhaled through his nose, waves of both ire and comprehension mingling together like transitions of tidewaters. He recognized Black's admission had not been the easiest to deliver, and the Kahn sensed a deeper history beneath the short explanation, and knowledge of it, still made the Emperor ruffle with discontent.

"And what act on your part was too cruel to bear? One that required an offering of flesh and blood as penitence?"

Shame covered the gunslinger like a shadow, a despondent sigh escaping him. "I killed people she cared for. Got her into a mess she didn't need to be in"—the gunman shot a caustic stare— "but its paid now. I paid it in full as you heard from that chicken-shit crowd too afraid to tell it to my face. I don't owe shit anymore— the hatchet's been buried."

The Emperor cocked his head at the man's defiance, a mordant smile upon his face. "But it isn't you fail to see. Because of your shortsightedness, you are now indebted to me."

Black narrowed his eyes in contempt at the Emperor, but not with the vigor he would have expected hearing that Kotal planned to demonetize him. It only meant the gunman had figured out what was to happen to his coins before he walked into the throne room. Still, the Emperor continued, as if the man was ignorant of what he was saying: "And repayment of debt to me comes without the luxury of a salary until I see fit to give it to you once again."

"Yeah... I figured that out," was Black's tired rebuff. "So what do you want?"

Kotal frowned but ignored the man's sarcastic quip. "For my satisfaction, knowing your detestment, you may be the one to carry out beheadings in the courtyard," Kotal commanded, his chin raising in cold authoritative amusement.

Black blinked, an unimpressed eyebrow raising. "That's it?"

"Oh, it will not be as simple as you wish," the Emperor remarked derisively. "You will still hunt my bounties, bringing them to me— hoping they are enough for forgiveness— but until you collect one worthy enough, only then will I grant you back what you love more than yourself."

Erron scoffed with exasperation. "Just get to it. Whose head you want?"

The Kahn regarded the mercenary with icy apathy, turning away from him to walk forward towards his balcony as he clasped his hands behind his back. The sun-glazed over his skin, offering him small comfort in his irritated state. Erron's cynicism, one that the gunslinger tried to mask over his discomfiture, ensured the man's acceptance of his fate. He would carry out what needed to be done to gain his employment back. They both knew it and even though there was no need to voice it, the disgruntled Emperor still did— making sure that the gunslinger knew the severity of his sentence, and any hope for amendment was on his own shoulders.

"Find Rain— alive— or find another employer."

There was a heavy pause; nothing but silence, until he heard Erron's acceptance in the form of exhaling a sigh before he climbed to his feet. Even without looking, Kotal felt the man's pensive acceptance as he slowly retreated to the door. Both of them knowing a singular truth that kept him blackmailed to his promise.

"And I doubt you will find another that will pay as handsomely as I."

The Next Day…

Well... it could have gone worse. It was the only shitty reassurance he could offer himself as he stood in his room, the sun receding finally in the distance. He welcomed it, he thought this fucking day would never end.

Black stood over a washbasin, given to him by one of the servants after he had concluded the rest of his required beheadings. Erron dipped his hands in the water, gathering a handful before he ran it over his face. With every cupful of water he palmed, he tasted copper on his lips, and he knew he would taste blood for the rest of the week. He was soaked in it, covered in head to toe by the end of it. Red dripped down like rainfall from him, spotting and swirling inside the once clean water. Now it was opaque, cardinal spirals now spinning in front of him as he bathed himself of it the best he could. Despite his efforts to utilize what he had, Erron knew it would still stain on his skin the next day, and perhaps the next day after that; his clothes even longer.

The marksman eyed the balcony where the headless blackbird still cooked in the Z'unkaharah heat despite the warmth of the day now dissipated. Now three more were gathered around its dead comrade, cannibalizing what was left. They cawed and squawked at each other, fighting over the scraps still clinging like cheesecloth off the nearly clean skeleton. One of the birds, ripped a significant chunk and looked at him; its seedy black eyes finally acknowledging him while the others ignored him.

