Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence

I feel like I had two choices in dealing with the conflict between Arthur and Dutch: a slow realization over several chapters that family and love are not tied to usefulness and that it's possible to maintain relationships even when people move in different directions...

Or trauma.

Guess which one I chose?

Chapter 9: Captured

Arthur woke up draped over the back of a horse, his arms tied behind his back. His head throbbed, but he managed not to groan. No point in letting his captors know he was awake until he remembered how he got into this situation.

Which was proving to be a problem. He must have been fighting someone. Bounty hunters maybe? Before last year and the bank robbery he did with Dutch and Hosea, they never really had to worry about bounty hunters. What had he done that day… he'd woken up, done some chores, took Annabelle and Isaac into town…

Then the O'Driscolls attacked them on the way home!

He forced his eyes open. He had to be sure they hadn't gotten Isaac and Annabelle, too. He was starting to remember, knew he'd told them to run! He'd jumped off the wagon, ducked behind a boulder, but someone must have come up behind him. Through blurry vision, he could make out several horses, but no one else was tied to the back. He relaxed as much as he could in that situation. They had gotten away, now he just needed to worry about getting himself home. From wherever he was.

"Think Colm'll be mad? Seeing as we didn't get Dutch's girl?" the rider on the horse with him said.

"Maybe? I bet he wanted to-"

"Naw, I think he'll like this better. Morgan was there when Dutch killed Connor," a third, the leader in front, replied. "I think Dutch shot Connor to save him, so this seems right to me."

Technically, Dutch was saving John, but Arthur wasn't about to say that out loud. Dutch didn't have a choice. But Colm wouldn't see it that way.

"He's right." There were three men. At least three, anyways. He remembered more. "And this fucker shot Patrick. Colm won't care, so long as he can send a message to Dutch."

Arthur breathed slow, trying to steady himself. Of course they planned to kill him, but he couldn't just try to run. He needed to bide his time, hope they stopped for a break, sneak away then.

Pray they didn't head straight for Colm, because there was no way he could get out of his bonds and run away without catching a bullet.

"We should pick it up," the man in the front said. "The girl will tell them what happened, and we won't have as much time for some fun."

Arthur didn't want to know what that would entail.

"I can't wait to see Van der Linde's face. The smug bastards going to pay for what he did."

"Hey, how's our guest?"

Arthur snapped his eyes shut, trying to appear limp and relaxed, but a hand reached back and yanked his head up by his hair.

"You with us, Morgan?"

He couldn't stop the groan from slipping out that time. God, his head hurt. The laughter that followed wasn't comforting.

"Don't you worry, it will all be over soon." The O'Driscoll slammed the butt of his gun into Arthur's head, and he drifted again. Occasionally he would surface and catch glimpses of ground and horses, but it was fuzzy, the edges of his vision were dark. His heart jolted into frantic beating each time, making him more and more confused. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd been taken, but it was still light out. It couldn't have been that long.

The O'Driscolls weren't stopping. He was going to die; his chances for escape were growing slimmer and slimmer. But at least Isaac was safe, he had to remember that, safe with Annabelle. He'd be back at camp, probably scared out of his mind, but alive.

But Isaac was in danger of losing his father, just like he lost his mother. Arthur couldn't do that to his son. He had to get back, he had to fight, seize the first opportunity and keep pushing, no matter what.

They were far from camp when the O'Driscolls attacked. But Annabelle would move fast. Dutch and Hosea would come for him, he just had to stay alive.

"Here we are!" one of the men laughed, pulling his horse to a stop.

"You boys get her?" a man said, the voice he dreaded hearing. Colm. "You fucking idiots, you were supposed to grab Annabelle. Who the fuck is that?"

"We couldn't get her alone, boss," the O'Driscoll goon said. Arthur was lifted off the horse and dumped on the ground as the O'Driscoll explained what happened during the attack, even mentioning Isaac. A hand wound into his hair and jerked his head up again as he hissed and blinked. Shit, he was going to cut off all his hair if he got out of this. "Brought you the next best thing."

"Well, well, well," Colm said, crouching down in front of him. His greasy, dark hair was starting to gray, and one of his rotting teeth had been removed, not that it helped his foul breath. "Arthur Morgan, Dutch's favorite son. Nice to see you again. But you are looking a little tired there. Somebody wake him up!"

A bucket of freezing water was upended over his head. He coughed and sputtered, shaking the water out of his eyes as he tried to scramble back. But Colm hauled him up by his bound arms, turning him around the circle to take in the eight men surrounding him and stopping him facing towards a small farmhouse in the middle of a huge, open field. In front of it was a six-foot deep hole in the dirt and the coffin next to it.

