Jenny's dead.

He'd been right there - if he'd been just a heartbeat faster, turned around just a little quicker, he could have saved her.

But he'd been firing, been shooting a Pinkerton off his horse.

It was his fault.

Colter was freezing, and Arthur was numb.

He'd been sent inside - "Charles has the horses, son, you need to rest." - despite his protests, and found himself slumped in his chair. Hosea and Dutch were still with the women, comforting them and talking, checking on little Jackie, probably; he'd not wanted to be alone, had known his mind would go down the same, horrible paths it always did when a gang member was lost.

E + I gleamed bright in the firelight on his arm, brightest among the various scars, the initials that lined the cross carved deep. More and more names had joined Eliza and Isaac's over the years, but none were carved so deep as theirs.

He turned his lasso over and over in his hands - all he could see was the lawman's noose cinching tight around Jenny's neck, her head snapping back as she was yanked off her horse, splitting open as it hit the cobblestone.

Carefully, his pulse thrumming in his throat, he fitted the noose around his unmarked arm - he'd never forgive himself if he disrespected their names - and began to pull, to fasten it tighter and tighter until he could feel his fingers throb with trapped blood.

Deep breaths.

Deep breaths.

He wrapped his hand around the rope, secured his grip, and began to twist

and twist

and twist.

It burned like the devil, like when he'd gotten drunk and stumbled into the cinders of the campfire. Like a snake's bite, and tears burned in his eyes.

But it wasn't numbness, was feeling; pain, sure, but was a feeling, and he deserved it. Jenny was dead, Lenny had lost his girl, and he owed them a pound of flesh. So he twisted

and twisted

and twisted.

Chunks of flesh came away, trapped in the rough hairs of the lasso, and he only stopped when the rope was soaked through, dripping blood. He hesitated - they couldn't really afford to get him a new lasso, but he could easily steal one, they were everywhere after all, but looking at it made his stomach churn, picturing the blood that had silhouetted Jenny's head - before throwing it into the fire, watching as it quickly set alight, burning like a candle's wick.

He grimaced, baring his teeth as he clutched at the gouge in his arm - fuck, but that hurt so good - and worked to bandage it; he owed them a pound of flesh, but not the loss of his limb or his death to infection.

They were already two down, after all - he'd never be able to put in enough work to cover for Jenny, for Davey - and he looked around, frowning, he still owed Davey his pound of flesh - but he had to try, they couldn't lose any more members, especially not after Blackwater.

He chewed on the tip of his cigarette, breathing deep, savoring the smoke before watching it disperse in the air in front of him. Arthur was somewhat dizzy - probably from bloodloss, though his arm's bleeding had slowed greatly in the time it took for him to smoke the cigarette, so he took the cigarette in hand, grabbed his whisky, took a swig and, with a deep breath, picturing Davey laying dead on the cot, pressed the cigarette where he'd been shot.

It wasn't much of a pain, didn't hurt too bad. Wasn't anything compared to a bullet, but he burned himself, over and over, until he was gritting his teeth and certain that the burn would scar.

Only then did he set the cigarette aside, letting it burn out - hoping it would cover the smell of burnt flesh - pulling on a shirt to cover his bandaged arm and burnt chest.

He was almost done, then. Reached for his knife, turned it over and over in his hand, looked for rust or filth or dried blood - he'd not had to use it that day - before bringing it to the cross on his forearm, this always hurt the most, and began to carve in his arm, slowly, painstakingly; though the scar was important, the burns, this was even moreso, the memorial of the pair carved upon his skin.

Arthur didn't stop until D + J were flawless on his arm, blood beading onto a handkerchief he'd known from experience to put down. He blew on it, only throwing the handkerchief into the flames once he was certain the letters were perfect, or at least as perfect as someone as flawed as he could get, and wrapped his arm reverently, each movement sending pain shooting through his arms.

But that was fine, he deserved it.

Besides, Mac and Sean were missing. Maybe not dead, but maybe they were. And if they were, then he'd have to get used to a lot more pain as he healed.

Already, he could see their names on his arm.