Erron would have fanned the hammer on them all if he wasn't tired or still in pain. The exertion from bringing down the dull ax all day had opened up the lashes once again, and he hissed in pain when he reached up over his head and removed his black undershirt from his body. Dried blood clung like glue to him, causing his skin to mortar to his shirt. With a few pained tugs, he was free and threw the soiled shirt on top of his table with his other gear. Now shirtless and bootless, he settled into his bed face down; airing out his open lacerations as dusk settled.

Black listened to the birds as he crossed his arms under him and propped the side of his head against the length of his forearm like a pillow; contemplating his day with a sour intellect.

He could give a baseline answer to anyone that asked why he wasn't too fond of beheadings, and the reason was simply too much red. Got him too dirty for what he was accustomed to with a well-placed aim from a revolver. At first, Erron wasn't quite sure why the Kahn had ordered him to chop heads off in the first place, finding it to be a wasteful demonstration that wouldn't accomplish anything.

However, despite whatever the Emperor's misplaced intentions, it had hit him hard. It wasn't that the gunman minded getting messy; he'd had plenty of brawls that created puddles of blood. No, he hated them for an entirely different reason—one that the Emperor would have never figured out despite his perception.

Kansas
1868
The Next Day

Aaron hadn't even considered the fact that the Sheriff might send someone after them for the murder of Zachariah—he couldn't even begin to understand how the Sheriff of Atchison may have even known the man was dead. From what the boy figured, there should have been nothing left of Zachariah, or any evidence of Bachua. All of it had been incinerated in an inferno that Abraham had started to cover their trail. There was nothing left of the cabin from what the boy could reckon, the only signs of their existence a parasitic memory inside of the boy's mind. And no matter how much he tried to pull it off of him - trying to forget about what had happened - it seemed to cling tighter to his soul; refusing to budge from his conscience.

He heard Zachariah's words to him like an echo bouncing back to him with every agitator that triggered the memory: the horse, the birds, his nightmares that always started with Sallie. He heard the shotgun messenger's voice—his last words to him— ringing in his ears. The proclamation was always constant as if it was an everlasting echo bouncing off cave walls for eternity; and he was trapped in that cave for as long as he hung on to the memory of their last night in Atchison. It would always be carried with him, more so because he believed Zachariah's words with all certainty.

It was all his fault.

If he hadn't been brought to Atchison, none of this would have happened.

He was a catalyst.

And now, watching the river turn red... he added more bodies on to his already red ledger.

Three headless men floated down in front of him, bobbled on the surface, and gently guided down by the current. Their heads were still attached, but the remnants that still clung were nothing more than broken open red melons. They had been split apart from what could only come from an ax. They had no identities—not that he knew who the nameless men were— the disfigurement of their heads gave them an inhumane and haunting visage. They may as well have been beheaded, nothing more than macabre effigies; the removal and brutality did to their heads as grotesque as it was frightening.

The three men disappeared, carried off by the current as Aaron shuddered, tears pricking his eyes while he felt Abraham's hand rest on his shoulder.

The boy didn't look at the ax the man had, knowing it was weeping blood from the steel. The ex-confederate rubbed his thumb along the top of the child's shoulder as if trying to remind him that he was the same father-figure that he had been before Aaron had spilled the truth about Sallie and her adopter.

"They're gonna keep coming," Black told him, his tone as soft as he could muster. The child shrunk under his hand, trying his best to remove it despite the gentle hold. Aaron recognized that the coachman's simple statement had been a mere observation, and the hand on his shoulder reassurance that Abraham would do anything to make sure that he was there for him. But he didn't want it. It wasn't the same as before.

"This—every god damned piece of it— is all your fucking fault, you evil bastard son of a whore—"

Zachariah's words hit him hard again, causing tears to spill out of his eyes as the boy whimpered. Abraham tightened his hold on the boy, enough to remind Aaron that he was there as support. The child's head hung in shame and he sobbed loudly, not caring about hiding it anymore from Abraham. The coachman dropped the ax and the boy shivered as it clattered loudly against a large rock along the bank. The man dropped to his knees, kneeling in front of Aaron.

Sternness stared into the boy's swollen red eyes, causing the child to cry even more, but Aaron also recognized the haunted empathy the coachman tried to soothe him with; as if admitting his apology silently to Aaron for his own culpability for how the child felt. He saw the man's jaw tighten, his eyes hardening to stone as he uttered an explanation — one derived from what could only be from Abraham's own experience. "I know what the girl went through. I went through it same as her."