"See that?" Colm pointed and smirked. "That's going to be your grave. We need a new marker, though. The morons who took you can take care of that."

They'd already carved Annabelle's name into a cross.

"Now, since these fools didn't grab you quiet like I wanted, we won't have as much time for fun. But at least we won't have to send someone to deliver the message," Colm said.

"We rode in the river a bit, so it should at least slow them down," one of them men said.

Shit. Still, at least they wouldn't immediately kill him. He had time to come up with an escape plan.

"Seems Seamus here didn't completely ruin our fun," said Colm. The boys around him laughed when Colm slammed his fist straight into Arthur's stomach. He staggered and would have collapsed if two O'Driscolls hadn't heaved him back up. Colm punched him some more, then dragged him over to a table and slammed him into it.

"Your pal Dutch shot my brother," he whispered in his ear, keeping a hand on the back of his neck. "So I'm taking something from him. Eye for an eye, ain't that the saying? You know, Arthur, it doesn't have to mean I kill you. You can save your hide if you just join us. Decent gun like you could do well here, it would almost be a waste to let you rot in the dirt. Hell, you're a better shot than my brother ever was. All you got to do is lead us back to your camp so we can let Dutch know in person."

Colm probably expected only the women to be in camp, thinking it would be an easy target for robbery and murder while Dutch and Hosea were out searching for him. He didn't know about the two Callander boys they'd picked up. Between them, Susan, and John, these few O'Driscolls didn't stand a chance. But he wouldn't put his son in that kind of danger, wouldn't risk any of them, and he was relieved that Colm hadn't discovered their camp location while searching for Annabelle. "Your brother tried to steal our score and shoot a kid," Arthur snarled. "I'm glad Dutch put him down!"

"Oh, you boys and your sense of honor. Well, you'll soon join my brother," Colm said. "Have at it boys! We don't have long before we need to put a bullet in his skull and clear out!"

Arthur was yanked back off the table and thrown to the ground. The O'Driscolls aimed kicks at his ribs and head, and he couldn't protect himself still tied up as he was. The beatings left him dazed and drifting in and out of awareness, and the next bucket of water dumped over him did little to wake him up.

He didn't remember the O'Driscolls riding in the river, but then again he didn't remember much from the ride at all. Hosea would know what to do, know how to track them. He hoped Hosea would be able to find their trail again.

Bottles of liquor were opened and passed around. Perhaps they would get drunk, lose track of time, let him get away! But Colm wasn't participating, and he kept at least one man on top of the farmhouse with binoculars, watching for Dutch and the gang.

Dutch was coming, right? He had to be on his way. But what if he hadn't been in camp when Annabelle got back? What if he took off with the Callanders again? Or worse, decided that he was too disloyal for choosing to leave with his son in the winter. It wasn't like he wanted to leave Dutch, he just felt that he had to! Hosea knew that, Hosea would make Dutch come find him. But what if Hosea had gone out with Bessie?

"You see that hill up there?" Colm said to Arthur in one of Arthur's more lucid moments. "That's where we are going to watch when Dutch comes for you. Oh, I wish I could see his face up close when he finds the grave. But then we'd probably have a shootout on our hands. I wonder if he'll dig you up to be sure, or just move on."

Arthur couldn't do anything except wheeze. His ribs were on fire, surely a few were cracked if not broken.

"You ain't talking much, are you?" Colm laughed. "I remember you when Dutch first picked you up, always spitting and cursing. Why'd it have to come to this, huh? Why'd ol' Dutch have to cause all these problems. You're dying for him, you know that, right? You don't have to. My offer still stands. You can even bring that kid of yours. We'll turn him into a real gunslinger."

Colm slapped Arthur when he didn't respond.

"Come on now, don't be shy! Maybe some liquor will loosen your tongue!" Colm poured some of the whiskey on Arthur's face, cackling, then smashed the bottle next to his head.

Turning to his man on the farmhouse roof, he shouted, "See anyone coming?"

"Not yet."

"We shouldn't linger too long. Grab one last drink, boys, and we'll get this show on the road."

Dutch and Hosea weren't going to make it on time, and he was on his own. He didn't know how he could get away now, not after the barrage of beatings left him delirious, barely able to concentrate or even move with the shattered glass next to his head.

Wait… the glass… glass could cut through the ropes. He risked a glance at Colm and the others. They were standing around a barrel with drinks, toasting his upcoming demise. Distracted. This was it. His last and only opportunity to escape.

He shifted cautiously, trying to get his hands near the glass scattered around the grass.

"To the end of our truce with Dutch van der Linde," Colm said, raising his bottle. The roaring laughter echoed off the farmhouse.