The child looked down at his feet. Unsure of how to respond or even if he should respond at all, and although the animosity was elucidated, it didn't remove the boys still lingering guilt. Aaron recalled Zachariah accusing him of corrupting Abraham, and throughout his whole experience in Atchison, it was profoundly hard to dispute that he had been right.

"This—every god damned piece of it— is all your fucking fault, you evil bastard son of a whore—"

If it wasn't for him, maybe they all would have been fine...

Sallie...

Bauchau...

Zachariah...

They boy stared at the coachman, but only saw the soldier behind his eyes now, the one that the boy knew he had tried his damnedest to abolish.

Abraham...

The older Black sighed dejectedly as he rose to stand. The man and the child simply stood in silence, nothing but the trickle of the stream as discord. The silence was heavy, suffocating, as they assessed one another; deciphering where they now stood in regards to each other.

The boy sniffled, looking past Abraham to make out the little girl beyond the tree line. Sallie stared at him, her eyes bright with amusement, and as quickly as he blinked, she was gone once again.

A crow flew down, landing nearby the camp and breaking their weighty lull. The now ex-stagecoach employee looked down at his ward and swallowed; his sea green eyes stout upon the boy.

"I knew a man from Wickett, Texas from the war. He's dead now." he stated flatly. The boy furrowed his eyebrows, not understanding why he would mention it. Abraham looked down at him and gave a minuscule but authoritative nod of his head. "How you spell your name, son?"

Aaron swallowed, sucking down what was usually an automatic answer. Through his chaotic state of mind, he contemplated hard on what Abraham was really asking him. They both knew that the three men wouldn't be the only ones coming after them, and also that they could never return to employment with a stagecoach company. They would have to carve out anonymity now and bury everything before Atchison in its own pine coffin.

They could never return to the way things were.

"E-R-R-O-N," the boy finally answered him, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Abraham nodded at his answer, pleased by his understanding of their quandary. "Where you from?"

The boy felt another tear fall down his face as he croaked out: "Wickett..."

Abraham's hand came up to cradle the side of the boy's head, smoothing over his hair as if in admiration for his complicity. The 7-year old whimpered again; he didn't want to be Erron and he didn't want the soldier.

However, they were without a choice.

"This — every god damned piece of it— is all your fucking fault, you evil bastard son of a whore—"

The man hugged him, pulling him into an embrace that the boy couldn't muster to return. Abraham held him, trying his best to convey that the man Aaron wanted was still there, but things would have to change. The boy couldn't see how things could go back to being the same.

"Forget it all son— we won't speak of it again," Abraham mumbled in a sympathetic but pensive tone. "Leave it behind for the crows."

A/N: Well... I hoped you all enjoyed the chapter. It was a bit of a hurdle, but hopefully I jumped over it ok. *shrug* I haven't yet decided if this is the last snippet of the 'Once Upon a Time in the West' arc. But there's more Erron backstory coming too. I'm not done torturing him yet. Oh and Norah will be coming back next chapter, as well as our favorite creepy little Outworld ghost.

In regards to ghosts, I should let you all know, Sallie is — maybe — a real person. Thanks to shooting ideas with Poe's Daughter, she brought up the idea to include one of Atchison, Kansas' most infamous haunted houses. 'Sallie's House.' Actually, a fav of yours truly too. Finney, is also one of the owners of the house that died. That being said, its very loosely based on a ghost story. And there is speculation that the girl said to haunt the property — what Sallie looks like in my story — isn't actually a little girl at all, but something far more nefarious. With knowledge of that, I'll let you all speculate if what baby Aaron is seeing is her or not. Also Bauchau is based on real life serial killer Albert Fish. He's an evil bastard, but he never lived in Kansas. Speaking of Kansas, and since Ed Boon has derailed my Kansas headcannons, I had to come up with one for Wickett, Texas. I hope it worked, kinda… meh. Its in there. He's a Texan now. Thanks Zachariah.

But... I'm not sure of this chapter honestly. Wanted to show more of Kotal, but he's a tough one. So don't hurt me, please.

Let me know what your thoughts are, and as always, see you next chapter.