Glass shards dug into his back and shoulder, but he managed to wriggle himself over to a large enough piece and grasp it in his hands.

"I wonder if Dutch will cry when he finds him," Colm continued. "He always was an emotional one. Caring so much about the poor, the orphans, picking them up and making them members of his gang."

It was difficult to use the glass on the ropes. He could only bend his wrist so far, only making short strokes along the thick rope.

"Almost tempting to wait around and duel him. It would be too easy after he sees what we've done. Think he'll be able to see through his tears?"

His fingers slipped, the glass slicing his palm. He grimaced, but didn't make a sound as he picked the glass back up and started again.

"But Dutch won't suffer if we kill him now. Who knows? This could break him, put him out of commission for good!"

He was getting close, but even still, how was he going to get across this open field without being spotted and shot? He needed a gun.

"Time to finish this." Colm took a shot of whiskey, then sauntered over to Arthur.

Not yet, please, he silently begged. He was so close.

Colm grabbed Arthur's chin and turned his head up. "Any last words?" he sneered.

The rope snapped.

Arthur head-butted Colm, causing him to stagger back with a shout. In the next moment, he surged up, swinging the glass and catching Colm in the face. But he didn't linger to inspect the damage. He pushed past the first drunk O'Driscoll, who had barely managed to respond, and rushed the one bringing up his shotgun.

"Shit! Someone grab him!" Colm shouted as Arthur grappled over the shotgun. His injuries made him weak, but he could get it! He could get it and shoot the lot of them, get back to camp and rest there.

The shotgun went off.

And his left leg exploded in pain.

Arthur screamed as he collapsed. The buckshot tore through him just above his ankle, ripping flesh and breaking bone. Arthur could barely lift his head to take in the bloody mess through spotted vision, nausea rising in his stomach as his whole body shook.

Colm marched up to him, holding his hand over his bleeding cheek. Arthur unfortunately missed his eye. "Got me good, Morgan. But not good enough." He leveled his pistol between Arthur's eyes. This was it.

Sorry, Isaac.

Bessie and Hosea would take care of him. They'd raise him right. Probably better than Arthur could, being an angry outlaw whose own father had been terrible. Bessie could move in with her sister, he was sure Hosea would join them in that case, find some sort of work. They'd help Isaac recover from his loss.

What would become of Dutch?

But then Colm grinned, and lowered the pistol. "You know what? Bullet in the head is too quick for you. I think you need to be punished, have some alone time to think on your actions."

He stood up and turned to the group. "Let's put him in the ground as he is!"

No, they couldn't mean…

His eyes darted around the O'Driscolls, their smiles wide with anticipation. He was brought back to Colm in front of him when the man tightened his green neckerchief above the gaping hole in his leg. "We don't want you bleeding to death, now do we?"

God, no, they wouldn't.

"We best leave something for Dutch so he knows exactly how his precious son died. I'm not counting on him noticing the scratches in that coffin."

"No, Colm, please," Arthur whimpered. He wasn't entirely sure what he was begging for.

"It's the consequences for trying to run, Morgan. Get him up, boys."

Hands dug under his shoulders and his legs, lifting him up.

"No, stop… don't…" He could barely struggle, exhausted as he was.

They shoved him into a too-small coffin. He tried getting his hands up, to brace against the edges and pull himself out, but the O'Driscolls kicked at his fingers.

"Sorry it's a bit cramped in there, Arthur. We had it sized for the lady, after all," Colm mocked. "Close it up!"

They slid the lid over the top. Weakly, he pushed against it, but they were already nailing it down.

"No," he cried. He could barely shift, his shoulders trapped against the sides.

They lifted the coffin up and lowered it in the hole. With his last bit of energy, he pounded on the lid.

Then the first clump of dirt hit the top.

Thump.

He was trembling, wheezing, already unable to pull enough air into his lungs. The coffin lid creaked, but held.

Thump. Thump.

Tears began to leak from his eyes as the last light visible through the tiny cracks in the lid disappeared. A little dirt joined him inside.

Soon, all noises stopped except for his own gasping. He was buried too deep. No light, the darkness drowning him. He couldn't find leverage to break the lid and dig his way out, there was no room to move. He clenched his eyes shut and sobbed. For how long, he did not know.

Dutch, Hosea, they'd want him to fight, to stay alive until they arrived. They'd find him, he just had to hold on.

Isaac needed him to hold on.

But he couldn't do it. He couldn't lay there as the seconds crawled on, terrified and alone, his leg burning and ribs throbbing, waiting for rescue or suffocation.

Tears ran down his face as he let the pain drag him to sleep.